He Does Not Know Himself

He does not know himself, and he suffers because of that. Worse still, his family is cheated by his absence.

In gatherings, when joy is the right emotion, the normal emotion, he withdraws. Not consciously - God knows he wants so very badly to engage honestly and joyfully - it is an unfortunate, automatic, self-defense mechanism that is entirely misplaced. The wrong response in the wrong situation.

The awkwardness he feels is psychologically painful and physically uncomfortable.

Around strangers, of course it makes sense to hide, to play-act, to strangle honest thoughts and smother intense emotions. He has to. They only care about themselves. They want to dominate him, to strip him of dignity. To impose their will, their thoughts, their emotions, their irrational perspective of life upon him to the exclusion of his essence. So, the turtle withdraws his head.

But family is a refuge, a chance to air out the soul and allow it to breathe. Even more important, allow it to express itself, naturally and honestly in complete absence of self-doubt. Family is a bona fide source of life.

Because his self-awareness has died, or possibly never existed - every thought that comes to mind, every word that exits his mouth, is surreal and unnatural. Nothing he says is genuine, to his enormous frustration. Sometimes the words that come out of his mouth shock him - "that's not me, why the fuck did I say that? I don't even believe what I'm saying."

Everyone else talks, laughs, and acts themselves. He is a distant spectator to himself, looking on in horror at the image he is projecting. The family is used to this. They respond to the person he is not.

Over the years, this internal battle has escalated to the point where every gathering is a war. An opportunity to vindicate himself so important to him that he can't possibly achieve it. The enormity of the significance of victory paralyzes him. So he repeats another disingenuous performance. And the hole gets deeper.

I have talked to him about this but his defenses are stout, fortified by self-delusion. I refuse to give up, though.

I like the guy.

Wisdom & Epitaph

Wife: "You've had so much strife but you're always happy. How do you do it?"

Husband: "I choose to. I can leave myself to rot in the past, spend my time hating people for what happened, like my father did, or I can forgive and forget.

Wife: "But it's not that easy."

Husband: "Oh, but my treasure, it is so much less exhausting. You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it all day, every day. You have to keep remembering all the bad things. I would have to make a list, a very, very long list and make sure I hated the people on it the right amount. That I did a very proper job of hating, too: very Teutonic! No, we always have a choice. All of us."

"Izz, I've learned the hard way that to have any kind of a future, you've got to give up hope of ever changing your past."

There are still more days to travel in this life. And he knows that the man who makes the journey has been shaped by every day and every person along the way. Scars are just another kind of memory. Isabel is part of him, wherever she is, just like the war and the light and the ocean. Soon enough the days will close over their lives, the grass will grow over their graves, until their story is just an unvisited headstone.

All the above from The Light Between Oceans, by M.L. Stedman

That last paragraph is the ultimate epitaph, relevant to every human life. An unvisited headstone, the final reality.

Water of Life

 "Whiskey is by far the most popular of all remedies that won't cure a cold."

Jerry Vale

Unfortunately, quite true. However, I used to get lots of colds - at least one bad one every winter, then smaller disturbances throughout the year. I treated them with whiskey and beer (mostly whiskey) according to the wise advice of Dr. Joe.

It didn't cure anything, but it did dry me up. My nose would be running like a fire hose - I used to get nasty colds - but as I drank it would slow down considerably. It didn't dry up completely, but at least I could read a book without gumming up the pages. 

I know you think I am full of shit - just another excuse to drink whiskey - but consider the following - alcohol causes dehydration. The higher the alcohol content of a beverage, the greater its dehydrating effect. Whiskey, because of its high alcohol content, is particularly dehydrating. So if you're gonna treat your cold with whiskey, go for Wild Turkey 101, if you're man enough. Please ignore Wild Turkey 81 - it's a fucking insult to whiskey drinkers.

So yes, whiskey won't cure a cold, but it sure as hell will make it a lot more fun.

And why don't I get colds any more? I sometimes go years without getting a cold. How bizarre, how bizarre. So much so that when I get one I wonder "What the hell is this?" Then I go straight for the whiskey.

Turns out that age is my ally (except for the impending death thing). Theory has it that while the immune system weakens with age, the cumulative exposure to viruses throughout life results in more immunity to specific cold viruses. I must have done battle with some serious viruses in my life, because the infrequency with which I get colds now makes me jump for joy.

And I can always come up with new reasons to drink whiskey. 

Like nap time. Shit, man, I could not survive anymore without afternoon naps. They are glorious. But if I hit the recliner with a clear head, it's a 50/50 crap shoot that I will fall asleep quickly. Typically my diseased fucking brain will come up with things to worry about, both real and imagined. And I can't lie around for two hours waiting to sleep - I am an exceptionally busy man - getting things done, thinking big thoughts, finding solutions, and making the world a better place.

But consuming a moderate amount of whiskey (you define moderate in your way and I'll stick to my definition) eases me into a peaceful siesta. I don't drink Crown Royal though - that would be a horrible waste. Crown Royal is consumed for superior taste, and for good times. For naps, it's Seagram's 7. I keep a jug of it handy for medicinal purposes.

Like naps, or severe stress requiring quick and multiple shots of liquid courage.

A handle of Seagram's 7 cost $20. A handle of Crown Royal costs $43. You say: "For Christ sake, Joe, you are always crying poverty - why not stick with Seagram's?"

You cannot be fucking serious.

Four Kings

First of all, I am once again alive.

The French Open, baby. Bring it on.

Also, earlier this week a retirement ceremony was held at Roland-Garros to honor Rafael Nadal. I had to watch it.

A large part of it was boring. Unfortunately, Rafa decided to go the "thank everybody" route in his farewell speech. I am against that in any ceremony anywhere.

It's boring. No matter the sport or the occasion, we all know it takes a lot of people to create a winner. No need to name them all. A simple "thanks to everybody who got me here" will do. Then get to the meat and potatoes - your emotions, your love of the sport, the beauty it brought to your life, the magnificent people you met and played against, how much it meant to you, how badly you will miss it.

But Rafa did the list. And he did it in English, then French, then Spanish. Took a long time. I almost changed the channel but I love Rafa too much, so I hung in. Lots of tears, that always gets to me. That's how you know how much his career meant to him. LOTS of tears.

Anyway I hung in. And thank God because towards the end there was a short clip played showing the three guys who battled with Rafa over decades. Saying cool things. And then.............they walked out onto the court.

Andy Murray, Roger Federer, and Novac Djokovic. The four of them got together. They hugged, they talked, they laughed. Genuine love and respect.

These guys are titans of the sport. They are fucking gods. 

The things those guys have achieved, the mark they made on the sport (Djokovic still is!!!!!!!) is incomparable. And to watch them talking together, laughing, shedding a few tears, busting each other's balls, well, shit man, it made my fucking day. It was inspirational.

Rafa owned the French Open. He won it 14 times - fourteen. During that time he won 114 matches, losing only 4. That is stunning.

I so much miss seeing him slide around that court. Always playing balls to the wall.

He smiled a lot. He is humble, resilient, and he persevered always, and against every setback and challenge. Until his body could take no more.

Hunter S. Thomson once wrote: "Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a ride!"

Rafa played tennis that way and I loved him for it.

I wish for him a long, loving, peaceful, and fulfilling retirement.

Dedicated To Our Dicktator

 Ben Franklin:

 "A despot who enriches himself at the expense of his people is not to be feared. He is to be reviled."

TRY HARDER!

 F: "Afraid? AFRAID? Afraid of what, for Christ sake? Be a man. Grow some balls. Do what you gotta do, and then maybe you can hang some mirrors back up on the wall. Jesus!"

J: "But, F..........."

F: "Don't "but" me. Don't whine. Jesus, what a pantywaist. Do you want to die suffocated under a mountain of regret? You gotta get a job? You need more money? You got a million options if you would just open up your mind. Just do it."

J: "I'm trying, but it's not easy."

F: "Not easy? NOT EASY? Life is not easy. It's not supposed to be. You gotta fight your way through it to get what you want. That's how you earn respect. TRY HARDER!"

J: "I'm old, nobody wants to give me a job. It's not fair."

F: "Oh, for fuck's sake. Give you a job? Just take it. Go out and get it. Lie, cheat, steal - write up a phony resume, there are no rules any more. Lying is our new national past-time so jump in with both feet."

J: "I'm not sure I can do that."

F: "The president of the United States just lied his way into the job for the second time. The fucking president! If he can get away with that, you can lie your way into some manager job that pays $75K. Kill your conscience and you can accomplish anything."

J: "You know, you might have a point."

F: "Of course I have a point. Look, man - if you ever want to get out of that Hyundai and into a Lincoln, if you want to buy nice clothes, if you want to vacation in Ibiza, if you want to spoil your wife, if you want fucking respect! - you gotta get tough. You gotta fight. Fuck everybody else and fuck the rules. You're too damn sensitive."

J: "Fuck it. I'm doing it. I got nothing to lose. Just thinking about it gets my testosterone flowing. Shit, man - I feel more manly already."

F: "There you go. I knew you had it in you. You'll learn quick, the more you screw people the easier it gets. Who knows, maybe you'll get rich."

J: "I like the sound of that. All right, I'm hitting the road, man."

J leaves the bar.

F turns to the bartender and says "Can you put that on my tab, Frank? I'm a little short right now."

Graveyard Shift

 There are a few people I know, that if I even think about them at all, my only thought is that I would definitely make the time to go to their funeral.

Monday

 Monday carries with it the crushing weight of reality.

Defending Your Life

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

Every life needs a purpose.

So Much More Than This

"We had an apartment in the city and me and Loretta liked living there. Well, it'd been years since the kids had grown, a life of their own and left us alone.

John and Linda live in Omaha, and Joe is somewhere on the road. We lost Davy in the Korean war, and I still don't know what for, don't matter anymore.

You know that old trees just grow stronger, and old rivers grow wilder every day. Old people just grow lonesome, waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello".

Me and Loretta, we don't talk much more, she sits and stares through the back door screen. And all the news just repeats itself, like some forgotten dream that we've both seen.

Some day I'll go and call up Rudy, we worked together at the factory. But what could I say if he asks "What's new?" "Nothin', what's with you? Nothin' much to do."

You know that old trees just grow stronger, and old rivers grow wilder every day. Old people just grow lonesome, waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello".

So if you're walkin' down the street sometime, and spot some hollow, ancient eyes, please don't just pass 'em by and stare, as if you didn't care. Say "Hello in there, hello."

Hello in There, John Prine

I have so much more than this, for which I am enormously grateful.

But I am 71. Sometime in the future, Carol will die and I'll live alone, or I will die and Carol will live alone. Before that, we most likely will go downhill health-wise and life will get a lot harder.

If I don't make the right moves in the chaos that is America right now, we could end up in a lot of trouble. We have very little financial security.

I am afraid. These are the thoughts going through my head and I can't shut them down.

I have stumbled through every crossroads in my life, taking the wrong direction or no direction. This is my last chance to get it right, and my track record gives me no confidence that I can do what needs to be done. That I can actually pull this off.

This is not how I want to spend my old age, but you reap what you sow.

I want to leave Carol some comfort. I'll never be able to make enough money for her to be worry-free - it's too late for that now, I blew it. The most I can do is pad the bank account as much as I am able to so she has a softer landing. Our sons will always be there for her after the cushion is gone, no worries there.

It's a heavy load. I gotta make better decisions, I gotta believe in myself. No more prostrating myself for chump change like I have been doing for the last 10 years; I can do better. I have been trying, but so far no good.

I am trying to do it with dignity. Trying to get into something that will challenge me, make use of whatever talents I have, and make me feel proud. I owe that to myself.

I am also trying hard to appreciate what we have now, instead of killing happiness with worry. Contrary to the way I have lived my life up to this point. We are OK right now. Our life is good. Pretty peaceful. We are happy, we have each other. We have a loving family, and we have the extraordinary gift of Jackson. I am becoming more aware of how lucky I am and it feels good.

Still, I am afraid. There are days when I sit in front of the computer with grand designs, job hunting, and end up walking away defeated. Despondent. But I will not give up. Honestly I want to find some success for myself so my family can say "Wow, he really changed in the last ten years of his life. He finally showed what he was capable of." More importantly, much more importantly, I want Carol to have as little to worry about as possible.

I don't want to end up with hollow, ancient eyes. I hope to get through this with a spark in my eyes. Some life. 

A hint of a smile.

History indicates..................

 "The depths of human depravity are astounding, but the mind is resilient, though the soul is always in danger."

From The Maze, by Nelson DeMille

TB

 Whenever I am really fucking pissed off and I don't know what to do, I wonder.....

What would Travis Bickle do?

Just Can't Do It

No fucking how hard I try, I just can't look cool in my 2020 Hyundai Elantra.

I can do better.

The Death of America

I am reading historical fiction.

Something new to me and quite delicious. Book about the Revolutionary War - two volumes, actually.

Dig this quote: "There is an awful danger when the people become accustomed to tyranny. If the people learn to accept small abuses, then larger abuses will follow. It is like a disease, crippling slowly, until the body is beyond repair.

...................When there are loud voices here, London hears them, and they back down. But when the voices are quiet, London grows brave again, bringing more abuses, stretching their own laws, reaching their fingers ever so slowly into our pockets, our homes, our rights."

And this one: "If the mere delivery of a petition is considered an offense, and the messengers are so abused, then who will perform the duty? It is a dangerous thing for any state to maintain its power by plugging up the vent of complaints, stifling the voices of the people. When complaining becomes a crime, hope becomes despair."

And this: "Stupidity. Blind, incredible stupidity! You don't slap an entire people across the face, put chains on a town, and expect....what? Sullen acceptance? Quiet regret? Who in England believes that this will be resolved by a renewed peace, an end to controversy? Starve us, enslave us, and then expect that we will be humbled into grateful obedience? How can they believe it will ever become normal again? Will the king and his amazing audience of buffoons ever consent to give us back all of what they have taken away?"

From Rise to Rebellion, by Jeff Shaara

As I read this book it haunts me to realize that every grievance the colonists had against England is the same as those that intelligent Americans have against putintrump.

Feels like I am reading a history of the birth of America at the exact moment of the death of America.

Paul & Lisa Are Gone

Paul and Lisa are gone.

Son of a bitch.

They are good friends that we made here at Pre-Death Central. I'm comfortable calling it that because my doctor has been comfortable telling me for 10 years or more that I am pre-diabetic. Every fucking year at the annual physical. Pre-diabetic. Still I eat my Snickers Bars and drink my whiskey.

Pre-death because this place is a prelude to the cemetery. No one here gets out alive. Most of the crowd is older than me and Carol. Many in their eighties, some in their nineties. Been a few deaths since we moved in a year and a half ago.

This is why we treasure Paul and Lisa. Lisa is 60, Paul is 65. And they like to party. 

We get together for dinner - sometimes their place, sometimes ours, sometimes we go out. We run into them out walking, they run into us out walking, we sit together at community functions.

We talk, we laugh, we drink.

I need that. I love that. I worship that.

They spend summers in Maine. They headed up on May 1 and the air got sucked out of the room.

We met them late in 2023 when we first moved here. Got along immediately, but they spent a chunk of the winter in Florida, and all of the summer of 2024 in Maine. So we didn't really get to know them. When they came back in the fall, the friendship deepened.

We spent a lot of fall 2024 with them, all of winter 2025, and part of spring. Now they are gone.

There are a lot of very nice people here. Even a woman (who's name I always forget) who drinks Crown Royal and ginger ale. So we are Crown Royal buddies. Nice lady. But these people are not crazy, unless you count dementia.

So I'm feeling empty. Hollowed out like the Tin Man. And I definitely don't have a heart. But I do have excessive gas.

This place is safe, it is quiet, it is pretty. I love it. But that is not enough for me. I gotta have insanity. Irreverence. I gotta break some rules.

We're gonna go visit P&L in Maine sometime this summer. Spend the night. That will be great. Everything is within walking distance for them so they often do a pub-crawl kind of thing. Grab dinner somewhere, walk to a bar, walk to another bar, and the band plays on. Looking forward to it.

Until then, I'll keep my toenails neatly clipped, and volunteer at the local food pantry every other Wednesday.

Gonna be a big summer.

Now THAT'S Livin'

 "I sure like that candy, I don't go for them turnip greens...................so when you put it on the table, oh mama think about me.

Well, I don't drink coca cola, but I sure like the old moonshine.................yeah, we drink it from a fruit jar, with my little baby by my side.

Well, I don't much like walking, but I love my Eldorado ride.......................yeah we run it 'round the cornfield, with my little baby by my side"

Candy, by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

Happiness is Relative

 "Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go."

Oscar Wilde

Legacy Denied

 "I'm not particularly interested in dying with fuck all to show for it."

Movie quote and a good one.

Would You?

 If you woke up with the phrase "ghost-monger cocoa pie" running through your head  over and over and over again...................would you question your sanity? 

Ron Is Dead

I only knew the guy for 18 months for Christ sake.

And I liked him. We were cut from the same cloth. He was 84, he died the week before last.

Death sucks.

I met him here at Old Age Village (where I feel like a teenager, and maybe act like one too). 

We hit it off even though he was 13 years older than me. He grew up in Gloucester, MA so his experiences were similar to the derelict who grew up in Winthrop, MA (ME).

He was a drinker when he was a kid, still liked his whiskey, I think; he was into rock 'n roll, he had the same irreverent attitude I have about life and the world in general.

I met him here shortly after we moved in. After I took on the toxic masculine role of librarian's assistant I saw him even more because he stopped into the library practically every day. He loved libraries.

We had great conversations, although he had different conversations with me than he did with the ladies. When the women were around it was one thing, although he always skirted the bounds of good taste, at least as it is defined in 2025 (which is bullshit). When it was just me and him, the gloves were off - things got raunchy.

The man lived a life. He LIVED a life.

When he lived in MA, he owned a couple of clubs in Boston. He had great stories about the people he met, like Bonnie Raitt, James Taylor, and Maria Muldaur. He had great stories about partying with the "talent" and the people who worked for him. He told me about a waitress in one of his clubs who gave great head.

We talked a lot of sports, we talked a lot of music, we talked a lot of drinking and drugs, we talked a lot of books, we talked a lot about having fucking fun laced with insanity.

He moved to NH in 1979. He worked for a Chevrolet/Honda dealership. He served on the planning board of Dover from 1991 to 2011. From 2008 to 2015 he was assistant and head coach of the Dover High School girls JV soccer team. He became a fan of soccer when his kids started playing.

He retired in 2013 and began a career in writing, contributing to a number of local papers.  He served as the president of the association where I live from 2020 to 2021.

He was a huge Red Sox fan, and a fan of any women's collegiate sport, especially UConn women's basketball.

He was married to Patty for 40 years, he had four kids, and five grandchildren.

Opinions of Ron varied here. Know why? Because he was a character, he had personality, he had opinions formed from living a life. People want you to be boring. People want you to be like them. Ron was Ron. Period.

So this guy blew into my life, flamed across my sky like a comet, and died from a fucking stroke. 

Goddamn it. When he walked into the library (when he was out walking his dog who he loved and walked every day no matter what), he made my day. You got any idea how boring it is to work in a library? Ron's stories, real and raw, fucking woke me up. Before and after, I slept. When he was there, I lived.

The longer I hang onto life by my fingernails, the more these small situations, small chapters, small stories, feed my soul. These are the things that make a life.

18 fucking months I knew Ron. That's it. You know how fucking short that is when you're 71? When you're 84? It is fucking nothing.

But he made it sparkle.

Why Am I Alive?

Another solid 4 and 1/2 hours of sleep last night.

I don't understand why my body doesn't just implode. Christ, I am so tired I can't believe I don't just fall over and die. Every fucking day. I am like a sleep deprived patient in a study designed to test the limits of human endurance. I'm a fucking zombie. Have been for at least 10 years.

And last week I had yet another follow-up appointment with Dr. Feelgood about this whole prostate cancer thing. She told me my testosterone level is not bouncing back the way it should. Not by a long shot after all this time. She asked me if I am fatigued, because that is a side effect of low testosterone. Are you fucking kidding me? I can't keep my eyes open when I am watching porn and snorting coke, for Christ sake.

I always thought that was a weird way to treat prostate cancer. Hormone suppression. Seems unnatural. But I went along with it like a good little boy. And now they are telling me the testosterone is measuring at .39 when it should be fucking 15 by now. Three fucking years after the last hormone suppression injection.

"We'll keep an eye on it." Is that the best you got?

Two overnight sleep studies. CPAP. Melatonin. I've done it all. I'm doing it all.

If you believe the hype, all you gotta do to be healthy is get a solid 8 hours of sleep every night, and hydrate. That's it.

Got cancer? Sleep well and hydrate. Depressed? Sleep well and hydrate. Digestive problems? Sleep well and hydrate. Erectile dysfunction? Sleep well and hydrate. Got the urge to massacre your entire family? Sleep well and hydrate. And they'll all get the chance to celebrate another birthday.

24, 16 ounce glasses of water a day. 8 hours of sleep a night. And a belief in the love and empathy of mankind. That's all you need.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I have found that you can survive on nothing. Heap all the abuse on yourself that you can think of and, still, you will live your life every fucking day for decade after decade after decade. Everybody does it.

Any idea how many insomniacs are out there? Over drinkers? Drug devotees? Emotionally crippled humans? Stressed out, wacked out humans? A fuckload. A goddamn fuckload. 

Tiny voice in the back of my mind says "You got the constitution of Keith Richards." I never really believed that because a lot of people died trying to keep up with Keef. And that is truth. Legendary. You gotta know your limits and a lot of people don't when they try to party with a professional partyer.

Keith is Keith. He knows how to do it right, he knows how to balance it all. And even he gave up heroin in 1978 and cocaine in 2006, quit smoking in 2019, and cut back on drinking in 2019.

But I'll tell you, man - my stress level has always been exceptionally high, and now it's through the roof thanks to the 77 million gullible souls who elected our own personal dicktator so he could destroy my life. I used to drink a handle of Crown a week on top of the innumerable nips I was forced to consume just to deal with my fucking jobs.

I'm a good boy now. I don't drink oceans of whiskey anymore. I drink moderately. Although nips are still required to get me through the day given the menial jobs I humiliate myself with.

And I get no fucking sleep. But I force myself to exercise. I work out when I have absolutely nothing in the tank. I force myself to do it.

So what is my story? Why am I alive? How much longer do I have?

I'm betting on the constitution of Keith Richards. Because if I'm wrong I'll be dead before Jackson sees his fifth birthday.

And he will miss out on the coolest, most loving grandfather who was ever invented. That would be a fucking shame. For both of us.

Fingers crossed.

If Only

I truly wish insane asylums were still in vogue.

If they were I'd check myself in and be done with it.

Ummmmmmmmm, yeah

"It's a terrible era when idiots are allowed to govern the blind."

From The Flight Attendant by Chris Bohjalian

Under Any Circumstance

I need resolution.

Now. Right fucking now. I have not beaten back The Beast.

I cannot read in peace, I cannot watch movies in peace, I cannot find peace in peace, I cannot fucking relax under any circumstance. Because I have no solution to the Armageddon that will crush me if I don't fucking DO something.

Anxiety and worry are eating my internal organs, I'm bleeding from every orifice, the pain in my heart threatens to stop it's beating. Despite attempts to control it, I burst out in maniacal rants and my head fucking explodes. Every new twist of autocracy sets me off the rails. Because I am so fucking vulnerable.

There are millions like me in the same position but many of them, a large majority, is my guess, don't know how fucking fragile their existence is. And they won't know it until everything comes crashing down and their lives become an over-sized and steaming bowl of shit. And then they will cry out in agony and disbelief.

I am trying to avoid that. I am acting proactively to protect me and Carol. But I will have no peace until I get results. Until I have income coming in large enough to make up for the loss of social security, should that happen.

I'm trying people, I really am fucking trying.

What do you think? Should I rush out to McDonald's and apply for a job to procure immediate employment? Get some sort of cash flow coming in?  Or should I hold out for dignity, waiting to bag that dream job that pays $50/hour? What do you think? Well, what do you think? Should I sell fucking drugs? Are there any illegal activities that are 100% safe with a guaranteed payback of $1 million? Gotta be, right? You never know.

How do you break a worrier of this self-destructive habit, and remake him into a flaming wrecking ball of I don't give a fuck? Running over everyone in his path, spitting in the face of assholes, taking monumental risks for monumental rewards, and doing it all with complete peace of mind and serene, supreme confidence.

I am looking out my window at buds about to bloom. A beautiful, bucolic vision suggestive of peace. Soon the buds will burst into an exquisite reality and my senses will overload in reverence of the fragile delicacy of life.

Still, my guts are swimming in acid, causing me torment as they are burned to ash. 

I need resolution, my friends, I fucking need resolution.

Life Is Crueler Than You Think

 "One time she saw a quote written in blue and yellow chalk on a blackboard outside a clothing shop in the West Village: Remember that person you wanted to be? There's still time. She wanted to believe that; she wanted to believe it almost desperately. She wanted to be different from what she was - to be anything but what she was. But every day that grew less and less likely. Life, it seemed to her in the back of the cab, was nothing but a narrowing of opportunities."

From The Flight Attendant by Chris Bohjalian

Even If I Sell My Grandson

Another smashed TV screen.

And Jack just did not care.

Tired of these fucking jerk-offs in commercials flaunting their perfect lives in front of him. "We sold our policy. Now we can relax and enjoy our retirement as we had planned." All fucking smiles and bouncing grand-kids. Give me a fucking break.

Fuck your perfect retirement. I don't even know the meaning of the word. Can't afford it. Cannot fucking afford it. Even if I sell my fucking blood. Even if I sell my grandson. These were the thoughts running through his head when he picked up his shot glass and threw it at the screen.

It was satisfying, except that he had to get up and grab another shot glass. Wait a minute - fuck that. He decided to drink right out of the bottle. Why not? He'd done it before. Many times. Didn't matter if he dribbled a bit, his t-shirts were more like works of art - aged and distressed.

Shit, sometimes when he was expecting friends or relatives he'd grab a slug or two out of the bottle to settle his nerves just before they showed up. Then pour them a drink out of the same bottle.

Fuck them. What did he care anyway? He didn't need anyone. He could wall himself off and do just fine sitting in his recliner, drinking, and watching TV. Alone. Alone, alone, alone.

Except for the fucking commercials. Reminded Jack of the olden times in the wild, wild, west when the snake-oil salesman would come to town in his covered wagon and sell potions and remedies to the townsfolk. The stupid, ignorant, gullible townsfolk. Who would fork over money they didn't have for shit that didn't work. But the snake-oil salesman only came through every couple of months. Until someone shot him in the head.

These days you get assaulted with commercials, non-stop, repeating over and over again. Volume up, honesty down. Pounding their lies into your brain through torturous repetition. And you can't even shoot the advertisers in the head. The advertisers know you are no different than them folk from the 19th century - stupid, ignorant. and gullible. 

"Act now and we'll throw in a second set of cookware free!!!" There is no FREE, for Christ sake - they are fucking you high, hot and hard and you are taking it.

"Supplies are limited so act now before they are all gone." Which is tempting, except for the fact you see the same commercial saying the same thing three months and 4,000 repetitions down the road.

Jack watches TV a lot. He must see thousands of commercials a week, most of which are repeated until he pukes. Throwing lefts and rights at his head until his brain sloshes, like boxers' brains do. 

Jack's eyes glaze over, he sips his whiskey, he rants and raves. He can get by like that OK until he gets one of those commercials that show people living perfect lives, flaunting their perfect lives and their perfect decisions. Mocking Jack's pathetic life.

That's when the shot glass flies.

Jack spent another half hour drinking from the bottle, watching the Bruins game through a severely cracked screen. It didn't matter because the Bruins sucked this year anyway. Then he got up, lost his balance a bit but recovered, and called Best Buy and got patched through to Bobby, a lifer in the electronics department.

"Bobby, it's Jack."

"Jack, how you doing? Time for another TV already?"

"Yup."

"All right, I'll set aside an Insignia 42 incher - you can have it for $180."

"Good enough, Bobby. I'll be there in half an hour. Want me to sneak in a couple of nips of whiskey?"

"Sure thing, Jack."

"OK, see you in a while. And thanks."

Goddamn It!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 "Seem like the whole world walking pretty and you can't find the room to move."

"I Don't Give a Fuck" As a Life Goal

I think if I had my brain removed I'd be a lot happier.

I torture myself regularly, but now, given the fucked up state of this country, and my age - I am experiencing wild mood swings. Since the dicktatorship took over, for a while there I was ranting and raving and stressing myself to the point of literally getting dizzy, holding my hands to the sides of my head as I stood. Giving myself headaches. WORRYING.

I realized I could not go on like that so I've dialed it back a bit, but this country is in so much trouble, and my and Carol's survival and basic comfort and safety are so much in jeopardy that I'm definitely feeling fucked.

I am trying to narrow my perspective down to the things I can control, the things I'm gonna have to do for us to survive this. I have to get a full time job. This part time mamby pamby shit ain't gonna cut it. I am talking survival here, and just a few extra bucks here and there is a waste of my time. It keeps us afloat, it does not get us ahead.

Maybe I can find another way to bring in stacks of cash. Like putting my ass out on the street. I'm still a pretty sexy guy. I'm sure there are plenty of 70, 80, and 90 year old ladies who want me to jump their bones.

OK. That paints a pretty disgusting picture. Sorry.

As I thrash around looking for employment, I'm putting restrictions on the search that, if they work out, will ease my pain a bit. Maybe. I'm so fucking good at fooling myself. Justifying stupidity. Who the hell knows.

But if I'm being unrealistic and everything blows up and I end up wearing a hairnet, my liver is going down.

I have spent the last ten years working menial jobs and lying to every friend and relative that I don't mind. Bullshit. I have HATED every single job. These jobs forced me to shit on myself in my own mind. A tough way to live.

If this is how my life ends, if I am forced to work myself into the grave, I refuse to sacrifice my soul, my dignity. I have been a professional, I can be a professional again. At the very least, the pay is better.

It all rides on how stupid things get. The first time a social security deposit does not arrive, I will be driven into panic mode. Knocking on Home Depot's door applying for a cashier's job in a company that aligns so well with who I am.

Twice a month, since February, I wake up, grab my phone immediately before my feet even hit the floor, and make sure the social security deposits have landed. This is no fucking way to live. It sucks.

But so far so good. Unfortunately I have not had even a nibble from prospective employers. And I have been banging away. Companies don't like to hire people that are close to death. A dead new hire is a messy thing. And despite all the cutesy advice on how to hide your age on your resume, it is fucking obvious no matter what.

I try to tell myself that we will survive this. Just so I can fucking breathe. We have survived a lot together in 47 years. 

Some days I just don't give a fuck. Some days I shit my pants.

The "I don't give a fuck" days are better.

Welcome to Your Life

Vincent: "Look in the mirror. Paper towels, clean cab. Limo company some day. How much you got saved?"

Max: "That ain't none of your business."

Vincent: "Someday? Someday my dream will come? One night you will wake up and discover it never happened. It's all turned around on you. It never will. Suddenly you are old. Didn't happen, and it never will, because you were never going to do it anyway. You'll push it into memory and then zone out in your barco lounger, being hypnotized by daytime TV for the rest of your life. Don't you talk to me about murder. All it ever took was a down payment on a Lincoln town car. That girl, you can't even call that girl. What the fuck are you still doing driving a cab?"

Tom Cruise as Vincent - Hired killer.

Jamie Foxx as Max - cab driver

From the movie Collateral 

Are You Lost?

If you don't know who you are, you can't BE anybody.

Son of a Bitch

Shaping up to be yet another summer where I don't get my brand new Chevrolet Corvette Z06 3LZ RWD.

What the fuck am I doing wrong?

One Fat Guy

Vincent: "Max, six billion people on the planet, you're getting bent out of shape because of one fat guy."

Max: "Well, who was he?"

Vincent: "What do you care? Have you ever heard of Rwanda?"

Max: "Yes, I know Rwanda."

Vincent: "Well, tens of thousands killed before sundown. Nobody's killed people that fast since Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Did you bat an eye, Max?"

Max: "What?"

Vincent: "Did you join Amnesty International, Oxfam, Save the Whales, Greenpeace, or something? No. I off one fat Angelino and you throw a hissy fit."

Max: "Man, I don't know any Rwandans."

Vincent: "You don't know the guy in the trunk either."

Tom Cruise and Jamie Foxx from the movie Collateral.

The Worst Way

I have never been my biggest fan, but I have never felt smaller than I do right now.

We have a small amount of money in the bank, in savings. It is small, but I never thought of it as the end of the world. I figured with that, and me working part time, Carol's retirement money, and social security, and the ever present hope that I will find myself and capitalize on that discovery, that we would get through.

We had friends over for dinner recently. Paul told us they have lost $130,000 from his retirement fund since the dicktator began destroying the economy. $130,000. Obviously very upset. VERY. But he didn't say it as if their lives were over. So I got the impression they still have a chunk of change left over.

These are not rich people. Paul worked for the post office for 30 years, and took advantage of the Thrift Savings Plan, which is a retirement savings and investment plan for federal employees, similar to a 401K.

That's when it hit me, just how perilous my and Carol's existence is. What we have in the bank is the end of the world. It's nothing. Especially under a dictatorship.

It really drove home just how badly I have misplayed my life. I am comatose today, drowning in depression, non-functional, thinking about what I could have done and should have done.

I work a part time job in the local library. putintrump eviscerated the Institute of Museum and Library Services, which is an independent federal agency that supports libraries and museums in all 50 states. The impact is expected to be massive, and libraries throughout NH are in a panic. There is a high probability that I will lose my job.

Social security is going to take a hit, or be eliminated completely. Social security makes up 58% of my and Carol's income. Even if I keep the library job, we cannot survive. If I lose the library job, and the dicktator kills social security, our income will be reduced by 78%.

I am not stupid. I have not rolled over. I am actively looking for full time employment. Been attacking it for a few weeks now. Something will come along. But I am angry and sad that this is how my life will end. Destroyed by a man who is callously introducing enormous suffering into the lives of the most vulnerable people. I think he actually enjoys it.

I was never built for responsibility. Never built to take care of a family. I stumbled through it all with blinders on, never planning ahead, never even thinking about what my life would be like in 2025.

And now I'm running scared.

The rest of my life will be a vicious thing. Painful. Physically and emotionally. With no hope and limited joy.

The absolute worst way to approach death.

Darkly True

 "This new world wants those that think and feel for other people to die and they're going to use the broken brains of the dehumanized, gutted of empathy, to carry out the mass homicide through negligence, suppression, forced illness and possible brute force."

Marc Maron

Wait & See

 When the person I'm pretending to be dies, will the real me be born?

Seems kind of risky to wait and see.

Go After What You Want or Be A Fool

So here I sit.

71 years old. The biggest decision I should have to make is how late to sleep today. Instead, I am working part time, condemned to do so until I die.......................................until a vicious, vengeful, unbalanced man was elected president.

Now I am condemned to working full time until I die. I'm already applying for full time jobs.

When social security is ripped away from us, Carol and I will not survive. We will lose our home.

Brief aside: What kind of heartless, immoral, psychopath takes social security away from people who are already receiving it. If you are opposed to it, lay out a plan to phase it out over time so the younguns can plan ahead. You have to be one cruel son of a bitch to take it away from people who rely on it.

Carol and I will survive. I will get a job. We'll eat spam and I'll drink cheap whiskey. But there are those in my own community who are too old and frail to work, who rely solely on social security. They will suffer. Poverty, health issues, homelessness, and death.

You Fucking Asshole.

To a great extent, it is my fault we are in this position. If I achieved, we'd be sitting pretty. But early in life when I realized I was living the exact life I vowed never to live, I threw up my hands and turned to whiskey and partying. Had a lot of fun. Figured I'd survive. But I did not count on a dictator ripping America to shreds.

You gotta watch out for life. It will fuck you hard and stomp you when you collapse in despair.

I never chased the life I wanted. I gave up instead. Huge mistake. Because from here on out my life is out of my hands. If I was alone I would just drink myself into the grave. But I owe Carol. Owe her big time. She deserves to be happy and unafraid. So I will do what I have to do.

But on my terms. A lot of whiskey will be consumed. With whatever limited free time I will have, I'm going after fun. I will not drag my ass home at night and fall asleep 18 minutes later.

I only get 4 hours of sleep right now. So fuck it. I can push myself hard and I already just don't care.

I admit to my portion of the blame for the way my life turned out. But the harsh truth is that 77 million gullible people voted a man into office who will destroy my life. These peoples' twisted opinions ruined my life. MY LIFE.

The only comfort I take from that, is that he will ruin their lives too.

And they will never see it coming.

Rather Me Than Them

My cats are serene. Happy. Loved. Loving. Insane.

I would love to trade places with them. See what it feels like. But with my life as it is and, even worse, what it is about to become, they could not handle it.

The level of stress and unhappiness would be so foreign to them, that they would die. Immediately.

I would rather die than have one of my cats die.

Before I Die

 Before I die I'm gonna start a rock group and play Live in New York City

How Much Worse

Been doing the rope-a-dope all my life.

Arms raised, covering up, absorbing the blows. The strategy being to wear out my opponent to the point where I can suddenly knock him on his ass when he least suspects it.

The jokes on me, 71 years down the road. I am the one who is tired, I am the one who is worn out. 

Thinking about dropping my arms.

How much worse can it get?

Sweet, Protective, Solitude

 No one can hurt you when you're alone

Trust Your Soul

 Got me a cheesy bookmark.

The Friends of the Library whipped up a bunch of homemade bookmarks to be available in the library free to patrons. Nice touch. But they are cheesy.

I was curious. I thumbed through them and came across one that said Trust Your Soul. Felt that was appropriate because not trusting my soul has royally fucked up my life.

The catch is the bookmark has a fucking tassel on it. I hate tassels on bookmarks. And it looks like it was made by a prison inmate. Or a psychopath. I am not kidding.

The words are printed out and taped to a piece of cardboard.

Like this:

  Trust

Your Soul

"Trust" is on one small chunk of paper, "Your Soul" is on another. Kind of like psychos do when they leave ransom notes, or when murderers want to freak you out before they kill you.

So I'm not really sure what I have here.

Inspiration? Ghoulish nightmare?

What the fuck.

It was free.

Root of the Problem

 All the worst things we believe about one another can always be proved with a story we've heard from someone who heard it from someone else.

Whose Soul is in Patsy's Body?

We have had nine cats and one dog over the years.

My relationship with our pets is always intense because I am deeply emotional, incredibly sensitive, empathic to a fault. And I need emotional connection. Open and honest. Crave it. Cannot live without it.

Carol digs our pets too, loves them intensely, but she is more reserved with outward displays of emotion. Something I had to adjust to but never got used to. Even after 47 years.

I have been very close to all of our pets but never as close as I am to Patsy. The love that goes back and forth between us is genuine. And intense. 

She doesn't just sit in my lap, she crawls up my body until she is draped across my arm inches from my face. Then she stares into my eyes, directly, and for long periods of time. She talks to me constantly.

I am so grateful for this because she repairs my soul, which is torn and on life support. She melts me. She softens me up in my harshest moments and amplifies my love when I am in a good mood.

Lately I have been wondering who she is. Her love for me and attention to me are so intense, so focused, that I've been wondering if someone's soul is inside of her. Some dead relative or friend. But I can't place it, can't make sense of it.

Who have I known that could love me like this? No one. I cannot think of anyone who loved me enough to go out of their way to communicate that love to me from beyond the grave. Someone who cared for me enough to want to make my life softer through Patsy.

It's all Patsy. Has to be. And I am so grateful for her because every day, every fucking day, she is in my lap and on my heels and in my arms, meowing at me, staring lovingly into my eyes, melting my heart and resuscitating my soul.

She makes me so happy, makes me smile, makes me laugh with her cat insanity; gives me life when all I feel is death.

Patsy is a miracle and a gift and a surprise, a life-giver, and a bottomless well of pure, untainted love.

She keeps my heart beating.

Especially Appropriate During trump-times (which may never end, God forbid)

 "There are no sides. There's no Sunni's and Shiites. There's no Democrats and Republicans. There's only HAVES and HAVE-NOTS."

"There's always a confused soul that thinks that one man can make a difference, and you have to kill him to convince him otherwise. That's the hassle with democracy."

From the movie Shooter; Ned Beatty as Senator Charles F. Meachum

Good Times

 "What I see now, Eilish, is a black hole opening before us, we have passed the boundary of escape and even when the regime has been overturned the black hole will continue to grow so that it will consume this country for decades."

From Prophet Song, by Paul Lynch

The story is about exactly what is happening to this country right now, only set in Ireland, and it follows events to their logical conclusion.

Meaning people getting arrested for criticizing the government, people getting killed and "disappeared", grocery stores running out of food, the internet disabled, the military roaming through the streets, no news on TV except government authorized news which is all lies.

It is chilling.

It is coming.

Maybe not all of it, but enough to make us suffer financially, physically, and psychologically.

Good times.

Wonderment

As I was driving home Sunday morning after spending a night with Keith, I was overwhelmed with a sense of wonder.

He and I ate at a funky burger joint the night before. A cool place that is frequented by the local college crowd. The place was crowded with youth. Which means it was filled with laughter, conversation, energy,  and unbridled positivity. Because life has not yet robbed them of hope and optimism. Beautiful.

It was fucking great. And the burgers were damn good.

Then we went to a UNH/Boston College hockey game and watched a game that was so good it should have been illegal. BC is #1 in the country, UNH is pretty shaky. BC should have won 58 to 0. Instead, UNH took them to OT, and then a shoot out, when they finally lost. Heart-braking.

Again, the arena was rocking. Lots of youth and lots of alumni exuding equal intensity of enthusiasm. The atmosphere was fantastic.

I spent the night in a hotel and headed home in the morning.

Travelling from Belmont to Portsmouth and vice versa, GPS's first choice is a route that follows back roads. And I mean some seriously back roads. There is even a half mile stretch of dirt road along the way.

I navigated that route once before and was afraid that GPS was shitfaced. I could not believe it. I was so worried that it was all wrong that I didn't enjoy the ride as much as I should have. But it did make an impression on me. It was gorgeous and left an imprint in my brain.

Ironically on the way to meet Keith I avoided it and took a typically boring route. But on the way home I was a bit looser and went with the flow.

Spending the night with Keith greased the skids. Spending time with my sons is the best thing that can happen to me. It opens me up and makes me come alive. We had a great night and I was happy. So when I drove home my senses were wide open and receptive.

New England, man - it is beautiful. Even on a 14 degree morning when the ground is covered in snow. I was thinking about these hardy people hunkered down at home on a freezing Sunday morning living their lives free of work and obligations for a day, reading the Sunday paper, having a special breakfast, being themselves unfettered and feeling alive.

New Englanders are indeed a special breed.

Stereotypical New England homes. So much character. My head was on the swivel, which was OK because it was Sunday morning early, there was no traffic at all, and the speed limits were conservative.

Abandoned pickup trucks in the yard. Falling down fences, peeling paint, porches on the slant, steps in need of repair. Beautifully maintained houses, freshly painted and in good condition, expensive trucks, farmer's porches inviting me to visit, smoke billowing out of chimneys. I drove through it all in sheer amazement.

Wonder welled up inside of me uncontrollably, making me feel so good that three years were added on to my life. No question.

I came to a four-way intersection and sat at the stop sign alone, just sat there for minutes because the view was so damn gorgeous. Surrounded by funky houses, yards, smoking chimneys, sun bouncing off windowpanes, snowdrifts sparkling.

Eventually a car came from my left and another from my right and stopped at the stop signs. Still, I sat. Until I realized they were waiting for me since I was there first. I looked at one driver, then the other, and they were both staring at me. So I turned left and kept on appreciating.

I am trying very hard to hold on to the nourishing good vibe that originated on Saturday night and Sunday morning. Doing pretty good too.

There is hope for me yet, surprisingly.

Relax

 It is easier to invent stories than to live in reality.

Certainly One Perspective

 "Love is a lie. It is a trick played by the cruel on the foolish and the weak, poisoning your mind. Cast it from your mind. Never let it render you frail of mind or will because in my kingdom there is but one law - do not love!"

Freya the Ice Queen, from the movie The Huntsman: Winter's War

Too Much of a Reach, Paul

Paul McCartney closed the SNL special that focused on 50 years of musical guests.

Makes sense. He's a Beatle, for Christ sake - one of four from whom all good music is derived.

The special is excellent, by the way. Find it.

But Paul overreached, he chose to perform a portion of the Abby Road medley - specifically Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, and The End.

I know he wanted to close out on a rockin' note, and I don't blame him, but he couldn't pull it off. He couldn't do the power, he couldn't handle the range. The man is 82 years old. His voice was strained, it cracked here and there - it was not powerful.

There are a million Beatles' songs and his own songs he could choose from, songs he can probably sing beautifully - many he can even probably, maybe, still rock out on, but he chose these three.

It was painful to me.

I hate that all these people who I worshiped as a kid, still do, are clawing their way to the grave. I fucking hate it. Because in large part it means I have plenty of dirt under my fingernails too.

You gotta be selective about what you choose to perform as an octogenarian. Especially if you are Paul McCartney, the man with such a beautiful voice over a lifetime.

Paul Simon opened the special. He is 83 years old. He sang Homeward Bound, such a beautiful, atmospheric song. But he sang it with Sabrina Carpenter - they split the load, which was smart. And even when Paul sang solo, he was restrained - he did not overdo it. Even then it was a little painful to listen to, but it was not horrible.

I see a lot of these people perform, and why not? They are icons, they have earned the right, they deserve the respect. But most of them make adjustments - they don't go for the high notes, they don't go for maximum volume. As professionals, they know how to recognize their limits and stay within them.

And still create beauty, still bring tears to your soul.

Broke my heart a bit to listen to Paul McCartney straining. It wasn't pretty. I know I sound like a hypocrite - I have shit on him a lot in here. But I also know that I will wake up one of these days to the headline "Paul McCartney is dead at the age of --. Maybe, hopefully, ---.

And on that day I will be crushed.

Dissembler

 I was reading some tasty fiction recently and one of the characters was described in this way:

"She was a dissembler."

Holy shit, I thought - that's me. That's a perfect description of me. And I like it because it's a bit of an obscure word - you never use it, do you? Actually, neither do I.

Google AI (which we cannot live without from now on - how did we ever get by without it) defines a dissembler as " a person who hides their true feelings or intentions, or who pretends to have different ones. Synonyms include: hypocrite, pretender, charlatan, deceiver, impostor, fake, and phony."

Wait, what? That's a bit harsh, don't you think?

I dissemble to survive. I tell you what you want to hear because it takes too goddamn much effort to set you straight. Where's the harm? You walk away happy, and I walk away with some energy left in the tank.

If you are family, you get pretty damn close to the truth. I don't bullshit family. Unless you want the truth about what's really going on in my head - you're never going to get that. Shit, man - if I told you the absolute truth about how I feel about myself and my life, you'd put me on suicide watch.

Wait a minute - that's what I've been doing in here for 14 years now.

Shit, now that I think about it, I feel naked. Although there are only a handful of people who read the effluvia that pollutes this blog.

I think it's safe to continue dissembling. Only a few will know the truth.

You look quite distinguished wearing that cravat.

You Gotta Start Somewhere

 I am in desperate need of an opening gambit.

Perfect Description

On the back of every dust jacket on every hardcover book are the tributes.

"Best story I ever read." "Best writer of this genre." "Best writer of diverse genres." "Best writer in the world."

Tributes from fellow writers, from magazines, from professional book review websites.

I have read a million of them. I have ignored a million of them. I recently read the best one ever.

Vince Flynn on John Connolly: "The intensity of a madman and the subtlety of a poet."

It is how I see myself.

No one else sees it because my soul is encased in lead - nothing gets in, nothing gets out.

Still, there is hope.

Shedding Don't Come Easy

 Sometimes you have to shed who you were to live who you are.

It's Ironic

 My life is draining the life out of me.

The Jackson Effect

I have made my impression on my family and friends.

It's cast in concrete; indelible.

For better or worse, they have their opinions, their criticisms, their appreciations - based on decades of me doing what I do. My opinion of what their impressions are might not sync with their reality, but I am not happy with what I believe those opinions to be.

Jackson is ten months old. I can make him laugh. I can hold him and hug him and love him. This is the easy stuff - he's not discriminating yet.

I do believe we have made an emotional connection. I love intensely; it springs from my heart and soul with a ferocity that cannot be misinterpreted. I am sensitive and empathetic with a dizzying earnestness.  

That's just who I am - the King of Emotion. And I think Jackson has picked up on that. When I hold him and talk to him and make funny faces for him, I feel like he just knows he's being loved, that he is safe, no worries, no fear, no doubt.

I could be mistaken. I could be full of shit. I could be perceiving what I want to perceive. I could be wrong.

But I'm not.

Reality is looming just over the horizon, though. Won't be long before he gets to really know me, and he will form opinions.

I don't want him to know the me I am now.

I am fighting really hard to change my life right now; it is all I can think about. I don't like parts of it; I'm finding it harder and harder to live with myself as is.

I have very little time left. If I died right now I would be pissed at the impressions I left behind. I would be roasting in hell thinking how badly I wasted my one shot at life.

And The Devil would be laughing.

Jackson is a fresh, new, and precious life. He is my grandson. I will be around for only a small part of his life.

I want that part to shine, to blow him away, to make him think and talk about me with respect and love and amazement when I'm gone. 

I want him to remember me as a force of nature.

Accept The Good

Watched a movie last night - Things We Lost in the Fire - Benicio del Toro, Halle Berry, David Duchovny.

Watch it. It is intense, it is human - it makes you feel, it makes you think.

Duchovny's character has a pet phrase - "accept the good." When Halle Berry is talking to Benicio (a heroin addict), he's talking about the hard things in his life and she says "accept the good", because he does have good things in his life.

Perfect. Accept the good. It makes so much more sense than today's typical bullshit, like "live your best life." Nobody, no normal person, is living their best life. The fact that we are human and we are the bottom 99%, makes it impossible.

And gratefulness seems like a wimpy cop out; your life is a struggle, a marathon run on razor blade road in bare feet - but you're supposed to be grateful for what you have, even though it falls far short of what you expected, what you deserve.

"Accept the good" is perfect because it is not over the top. Life may be a cesspool of unfulfilled expectations, but good things do come around, however small they may be.

Don't push them away. Accept them. Roll them around in your mind, caress them with your emotions, anesthetize your hurt with them. So ten minutes later, when the next bucket of shit gets dumped on your head, you will have had relief. Maybe made a memory you can use like a temporary painkiller, if it's strong enough.

Don't overdo it. No grand statements, like "living your best life." No wimpy gratefulness, as weak as overcooked pasta.

Accept the good and move on.

That's about as good as it gets.

You Gotta Bleed

So few, extraordinarily marginal victories; so many crushing defeats.

Like trying to exist on a diet of pulverized rock and broken glass.

Meaningful Words Deconstructed

 "Am I young enough to believe in revolution?"

Not just revolution. Change. Forward movement. Acquisition of knowledge and wisdom.

"Am I strong enough to get down on my knees and pray?"

To ask for help. To admit to weakness and confusion.

"Am I high enough on the chain of evolution to respect myself, and my brother and my sister?"

Respect myself - so fucking important. And others; indispensable.

"And perfect myself in my own peculiar way."

To work at being the best person you can be, staying true to your own unique soul.

The quoted lyrics are from Pilgrim's Progress, by Kris Kristofferson.

The agonizing and unrequited striving to make those words reality, is my own.

I Compare Myself

to everyone in my life who is right around my age.

I come up short.

A high percentage, a very high percentage, of people my age are fully retired.

I am not.

I know a fair amount of people five or six years younger than me who are retired.

All of these people are living life effortlessly and smiling a lot.

These people, every single one of them, are obviously smarter than I am. Much smarter.

This disturbs me. I used to think I was smart. Until I got past 65.

And the older I get, the stupider I get. Unless I maneuver a way to retire.

Or die.

A Mantra For Survival in 2025

Everything I think, do, and say is completely justified.

Everything.

Every fucking thing.

Justice

 I should be living in New Orleans.

I am not.

I should be living in Austin, Texas.

I am not.

What the ever-loving fuck happened? Who dropped the ball?

"Objection, Your Honor - question asked and answered."

"Objection sustained."

Tick Fucking Tock

 No time for fatigue.

No room for doubt.

Solutions

 Bad day, bad mood.

Considering consuming a violent quantity of whiskey tonight.

Tick Fucking Tock

 It's too late to be afraid.

Sick of It

 Every person who drives by me in a Lincoln is my enemy.

Suicide (Christmas Is Over)

Took the decorations down today.

Always a melancholy event.

There is something inexplicable about the lights. Soothing. Inspiration for reflection. Gazing, thinking, evaluating, appreciating. Or just vegging out, shutting thoughts down.

I wasn't into Christmas as much as I thought I would be. 

The Jackson effect is powerful; the mere fact that he is around instigated many smiles as I lounged in the recliner. Christmas Eve and Christmas day were excellent, exactly what my soul needed. But generally, my mind managed to sabotage the good feelings when I was alone with my thoughts.

The bloom is off the rose.

Been here 14 months and change. Reality sunk its claws into me recently and my tortured mind is casting about for solutions.

Gotta deal with a vicious landlord who wants to destroy our lives. So there's that. And I gotta dig up bagfuls of money if I ever hope to experience peace of mind. I really would like to retire, you know.

So........................I'm thinking and plotting and planning, and the responsibility of it all, the reality of it all, is stripping the flesh from my bones.

There's time. Got a chunk of change in the bank, so a horrific ending is not imminent. But it will be if I don't stumble upon answers.

But, what the fuck, you don't want to hear about this and I don't want to talk about it.

Went to Christmas Eve service in Craig's church with Jackson, Amanda, Craig, and Carol. I enjoyed it. There's something about being in a church that soothes me deeply, even as a lifelong sinner. Got me some peace that night.

New Year's Eve in Nashville (NO - I wasn't there, but I sure as hell wish I was), Jelly Roll singing Need A Favor.

"I only talk to God when I need a favor, and I only pray when I ain't got a prayer, so, who the hell am I, who the hell am I, to expect a Savior, oh, if I only talk to God when I need a favor?"

I don't pray, but there is a space in my soul that longs to be saved, for my problems to be solved - I don't want to fight anymore, I want my life to caress me lovingly instead of prompting me relentlessly to come up with solutions.

I want smooth. I want tranquility. I want no worries.

But I got no right to ask for that. 

So I'll keep my fists up and hope I can take off the gloves someday before I hit the canvas. I am tired, been that way for a long time, but the past 14 months gave me a taste of joy.

It was delicious.

I want more.

The Promise of The New Year

 It's January 2, 2025.

Oh my god, is this the promise of the new year?

Holy shit, is this all there is? Where's the magic?

Kidding. Get on with it. This is reality, baby

Bend to the yoke, do your job, and fucking deal with the consequences.

Have a good day.

Duane Allman - From January 1, 1969 to January 1, 2025

 "This year I will be more thoughtful of my fellow man, exert more effort in each of my endeavors, professionally as well as personally. Take love wherever I find it, and offer it to everyone who will take it. In this coming year I will seek knowledge from those wiser than me and try to teach those who wish to learn from me. I love being alive and I will be the best man I possibly can."

From Duane Allman's journal on January 1, 1969

I need to break this down a little bit this year. 

The most important words are about exerting more effort. I need to try, to really fucking try, in everything I do. Professionally and personally. In other words, every minute of every day I need to be aware of what I'm doing, and I need to assess whether it's the right thing to do. If not then I need to make adjustments. Sounds tiring but at this stage in my life it is fucking critical.

This will lead to me being the best man I possibly can. I have tried and failed before, I have failed to try before. 

I want to be the best man I possibly can. I yearn for that evolution. I need the peace of mind that will result from getting there.

"I love being alive". I never think that way. Never have. I'm too busy being unhappy. And by doing that, I'm pissing my life away, decade after decade.

I need to start loving being alive because it won't be long before that's taken away from me.

2025 Has Arrived

It's here and I'm still circling the drain.

Motivation:

"Am I young enough to believe in revolution

Am I strong enough to get down on my knees and pray

Am I high enough on the chain of evolution

To respect myself, and my brother and my sister

And perfect myself in my own peculiar way"

From Pilgrim's Progress, by Kris Kristofferson

I need words to inspire me. I need the strength to follow through with those words. This lyric says a lot, and it resonates with the kind of man I want to be.

When I turmed 70 it was somewhat frightening, but it's also a milestone. I did not freak out too much.

71 is heavier because it implies momentum. Moving towards 80, and to me 80 is the line of demarcation. I am aware of so many people admitting that when they hit 80 they really started to fall apart. It's embezzled in my brain and I fear it.

I recently read Al Pacino's autobiography. In it, as he was discussing age, he said in his seventies he had to make some adjustments but nothing he couldn't live with. But when he hit 80, things got a lot tougher.

He is a successful and fulfilled man. I am still trying to make sense of my life. 80 is going to be cataclysmic for me. I fear it.

You are laughing, I don't blame you. You're thinking "Here we go again. He's gonna tell us about everything he needs to do to get fulfilled. To justify his life. Then he won't do any of it."

You may be right. But today I'm feeling motivated, afraid, unsure, and fucking angry. I need the anger to put me over the top. I'm hoping that's the secret sauce because I am really fucking angry.

What a fool I've been. Compromising my life, being who I am not, hiding who I really am, bending over for other people, not getting out of life what my soul needs to flourish. Just fucking being weak time after time after time until I became invisible.

I was born to be a supernova, not some fucking shadow.

Once again, I'm gonna give it a shot.

Addtional motivators:

1) "Perhaps even in darkness the soul can be healed before the last warm pulse of life fades"

From Cemetery Road, by Greg Iles

AND

2) "He tortured no one so much as he tortured himself" - random quote I picked up somewhere. My point is that it's tough enough doing battle with life without doing battle with yourself on top of it.

Fuck my past failures.

Add One More To The Tally

Well, Jimmy Carter made the cut.

Something you don't know: Jimmy Carter had a relationship with The Allman Brothers Band. They played a number of concerts to raise money for Carter's campaign, which was struggling financially. He liked their music and he considered them friends. Carter's daughter Amy gave Gregg Allman a tour of the White House.

In Jimmy Carter's own words: "I'm proud of my relationship with The Allman Brothers Band. They are good people, they are my friends, and anybody who wants a President who doesn't like music like this, and who doesn't like people who make music like this, should simply vote for another man."

That is one cool President.