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