A Coherent Philosophy

 "Have a drink. It takes the sting out of life."

"You gotta celebrate twice as hard as you grieve."

Hurry up, now - fun is leaking out of the porous bucket that is your life. Soon, there will be none left.

My Love

For most of my life, my love had to leak through the tiniest cracks in the lead walls that surround my heart. Cracks that opened up through decades of emotions battering against this formidable barrier. The love that escaped was watered down, weakened.

Lately my love has been flowing freely, or at least free-er. There are multiple reasons for this but I will not go into them now. You have better things to do.

The result is powerful. I am so unused to the feeling it is almost traumatic. It jerks me upright in my recliner, or paints a smile on my face against all odds.

As soon as I get accustomed to this amazing feeling, I will share it with you.

HOPE?!?!?!?!?!

Just listening to a CD by Peter Malick. Blues, baby - blues.

Got a song on there called "Wrong Side of My Life".

"I woke up on the wrong side of my life". I have been feeling that way for approximately 70 of my 71 years on this planet. The first year of my life felt about right.

Lately I feel as though I am slipping into the right side of my life.

It's never too late, baby.

"It's never too late to reinvent yourself.

Start a new career at 40.

Fall in love at 50.

Learn to dance at 60.

Start a whole new life at 70.

Stop saying you can't.

You can and you should.

Dreams don't have an expiration."

I always thought words like this were bullshit. Lately, not so much. Although I notice there is nothing in there about 80. I'm 71 - gotta get movin'.

As long as there is breath, as long as there is life............................there is hope.

(I had to look up the meaning of the word hope. I am feeling it but was not familiar with what it is called).

Ancient Wisdom

 The current vicious dicktatorship in this country is proof that the Founding Fathers never intended for everyone to vote.

In 2026.............................

In 2026, maybe sooner, I'm going to stop whining in here and get back to creativity.

I've made that promise before and broken it 10 seconds later, but, I don't know, things feel different to me right now. I feel like I'm on the precipice of redemption.

I am fiercely creative. It's all I think about. I take it in with every breath and exhale it with every exasperated breath. I think about being creative, I am creative in my soul; I also lust after creativity in books, movies, poetry - I must have it. Other wise I AM FUCKING BORED.

And yet, I whine. 

Years ago I wrote good stuff in here - sarcastic, witty, unique. When I go back and re-read it I laugh out loud, or smile in appreciation of my creative turn of phrase. At some point I went 100% whiny, which probably means I myself went 100% whiny. Disgusting.

I hunger for change. I am tired of me and tired of my life.

I'll be 72 in January, and here it comes again......................my mother always said I was a late bloomer.

Well, mama, it don't get much later than 72.

Good Enough

John pulled up to his house and parked just outside the front door. Killed the engine and dragged himself out of the car. As he walked towards the door he stopped and looked back. A fucking Hyundai. Silver. Five years old. 50,000 miles.

He wished he was driving a Lincoln. He really wanted one. His Uncle Carmen was a Lincoln man and John loved and respected his uncle. But it was more than that. He wanted the luxury a Lincoln implies and delivers. Pimps drive Cadillacs. Classy guys drive Lincolns.

But he was having strange thoughts about the Hyundai lately. It was reliable, and he put very few miles on it. Fucking thing will probably last ten more years. Reality was shouldering its way into his reasoning against his will, and he simultaneously loathed it and considered it.

It was cold. November. He hated winter. John took two quick steps to the door, unlocked it, and blew into the house.

Both cats came running. They always did. So much energy, so much enthusiasm. Their greeting meant everything to him, along with the welcoming warmth the house had to offer. They were so happy to see him, they made him feel so good. Feeling good is a feeling he chased all his life.

He draped his coat over the nearest chair even though his wife hated that. He'd move it before she got home. He hit the head, then poured himself a generous whiskey, and slumped into his recliner.

It had been a shitty day. 

The late afternoon sun slanted through the whiskey, giving it an artistic glow, so he put the glass on the shelf unit his Dad had made, to get a better angle. It turned his whiskey into a painting. A focal point of warmth, beauty, and reflection. As fatigue set in, he stared at it and slipped into reverie. 

His thoughts turned to things that happened in his life that shouldn't have, and things that didn't happen that should have. Strangely, he wasn't feeling despair or panic, feelings his seventy one years tended to inspire. 

He was feeling a strange mix of melancholy and gratefulness. A little bit of hope for redemption. Unusual for him. Again, reality shouldering its way into his thoughts.

He thought that maybe wisdom made its way into your heart when you weren't even looking.

He looked towards the whiskey with unfocused eyes, and saw his kids, jobs, laughter, tears, broken dreams, decades...................so many glasses of whiskey, so much life lived, celebrated, appreciated, regretted, and mourned. No different than anybody else.

The path he had taken made no sense to him, and the place where he was at was anathema to his dreams, but still, he had created a life and there was a lot of good there, a lot of love, a lot of comfort.

That counts for something.

He told his shrink that if he died today, the only fitting epitaph would be "He pissed his life away." His shrink physically recoiled at that comment, which caught John off guard. Did Dr. Feelgood actually believe John's life made sense? That it was worthwhile?

It gave him something to think about, and he was doing that now.

He felt good, he felt peaceful. He knew he still had to do something with his life, at the very least to prove his worth to himself, but it seemed he had scaled back his thinking from apocalyptic to somewhat reasonable. Maybe

It wasn't perfect but it was good enough. For now.

He heard the door open, and he heard "You couldn't hang up your coat?"

He sighed and took a sip of whiskey. Admired the beautiful, warm, color enhanced by the setting sun. 

He smiled.

Time Waits For No Man

Gazing out the library window the other day, on a very quiet day; it's gettin' late and dark is beginning to fall. Lookin' up the road that leads to the police station.

A youngish man is walking his puppy up that street, heading away from me, on the left. The guy is dressed too lightly for the weather, in my humble opinion. He exudes the energy of youth (I think there is a connection there). The puppy is prancing, straining at the leash. 

Simultaneously, an elderly couple is walking towards me on the opposite side of the same street. They are close, you can sense the years they've been together. They're moving slowly, walking carefully. They are not talking because they don't have to. They are dressed just right, in my humble opinion.

In that moment I witnessed fifty years of life in a before and after snapshot.

The kind of moment that makes you respect and reflect upon the relentless passage of time.

No Better Morning

You're sitting at your desk in what passes for an office, door closed, eating the omelette you just cooked.

Listening to John Prine on the CD player your family gave you on Father's Day.

Your precious cat is on your lap; she looks up at you with eyes filled with all the love that she has for you.

Tears of happiness trickle down your cheeks.

There is no better morning.

Mama Don't GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I love John Lennon because he was introspective and unafraid to reveal his weaknesses and self-doubts.

Been thinking about him lately because one of the many things he explored was primal scream therapy. 

Ever hear his song Mother? Listen to it. He expresses his agony over losing his mother - twice - and over his father's absence in Lennon's life. At the end of the song he screams out his frustrations. "Mama don't go, Daddy come home." Screams these words, repeatedly. It chills your soul.

I am having good conversations with the psychiatrist, but sometimes I think if I could just fucking SCREAM - and release all the anger and frustration and self-loathing that suffocates me, maybe I could save some time.

Heard How? yesterday as I drove in circles, putting off to the last possible minute my arrival at the fucking library job, and, once again, it really got to me with it's honesty. And the way it resonates with my feelings.

Check out the lyrics:

"How can I go forward when I don't know which way I'm facing? How can I go forward when I don't know which way to turn? How can I go forward into something I'm not sure of?

How can I have feelings when I don't know if it's a feeling? How can I feel something if I just don't know how to feel? How can I have feelings when my feelings have always been denied?

How can I give love when I just don't know what it is I am giving? How can I give love when I just don't know how to give? How can I give love? Love is something I ain't never had. Oh no, oh no.

You know life can be long, and you've got to be strong. And the world she is tough, sometimes I feel I've had enough"

I am super sensitive and emotional, way over the top. It prevents me from functioning in this world efficiently. I feel those lyrics every day.

And most days it is a struggle for me not to scream. A soul-shattering internal battle. Like holding your breath until you feel you will explode.

Maybe holding it in is not the answer.

Being Defiant

 I'm somebody, just as good as anybody.

Who Would You Rather Be?

If you're going to work in "customer service" you gotta be Pat Boone.

Wholesome and self-effacing. At least in theory.

If you don't know who Pat Boone is, Google him.

Of course today, as you well you know, there are many flaming assholes working in customer service. They hate their jobs, they hate themselves for working those jobs, and that is understandable to a point. You gotta submerge your ego as a humble lackey, you get paid $1.47/hour, AND you gotta deal with the public. Cleaning toilets is more enjoyable.

I have worked in customer service for 9 years now. I have had 7 jobs. That experience has twisted my soul into a blighted imitation of what once was an ethereal entity.

Because I am a lot more like Lemmy Kilmister than I am Pat Boone. 

Eternal Regret

"When my death us do part

Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again,

Or will it be, as always was, too late?"

From A Fatal Grace, by Louise Penny

The Purest of Love

 "Now he remembered last winter struggling to carry old Sonny the three blocks home when his feet couldn't take the cold anymore. It had broken both their hearts. And he remembered hugging Sonny to him a few months later when the vet came to put him to sleep. And he remembered saying soothing things into the stinky old ears and looking into the weepy brown eyes as they closed, with one final soft thump of the ragged, beloved, tail. And as he felt the final beat of Sonny's heart Gamache had had the impression it wasn't that his old heart had stopped but that Sonny had finally given it all away."

From A Fatal Grace, by Louise Penny

Pets do give us everything. Without that, we would be lost.

Reality, Baby

 "I have sought a paradise in this life, from the window of a train traversing a starkly beautiful land where a man's skin is still criminalized and a woman's body enslaved, where workers are thrown away like coal slag."

"But now that it was here, knowing that all it had taken was a flick of Lem Brand's wrist, Rye felt demoralized. It didn't matter what he did, what Gurley did, what Fred Moore did, what any of them did. Somewhere there was a room of wealthy old men where everything was decided. Beliefs and convictions, lives and livelihoods, right and wrong - these had no place in that room, the scurrying of ants at the feet of a few rich men."

From The Cold Millions, by Jess Walter

The title The Cold Millions refers to those millions of us who are not rich.

Sounds about right to me.

Gotta Get There

My ultimate goal with the psychologist is to get to a place where I can truthfully say:

"Everybody's got something to hide except me and my monkey."

Beatles fans will understand.

Fiction Points The Way

 By the way, lest you think my previous post was pure bullshit:

"Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth."

Albert Camus

"Fiction reveals the truth that reality obscures."

Jessamyn West

Are you going to argue with Camus? Give me a break.

There is an element of truth to most fiction. Increasingly over the last ten years, the idea of authoritarianism has been showing up in more and more of the books I read. Governments treating citizens cruelly, unfairly. "Leaders" enriching themselves at the expense of the commoners, who increasingly suffer through inflation, food shortages, heating crises, power crises. Dicktators lying to the people in outrageous ways, lies that any thinking human can see through, lies that tens of millions swallow whole like fine chocolate.

This is not coincidence. Authors are speaking out in their way about the state of this country and the world.

I have been reading a lot of espionage novels, and crime novels, because my brain is broken and it needs comfort food. I can't handle Tolstoy at the moment. 

Many of these novels are written by former Navy Seal types, military people, and government insider's with knowledge of the evil truths we are not privy to. These books are chilling.

You think our government is working in our best interests? Think again.

You think things are not getting worse? Think again.

And I am talking the entire history of our government, but especially now.

Hunker down kids. Pretty soon we'll be standing in bread lines, thankful the wait is only four hours.

We reap what we sow.

We Never Had A Chance

 "And the idea that you could make men equal just by saying it? Hell, it took only your first day in a Montana flop or standing over your mother's unmarked grave to know that equal was the one thing that all men were not. A few lived like kings, and the rest hugged the dirt until it cracked open and took them home."

From The Cold Millions, by Jess Walter

"I fell in love with my country - its rivers, prairies, forests, mountains cities, and people.............It could be a paradise on earth if it belonged to the people, not to a small owning class."

Elizabeth Gurley Flynn

We never had a chance. And by "we" I mean every person, not rich, who has ever called America home.

Money isn't everything? Are you fucking kidding me? Money is everything. Trying limping into old age with no money. Millions and millions of Americans are in that category. Millions are suffering, living in fear, stripped of pride.

Expanding on thoughts about this country, I've come across some points of view - in works of fiction - that make you consider what a dangerously fucked up country we live in and how very little we know about that truth.

One involved a group of rich and powerful men  -  ultra conservative - who despised liberals, and who also blamed Muslims for the decline of this country. They hatched a plan to detonate nuclear bombs in two liberal, American cities, knowing full well that Muslims would be blamed, resulting in retaliatory nuclear strikes by America in Islamic countries. The assumption being that if we wipe out Islam, we will be safe, thereby justifying the slaughter of American citizens.

Far fetched? Have you sensed or maybe even experienced, the intense hatred, man to man, that is drowning this country? That story line is extreme, but it or something equally as dangerous and cruel is not hard to believe. I believe there are millions of Americans willing to kill fellow Americans to get what they want.

Another story detailed an all encompassing plan by our enemies to disable this country in a coordinated series of attacks. On the power grid, violent attacks on say movie theaters or other public gathering places all at once across the country, sabotaging our food supply, spreading disease - again - all coordinated, all simultaneously across the country.

Far fetched? Some, or maybe all of it, has to be true.

Another idea is the fact that many obscenely rich people absolutely hate "poor" people. Despise them, laugh about them and at them, could care less if they suffer or die and are dedicated to keeping poor folk "in their place." I believe that too.

Interestingly, I have two close friends and a brother who beat the system - who won at life - who are living comfortably above the fray. Very comfortably. $. They are all set. They earned that peace of mind, they deserve it. But even though I am surrounded by financially successful people, I believe it's the exception, not the rule. Most of us stumble around blindly until we inadvertently stagger into our graves.

Related point - The Desiderata says: "If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain & bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself." Those are wise words and pure truth. And although I believe in that wisdom, for some reason I cannot burn them into my brain, make them part of my overall philosophy.

The result? I am bitter, definitely not vain.

Fuck it.

Third Time's A Charm?

I snagged another psychologist. #3.

He's in for a wild ride, because I am committed to total honesty.

We had a Telehealth thing last Friday, kind of getting to know each other. He's an older gentleman (probably younger than me), but up in age. That's good because it means he partially understands the fears and thought processes of Elderly Joe. Kind of.

We chatted for an hour last week and I felt comfortable with him. That is key, because the woman I worked with a few years ago was touchy feely, which does me no good. And that was 100% Telehealth. The guy I worked with before was face to face, but if I told him I wanted to be THE PATS next QB he would have said "Great!"

As I said, I made up my mind to go full bore - total honesty about the fucked up shit that's in my head. That does not come naturally because I am Al Pacino. A deliberately made up character whose actions and words have been perfected over 50 years of playacting. And the poison in my head is totally corrosive - you don't know the half of it. So saying it out loud makes me sound like a complete fucking wreck. Which, of course, I am. I am fully committed to exposing every fucked up thought bouncing around in my head. 

We spoke comfortably; he asked a hell of a lot of questions and took a lot of notes. The conversation ranged from me to Carol to my sons to my father and mother, my grandfather, The Kid, friends; jobs, passions, fears, hopes, disappointments. He circled back around later in the conversation to make certain points based on stuff I told him earlier. That impressed me, because he was already working on my brain. And the points were good ones.

Got all that done in an hour.

I was comfortable enough to schedule another appointment, but I'm shaking things up. Gonna meet in his office, face to face, this coming Friday. I figure that will erase any Pacino shit. I was brutally honest through Telehealth, and I mean brutally, but still, it is not personal enough. I want him to look into my eyes, read my body language, to get a complete impression.

And face to face will make me nervous, which should cancel out any playacting. I really want this to work.

So here I go again. But with a lot more urgency this time around. A LOT. The spectre of Death is an amazing motivator. I need to get shit straight so I can get me some peace of mind. Be more honest with my family. And allow me to do what I got to do to protect me & Carol in this fucked up environment.

The hot breath of Regret, Failure & Shame is scorching my neck.

I am fucking sick of it.

When I'm done with this guy, he'll be an alcoholic. But by then I'll be fixed enough that I can counsel him.

Only seems fair.

And they're off..........................................

Why Not?

I am looking for part time work that pays a decent wage.

No more junior high school rates.

Troy Aikman is a dumb jock. Jim Rice barely speaks English.

Shouldn't one of those jobs be mine?

Nothing Else Left

I have failed. 

I have procrastinated, misjudged, mishandled; been shortsighted, hesitant, and afraid.

I have made bad decisions and non decisions. 

I have fucked up, then doubled down on it.  

I have sabotaged good situations and suffered needlessly through bad ones.

I have made every mistake a man can make.

There is only one outcome left.

Spectacular success.

The American Dream - George Carlin

 "But there's a reason. There's a reason. There's a reason for this, there's a reason education SUCKS, and it's the same reason it will never, ever, EVER be fixed.

It's never going to get any better, don't look for it, be happy with what you've got.

Because the owners, the owners of this country don't want that. I'm talking about the real owners now, the BIG owners! The Wealthy.... the REAL owners. The big wealthy business interests that control things and make all the important decisions.

Forget the politicians. They are irrelevant. The politicians are put there to give you the idea that you have freedom of choice. You don't. You have no choice, You have OWNERS! They OWN you. They OWN everything. They OWN all the important land. They OWN and control the corporations. They've long since bought, and paid for, the Senate, the Congress, the state houses, the city halls, they got the judges in their back pockets and they own all the big media companies, so they control just about all of the news and information you get to hear. They got you by the balls.

They spend billions of dollars every year lobbying, lobbying, to get what they want. Well, we know what they want. They want more for themselves and less for everybody else, but I'll tell you what they don't want:

They don't want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking. They don't want well informed, well educated people capable of critical thinking. They're not interested in that. That doesn't help them. That's against their interests.

That's right. They don't want people who are smart enough to sit around a kitchen table and think about how badly they're getting fucked by a system that threw them overboard 30 fucking years ago. They don't want that.

You know what they want? They want obedient workers. Obedient workers, people who are just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork. And just dumb enough to passively accept all these increasingly shitty jobs with the lower pay, the longer hours, the reduced benefits, the end of overtime and vanishing pension that disappears the minute you go to collect it, and now they're coming for your Social Security money. They want your retirement money. They want it back so they can give it to their criminal friends on Wall Street, and you know something? They'll get it. They'll get it all from you sooner or later cause they own this fucking place! It's a big club, and you ain't in it! You, and I, are not in the big club.

By the way, it's the same big club they use to beat you over the head with all day long when they tell you what to believe. All day long beating you over the head with their media telling you what to believe, what to think and what to buy. The table has tilted folks. The game is rigged and nobody seems to notice. Nobody seems to care! Good honest hard-working people; white collar, blue collar it doesn't matter what color shirt you have on. Good honest hard-working people continue, these are people of modest means, continue to elect these rich cocksuckers who don't give a fuck about you...they don't give a fuck about you...they don't give a FUCK about you.

They don't care about you at all...at all...AT ALL. And nobody seems to notice. Nobody seems to care. That's what the owners count on. The fact that Americans will probably remain willfully ignorant of the big red, white and blue dick that's being jammed up their assholes everyday, because the owners of this country know the truth.

It's called the American Dream, because you have to be asleep to believe it."

From George Carlin's HBO special Life Is Worth Losing in 2005. 2005!

And twenty years later..........................................

Never Get My Lincoln

I'll probably never get my Lincoln.

So here's what you do. When I die, take up a collection - buy me a Lincoln. Not a new one, for Christ sake - that would be stupid. Whatever you can afford with the money you collect, buy something that makes sense.

You can drive it right onto the lawn next to my house. The left side, if you are facing my house. Just drive it right on up there, and park it right in the middle between my house and the Farquahr's house. Equidistant. That's a cool word, don't you think? Park that sucker equidistant between my house and theirs.

Drag my body out of the house and, while you're at it, treat me whatever way you think I deserve. Kick me, slap me, piss on me. Kiss me, caress me, hug me. Smile, frown, laugh, cry.

Haul me right up into my precious Lincoln. Driver's seat. Sit me up behind the wheel. You might want to strap my hands to the wheel - I won't be too cooperative at that point.

Empty a 2 and 1/2 gallon can of gasoline into the back seat. Say a few words, or not, depending on the mood and the schedule of the crowd - they might have errands to run.

Drop a match and watch me and my Lincoln burn.

Don't worry about the raging flames encroaching (another good word) on the Farquahr's house - their life sucks anyway, they could use a solid insurance check.

When you are satisfied, go about your business.

And thanks.

Unatoned

"My father's house shines hard and bright

It stands like a beacon calling me in the night

Calling and calling, so cold and alone

Shining 'cross this dark highway where our sins lie unatoned"

From My Father's House, by Bruce Springsteen

Something most fathers and sons hope to avoid. Until reality burns them with the news that it is too late. Their intentions rot on the vine.

Nothing Helps

Nothing helps anymore.

When you are so depressed that you gotta get the hell out of the house and take a ride, try to catch your breath or a break - there will be no relief.

Let's say you're listening to The Beatles channel. Let It Be comes on. They got a lyric in there, goes like this:

"And when the broken-hearted people living in the world agree, 

There will be an answer, let it be

For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see

There will be an answer, let it be"

Used to sound hopeful. If it caught you on the right day you might think, yeah, you know? Everybody is human, we are all in the same boat, maybe things will get better.

Not anymore. Now it sounds like a child's fantasy.

We are all just waiting for the explosion.

My Grandson, Myself

Babysat The Kid last night.

From around 4:30 to around 7:30. When Craig & Amanda whisked him out the door for the ride home, Carol and I collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. Took us 35 minutes before we could muster the energy to get back on our feet.

Jackson is 1 year and 7 months old. The little maniac has unlimited energy. He never stops moving. Walking, running, climbing, and babbling. Honestly we probably got 15 total minutes of peace the whole time he was here.

If he was an adult, I would have killed him. But he is my grandson - if they wanted us to babysit again today I would say "Hell, yeah!"

He blows into the house like a hurricane and then proceeds to make us smile, make us laugh, make us look at him in disbelief that this magical tiny human has come into our life and made it better.

He likes my "office". Runs in and out of there all the time. 

For some reason my bookcases caught his eye for the first time last night. I have between 200 and 250 books on the shelves. He randomly grabbed two books, then dropped them on the floor.

Ancient Gonzo Wisdom - Interviews With Hunter S. Thompson, edited by Anita Thompson.

"Laughing with the Gods, Charles Bukowski.

I have many HST books, I have many Bukowski books, but they are randomly dispersed throughout my collection. They are not grouped together. In addition, those two books were not even side by side.

Admittedly, Jackson is a tiny human and has access to only around 150 of my books because of his height but, still, this is an astonishing situation.

If you know me at all, you know I love these two men. They mean a lot to me. And they are an acquired taste. If I randomly polled the entire population of Belmont - 7,314 people - I'd probably find two people with a collection like mine.

So what does this mean?

I recently read a book about a grandfather imparting wisdom to his grandson. It depressed me because I have no wisdom to share, other than how not to live a life. I would rather give Jackson something positive.

When my sons were little, I was the world's greatest father - we had a blast. Since they became adults, I set a terrible example. I am painfully aware of the same dynamic with Jackson. Right now, I am a blast. When he gets older he'll recognize my weaknesses and lower his opinion of me. I do not want to experience that again. It would kill me.

Maybe he chose those books to send me a message - "Hey, Papa Joe - you and I will get along. Your opinion of yourself is all wrong. We will share things, learn together, and have fun. Just wait and see."

Or maybe it was just a painful coincidence, inspiring false hope in my diseased soul.

You believe what you want to believe, I'll believe what I want to believe.

Adulthood Explained

 "It's dizzying. God is limited, he didn't entertain us kids enough. God only committed himself when he invented happy childhood, where everything was gentle purity. Then he got distracted, he let himself go, so the world we knew as children, suddenly and without warning, was exhausted. The worlds. The worlds are getting tired."

From the movie Parthenope.

Thank God For The Beatles

I am just overflowing with good vibes right now.

I went to Mark Cuban's drug website and registered to save myself almost $200 a month on one of the drugs my old age requires. Ecstatic!

Babysitting The Kid tonight. Christ it doesn't get better than that.

Just ran out to do an errand, Beatles channel on Sirius - and I sang every single song. Loudly. Smiling. Beautifully out of tune.

Those four lads have been enriching and improving my life and mood for 60 years now, and they will until the day I die.

Do you understand how magical that is? My soul is soaring!

Please note: I am so obnoxious that I can sing every single word of I've Just Seen A Face word for word with the Beatles. Every word of Rocky Raccoon. And I do.

Try it - you'll blow it.

I feel so good. I'm gonna milk this feeling until I collapse from exhaustion.

Ciao, baby.

Tears

Listening to John Lennon.

Happy Xmas (War Is Over) - The lyrics of that song will be particularly meaningful this year. I'll shed a few tears every time I listen. Especially if I am with Jackson.

Imagine - Timeless lyrics. Painful to listen to in 2025 in America. Again, tears.

Sobering

If you live a superficial life, you will suffer a superficial death - mocked by feigned grief.

Buried eternally in a shallow grave.

I Just Don't Know

Don't you hate it when you sneeze after you blow your nose?

What the fuck's up with that?

REGRET

I don't have regrets.

I am regret.

"Something old leaves her, and something new enters. A profound devastation. An awful, razor-edged wisdom. She takes her hand away from Fab, and collapses against Giulia, pinned forever to the void of this moment, the terror of regret."

Saint of The Narrows Street, by William Boyle

The terror of regret. Regret is the overwhelming emotion experienced by people on their deathbed.

If I don't get my shit together, my deathbed will be a fucking nightmare.

Some Things To Think About

 "You value life most intensely when you are living with the threat of its end, and you fight every step, moment by moment, to find meaning."

How To Stand Up To A Dictator, Maria Ressa

This is where I am at. 

My brain has been percolating every single day in 2025, bubbling and burning with what ifs, and what should I do, and how will I survive? Meanwhile Death stands by impatiently tapping a foot.

Job #2 pushed me over the edge. Now that it is gone and I survived it, I am fiercely determined to do the right thing for my life and Carol's. The next decision is critical.

The torture I went through for those 2 and 1/2 months almost destroyed me, but, having survived it, I am keenly aware of the time I have available to me and the potential disaster of wasting it.

"When that happened, it destroyed the old checks and balances on power and transformed our world. We elected incompetent populists who stoked our fears, dividing us and turning us against one another, fueling and feeding off our fear, anger, and hate. They appointed officials like themselves; their goal was not good governance, but power."

How To Stand Up To A Dictator, Maria Ressa

Maria is talking about the Philippines under Duterte. She might as well be talking about the United States of America.

Delusional? Maybe Not.

 The goal at this point is to win the war, even though I have lost every battle.

What Could Go Wrong?

I'm hunting down a psychiatrist.

Deja Vu all over again. This is my third attempt.

The first two were wimps. Afraid to slap me around. They both took this squishy feel-good approach. They turned my stomach.

I need to re-tune my brain. Actually I need it completely rewired. If it was a thing, I would have the bad shit scooped out, leaving the good shit behind to fuel confidence and happiness.

Feels like it was a simpler process years ago, but I could be wrong. I am insane, you know.

Maybe I should adjust my approach. Hunting them down seems aggressive. Maybe I should make polite inquiries.

Psychiatrists can prescribe medication, psychologists cannot. So one tinkers with your brain and gives you drugs, the other just tinkers with your brain. Believe it or not I would prefer to avoid drugs and go right for the brain re-alignment.

I am happy with the drugs I take. I'm talking about at midnight, when I am watching Looking for Mr. Goodbar.

You also have clinical social workers and licensed professional counselors. Who is best for what? Who should I trust? I don't have a lot of time to make this happen. Every day when I leave the house the Grim Reaper is across the street waving at me with a diseased smile on his face. Drooling. If the sun is up, he squints.

So I call these people up, talk to them a bit, and this is the typical response that I get:

"I'm sorry, I can't help you. You'd be better off in a mental institution and a straight jacket."

Apparently I got a lot of work to do.

Truthfully, I email them, they email me back, refer me to someone else, or tell me they don't accept Medicare, or they are not accepting new patients.

I just want to get my brain fixed. Fortunately I know this guy who hangs in a bar that I frequent. He dispenses his own brand of wisdom to anyone willing to buy him a drink. He seems relatively coherent most of the time. 

What could go wrong?

Rewritten

If you're happy and you know it, kiss my ass

If you're happy and you know it, kiss my ass

If you're happy and you know it

Don't you dare to fucking show it,

If you're happy and you know it, kiss my ass

No Denying It

 Responsibility is the enemy of creativity.

Went To A Show Last Night

Went to a show last night.

We actually got out of the house. The neighbors were lined up along the thoroughfare applauding wildly.

"There they go! They're going out to have some fun. Sure wish we were them. Good luck kids - don't stay out too late."

It was heartening.

The show was called Live From Laurel Canyon - Songs and Stories of American Folk Rock.

There were many iconic communities back in the sixties and seventies, places where creative free spirits congregated and lived, and wrote music - Laurel Canyon was one of them.

Some who lived in Laurel Canyon - The Mamas and the Papas, The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, The Doors, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Neil Young, James Taylor, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Jackson Browne, Linda Ronstadt, America, The Eagles - can you imagine what that was like?

It was between 1965 and 1976. These people lived there off and on, coming and going, but meeting up in each other's houses and making music - mixing and matching creativity and insanity.

The show features a band who plays the music of the Laurel Canyon residents. But they also told intimate stories about the groups - about the inspiration behind writing certain songs, or the history of individuals, about the clubs they played in. And, they had a screen behind them flashing pictures of the Canyon, the homes they lived in, the groups, the clubs they played in, various permutations of the people who lived there hanging around each other's houses.

I was absolutely stunned by how deeply this all moved me. Got really emotional. That was a time of hope, a time for believing you could live an interesting life, a time for believing the world could be changed for the better. It was a place in which I wish I had lived.

Of course, I was obnoxious last night because I know 99% of the stories and I like to show off. As the stories got told, I would whisper into Carol's ear the name of the group or person or song the story was heading towards before the narrator did, and of course I was always right. But I did shut up when I noticed that "shut the fuck up" look in Carol's eyes.

When I was a teenager, I said to my parents "I would like to move to Laurel Canyon so I can hang around with David Crosby and Neil Young and Joni Mitchell and Jim Morrison and Jackson Browne, and Linda Ronstadt so I can be inspired by them and learn about life from them so my life can evolve into a thing of beauty."

My parents said "No, no, no Little Joey. You will stay here with us and grow up to be an accountant and wear clip-on ties." Sounded exciting, so I stuck around.

Might have been a mistake.

It was a very nice night out. The average age of the audience was 76. Hey, old people gotta have fun too, you know.

It was a homecoming of sorts for me because it was held at the Capitol Center, where I worked off and on for 7 years. Ran into a few people who high-fived me, hugged me, shook my hand - it made me feel better about myself.

So there was that too.

"And then I'm gonna................................"

Stop wasting time, for Christ fucking sake.

This is your LIFE we're talking about here.

Vacant Eyes

I have a two minute commute to Job #1.

That is too short - no time to think or adjust my attitude from defiant to subservient, so I do laps. I leave 20 minutes early, I crank up the rock 'n roll, and I drive aimlessly out to the Circle K, which is a few miles down the road. If I still have time, or, more frequently, just don't care what fucking time I get to work, I'll do it again. It's possible as I cruise, that I administer a central nervous system depressant as medicine to get me to the right level of "I don't give a fuck."

You didn't think driving alone could do it, did you? This is a brilliant plan. It keeps me from killing my co-workers.

When I circle through the Circle K lot I often see a worker bee sitting on a concrete stoop outside the back door, taking her break. Cigarette dangling from her mouth, phone dangling from her hand. One day she was sitting in the rain, hood up.

To me, that was the perfect vision of the typical American worker.

Desperate to get out of the work environment for 10 whole minutes, desperate to sit outside in any kind of weather, desperate to grab at anything that might bring happiness, entertainment, or escape.

So sad. This country is viciously exploitative. Businesses are not designed to treat employees fairly. They are designed to suck every drop of blood out of the workers, while paying them the lowest legal wage possible.

Disrespect and condescension are critical management tools, taught in business school and refined on the job.

I am not sure employees have ever been treated fairly or with respect in the history of this country. I'd like to think so, but the era I grew up in exposed me to nothing but lies, condescension, and blatant disrespect.

So I am a wee bit jaded.

Originally I was going to label this post Monkey On a Phone, but I couldn't do it. She is not a monkey. She is a human being trying to take care of a family or herself, and this is the situation she finds herself in. She is demoralized and searching for "better".

She will probably never find it because the odds are stacked against her. 

Once you get into a situation like that, the entire employment apparatus is stacked against you. Free thinking from employers goes out the window. It's a lot easier to typecast potential employees, pigeon-hole them, and trap them into a vicious cycle of low paying jobs, rather than to look past the vacant eyes to get to a spark of humanity. A tell that reveals this person to be much more valuable than past experience would suggest.

"Nobody ever said that life was fair." Yeah, I get that. But nobody ever tells you that life is a vicious game that will crush you if you take your eye off the ball for even a second. Happiness is not part of the equation. 

Nobody ever tells you that you are nothing more than a necessary evil to management, and that if you die, they are indifferent. And they will replace you with another poor soul that they will try to pay even less, justifying the low pay with convoluted corporate speak, otherwise known as fucking lying bullshit. 

All those years ago, we should have known, should have seen this coming.

When they changed the name of Personnel Departments to Human Resources.

WTF

"I can honestly say I do not want to be anyone else but me. It's not an easy gig. There's a lot of ups and downs and I really don't like the job most of the time but I am committed to it."

"For me resentment is just rooted in how I feel about myself. I don't like myself that much, I'm very hard on myself and I don't usually think I'm good enough at.......anything."

"It's just uncomfortable being me and I want to be comfortable being me."

Marc Maron, September 15, 2025

"And believe me I'm sick of myself going on about it. There's plenty of things that have changed for me and my life but there's a deep wiring that hasn't. I'm not even afraid of cutting the wrong wire at this point. The most it could detonate is a lifetime of welled up tears."

"You reach a certain age, usually pretty young, when you realize your parents are just people and they aren't going to help after a certain point, if they did at all, really. So, it's on you. And there's some part of my brain, emotionally, that's pretty stifled. I assume that's where a lot of my anxiety comes from."

Marc Maron, August 18, 2025

"I think gratitude is important but I don't engage it much and I should. I think there is some part of me that is afraid to be grateful, afraid of joy, afraid of happiness, afraid of peace because I assume it will all be crushed or taken away. I can't do it in a general sense so the exercise to me is identifying what those things could be attached to. What can't be taken away. Because by stifling them I take them away from myself."

"I choose to focus on my flaws and use them as a scourge as opposed to accepting them."

Marc Maron, August 11, 2025

I know some people who feel this way. Probably a lot more that I don't know, that also feel this way. There's one guy who I'm really close to, who I know very well, that feels these things overwhelmingly.

I don't know - should I sit down and talk to him? Is there a chance that I can help him adjust his thinking?

Maybe I'll give it a shot.

I just want him to get happy before he dies.

I Like To Dance

Next week I wrap up Job #2.

It's a seasonal job, and it's getting downright seasonal here in New England. Tuesday is my last day.

What happens on Wednesday?

I dance on the graves of my enemies.

What's The Right Answer

Just ran out to the liquor store.

The young lady at the register asked me how I'm doing and of course I said "Not too bad!"

A more truthful answer would have been "I really don't know. I really don't fucking know."

Because I don't.

Since I started the second job I have been absolutely destroyed; barely functioning as a human being. Sad, depressed, angry, as hard and deep as any of those emotions can go.

But that's on me. I'm weak. I can't handle being forced to be responsible. And the bathroom mirror is laughing at me. Hysterically. Saying "Are you for real? Is that what you're doing with your life?"

Beyond that, we have a dicktator, and mindless, spineless sycophants actively working to destroy my life and yours. 

The only people that will survive this vicious, killing horror are those with money in the bank. That is the only thing that will protect you when this country comes crashing down.

I don't have any.

I want a creative career that pays well, I don't want anybody telling me what to do, where to do it, and what to wear when I get there.

I want my grandson to love and respect me.

I want to succeed at an appreciable level in the short time I have left, so my sons will have fond memories of "Dad's Last Stand."

You know, come to think of it - it is better that I said "Not too bad" rather than to speak the truth.

The fine, young lady wouldn't have given a shit anyway.

What Else You Gonna Do?

Well, well, well kids - a wild fucking ride. No?

Sometimes life is a gas and sometimes life gasses you. Right now we are locked into the torture chamber fighting to not breathe in the fumes, but sooner or later you will have to inhale - and then you'll be dead.

Just trying to cheer you up in my own inimitable way.

We all bounce around like pinballs for decades and decades thinking we are actually living life - then you are diagnosed with Stage 11 Delusion Cancer............Holy Shit I was wrong all this time! You kick it into high gear for "the time you have left", or you try to or you want to, but you don't really know what to do. Nobody ever taught you how to do it, because nobody fucking knows what is the best way to live a life.

Which reminds me, if you use the expression "living my best life" one more time, I will take a two by four to the side of your face. What is it with us humans making up all these stupid expressions to fool ourselves that we are happy? To try to fool everybody else. Would you rather fool yourself than to actually have some fun, grab some independence, and live like a rugged individualist? Can we actually fool ourselves? Do you really want to reveal your weakness to other people through the use of mindless cliches? 

I don't think so. We put on an act for everybody else, then we go home and cry alone in the dark with a joint and a shot glass.

"And when the morning light comes streaming in, you'll get up and do it again."

I actually believe it is the insidious effect of the marketing industry in this country. They make up this shit to sell you something and the next thing you know everybody is repeating it. Because we don't think for ourselves and we are exposed to marketing 28 hours every fucking day. We are brainwashed because our brains are weak and pus filled, vulnerable to anything that smacks of hope.

Because we ache for hope in a world that kills hope. A world that is deliberately geared towards killing hope. Quite the conundrum, eh?

What is the solution to life? Only the demented really know. You are on your own, buddy.

I recently read a book where the premise was that "normal" people are insane, and "insane" people have all the answers. That if you are locked up in an asylum you are actually living a better life than the rats performing on the treadmill.

There is something to that.

I am fucking insane to the core. The shit that goes on in my head would scare the shit out of you if you could read my mind. But I got it all under control, encased in lead two feet thick so nothing leaks out.

Which, of course, is why I have to eat three prescriptions every day to control my blood pressure.

And the wheel goes 'round and 'round.

I am addicted to 100 Foot Wave. I told you about it previously, watched the whole thing start to finish, but now I watch the episodes relentlessly over and over. Whenever I don't have the time to watch an entire movie (because I am a real up and comer, a player of immense proportions on the field of life who cannot squeeze enough successes into one day), I dial up an episode of 100 Foot Wave.

And I am riding those waves, baby. A real wild man, living easy and free. Radically different than the average wage earner, independent, a trend setter, getting my kicks on Route 66.

A couple of tokes on the vape, a sip or two of whiskey, and I am right there with Garrett, Cotty, Justine, Chumbo, Kai - I mean they accept me, man - they get me because they penetrate the two feet of lead that hides my true essence and experience me raw and real.

Holy shit what a ride, what fun.

"And when the morning light comes streaming in, I get up and do it again."

What a shame.

Fuck it - what else you gonna do?

The Math Doesn't Work

One menial job plus a second menial job does not bring dignity.

In mathematical terminology:

                                  1m + 1m ≠ Dignity

So, remember, as Peggy Lee once sang:

"Is that all there is? If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing. 

Let's break out the booze and have a ball

If that's all there is"

Death Wish (Not Really)

I toy with the concept of death but I'm basically full of shit.

I'm not talking suicide here, calm down, Christ I got a lot to make up for. That tiny spot in my brain that still "hopes" (against all odds), prevents me from ending it all. That, and cowardice.

But sometimes, if I get a sudden sharp pain in my chest, I think "Well maybe this is it." I don't panic, I just sit there to see where this pain is going. Invariably it turns out to be gas. And my emotional response is a mix of relief and regret.

The regret is because I always take the easy way out. That is what got me into the pickle I am in right now. A fatal heart attack would be the easy way out. Bing, bang, boom - I don't have to fight anymore. And some people would say "He got cut down in his prime before he ever had a chance to make his mark." Others would say "Fucking lazy, underachieving prick got what he deserved - he never even tried."

The exciting thing about getting older is that there is no end to the sudden pains and discomforts that rear their ugly heads - things painful enough to make you think "what the fuck was that?" If you have a diseased brain like mine, therefore, there is no end to the morbid fantasies.

Had a knee replaced last July. Shortly before I went under the knife, at the pre-surgery check up - I was told I had a heart murmur. No one had ever told me that before. Freaked me out. Wouldn't it freak you out? Of course they told me it was mild and represented no threat. But I don't trust the medical profession - they would probably tell me that no matter what, so the surgeon could operate and get his numbers up.

I went into the surgery thinking I might never wake up. But I did.

Just had a colonoscopy this past Thursday. Haven't had one since 2012 so I was apprehensive. Age is the enemy. Dr. Feelgood was feeling positive after the surgery - said he didn't find anything too scary. But they did remove four polyps, which some lucky lab rat is examining even as we speak.

So there's still hope.

I don't really want to die. I got a lot to live for. My family, who I cherish. But the "a lot to live for" is all other directed. I am not happy when I'm alone with me. Isn't that the most important thing about life?

If you don't love yourself what is the fucking point?

Other complicating factors - I love parts of me. So it's not all poison. 

I try to recite certain things to myself as often as I can, mostly as memory exercises. (My brain is getting pretty squishy).

One exercise involves "affirmations". Affirmations sounds too new agey to me, so I consider them to be brain push ups. Anyway, one of them is "I love that I love what I love." And that is true.

I do love the things I love, and I am proud of them because they get to the core of me.

I'm a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction. I'll keep throwing punches until I can no longer lift my arms.

And I'll keep playing the Russian roulette of "Will this kill me or will I survive it?"

You gotta make your own fun.

Don't Be A Schnook (You're Boring Me)

 "Be like the fountain that overflows, not like the cistern that merely contains."

Paulo Coelho

Now that there, well now, that's how you live a life. Blow your personality up like a hot air balloon and ride that sucker all the way to the grave.

Loud and proud. Reckless, not feckless. Bounce it off every wall, crash through every plate glass window, get right on up into every face you run into. Go home every night and laugh.

Laugh at the quiet ones - who will even know they ever lived? Shit, man - everyone will know you were alive whether they like it or not. And fuck them if they don't like it.

You got a right to be here, man, and you got a right to make your mark. 

Life is short. How many times have you said that? How many times have people said that to you? It is short, baby - it blows by so fast you get dizzy.

Christ, I know a guy who is 71 and cannot believe how close he is to the grave. It fucks with his mind. He spends a lot of time obsessing about it to the point where he misses all the designer ice cream. Premium whiskey. Live fucking, soul-reviving Blues. It's all passing him by because he is not sure what approach to take. Christ, man - you can't plan shit like that, you just gotta go for it.

Take a giant step forward even if it feels like you are facing the abyss, fucking jump for it - what  do you have to lose? If it is the abyss, at least you got there like Evil Fucking Knievel.  And if it is not the abyss, then dig it - it ain't gonna be boring, baby.

And then you'll develop a taste for it. Feeling alive is a sensation that feeds off itself. You want more, you gotta get more and more and more, until everyone around you marvels at your rugged individuality.

Remember the lesson Henry Hill learned in Goodfellas:

"See, the hardest thing for me was leaving the life. I still love the life. And we were treated like movie stars with muscle. We had it all, just for the asking. Our wives, mothers, kids, everybody rode along. I had paper bags stuffed with jewelry stashed in the kitchen. I had a sugar bowl full of coke next to the bed. Anything I wanted was a phone call away. ............................................................................. And now it's all over. And that's the hardest part.

Today everything is different. There's no action. I have to wait around like everyone else. Can't even get decent food. Right after I got here I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce and I got egg noodles and ketchup. I'm an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook."

Jesus Christ, man - do you have any idea what egg noodles and ketchup tastes like? It tastes like shit!

Don't be a schnook.

LIVE!

If

 If a colonoscopy represents a refreshing break from work, you got a fucking problem.

Incestuous (Is What It Is)

My wife is active on Facebook. 

I backed away from it because I was not getting enough love. My posts are brilliant, obviously, and when I post them I expect 1,000 likes and 500 comments. Unfortunately I typically get 2 likes and no comments.

My ego. My bruised ego.

Anyway, my wife came across the post of a typically uninformed Maga head, who was getting sarcastic about liberal violence. She answered with a list of liberal people who have been killed or wounded by extreme conservatives. He did not know about these people. He had not heard about this violence. And yet he is forming opinions based on this sanitized "news" he is getting from whatever biased platform he goes to.

So hatred rears its ugly head, and gets intensified by our dicktator fanning the flames with lies, along with his vicious sycophants.

The right listens to the right, the left listens to the left, and a hell of a lot of people do not even make the effort to verify the "news" they are getting. We have this thing called the internet. You can do your own fact checking, you know. The truth is out there somewhere if you make the effort to dig it up.

How did we get so stupid?

My wife watches lots of MSNBC. What I see when I watch it is a bunch of liberals stroking each others' egos and fanning the flames of panic. What's the point of the discussions they have if they are preaching to the choir?

Same for the right. A bunch of people actively engaged in censoring the news for the consumption of people already filled with hatred and gravely misinformed. What's the point?

A lot of people are not really looking for news, they are looking for someone to support their political views with no concern for truth or what's right. How fucking short sighted is that?

And the pot is boiling.

Went out for lunch yesterday with my wife to a restaurant beautifully situated on Lake Winnipesaukee. Got a table on the deck right on the water on a beautiful day. First time there. Great atmosphere, excellent food, perfect service.

We loved it.

We wasted the last 15 minutes there having a political discussion, instead of looking at the lake, and enjoying the sunshine, boats, and people. It left me depressed. I deeply regret that. We don't go out often because we are paupers, and spend most of our time counting pennies in a jar to assess the nature of our financial stability (of which we have none).

That's how bad things are getting.

Political stupidity in this country has become all encompassing. And you end up arguing about it vehemently even though you have not chased down all the facts.

I want those 15 minutes back.

How did we get so stupid?

The Worst That Could Happen

 The worst moment of my day is the moment when I close my book, stand up from my recliner, pick up my coffee cup, and walk into the kitchen to dump what remains of the coffee - cold - into the sink. I seem to never be able to get through the entire cup.

I place the cup on the counter to the left of the double sink and hesitate before I take my next step. Because walking suggests that I am going to "do". I will be forced to engage with the world, whether I am prepared for that or not. (Usually, almost 100% of the time, not). Something I definitely don't enjoy.

I will have to make decisions, and decisions are double-edged swords. Did I make the right one? Will the results be good for me or bad for me. Will I go forward, backwards, or - worse still - stay in the same place.

I will be forced to do things I don't want to do. Haven't I earned the right to do only the things I do want to do? No, I have not.

I have noticed that I walk around the house slowly these days. Not because of age, I am still fairly vigorous. Not because of disease or because I am trying to conserve energy. I think maybe I am trying to slow down time. Or maybe my legs are just depressed. 

Studies show that when you are deeply depressed, that depression travels around your body. The brain cannot handle unrelenting depression - it will shut down and stop your heart from beating - so it farms it out throughout the body. Until it eventually cycles back around to your poor, ravaged brain. 

Besides, I hate people that walk ridiculously fast. You come across them too, right? Who are they trying to impress? What do they want you to think they are doing that is so important?

There's a guy who practically runs into the library, drops his book off on the desk, and runs out. Every time. I guarantee he has nothing that pressing in his life. Except maybe cocaine.

At some point during the day I will be forced to talk to other humans. Especially on days that I work - I am "in customer service." Doesn't sound as impressive as saying "I am a lawyer", "I am a doctor", "I am a research scientist", does it? 

Customer Service. A job that forces you to answer stupid questions, deal with perpetually disgruntled people, bat away stupid requests, and generally inconvenience yourself to satisfy the customer.

Different organizations have different approaches. Some expect you to bend over backwards to satisfy anything a customer wants, whether or not it is pertinent to the job or the business. Others are more realistic and require you only to do the job and say no to anything else. Those are my favorites.

Movie: From Dusk Till Dawn. Sign over the bartender's head in a Mexican bar - "The Customer is always wrong." That's my philosophy.

But even if I don't have to work that day I probably have to engage with other humans. It is a fucking chore. The pharmacy, the grocery store, a medical appointment (those are the worst), the liquor store. You actually have to talk to people, which is the worst possible form of torture.

You know, as I think about it, one of these days I am just going to stay in my recliner and keep reading. Let the fucking day slide right by me. Then the week. And the month.

What's the worst that could happen?

The Scratch Ticket

 $500,000. That's how much Billy Bob won on his scratch ticket.

Who knew? 

Six months ago, on his birthday, after buying hundreds of scratch tickets over the years, he sat down at the Formica top kitchen table with a quarter between his fingers, and scratched. Scratched like he had done so many times before with dwindling belief that he would ever win more than two dollars.

But this time was different. He swept the shavings off the table into his hand and dumped them into the small, plastic trash bin he kept handy, barely looking at the numbers. When he did, he almost shit himself. It only took seconds for the truth to set in and for him to actually believe it.

He was a different man from that day on. His life up until then had been dead end jobs, sometimes two at a time; shitty pay, past due bills, rundown furniture and 15 year old trucks. He was bitter. No one wanted to be around him, including his family. Even he did not like himself. At the age of 57 he felt that things would never change, that he could never win. Since that magical day, he was all smiles all the time.

Slowly, he worked himself back into the good graces of his neighbors. They were wary at first, assuming he had gotten into drugs, assuming he was after something. But eventually they realized he was genuine. They loosened up and just enjoyed his company.

Billy Bob took care of his family. First his daughter, Lucinda, because he knew she would be the tough one. She hated what he had done to her mother, she hated the way he abandoned the family, she hated him. He knew it was justified, so he approached her carefully. A couple of phone calls, a meeting at a local diner, finally wrangling an invitation to her house for dinner. 

Lucinda was studying to be a surgeon and Billy Bob knew she was smothering under a mountain of debt. That night over dinner he handed her a check to cover 50% of her debt. He left her home with a smile on his face and confidence that he would eventually earn her love back.

His son Johnny Joe was next. He had dropped out of high school and gone to work in a machine shop. Worked all day, drank all night and was fairly content doing that. Until Dad showed up. Billy Bob paid off Johnny Joe's truck loan, bought him a condo, and deposited some cash into his bank account. He gave his son some breathing room to stop and think and make better decisions about his future.

Billy Bob often stopped to reflect upon all the good he had done, and was overwhelmed by the sense of pride he felt, amazed that he actually felt good about himself. He could have blown the money on booze, drugs and hookers, which was his natural inclination. Instead he decided to change, and change he did. For the better. Forever.

He was sitting on his screened-in porch on a summer night, sipping Pappy Van Winkle 10 year old bourbon from a Waterford crystal cocktail glass feeling good about himself. He had invested the remainder of his money wisely, and as he thought about the additional good he could do with it, he could not help but smile. 

The cocktail glass shattered as it hit the wide pine porch floor. Billy Bob had a massive, fatal heart attack.

He was 57 years and six months old.

On Aging

 "The older you get, the more baggage you have to carry, and the less you're able to lift it."

"Sometimes people reserve so much of themselves it's like saving a fine wine for an occasion that never materializes."

"If I do not speak my mind while I am able, well, death provides ample time for silence."

Anonymous

Age gives you perspective. Or it should. I am 71. When I say the words, when I look at the number, I am horrified. Seems surreal. Specifically because the time I have left is a fraction of the time I have spent. When I was 48 I feared turning fifty. Then it was 60. Then it was 70. Holy shit, this shit's gotta stop. Eradicating fear is a good place to start. Although 80 scares the hell out of me.

Right now I am "healthy", as far as I know. I mean, I dealt with skin cancer, I dealt with prostate cancer and came out on the winning side. Although the skin cancer thing is bizarre. I got so many spots and weirdnesses on my skin that weren't there 10 years ago, I look like a Jackson Pollock painting. So it's hard to feel confident, but I do the best that I can. And looking in the mirror is no picnic. I feel like somebody swapped out my body for that of the Pillsbury Dough boy - a senior Pillsbury Dough boy - it's pretty squishy. What the hell happened?

Right now I am not dealing with anything of substance. Although I have a colonoscopy coming up in 13 days which, of course, I am quite excited about. Haven't had one in 13 years. Who knows what's growing down there.

I do love the drugs, though. I've had a few of these puppies and I know when I wake up I'm going to feel just fine. It's the nicest high. You feel very good, quite mellow, but not LSD over the top type stuff. Just enough to make you believe that life is good.

When Carol drives me home she has to listen to me babble about how good I feel.

So I feel fine, all things considered. I am exercising hard and I feel very good about that, physically and mentally. In fact I feel better than I have in a long time. I lost a lot of weight, I'm getting around like a tiny bird. So I don't feel 71. But death can come calling any minute. My body is beat, battered and bruised. Shit, the whiskey I have consumed in the last 50 years should have killed me.

I feel good, but I'm still old. That's the rub. The baggage is piling up and definitely getting harder to lift. As far as reserving myself, I have done way too much of that and it is very possible the "occasion will never materialize." Nobody knows who I really am, including me. I don't speak my mind enough. So my body blows up like a hot air balloon, figuratively.

You can fool yourself when you're young, but you're a fool to do it when you're old. Death is a harsh reality and it's pretty permanent. Or so I'm told.

So I continue to navigate this life thing, but it gets trickier and scarier every day.

I'll be watching Djokovic/Alcaraz in an hour and a half - that will lift my spirits.

It's Only Right

When I ask someone how they are doing, I expect a response.

The fools who say nothing generally wind up minus a tongue.

Launching Pad to Hell

 I wasted hundreds of days when I was younger, and they were quite tasty.

Now, a wasted day tastes bitter. Rancid.

A wasted day now feels like a launching pad to the grave.

I must invest my time wisely or be laughed out of the human race.

No pressure.

Suffer, Dog

 They do not listen to me.

They must be made to suffer miserably.

Madness

"That question led me on to another: What exactly is madness?

First, people aren't in mental institutions because they continue to be socially productive. If you are capable of getting in to work at 9:00 a.m. and staying until 5:00 p.m., then society does not consider you incapacitated. It doesn't matter if, from 5:01 p.m. until 8:59 a.m. you sit in a catatonic state in front of the television, indulge in the most perverted sexual fantasies on the internet, stare at the wall, blaming the world for everything and feeling generally put upon, feel afraid to go out into the street, are obsessed with cleanliness or a lack of cleanliness, suffer from bouts of depression and compulsive crying. As long as you can turn up for work and do your bit for society, you don't represent a threat. You're only a threat when the cup finally overflows and you go out into the street with a machine gun in your hand, like a character in a child's cartoon, and kill fifteen children in order to alert the world to the pernicious effects of Tom and Jerry. Until you do that, you are deemed to be normal."

From Veronica Decides To Die by Paulo Coelho

A dangerous situation for sure. But it is the way most of us live our lives. Grinding away for 8 hours a day and 45 years, if you have the stamina. No wonder we all go mad. Who came up with these rules?

If the people you work with seem "normal", beware. The truth is most people hate their jobs, do not respect their bosses, and feel no connection to the company they work for. They spend eight hours a day playing a role that strips them of dignity and their soul. When they go home, some get "normal" - TV, dinner, bed. Surrounded by off- white walls and beige carpets.

Others live in madness, twisted and tortured by what they have to do to buy bread. They drink, they do drugs, they get violent, they get catatonic. And in the time between the end of the work day and the beginning of the next, the madness marinates and intensifies, only to be camouflaged the next day in phony smiles and talk of the weather. Over time, the madness grows and becomes more rancid, eventually overcoming the personality of the worker bee to the point of dedicated dysfunction.

Which is madness really, though? 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., or 5:01 p.m. to 8:59 a.m.?

I say 9 to 5. Down on the killin' floor. And you agree. Shit, man I've had jobs that almost caused me to hyperventilate on my commute. My mind was so fucked up trying to understand exactly why I was doing what I was doing - so fucking foreign to my soul - that steering into a concrete abutment seemed like a better option. But I kept miscalculating the angle. 

One of the strangest periods of my life was when I suddenly decided to become a bartender around the age of fifty. No fucking experience whatsoever. Took a one week course to learn how to mix a hundred drinks, got my little certificate, and went out on the road to apply for jobs. Randomly picking restaurants and bars, I'd pull into the parking lot, shut the car down and begin to gag. I was so fucking nervous I would gag for a minute or two - never puked though, 'cause I'm a real man - then I would pump up my chest, and walk into the bar and go into my shtick. The process was the same everywhere I went and believe me, I must have walked into 25 different places. Amazing I survived it. And all in the pursuit of meaningful employment.

But I digress. Work is madness for sure. Working for a living is a bizarre thing and a great way for the rich and powerful to keep you under their thumb. You make just enough to get by, so you have to keep working. Hamster on a wheel, baby. The 1% got you right where they want you and that's the way they like it. That way they can rape and pillage the country to fatten up their already bloated bank accounts, and there's nothing you can do about it because you gotta keep your head down and your feet shuffling forward.

Many of us decide to introduce madness into our after-work hours. Partying with abandon. Otherwise we go insane. Cute, huh?

Nothing better than finding a friendly bar, a comfortable place that reeks of lunacy and making that place home.

Your ultimate goal is to avoid like the plague what is considered normal behavior. In big ways, in little ways. You can sneak nips onto the job. That's a small victory but very satisfying. It's fun being 76% buzzed as the boss explains your next assignment to you in serious tones. Try not to burst into maniacal laughter. Is this guy for real? Jesus.

Wow, this post was all over the place. Not really focused, not really that good. But fuck it. I'm a little pissed off and I was listening to a rockin' CD as I attacked the keyboard.

You can't have everything.

A Man of Action

Bob slumped over the table, long brown hair hanging down loosely, tears trickling down his cheeks onto his hands, as the reality of his life worked its vicious torture. His mind was reeling, his emotions so intense with anger and disappointment and embarrassment, that he could not think, he could not speak. All he could do was lay his head down in surrender.

He was so far down the road, and so far away from who he thought he was or should be, that the psychological pain was physical. It fucking hurt.

How could he ever get back? The answer was, he couldn't. He could never undo the harm he had done. There wasn't enough time and he was too fucking tired; those truths crushed his spirit.

So what was left to do? He had no idea. But he knew he could not go on like this.

Bob staggered up and away from the table and fell into his recliner. He grabbed the remote, switched on the TV and pointed his face towards it. He never watched TV, he just looked at it. With a vacant stare, vaguely aware that people were moving, people were talking. It didn't matter. He was too empty to focus, a fucking shell masquerading as a human being. 

He ate a couple of French fries off the plate on the table next to the chair. Leftovers from last night.

On the really bad days he could sit in silence and say nothing and do nothing for hours. Suffering. Staring at the wall. Shut down like an unplugged machine. Numb, yet overwhelmed with pain. His soul's pain, his heart's pain - the worst pain imaginable.

How did he get here? It happened little by little over a great many years. Slowly, like water torture. He barely noticed the slow death of his soul as life beat him, battered him. As what passed for dreams faded into harsh reality. Obeying, always obeying. Keeping the boss happy, keeping the mortgage company happy, making his car payments, doing what others demanded, to the exclusion of happiness, the death of pride. 

His brain never really grasped what was happening, until it did. And on that day, in supreme frustration, he got staggering drunk. How could this happen to him? He was a smart guy, he could have been somebody.

That was the irony. He thought he was a smart guy, but that was one man's opinion. His life, where he was right now, proved otherwise. He was a fucking idiot.

Bob grabbed a bottle of whiskey and stalked out to his car. Christ, even his car was a fucking insult. A fucking Hyundai. Really? He deserved a Lincoln.

He drove around, sucking from the bottle, listening to Ozzy cranked up to eleven. Back roads, country roads, quiet roads. Roads that used to bring him peace. Bob was feeling pretty good after about an hour, but suddenly realized he needed to kick things up a notch. He felt the need for speed. 

He made his way to the highway and goosed the shitbox up to ninety, then a hundred. Could not believe this little imitation of a car could handle it. He was singing along with Ozzy and laughing hysterically. Other cars pulled to the right quickly as he flew. 

Bob tipped the bottle up, drained the last few ounces in one gulp and tossed the empty out the window. He watched it in his rear view mirror as it shattered on the road and laughed so hard he started to choke, but he got it under control because he was a man of action. He was fucking in charge.

Bob felt a whole lot better. A whole lot better.

He was God. He was fucking God.

Heaven Is Closed

I've been losing my mind lately. Have you noticed?

Anyway...........................

"Heaven is closed and hell's overcrowded, so I think I'll just stay where I am."

Heaven is Closed, by Willie Nelson

I have decided that this has to be my philosophy. It's a good one.

If I died, it would solve all my problems, but I got a lot of work to do. Shit, man - if I died right now, funeral homes would reject my body, crematoriums would refuse to light the flame.........because I don't pass the smell test. I haven't lived my life yet.

The rule is that the corpses of people who have pissed their life away get tossed into the woods. Woodland creatures gotta eat too, you know.

Hell might be fun when slots open up - I would definitely get along with the people I meet there. And I hate being cold. I'd consider that as a destination. Not sure about heaven, though. I mean on the surface of things you might think I could slither into heaven, but you don't know me as well as you think you do.

God would have to be a pretty forgiving dude to overlook some of my transgressions. But he should be forgiving - he has created an awful lot of pain in the world. He's not as innocent as his press releases make you think.

I just read a book where the people in a small, rural town, on one special day a year, offer up their sins to God for judgement. But before he smites them down, they also point out the nasty things he has allowed to happen, or maybe even made happen. Then they call it a wash and go on about their business. That's a pretty realistic approach.

Heaven is closed and hell's overcrowded, so I think I'll just stay where I am. I'm not in a bad place. Not really, despite all my whining. 

If I hunker down and keep on punching, I might actually win. I'm working two menial part-time jobs right now, that reward me with a pay level of a sixteen year old. That sucks and it rips my mind to shreds. But if I look at it another way, I'm doing what I have to do to keep Carol in diamonds. It's a temporary situation until I find my pot of gold. It's coming. I know it's coming.

I am still punching, still thrashing about, still chasing a dream that I haven't precisely defined (?).

Cake or death? Sorry, couldn't resist. Eddie Izzard fans understand.

Death? No. Not yet.

I think I'll just stay where I am.