Madness

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

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

From Veronica Decides To Die by Paulo Coelho

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't have everything.

A Man of Action

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was God. He was fucking God.

Heaven Is Closed

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

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

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

Heaven is Closed, by Willie Nelson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death? No. Not yet.

I think I'll just stay where I am.

Answer Me For Christ Sake

 Are you fucking kidding me?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Hostility

 You gotta be kidding me. You're working two part time jobs? At your age? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Everyone you respect is retired, and a lot of fools you don't respect too. Just retire, man. If they do it, you can do it too. It is time to chill, baby - you earned the right.

What do you mean you need the money? How can that be? You've been working for 50 years - FIFTY FUCKING YEARS! You must have put a couple of bucks away here and there. A 401K? Something?

NO? Shit, man I am sad to hear that. Yeah, I know you're sad too, I get it, it has got to suck. Yeah, I know - really, really sad. But there has to be a solution other than working four days a week, instead of sitting home with your feet up and a smile on your face.

What's that? I don't know, for Christ sake, it's not my job to solve your problems. I don't mean to sound like an asshole, bit I really don't know what to tell you.

How's your head? Are you OK? Alright, alright - you don't have to yell at me. I'm sorry that you are so sad, and so fucking mad. But you're doing what you have to do. Doesn't that give you any satisfaction?

It only embarrasses you? I guess I get that. You think your family and friends should have a reason to look up to you, and you feel like they don't. Like working two menial jobs makes you look like a loser.

Well, I don't know, man - they are supposed to love you. They probably do. Don't you think they won't judge you?

Oh, it doesn't matter what they say, it matters what they know. I don't know, man - I think you're being too harsh on yourself.

I know you're not having fun, I know you just want to be happy, I know you just want some peace before you die. You'll get there. Keep fighting.

OK. I give up. I'm not gonna change your mind, there is too much anger getting in the way.

Listen, man - let's grab a couple of beers and watch some football. You'd rather drink alone? That's not healthy, man. What? You say you're going to think things over? I think you're going to drink alone in the dark and feel sorry for yourself. If you kill your soul you'll kill yourself, you know. You gotta get over this.

OK, OK I am out of here. Will I see you tomorrow?

No guarantees - what kind of answer is that? I fucking love you, man - remember that.

Well fuck you too.

The Best You Can Hope For

 "Papa, when they put the dirt on my grave, crumble a crust of bread on it so the sparrows will come, and I'll hear that they've come and be glad that I'm not lying alone."

From A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

When I read that sentence, I had to stop to catch my breath. It's heavy. It is not a bad thing to think about the fact that you're going to die. The finality. The fulfillment of the statement that we are born alone and will die alone.

Especially at my age. Shit, man - every time I look in the mirror, death stares back at me and asks - "Are you ready?" I hesitate..... then answer "Fuck no - I am not ready to give up." And it's true. Sometimes I think it would be a relief to get the fuck out of here, get it over with, stop the struggle and disappointment. But I'm too damn pretty. Kidding. I got unfinished business. My soul is so unfulfilled that it squirms around in there making me very uncomfortable. And an unfulfilled soul looking for a place to land in the universe is bound to make a bad choice.

Keith keeps me going, Craig keeps me going, Krista keeps me going, Amanda keeps me going, JACKSON keeps me going, Ed keeps me going, Carolina keeps me going, CAROL keeps me going (I love her so much).

But beyond that, there is me. The guy that has been slithering through life with no purpose, no commitment, no inspiration. It has drained me, but it has not destroyed me. If I see Death coming before I set things straight it WILL destroy me. Then it will kill me as if it is squashing an insignificant bug.

I want more than that. I am a better man than I have shown the world.

I have to prove it.

I Finally Get It

 "Today's rain is tomorrow's whiskey."

Scottish Proverb

 

Now I understand why every single time it rains - every fucking time - someone has to say "We really need the rain".

Simply Said

 "You do realize we annoyed the average American into fascism"

Marc Maron from his latest special, Panicked.

That is fucking hilarious and it's true. 

Annoyed them, poked and prodded them, tried to dictate what they could say and couldn't say, could do and couldn't do - tell them how to live. Not a good approach for encouraging peaceful co-existence.

Marc's audience is ultra liberal. I love the man but I'm no longer ultra liberal - I am a thinking liberal or a liberal realist. 

I love him because he is so open and vulnerable, he is intelligent, he overcame alcoholism and drug addiction, and he is a whiner - like me. The difference is, I whine and it comes across as weakness. He whines but he makes it funny. Because he has deep points of reference, tons of life experience, and is well read.

"We annoyed the average American into fascism." It's true. Liberals went way too far pushing their approach to life down everybody else's throat. 

Many years ago I began to see the stupidity of how some of what liberals think is, and I mocked it. Shook my head and said "That ain't me." But I did not realize the deep seated hatred the right had for these points of view.

The backlash blows me away because it is so vicious, violent, juvenile, and outright fucking stupid. Which greased the skids for a dicktator to move right on into the white house, with the ultimate goal of painting the place gold - inside and out.

Fucking amazing.

The lesson? Don't annoy everyone. Try to get along. Reason with them if they are open-minded, be open-minded yourself, avoid them if they are small-minded, then laugh behind their back. 

The Irony of It All

I have lost years worrying about minutes.

Now my life is measured out in seconds.

Sensible

 "The water was not fit to drink. To make it palatable, we had to add whiskey. By diligent effort, I learned to like it."

Winston Churchill

Fucking Musicians

Listen up.

I don't go out enough to marinate my soul in contentment. Instead, it stews in venom. In fact, one of the reasons my soul is shriveling up is that socializing at my age and in my social circles involves a lot of talk about medical issues and a minimal amount of fun and demented laughter.

Not my thing, baby - not my thing.

The antidote? Paul and Lisa. They live in our village, although they spend a lot of time in other places, world travelers that they are. Luckily, they were around for one night last week.

My idea of a perfect night out involves music, food, and booze - can't lose. After I worked another grueling day at the library (the work has been compared to coal mining, or roofing in 95 degree heat), we went to Patrick's Pub and enjoyed just that. 

I've been on a mission lately to experiment with creative cocktails. Typically when we go out I'll have a Blue Moon and, later, a Crown Royal. Predictable, but oh so tasty. But my taste buds are searching for more lately. I think it's a reflection of me trying to pack as much living as possible into my remaining years. So I ordered a Whiskey Advocate - a drink consisting of Knob Creek Maple bourbon, Bulleit rye, a Bing cherry, garnished with................................. a slice of bacon. Candied bacon.

It looked ridiculous. A crispy strip of bacon was laid across the top of the glass. But who the hell can resist bacon? I chowed that protein. A bite of bacon, a sip of whiskey heaven. Until my self-control ran out and I just gobbled what was left of the bacon. Which left me the time and inclination to sip my drink in peaceful, unhurried bliss.

We enjoyed great meals, while a talented dude played acoustic guitar. This guy covered a wide spectrum of music, and he did it well. He was great. I asked to be his roadie but he replied "You're too old, grandpa!" 

Fucking musicians.

Protect Your Heart (It's Too Late For Me)

Just read two books in a row that ripped my heart out. I'm still looking for it. If you see it, please return it to me.

The Confession by John Grisham. About an innocent teenager - black - wrongly accused of murder, found guilty, and eventually executed. That alone should make you want to secede from the human race. But it gets worse. The story exposes the greed, corruption, hatred, prejuduce, and lust for power that must exist for something like that to happen. And you know it's true.

It turns your stomach.

American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins. About a family living in Acapulco, a city that is getting progressively more dangerous due to the rise of another cartel. The wife owns a bookstore, the husband is a journalist. Normal people living normal lives. The husband writes a profile of the most recent drug lord to rise to power. The drug lord reads it. The next thing you know 16 members of the journalist's family are gunned down at a party. The only survivors are the wife and her eight year old son. She decides that escaping to America is her only option.

The story describes in great detail the horrors of making that trip from Mexico, illegally, into America. The violence and fear that haunts the immigrants every step of the way. Robbery, murder, rape, abuse. They are attacked, their money is stolen, they are lied to and taken advantage of. They end up putting their faith and all of their money into the hands of a "coyote", who promises to safely escort them into this country. A person they don't know, have never met.

Whatever your opinion, these people are humans. Desperate for a better life, which is ironic given the current state of this country.

At the end of the book Jeanine Cummins talks about her inspiration for writing it. She ends her comments by quoting graffiti she saw written on the border wall in Tijuana: "On this side, too, there are dreams."

'Nuff said.

When I Was Born

When I was born, my parents wept. Not from joy but from horror.

It was January 1 and my father was pissed. "Christ, we lost out on a tax break for last year, and the little shit wasn't even the first born of the year. I got a sinking feeling that this one is a loser."

My mother: "I think you're right. Look at him, just look at him - he already gives off an aura of loser-ville."

My father: "And look at his head, it's pointed for Christ sake. I bet his brain is defective." The forceps squished my head as they dragged me out, and I think my parents were pissed that I obviously did not want to be born. They considered themselves to be model parents, a gift to me and not the other way around.

They were kind of cocky that way.

They did not know what to do with me. They asked the hospital staff if they could just leave me behind when they left. The nurse said "I definitely see why you would want to do that, but unfortunately we have no use for him either. He's gotta go."

My home life was a little weird right off the bat. They stuffed me in a shoe box which they placed in the oven so they would not have to look at me. A couple of times my mother started to pre-heat the oven before quickly remembering I was in there. The screams probably alerted her. Fortunately she reacted fairly quickly and got me out of there. I did not suffer too much damage, except to develop a healthy dislike of warm weather that lasts right up until today.

As I got older they engaged in reality training with me. They'd sit me down and say "Joe, you really suck. You're a loser and you're weak." When I cried, they told me they were not trying to hurt me, they were just trying to prepare me for life. Toughen me up. I was suspicious, but they were my parents. I'm sure they had my best interests at heart.

When I got my own room I quickly noticed that the door locked from the outside. The fact that they would leave me locked in there for three or four days at a time was what tipped me off. Then they would let me out and say "Oh, we're so sorry - we forgot that you were in there." I always thought I heard my mother snickering while my father said this, but she always kept her head turned away.

I would tell them I'm hungry. They would give me a rancid peace of meat and say "Here you go, you ungrateful little shit. Do you think food grows on trees?"

No utensils. I ate with my fingers and wiped clean on my bed sheet. Which would explain why my bed smelled like decomposing flesh. Which explains why I have suffered lifelong insomnia.

It is said one of the most critical stages of learning is from birth to five years old. The first five years of a child's development are crucial to their health and well being.

My parents did the best they could. I've had a lot of time to think about it. Been in prison for over thirty years now. Funny things is, it kind of feels natural.

The door locks from the outside, I'm still eating rancid meat, and the guards kindly remind me that I am a loser, I suck, and I'm weak. Doesn't phase me at all.

The only thing is, my parents have never visited me.

Maybe they forgot that I'm in here.