One menial job plus a second menial job does not bring dignity.
In mathematical terminology:
1m + 1m ≠ Dignity
So, remember, as Peggy Lee once sang:
"Is that all there is? If that's all there is, my friends, then let's keep dancing.
Let's break out the booze and have a ball
If that's all there is"
I toy with the concept of death but I'm basically full of shit.
I'm not talking suicide here, calm down, Christ I got a lot to make up for. That tiny spot in my brain that still "hopes" (against all odds), prevents me from ending it all. That, and cowardice.
But sometimes, if I get a sudden sharp pain in my chest, I think "Well maybe this is it." I don't panic, I just sit there to see where this pain is going. Invariably it turns out to be gas. And my emotional response is a mix of relief and regret.
The regret is because I always take the easy way out. That is what got me into the pickle I am in right now. A fatal heart attack would be the easy way out. Bing, bang, boom - I don't have to fight anymore. And some people would say "He got cut down in his prime before he ever had a chance to make his mark." Others would say "Fucking lazy, underachieving prick got what he deserved - he never even tried."
The exciting thing about getting older is that there is no end to the sudden pains and discomforts that rear their ugly heads - things painful enough to make you think "what the fuck was that?" If you have a diseased brain like mine, therefore, there is no end to the morbid fantasies.
Had a knee replaced last July. Shortly before I went under the knife, at the pre-surgery check up - I was told I had a heart murmur. No one had ever told me that before. Freaked me out. Wouldn't it freak you out? Of course they told me it was mild and represented no threat. But I don't trust the medical profession - they would probably tell me that no matter what, so the surgeon could operate and get his numbers up.
I went into the surgery thinking I might never wake up. But I did.
Just had a colonoscopy this past Thursday. Haven't had one since 2012 so I was apprehensive. Age is the enemy. Dr. Feelgood was feeling positive after the surgery - said he didn't find anything too scary. But they did remove four polyps, which some lucky lab rat is examining even as we speak.
So there's still hope.
I don't really want to die. I got a lot to live for. My family, who I cherish. But the "a lot to live for" is all other directed. I am not happy when I'm alone with me. Isn't that the most important thing about life?
If you don't love yourself what is the fucking point?
Other complicating factors - I love parts of me. So it's not all poison.
I try to recite certain things to myself as often as I can, mostly as memory exercises. (My brain is getting pretty squishy).
One exercise involves "affirmations". Affirmations sounds too new agey to me, so I consider them to be brain push ups. Anyway, one of them is "I love that I love what I love." And that is true.
I do love the things I love, and I am proud of them because they get to the core of me.
I'm a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction. I'll keep throwing punches until I can no longer lift my arms.
And I'll keep playing the Russian roulette of "Will this kill me or will I survive it?"
You gotta make your own fun.
"Be like the fountain that overflows, not like the cistern that merely contains."
Paulo Coelho
Now that there, well now, that's how you live a life. Blow your personality up like a hot air balloon and ride that sucker all the way to the grave.
Loud and proud. Reckless, not feckless. Bounce it off every wall, crash through every plate glass window, get right on up into every face you run into. Go home every night and laugh.
Laugh at the quiet ones - who will even know they ever lived? Shit, man - everyone will know you were alive whether they like it or not. And fuck them if they don't like it.
You got a right to be here, man, and you got a right to make your mark.
Life is short. How many times have you said that? How many times have people said that to you? It is short, baby - it blows by so fast you get dizzy.
Christ, I know a guy who is 71 and cannot believe how close he is to the grave. It fucks with his mind. He spends a lot of time obsessing about it to the point where he misses all the designer ice cream. Premium whiskey. Live fucking, soul-reviving Blues. It's all passing him by because he is not sure what approach to take. Christ, man - you can't plan shit like that, you just gotta go for it.
Take a giant step forward even if it feels like you are facing the abyss, fucking jump for it - what do you have to lose? If it is the abyss, at least you got there like Evil Fucking Knievel. And if it is not the abyss, then dig it - it ain't gonna be boring, baby.
And then you'll develop a taste for it. Feeling alive is a sensation that feeds off itself. You want more, you gotta get more and more and more, until everyone around you marvels at your rugged individuality.
Remember the lesson Henry Hill learned in Goodfellas:
"See, the hardest thing for me was leaving the life. I still love the life. And we were treated like movie stars with muscle. We had it all, just for the asking. Our wives, mothers, kids, everybody rode along. I had paper bags stuffed with jewelry stashed in the kitchen. I had a sugar bowl full of coke next to the bed. Anything I wanted was a phone call away. ............................................................................. And now it's all over. And that's the hardest part.
Today everything is different. There's no action. I have to wait around like everyone else. Can't even get decent food. Right after I got here I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce and I got egg noodles and ketchup. I'm an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook."
Jesus Christ, man - do you have any idea what egg noodles and ketchup tastes like? It tastes like shit!
Don't be a schnook.
LIVE!
My wife is active on Facebook.
I backed away from it because I was not getting enough love. My posts are brilliant, obviously, and when I post them I expect 1,000 likes and 500 comments. Unfortunately I typically get 2 likes and no comments.
My ego. My bruised ego.
Anyway, my wife came across the post of a typically uninformed Maga head, who was getting sarcastic about liberal violence. She answered with a list of liberal people who have been killed or wounded by extreme conservatives. He did not know about these people. He had not heard about this violence. And yet he is forming opinions based on this sanitized "news" he is getting from whatever biased platform he goes to.
So hatred rears its ugly head, and gets intensified by our dicktator fanning the flames with lies, along with his vicious sycophants.
The right listens to the right, the left listens to the left, and a hell of a lot of people do not even make the effort to verify the "news" they are getting. We have this thing called the internet. You can do your own fact checking, you know. The truth is out there somewhere if you make the effort to dig it up.
How did we get so stupid?
My wife watches lots of MSNBC. What I see when I watch it is a bunch of liberals stroking each others' egos and fanning the flames of panic. What's the point of the discussions they have if they are preaching to the choir?
Same for the right. A bunch of people actively engaged in censoring the news for the consumption of people already filled with hatred and gravely misinformed. What's the point?
A lot of people are not really looking for news, they are looking for someone to support their political views with no concern for truth or what's right. How fucking short sighted is that?
And the pot is boiling.
Went out for lunch yesterday with my wife to a restaurant beautifully situated on Lake Winnipesaukee. Got a table on the deck right on the water on a beautiful day. First time there. Great atmosphere, excellent food, perfect service.
We loved it.
We wasted the last 15 minutes there having a political discussion, instead of looking at the lake, and enjoying the sunshine, boats, and people. It left me depressed. I deeply regret that. We don't go out often because we are paupers, and spend most of our time counting pennies in a jar to assess the nature of our financial stability (of which we have none).
That's how bad things are getting.
Political stupidity in this country has become all encompassing. And you end up arguing about it vehemently even though you have not chased down all the facts.
I want those 15 minutes back.
How did we get so stupid?
The worst moment of my day is the moment when I close my book, stand up from my recliner, pick up my coffee cup, and walk into the kitchen to dump what remains of the coffee - cold - into the sink. I seem to never be able to get through the entire cup.
I place the cup on the counter to the left of the double sink and hesitate before I take my next step. Because walking suggests that I am going to "do". I will be forced to engage with the world, whether I am prepared for that or not. (Usually, almost 100% of the time, not). Something I definitely don't enjoy.
I will have to make decisions, and decisions are double-edged swords. Did I make the right one? Will the results be good for me or bad for me. Will I go forward, backwards, or - worse still - stay in the same place.
I will be forced to do things I don't want to do. Haven't I earned the right to do only the things I do want to do? No, I have not.
I have noticed that I walk around the house slowly these days. Not because of age, I am still fairly vigorous. Not because of disease or because I am trying to conserve energy. I think maybe I am trying to slow down time. Or maybe my legs are just depressed.
Studies show that when you are deeply depressed, that depression travels around your body. The brain cannot handle unrelenting depression - it will shut down and stop your heart from beating - so it farms it out throughout the body. Until it eventually cycles back around to your poor, ravaged brain.
Besides, I hate people that walk ridiculously fast. You come across them too, right? Who are they trying to impress? What do they want you to think they are doing that is so important?
There's a guy who practically runs into the library, drops his book off on the desk, and runs out. Every time. I guarantee he has nothing that pressing in his life. Except maybe cocaine.
At some point during the day I will be forced to talk to other humans. Especially on days that I work - I am "in customer service." Doesn't sound as impressive as saying "I am a lawyer", "I am a doctor", "I am a research scientist", does it?
Customer Service. A job that forces you to answer stupid questions, deal with perpetually disgruntled people, bat away stupid requests, and generally inconvenience yourself to satisfy the customer.
Different organizations have different approaches. Some expect you to bend over backwards to satisfy anything a customer wants, whether or not it is pertinent to the job or the business. Others are more realistic and require you only to do the job and say no to anything else. Those are my favorites.
Movie: From Dusk Till Dawn. Sign over the bartender's head in a Mexican bar - "The Customer is always wrong." That's my philosophy.
But even if I don't have to work that day I probably have to engage with other humans. It is a fucking chore. The pharmacy, the grocery store, a medical appointment (those are the worst), the liquor store. You actually have to talk to people, which is the worst possible form of torture.
You know, as I think about it, one of these days I am just going to stay in my recliner and keep reading. Let the fucking day slide right by me. Then the week. And the month.
What's the worst that could happen?
$500,000. That's how much Billy Bob won on his scratch ticket.
Who knew?
Six months ago, on his birthday, after buying hundreds of scratch tickets over the years, he sat down at the Formica top kitchen table with a quarter between his fingers, and scratched. Scratched like he had done so many times before with dwindling belief that he would ever win more than two dollars.
But this time was different. He swept the shavings off the table into his hand and dumped them into the small, plastic trash bin he kept handy, barely looking at the numbers. When he did, he almost shit himself. It only took seconds for the truth to set in and for him to actually believe it.
He was a different man from that day on. His life up until then had been dead end jobs, sometimes two at a time; shitty pay, past due bills, rundown furniture and 15 year old trucks. He was bitter. No one wanted to be around him, including his family. Even he did not like himself. At the age of 57 he felt that things would never change, that he could never win. Since that magical day, he was all smiles all the time.
Slowly, he worked himself back into the good graces of his neighbors. They were wary at first, assuming he had gotten into drugs, assuming he was after something. But eventually they realized he was genuine. They loosened up and just enjoyed his company.
Billy Bob took care of his family. First his daughter, Lucinda, because he knew she would be the tough one. She hated what he had done to her mother, she hated the way he abandoned the family, she hated him. He knew it was justified, so he approached her carefully. A couple of phone calls, a meeting at a local diner, finally wrangling an invitation to her house for dinner.
Lucinda was studying to be a surgeon and Billy Bob knew she was smothering under a mountain of debt. That night over dinner he handed her a check to cover 50% of her debt. He left her home with a smile on his face and confidence that he would eventually earn her love back.
His son Johnny Joe was next. He had dropped out of high school and gone to work in a machine shop. Worked all day, drank all night and was fairly content doing that. Until Dad showed up. Billy Bob paid off Johnny Joe's truck loan, bought him a condo, and deposited some cash into his bank account. He gave his son some breathing room to stop and think and make better decisions about his future.
Billy Bob often stopped to reflect upon all the good he had done, and was overwhelmed by the sense of pride he felt, amazed that he actually felt good about himself. He could have blown the money on booze, drugs and hookers, which was his natural inclination. Instead he decided to change, and change he did. For the better. Forever.
He was sitting on his screened-in porch on a summer night, sipping Pappy Van Winkle 10 year old bourbon from a Waterford crystal cocktail glass feeling good about himself. He had invested the remainder of his money wisely, and as he thought about the additional good he could do with it, he could not help but smile.
The cocktail glass shattered as it hit the wide pine porch floor. Billy Bob had a massive, fatal heart attack.
He was 57 years and six months old.
"The older you get, the more baggage you have to carry, and the less you're able to lift it."
"Sometimes people reserve so much of themselves it's like saving a fine wine for an occasion that never materializes."
"If I do not speak my mind while I am able, well, death provides ample time for silence."
Anonymous
Age gives you perspective. Or it should. I am 71. When I say the words, when I look at the number, I am horrified. Seems surreal. Specifically because the time I have left is a fraction of the time I have spent. When I was 48 I feared turning fifty. Then it was 60. Then it was 70. Holy shit, this shit's gotta stop. Eradicating fear is a good place to start. Although 80 scares the hell out of me.
Right now I am "healthy", as far as I know. I mean, I dealt with skin cancer, I dealt with prostate cancer and came out on the winning side. Although the skin cancer thing is bizarre. I got so many spots and weirdnesses on my skin that weren't there 10 years ago, I look like a Jackson Pollock painting. So it's hard to feel confident, but I do the best that I can. And looking in the mirror is no picnic. I feel like somebody swapped out my body for that of the Pillsbury Dough boy - a senior Pillsbury Dough boy - it's pretty squishy. What the hell happened?
Right now I am not dealing with anything of substance. Although I have a colonoscopy coming up in 13 days which, of course, I am quite excited about. Haven't had one in 13 years. Who knows what's growing down there.
I do love the drugs, though. I've had a few of these puppies and I know when I wake up I'm going to feel just fine. It's the nicest high. You feel very good, quite mellow, but not LSD over the top type stuff. Just enough to make you believe that life is good.
When Carol drives me home she has to listen to me babble about how good I feel.
So I feel fine, all things considered. I am exercising hard and I feel very good about that, physically and mentally. In fact I feel better than I have in a long time. I lost a lot of weight, I'm getting around like a tiny bird. So I don't feel 71. But death can come calling any minute. My body is beat, battered and bruised. Shit, the whiskey I have consumed in the last 50 years should have killed me.
I feel good, but I'm still old. That's the rub. The baggage is piling up and definitely getting harder to lift. As far as reserving myself, I have done way too much of that and it is very possible the "occasion will never materialize." Nobody knows who I really am, including me. I don't speak my mind enough. So my body blows up like a hot air balloon, figuratively.
You can fool yourself when you're young, but you're a fool to do it when you're old. Death is a harsh reality and it's pretty permanent. Or so I'm told.
So I continue to navigate this life thing, but it gets trickier and scarier every day.
I'll be watching Djokovic/Alcaraz in an hour and a half - that will lift my spirits.
When I ask someone how they are doing, I expect a response.
The fools who say nothing generally wind up minus a tongue.
I wasted hundreds of days when I was younger, and they were quite tasty.
Now, a wasted day tastes bitter. Rancid.
A wasted day now feels like a launching pad to the grave.
I must invest my time wisely or be laughed out of the human race.
No pressure.
"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.
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.
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.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Are you fucking kidding me?
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.
"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.
"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".
"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.
I have lost years worrying about minutes.
Now my life is measured out in seconds.
"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
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.
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, 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.
Sold a story. Can you believe it? Kinda fun.
I wrote the damn thing on August 2, 2012. Thirteen years ago. It has gotten more attention than anything else I wrote. Because, I think, I just wrote it - let it flow, you know? Tapped directly into my diseased imagination and wrote something that surprised even me.
I have tried to sell it over the years here and there, but I didn't put too much effort into it. Guess I prefer working menial, low-paying jobs to achieving massive literary success.
What?
You know how it goes....................shit, man I should really be doing this or that, it feeds my soul - it is who I really am etc etc. Hell, maybe if I put some effort into this I would not have a boss that I wanted to stretch out on the rack while I rubbed motor oil into his hair.
What?
Water under the bridge, baby. I sold it. To a publication in France - can you believe that? They paid me 100 euros up front and another 20 euros in royalties so far. Totals about $140.
Suddenly I love the French. As soon as Carol kicks me out, I'm gonna move over there, drink fine wine, wear a beret at a jaunty angle, hang out in cafes with the literati, and eat Boeuf Bourguignon.
The story is called The Brick House. I'm kind of proud of it. I like it.
The timing is perfect because I'm searching for a happy ending that will re-write my epitaph.
If my epitaph were written today, my corpse would rise up and sponge away the writing on my headstone in embarrassment and desperation, apologize to all those in attendance for my failures, grab the bottle of whiskey my friend Phil is hiding in the inside pocket of his jacket, take a healthy swig, and crawl back into my grave.
Listen, it makes me feel good. People in France are reading my story.
Actually it's more than that. It's published on their website. But it's also available in kiosks that these people have all over the place. Including America. In universities, public libraries, airports, transportation hubs, retail centers, cafes, hospitals, schools.
At least twenty or thirty states in this country. 300 dispensers around the world from Melbourne, Hong Kong, Paris, London and and and........................
They are trying to revive reading, so the stories are available in places where people wait, or pass through, or have to be, or study, or eat, or buy stuff. I love this idea - people don't read anymore. I guess you choose a story, push a button, and it prints it out - they are all short stories designed to take up five minutes of your time or less. And they are free.
So that's it. I'm a published author.
Put that on my gravestone.
"You're going to fry in the electric chair. Your flesh will burn and your toupee will ignite, and your caps will glow red, and your beard will smoke, and your contact lenses will melt into your eyeballs. And when you're dead, you'll go to hell and fry again."
John Corey to Fredric Tobin, in the book Plum Island
"Memories, on speed, are like little children running in traffic, only there are not enough cars to hit them all. The past keeps intruding, even now."
From Bad Sex on Speed, by Jerry Stahl
"Be grateful for what you have (It's probably more than you think).........................
If you and your children are basically healthy - if, when you wake up in the morning, you can get out of bed - you should be grateful for that. If you have family and friends who love you, you should be grateful for that. Don't take these things for granted: They are the most important things in your life.
I'm not saying you should ignore your problems, or the problems of the wider world; I'm saying keep them in perspective. Don't let your happiness depend on the news, or the stock market, or office politics, or traffic. Don't let people who don't know you tell you how you should feel. Don't believe that the world is terrible, or wallow in outrage or victimhood, just because some politician or radio-talk-show host or college professor tells you to. Decide for yourself how your life is going, and when you make that calculation, start with the fundamentals: Are you walking around? Do you have people you love? Do they love you? Do you have enough to eat? A place to live?
If you have those things, you have a lot to be grateful for. If you also have laughter in your life, and music, maybe a nice sunset once in a while, you're blessed. Try to remember that the next time you're feeling stressed or unhappy. Things could be a lot worse."
From Lessons From Lucy, by Dave Barry
Dave Barry was in his seventies and wondering why he wasn't as happy as he felt he should be, so he looked to his dog Lucy, who was old as well. She was happy all the time, no matter what; she took everything in stride and kept being happy. If you have pets you understand. If you don't have pets, go crack yourself another beer.
He observed her in various situations, and came up with perspectives to apply to his own life. Cool stuff. Resonated with me because I am 71 and not feeling as happy as I should.
Bought a new house in 2023, Jackson was born in 2024, my life changed radically for the better in the last two years but, still, my brain finds ways to make me suffer. Silly, no?
The stuff I quoted above is basic - nothing original or radical about it - but meaningful. Just before Dave was ready to publish his book, his daughter had a terrible health scare. She was just about to start college and suddenly she couldn't walk. She got through it and is walking, but it took lots of rehab, hard work and worry. Dave added one more chapter to the book describing the ordeal - the above quotes came from that chapter.
I always struggle with this grateful thing. Especially this year. I have been bouncing off the walls, wasting my life and happiness over stuff I can't control. Christ, man - I am 71 - no time to waste. I reined myself in quite a bit recently, but Dave's words gave me an additional kick in the ass.
Re-wiring my brain right now is as important to me as breathing.
Change your mind, change your life.
All I ever truly wanted from life was that a hot dog diet got me shhhhhhhhhhredded.
"No pain, no death, is more terrible to a wild creature than its fear of man. A red-throated diver, sodden and obscene with oil, able to move only its head, will push itself out from the sea-wall with its bill if you reach down to it as it floats like a log in the tide. A poisoned crow, gaping and helplessly floundering in the grass, bright yellow foam bubbling from its throat, will dash itself up again and again on to the descending wall of air, if you try to catch it. A rabbit, inflated and foul with myxomatosis, just a twitching pulse beating in a bladder of bones and fur, will feel the vibrations of your footstep and will look for you with bulging, sightless eyes. Then it will drag itself away into a bush, trembling with fear.
We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away."
From The Peregrine, by J.A. Baker
"Hard to thrill, nothing really moves me anymore, hard to thrill, nothing really moves me anymore, there is nothing you can show me that I haven't seen before
I got time to kill, keeping to myself inside this room, time to kill, keeping to myself inside this room, over 40 years of Fridays, and you'd give up trying too"
From Hard to Thrill, Eric Clapton and J.J. Cale
Shit, the only reason I'm hard to thrill is that I killed everything inside of me. Burned it, beat it, smothered it, starved it - been specializing in that unique form of torture for five decades now. Got it down pretty good.
I did not realize that there was an ember smoldering in there, absolutely fucking refusing to give up the ghost, a small, very tiny bit of essence that cannot be killed until I am actually dead.
It's been throwing off a little more heat lately.
You never know.
You never really fucking know.
Rublev vs Alcaraz. Rublev won the first set. Holy shit. Those boys were hitting those balls hard - sounded like bombs going off.
Unbelievable volleys - thrilling, edge of the seat shit - how many shots? How many shots? Amazing.
But, after the first set it was Alcaraz time. Champions get pissed off when they under-perform and then they say "Fuck this - I am Carlos Alcaraz. I will kick it up a notch and you will suffer." Carlos wins the next three sets.
Djokovic vs De Minaur. De Minaur won the first set. Holy shit. He put up a fight - long volleys - one volley was 32 shots. After that, Djokovic dominated but was down 4-1 in the fourth set. Champions get pissed off - he thought "Fuck this, I am Djokovic. I have levels of performance you can only dream of. I do not want to play a fifth set. You must suffer."
He won the fourth set 6-4, won the match in four.
The other side: Alcaraz vs Norrie. Sports can be cruel. Alcaraz dominated Norrie in every way possible - the guy was helpless. Embarrassed. Keep in mind - the guy did not reach the quarter finals at Wimbledon because he sucks. The match only took 1 hour and 39 minutes. Sadly, he is British, so he got his ass kicked in front of the home crowd.
Here are my thoughts - we all need a "fuck this" setting. Life will beat you like a red headed stepchild. Comes a time when you gotta get up off the ground with fists flying and knock some teeth down life's throat.
And we all get our asses handed to us sometimes. So you grab yourself a few drinks, meditate a little, then listen to Appetite for Destruction all the way through LOUD, and go out and give it another shot.
Life is a fucking battle, man, but you can make something out of it if you're not afraid to get your teeth kicked in once in a while.
Jesus said that.
I'm looking for absolution.
Please forgive me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"Let all your efforts be directed to something, let it keep that end in view. It's not activity that disturbs people, but false conceptions of things that drives them mad."
Seneca, On Tranquility of Mind
"Plan all the way to the end" Law 29 of The 48 Laws of Power By planning to the end you will not be overwhelmed by circumstances and you will know when to stop. Gently guide fortune and help determine the future by thinking far ahead." Robert Greene
The second habit in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People is: begin with an end in mind. Having an end in mind is no guarantee that you'll reach it - no Stoic would pretend otherwise - but not having an end in mind is a guarantee you won't. To the Stoics, oiesis (false conceptions) are responsible not just for disturbances in the soul but for chaotic and dysfunctional lives and operations. When your efforts are not directed at a cause or purpose, how will you know what to do day in and day out? How will you know what to say no to and what to say yes to? How will you know when you've had enough, when you've reached your goal, when you've gotten off track, if you've never defined what those things are?
The answer is that you cannot. And so you are driven into failure - or worse, into madness by the oblivion of directionlessness
All this stuff came into my world thanks to 100 Foot Wave, a series I'm watching about big wave surfers. A series that demonstrates, in the extreme, that life does not have to be boring.
These people are insane in a great way. What they do is dangerous. What they do keeps them alive.
They are THINKERS. They think about life. Many of them meditate. They are all about getting their minds right. They talk about life, they wonder about the value of what they do, they wonder if they should do something else, they think about what life should be. As opposed to you and me, who muddle through, and accept boredom as the norm until just before the end, when we go screaming into the abyss.
In this episode, the wife of one of the legendary surfers whispers all of the above, the "beginning with an end in mind" stuff, into her husband's ear as they curl up together on the bed. Calming him. Focusing him.
"The oblivion of directionlessness" slapped me wild awake at around 1:00 a.m. as I was watching this. That's exactly what is torturing me.
Came to Belmont at the end of 2023 fueled by euphoria. Our lives became spectacular overnight. That lasted through knee replacement, which kept me distracted, through the beginning of 2025.
Then I started focusing on the end. Two weeks, 20 years, doesn't matter - the end of my life is within sight. And I am determined to leave a mark.
I got past the rude awakening of the oblivion of directionlessness, and looked up the quotes. Read them, re-read them.
Shit makes perfect sense. I gotta keep the end in mind and incorporate everything in my life around that. But I gotta define the end. It's not just death; it's who I want to be when that comes along.
Flailing around aimlessly is not going to get me where I need to be.
Key phrases to think about:
1) It's not activity that disturbs people, but false conceptions of things that drives them mad
2) Plan all the way to the end
3) Gently guide fortune
4) Begin with an end in mind
5) When your efforts are not directed at a cause or purpose, how will you know what to do day in and day out?
6) And so you are driven into failure - or worse, into madness by the oblivion of directionlessness
"I asked for tenderness and depth of feeling and you showed me that. Nothing more I need to see."
Scrooge said that to the Ghost of Christmas Future.
I would say the same thing to Warren Zevon if I could. I just listened to The Wind - his final album, which was released two weeks before he died in 2003. Two fucking weeks.
I'm flailing around right now (but that's nothing new) trying to find a sense of direction, something to believe in, something to hold on to. Something to fucking do with my life. A purpose, a happy ending. Denouement - I love to use that word.
I'm looking to feel something beyond dread. Warren Z just gave that to me.
He was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer in the fall of 2002 and told he might live for three months. Instead he made it 10 months - which allowed him to see the birth of his twin grandchildren. And to release this album.
Recording it was tough - I read about it at the time, how tired he was, how he pushed himself to get it done - through pain and fear and fatigue. He had something to say.
I am trying to feel soft right now, to give and get love, to feel like a human being instead of the walking dead. How can I not feel good after listening to The Wind? Quintessential Zevon.
Sharp wit, rocking songs, quiet songs, funky songs, lyrics that skewer, lyrics of raw emotion.
Two songs that brought tears to my eyes.
Keep Me In Your Heart, and She's Too Good For Me.
He put that album together staring death right in the face. That is a strong man. Inspired. Someone with something to say and the will to say it, no matter what.
I always loved Warren Zevon. For a bunch of different reasons.
I love him again. Right now. For taking me away, and for showing me the breathtaking power of the human spirit.
Maybe I can get there too.
Thanks, man.
"I could hold my head up and say that I left first, or I can hang my head and cry, tell me which is worse.
If you go and ask her why, she might say she's not sure, trust me when I tell you why, I'm not good enough for her.
I want her to be happy, I want her to be free, I want her to be everything she couldn't be with me.
I'd wait here for a thousand years, if she'd come back to me, I have everything she wants, and nothing that she needs.
I want her to be happy, I want her to be free, I want her to be everything she couldn't be with me.
I could hold my head up high and say that I left first, or I can hang my head and cry, tell me which is worse.
If you go and ask her why, she might say she's not sure, trust me when I tell you why, I'm not good enough for her."
She's Too Good For Me by Warren Zevon
Italics provided for emphasis, interpretation, and understanding.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
Ben Franklin:
"A despot who enriches himself at the expense of his people is not to be feared. He is to be reviled."
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."
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.
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.
"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".
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.
"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
Whenever I am really fucking pissed off and I don't know what to do, I wonder.....
What would Travis Bickle do?
No fucking how hard I try, I just can't look cool in my 2020 Hyundai Elantra.
I can do better.
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 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.