Good Friend

 Q: How can I do what I have to do?

A: Just fucking do it.

Reply: Thanks for the advice.

Excess Is Success

I was just indulging in idle thought and the phrase "I try not to overdo it" popped into my head.

Where the hell did that come from?

Considering the time I have left, I have no choice but to overdo it.

Bring on excess, baby.

Suddenly

 "Jesus said if you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you."

A quote from the Gospel of Thomas, a collection of sayings that some believe are Jesus' secret teachings.

I am suddenly feeling quite religious.

I Couldn't Help Myself

 We have been hibernating this weekend because it is NASCAR weekend in Loudon, essentially right down the road from us.

The crowds and traffic are always choking. The irony is that for many, many years - before we moved up here - we were that crowd.

The local hotels are full up, the local restaurants and bars are rockin'. It is a fucking blast.

I could not help myself this morning. I had to get a taste of it. So I went out to Dunkin' Donuts to treat Carol and me to breakfast. And to check out the insanity.

When I got to the end of the driveway for this community, traffic was non-stop on 140 - the road that runs right by us.

Irony of Ironies: We drove down this road every year. Year after year. We drove right by the place where we now live. How wild is that? We drove the road so we could meet up with our derelict friends and family at a gas station right around the corner. We congregated there before heading to the track in a caravan of insanity.

I took a left this morning and headed out towards Route 3a, watching a parade of cars drive in the direction of my over 55 community on 140. Non-stop traffic.

3a was rocking, and there was a ton of traffic coming off 93. The drive thru at Dunkin' was choked so I went inside.

That's when it happened.

Inside was crowded too. Almost everyone was wearing race gear. Racing conversations. T-shirts, hats; cars parked outside had flags and stickers. My soul tingled.

So many memories. So many wild and crazy memories, so much laughter, so many good times. So many great stories.

I could never deal with the crowds at the track anymore or the traffic or the 12 hour day. I could definitely never drink all day like I used to (goddamn it). Just not interested anymore.

So I was glad to get a feel of it this morning, a taste of it; pick up on the vibe of excited expectation.

Had a damn good breakfast too.

Pick One

 "When we were children we were errant enough to wish to be birds for the day, but there's nothing easier to lose than playfulness."

"I had been at war with human nature for so long I had forgotten to live a life."

"The rich invariably knew how the poor should live. Just show up for work, humbly."

From True North, by Jim Harrison

Can You Believe It?

 I love my new home so deeply a rainy day cannot depress me.

Too Weak to Admit

 "It's hard to admit cowardice even when you're trying to be completely honest."

From True North, by Jim Harrison

My New Rose-breasted Friend

Sitting in the recliner last week, early morning.

Sipping coffee, blissfully reading. Do you find my mornings boring?

I hear a tapping outside the picture window I sit beside. I turn to see a bird hopping on the windowsill. I turn more for a better look - the bird does not spook at all. In fact it hopped to my left a bit and back to my right - looking right in at me as I looked at it.

I was fucking blown away.

It hung for maybe another fifteen seconds, then took off.

It had a black head, black back, white breast with a red patch. Very striking. I googled it and a picture popped up of a rose-breasted grosbeak. That was it! That was the exact bird I saw. It was a male. Males have the distinctive red breast. Females are brown, beige, and yellow.

I told Carol about it in feverish excitement.

I see meaning in everything, so I looked for the symbolism of a rose-breasted grosbeak: "The grosbeak has on its chest a rose-colored triangle that looks like a bleeding heart. This totem can help teach us to heal all of the old wounds and hurts of family origin. The grosbeak helps us to see our family relationships as a true melody, each note separate, but part of the larger whole."

??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

How very disappointing. Trying too hard and ending up weak and unsatisfying. Jesus, give me a break.

If it said "The rose-breasted grosbeak is a sign of extended life - promising typically thirty more years than the national average." OR "The rose-breasted grosbeak signifies the purest of luck - guaranteeing lottery winnings of $30 million minimum." I would have been ecstatic. But healing old wounds? That's like expecting Johnny Walker Blue and getting Ten High.

HERE'S THE BEST PART - He came back!!!!!! A couple of days later I'm sitting in the recliner and he lands on the windowsill again. No fear, no hurry. Only this time Carol was in the living room with me. I said "Look, look, look - my bird is back!" She had time to turn towards the window and see my buddy hopping on the windowsill for 5 seconds before he took off.

He hasn't been back since. Breaks my heat. I miss him.

But two visits in a few days? Chillin' on my windowsill? Gotta mean something. I'm a believer, baby.

See you in 2057, folks.

Don't Cross Your Legs

 After going through your entire life failing to grow a set of balls - if you finally decide to do so just before the final act - you better grow a set the size of volleyballs.

Deadly Misconceptions and Painful Self-Reflection

Father and Son sitting at a picnic table outside a family get together mourning the death of the wife/mother.

Father: "I'm sorry. I wasn't able to be the father you wanted. But I guess I wanted you to be better than me. And I thought that if I push...It may not mean anything to you, but I want you to know that I really do love you. And I'm...I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry."

Son: "I'm sorry I wasn't able to be the son you wanted."

Father: "You did the best you could."

Son: "Still, yeah. Manage to seem to still like Hank. He was a lot more of a fuck up than I was."

Father: "He was the baby."

Son: "Yeah."

Father: "He needed us more. "

Son: "Yeah, he needed you more. You sure it wasn't his cute looks or his puppiness?"

Father: "You were the first. The first always has it rougher."

Son: "Yeah, so I'm told. You know, the four of you, I never felt like I was part of the club. Beautiful birds of a feather. You sure I'm your son?"

The Father stands up and slaps the Son.

The son earlier talking to his brother:

"But my life, it, it doesn't add up. It's............nothing connects to anything else. It's..........I'm not the sum of my parts. All of my parts don't add up to one...to one me, I guess."

From Before The Devil Knows You're Dead, starring Philip Seymour Hoffman, Ethan Hawke, Marisa Tomei, Albert Finney and.....................

If you want to watch a movie that tells a painful story and makes no apologies, this is the one for you.

Tell Me, Dear God

 "There ain't no light, there ain't no sunshine today, all my friends are gone away, all my world has fallen apart, tell me dear God, is there justice for a man like me? Is there hope beyond their broken greed? Beyond my broken dreams. I'm gonna stand my ground, I'm gonna hunt him down, find the man that tortures me, the man that haunts my dreams...................

Oh, I'm always there, I'm always one step behind, I'll keep on going 'till I die, 'till I find justice in his eyes...................

I'm gonna stand my ground, I'm gonna hunt him down, keep on going 'till he dies, 'till I find justice in his eyes"

From The Ballad of Lefty Brown, by Maiah Wynne

Our History

 "Before the arrival of European colonists, sexual violence was virtually nonexistent on North American soil. Since then, Native American women have suffered sexual victimization more than any other racial or ethnic group."

From the movie The Bygone.

Wait, What?

Professional tennis players have a "box" courtside.

Inside that "box" sit their coach. Usually more than one. Two, sometimes three. A physical therapist. These days there may be a psychiatrist in there. Family members - girlfriend, wife, kids, Mom, Dad.

During the match the tennis pro looks up to his box repeatedly. Conversations go back and forth. Tips and encouragement from the coach, encouragement from the family.

It's difficult for me to believe that tips or encouragement make any difference at that point - during a match. I mean these people are professionals playing at the highest level against the most accomplished competitors. They practice a thousand hours a day on a thousand different things - psychological as well as physical. But what do I know? Maybe a well placed "atta boy" can win Wimbledon.

If I had a coach - maybe two or three - a psychiatrist, a physical therapist, and family members following me around through life giving me tips, advice, and encouragement, I would have been mega-successful. I would have been steered towards the right path and given the discipline and inspiration to chase my dreams.

My bank account would look like this - $1,000,000,000,000, instead of what it is: $-150.

But, what the hell - whaddya gonna do?

Wait, what? What's that you say? You never had a coach or coaches or a psychiatrist, a physical therapist or family members giving you tips, advice, and encouragement as you made your way through life, and you did just fine? You are OK?

I must be more fucked up than I thought. I mean, Carol is always saying to me "Joey, you are so fucked up!", but it must be even worse than that.

Time to buckle down and buckle up, compadres - time to kick holy fucking ass.

I got a lot of ground to make up.

It's Time

 Jayson Tatum silenced his critics.

Time for me to silence mine.

Buried Alive

I feel like I am sealed in a crypt.

Woke up at 6 this morning - the temperature was 67 degrees. Right now it is 92 degrees. And humid. Therefore the house is sealed up. Central air is on.

Usually, in this beautiful and peaceful home, the windows are open, the slider is slid revealing the screen door, sunshine and breeze and outside have access to the inside. It is bright and breezy, and birds sing their hearts out.

Normally, the cats are footloose and fancy free. Bopping from the screen door to the windows in the living room, the windows in the bedroom, the window in the main bath, the windows in the two back rooms, and back to the screen door looking onto our small porch. Until they exhaust themselves in bliss and curl up for hours in peaceful dreams.

Not today. The house is sealed up. Like a prison cell. Or a death vault.

Today they demand to know what the fuck is going on. This morning they wandered around aimlessly, unsure of what to do. No open windows to sit in, no open anything to occupy them. Bewildered.

A couple of times they just sat in the middle of the living room looking like they had just eaten quaaludes. A couple of times they followed me from room to room, evidently hoping I would regain my senses and open the fucking windows.

Finally, they gave up. They've been sleeping. A lot. But not in windows and not near the screen door.

I feel bad. I tried to explain it to them, but they think I am a lunatic anyway so they just ignored me.Two more days of this heat. I can't wait until we can open up the house again. Late Thursday, maybe Friday.

It is 92 degrees and humid. I have never lived in a house with central air before.

It is fucking awesome.

Come On, Man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You can't just talk about doing shit, you actually have to go out and do it.

Talk is not just cheap, it is cancerous and corrosive. When it becomes a habit, and it takes the place of action, it eats you up. Poisons your soul. Because as the words leave your lips, you yourself know you are full of shit. The guilt feasts on your soul.

You can't waste time, either. Are you fucking kidding me? You will be dead. Today, tomorrow, or on June 23, 2031. There is no time to waste. There is no time to kill.

Get some help. Get advice. Just don't sit around saying "I think I'll do this. I really want to do that. I might even try this."

Grab something by the balls and squeeze the shit out of it.

With My Blessing

Carol takes care of Jackson a few days awake.

Sometimes 3, sometimes 4. I go with her a couple of days a week; the other days I spend alone at home in an oh so quiet house. Usually 8 and 1/2 hours.

It's quite blissful.

We did not use to spend as much time together as we do now, back in the olden days in the Henniker house. I worked part time and was gone around 20 hours a week. Up here I have been largely unemployed.

The Henniker palace was two floors. When we were home together we could avoid each other a bit. This place is one level. No escape. So these days alone are a treat for me.

With the good weather, I set up shop in the dining area. Extreme sunnyness. Tastes like chocolate. 

All the windows are open, sliders are open, laptop on the table - I bang away at my hopes and dreams, aspirations and delusions.

All our neighbors are in close proximity, so I hear conversations. 99 and 99/100% of the people here are retired. They're not looking for a job. They don't need a job. They did their time and made it to parole. 

I don't think they're even looking for an honest man. They're not looking for anything, man.

When they talk, there is no urgency in their voices. No stress. A lot of laughter. 

I never hear anybody say "Oh shit! - it's 2 o'clock - I gotta fucking run." It's more like a casual "OK, then - I'll see you later on."

I'm not even sure these people own clocks. 

I heard a rumor - unsubstantiated - that all the residents once had a clock smashing party. They all got together and piled up all the watches and alarm clocks and wall clocks and desk clocks into a mountainous pile. They passed around a handle of Ten High Bourbon, got good and drunk, and took their clothes off. 

Then with shovels and sledge hammers and baseball bats, they beat the living shit out of that pile. 

I'm sorry I missed it.

Yup, nobody around here worries about time. It doesn't mean a fucking thing to them. They got no pressures, no worries, no commitments - no place they gotta be.

Bless 'em.

Good Times

"When I think of all the good times that I've wasted having good times

When I think of all the good time that's been wasted having good times

When I was drinkin'

I should've been thinkin'

When I was fighting

I could have done the right thing

All of that boozin'

I was really losin'

Good times

Good times"

Good Times, by The Animals

I understand the sentiment of the lyrics. They make sense. They are the truth.

But shit, man - I have had enormous fun when I was having good times. Many, many times.

And I plan to get my fair share of fun to come having good times.

It's the only responsible thing to do.

What I WANT What I NEED

 "There's a line of trucks pullin' up in the driveway

Barefoot, tan legs, swinging off tailgates

Everybody knows everybody in town

When you call a couple friends, man, word gets around

Got two tan Yeti's, won't last all night

So if we're gonna do this right

We gonna need more beer, gonna need more ice

Gonna need more cups, stack 'em up to the sky

Gonna need more crank on the knob of the radio

If tonight's gonna go like I think it's gonna go

One thing's clear, by the looks of the crowd in here

We gonna need more beer"

From More Beer, by Lee Brice

I miss this type of summertime outdoor insane party so bad. Used to happen a lot. 

Cori and Sarge had an annual Memorial Day cookout that kicked ass. Big crowd, lots of laughs, lots of beer. We had plenty of barbecues at my house. Friends used to invite me to theirs. It was a thing.

Loud rock 'n roll, cold beer, whiskey, laughter, dancing (sometimes), singing (more often) - people people people. Shit, man - I was born for that. It's a natural thing.

Now we are all older. Spread out. Thinned out. Fuck that. Now I don't attend crazy barbecues, I watch them in a commercial on TV while Lee Brice tortures me with his song.

Wild-ass summertime barbecues are a force of nature, seismic events, crazed entertainment that make your life better for a few hours.

I still want that. I still need that.

Not Even Close

 "When the whole wide world's against you

and you're standing in the rain

When all your friends have let you down

and treat you with disdain

And you think the party's over

but it's only just begun

Let's raise a glass get up and dance

'Cause life's just hit and run"

Whole Wide World by The Rolling Stones

Yeah, baby - I am not done yet

Joe

If I went by Joseph instead of Joe, I would have been rich and retired long ago.

Joseph is a good name. I like it. Rather distinguished. I never should have gone by Joe. I should have insisted that people call me Joseph. If I did they would bow and scrape before me. Give me money and adulation.

I'm pretty sure if I went by Joseph I would have ended up a successful author of fiction, wallowing in wealth and fame, my picture on millions and millions of dustjackets.

Joe is too common. It gets reduced in gravitas by cliches. People say shit like:

Cup o' Joe

G.I. Joe

Joe citizen

Your average Joe

Joe sixpack

Joe schmoe

Joe blow

Not your average Joe

STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How about Joe Cool! I like that.

Jesus' father went by Joseph. I should have taken a cue.

It's too late now. Can't do anything about it.

Maybe I should change my name completely. Kristaps Porzingis - that is a fucking name. I wouldn't mind borrowing that one. You can practically sing that name - make up a song about it. Maybe a poem. It commands attention.

How about Divine Deablo? Holy shit. I prefer it be spelled Diablo, but most people would not make the distinction anyway. Jesus Christ - talk about dueling first and last names. Beautiful.

Call me what you want to. I don't care. I'm too tired to care.

Just don't call me Joey. Only Carol is allowed to call me Joey. She gets away with it.

She's tougher than me.

Pat Sajak

Even fucking Pat Sajak is retired.

I am not. Is there any fucking justice in the world?

Actually, I never want to retire. What would I do with my time? I'm the kind of person who likes to keep busy. I'd be bored if I retired.

I fucking hate people that say that.

They are full of shit.

She Said He Said

She said "Try as I might, I just cannot connect with you."

He said "That's because I am not here. I maintain a physical presence but my spirit has died. When you get close, when you take a look inside, you look into a void. And that is unsettling."

She said "You're fucking weird."

Hard Truth

 A casual approach to life is a criminal offense punishable by death.

That Role

 I have never been larger than life.

I'd like to grow into that role before it's too late.

In A Nutshell

In a nutshell, the problem is: My life has changed, but I have not.

I have a new home, a new life, a GRANDSON, some money in the bank - and still, I torture myself with anxiety and worry.

I greet happiness with doubt. Strange approach, eh? I haven't figured out a way to make this gratefulness thing work for me.

There are problems, there will always be problems - but it is nonsensicle to poison the good times - the worry free moments - the precious and beautiful moments - worrying about shit that has to be dealt with, and worrying about what solution I will come up with. Making myself unhappy when happiness should consume me.

Let purity be. Revel in the moments. Christ, my life is at least 85% better than it was 7 months ago - that is a significant improvement. I should wake up every day dancing the tarantella. I should literally leap out of the recliner and dance. I should sing Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin' to Emmy Lou and Patsy who would, of course, watch me with rapt attention and applaud at the end.

Some days I do that. Today I did that. I feel magnificent today. Absolutely fucking magnificent.

That's a hopeful sign, folks. But I don't want to mislead you. Again.

My first post in here was on May 5, 2011. Thirteen fucking years ago. There is a lot of good stuff in here - creative stuff, interesting opinions, entertaining rants, thought provoking points of view. But by far, what dominates in here over and over again - is whining. Heaping helpings of whining. Enormous amounts of whining - record breaking whining.

And empty promises. Empty promises trail whining by a nose.

So I will make no promises. I will lay out facts.

This house will not allow me to be unhappy. The sun is shining today and this house is filled with life and light. Every window is open. Birds are chirping relentlessly. There is a breeze. It is idyllic. This is why I danced. This is why I sang. And this happens a lot.

Jackson does not allow me to be unhappy. I am with him a lot. He is the ultimate definition of happiness and hope. He's a little over two months old. He makes the present magical, and he IS the future. He melts my heart.

Despair kills hope. Happiness kills despair. So happiness makes hope possible. And hope makes change possible. 

"So you're telling me there's a chance."

A Safe and Sensible Way To Approach Life

 "Nobody loves me but my mother, and she could be jivin' too"

From Nobody Loves Me But My Mother, by B.B. King