Ringo

 ".............You carry the weight, the weight of the world,

It's breaking you down on your back like a boulder

Before it's too late, get rid of it, get it off your shoulder

I know you've been used, but you got to lose the weight of the world

..................It all comes down to who you crucify,

you either kiss the future or the past goodbye 

.................It's taking us down and the night's growing colder

Just blame it on fate, that was yesterday,

And we're just growing older

We've all been abused

Now it's time to lose the weight of the world"

From Weight of the World, by Ringo Starr

Just ran out to Walgreen's to get Carol's drugs - Ringo lightened the load.

No Cross in The Window

Judy moved out yesterday.

She was our next door neighbor. Her husband Yvon died in April. Their house has not sold yet.

His death hit hard. Our homes are close together; you know when people are coming and going, you pick up on their rhythms. Especially at night - when lights go on, when they go off. Judy has been working part time at Market Basket for a while now, fighting to survive. Since April, she came home to an empty house.

Her loneliness was obvious, and hard for us to deal with. She was alone and it was impossible to miss.

Got Carol and I thinking about and talking about what that will be like. In the future, I will be living alone or Carol will be living alone. Inevitably. Being so aware of Judy's heartache made our thoughts and discussions more painful. Too real.

Judy and Yvon had a wooden cross hanging in a window directly across from the picture window next to my recliner. Challenging me. Indicting me.

As I sat in the chair preparing for work yesterday, the movers were marching through her house. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, glanced over and noticed the cross missing. Not sure if that is bad for me or good for me.

When I got home from work, Judy and Yvon's house was in complete darkness.

We live in an over 55 community. Been here three years this month. Many people have died in that time. I'm guessing around ten or so. Shit, just between Christmas 2025 and spring 2026, three or four people died.

Death stalks me and Carol. He dances just outside our field of vision, laughing because we don't know when he will strike. But he knows.

Our neighbor on the other side of us just put her house up for sale. Soon we will be surrounded by two empty houses. In her case, she screwed up her life. Driving without a license, bagged three times in short succession, car impounded, she spent a few months in jail. Suddenly she's moving to Kansas, to reunite with her "boyfriend."

But people are bailing in general. The guy that owns the place is a Royal Prick. He is raising lot rentals through the roof. Older residents have been driven to food banks and fuel assistance programs, just so they can pay the fucking rent. People are forced to move, even though they are losing huge money when they sell.

We are in such a weird place. The community is dwindling. Many people have sold or just walked away in the last three years. Many people have died. There is a darkness here, leading to something. We are just not sure what that will be.

It is sad, because we were so happy when we moved here. New location, new people, a safe and quiet community. But reality doesn't give a shit about happiness. Reality forces you to worry about sickness and death, reality forces you to find a way to survive financially, no matter what it takes, or what must be sacrificed.

Sitting in the recliner last night doped up on TV, occasionally glancing over at the dark house next door. Pitch black. No more life there. There were two lives there just a short time ago, two people sharing a life that they made. Lives compromised by greed, lives shattered by death.

Reading this morning, took a break to catch my breath, looked at the empty house next door and the empty window across from me. 

I wasn't impressed by the cross when it was there, but its absense is unsettling.

Oddly Enough

As my brain deteriorates over the years, I invent exercises to beef up my memory.

Recently I decided to memorize song lyrics. What could be more natural for me?

I consume music like a devoted Catholic consumes The Wafer - as a staunch believer with hope of redemption.

There are approximately 20,000 songs already in my brain - songs I sing along with every time I hear them (unless someone else is around). There are a million more I don't have memorized; I mean, how much more can one man do?

Naturally, I started with Kris Kristofferson. Reciting his lyrics is like praying; good for my soul, while simultaneously flexing my memory.

The Pilgrim, Chapter 33. The song examines a man's life - had it all, lost it all, rose up, struck down. Still, he believes there's something better coming along. But he's not sure if "believin' is a blessing or a curse, or if the goin' up was worth the comin' down."

We end up here: "But if this world keeps right on turnin' for the better or the worse, and all he ever gets is older and around, from the rockin' of the cradle to the rollin' of the hearse, the goin' up was worth the comin' down."

Suggests to me that it is worth it to have just lived a life, whether you get what you want or not.

Right now, all I'm getting is older and around. Oddly enough, I still want more. 10% of my soul believes I can achieve that. That 10% keeps me going.

But I'm also trying hard to shift my thinking from apocalyptic to appreciative. Got a good family, don't want to lose sight of that, looking through a lens of despair.

It's a tightrope I'm walking. I'm doing the best I can. Still, I feel life draining out of me a bit more every day.

So far, my balance is good, although I am forced to reach out a steadying hand from time to time.

Dave's Gift

Dave comes into the library from time to time.

We talk.

His wife recently died, last year or two, maybe more recently - I haven't pinned Dave down. Don't want to. But I do know her death was before her time. Dave is around my age, but I suspect a little bit younger.

He talks about her a lot. He lights up when he talks about her.

"She was my best friend. She was so much fun. She was so smart. I miss her every day."

These words are genuine - I feel the love emanating from him, I see it in his eyes, I sense it in the passion of his words. He misses her profoundly. He tells me so, but if he didn't, I would still know because of the raw emotion he projects.

And he is not self-conscious about it. He puts it out there proudly, and with an obviously broken heart.

Last week he checked with me about a book he had ordered that had not come in yet. I confirmed that it was in the pipeline and he left. Told him I would call when it came in.

He came back inside a minute later to tell me that his wife's voice was still the message on his voicemail. Said he did not want me to think I had the wrong number when I called.

I think it was one more way for him to express the love he had and still has for her. One more way to say "I loved my wife so deeply."

Turns out the book came in that afternoon. I called, and got the machine. I listened to his wife's voice. I was truly moved, and sincerely emotional.

He showed up half an hour later to pick up the book. Told me he was outside, reading in his garden, which is why he missed the call. Picked up his book, talked about it enthusiastically, wished me a good day, and left.

I pictured him reading this book he was so excited about, in his garden. 

Alone.

This is the upside to customer service. Genuine human connection. Raw emotion expressed honestly. The privilege of being invited into someone else's life.

It is humbling to connect with someone in that way. It is rare.

It is a gift.

Power To The People

Carol and I watched the Power To The People Concert yesterday.

It chipped a small piece of ice from my heart, a heart that feels hopeless. It was good to see so many people with the same fears and disgust with this government gathered together in a spirit of defiance and commitment. And love of and belief in the power of music.

It was good to hear musicians ripping this government apart, quite vocally, from the stage. It needed to be done.

Many of the musicians who played were young - they played loud and they played fast. It was good to see young people speaking up, some of whom are too young to vote. We are not gonna win this thing with just the old folks - it will take everyone.

Joan Baez was there. Stephen Stills. Bruce Springsteen. Their participation was poignant to people my age. Also, a bit heartbreaking.

Joan Baez is 85 years old. Stephen Stills is 81 years old. They have been there before. They were outspoken in the sixties and still are today. Stills wrote For What It's Worth. The song was released in 1966.

Google it. Listen to it, pay attention to the lyrics. The song is as relevant today as it was then. Unfortunately.

Joan and Stephen could have been up there in a state of despair or frustration, to have to do this all again. Instead they showed the fighting spirit of people who believe in their souls that this country is its every-day people, not its politicians and billionaires. They are still up for the fight.

It was curated by Tom Morello. He was spectacular. In the way he orchestrated the whole thing from start to finish, and in the passionate way he played and sang. The man is a stunningly good guitar player. He has been passionately outspoken against injustice for his entire career. This concert was a perfect vehicle for him. And he got to play alongside his son - Roman Morello, who is 15 years old and is already a spectacular guitar virtuoso.

The most straight-ahead outspoken group there was The Dropkick Murphys. They were delightfully blunt. And they rocked the house - made it jump, got the audience up and rockin'.

Speaking for my generation, there was some emptiness there too. My generation kicked ass and tried hard to bring about change in the 60's and 70's. We got some stuff done. Most of it has been reversed, and most of us went on to become accountants. We were undermined, squashed, and defeated.

Heartbreaking, because the spirit was genuine. This country needed change and we tried hard to get it done. But, ultimately, the bad guys won.

Now it is worse than ever. The threat is even more dire and it is very real, with a good chance of succeeding. 

Success meaning the death of democracy.

That concert blew gently on the dying embers of democracy. It was hopeful. It was honest and blunt. It highlighted an awareness that there are tens of millions of people in this country who believe their government should protect them, and help them to survive in their daily lives.

Tyranny is not going to make that happen. Tyranny will do exactly the opposite. It has already started.

This fight feels like shoveling shit against the tide. Greed and viciousness are blood-sport in this country. People enjoy seeing other people suffer.

This fight also feels like life or death. It is.

Things need to turn around before Joan Baez, Stephen Stills and Bruce Springsteen are gone. They deserve to see that, considering how hard and how long they have fought to make it happen.

Things need to turn around for all Americans before they lose control over their own lives, before their life is no longer their own.

I Have A Suggestion For You

Are you bored with your life? Are you surprised that it is what it is?

You thought you would do better. You thought you would have more money. You thought that you would have more fun. But it didn't work out that way.

You are stressed out, worried, disappointed, and disillusioned. And bored.That's no fun at all.

But of course, at this point in your life, there is not a whole hell of a lot you can do about it.

You need to spark your brain. Shock yourself out of where you are to a place so far from your reality that you actually forget about your reality. For a little while.

Try this.

Watch True Romance (1993) on a Friday night, watch Scarface (1983) (Pacino version) on Saturday night. By the time you finish Scarface you will be a new person with a new perspective and unlimited inspiration. At least until Monday morning.

First of all, consider the cast of True Romance. Christian Slater, Patricia Arquette, Gary Oldman, Dennis Hopper, Brad Pitt, Christopher Walken, Val Kilmer, James Gandolfini, Samuel L. Jackson, Michael Rapaport. Can you even believe that?

Outstanding.

Both films are over the top plot-wise, and especially violence-wise. But that's what you need. You need to get outside of yourself, and you need your stomach twisted into a knot. Who knows, these movies are so outrageous that maybe it will make you grateful for your tiny life by way of comparison. An unintended consequence.

Please be careful - there is some violence in these movies that just might be too much for your delicate sensibilities. If so, immediately flick the channel to Dancing with the Stars. I wouldn't blame you. I have watched these movies dozens of times, and certain scenes still turn my stomach. And I LOVE violence.

Please report back to me. If my suggestion changes your life - good or bad - I would like to take credit.

I Hope No One Ever Says These Words to Me

 "I'm the Anti-Christ. You get me in a vendetta kind of mood, you will tell the angels in Heaven that you had never seen pure evil so singularly personified as you did in the face of the man who killed you."

Christopher Walken (Vincenzo Coccotti) to Dennis Hopper (Clifford Worley) in True Romance.

The Workingman's Lament

 "A heaviness settled on him that didn't lift as the long, dull days stretched on, spent in toil that offered neither mental challenge nor reward."

From Horse, by Geraldine Brooks

Now More Than Ever

Now more than ever, I am struggling to find peace of mind.

James Taylor's voice helps.

Enough to Be on Your Way

 "So the sun shines on this funeral

Just the same as on a birth

The way it shines on everything

That happens here on earth

It rolls across the Western sky

And back into the sea

And spends the day's last rays

Upon this fucked-up family"

And later on in the song:

"They brought her back on a Friday night

Same day I was born

We sent her up the smokestack

Yes and back into the storm

She blew up over the San Juan mountains

She spent herself at last

The threat of heavy weather

That was what she knew best

Oh it's enough to be on your way

It's enough just to cover ground

It's enough to be moving on"

And:

"Home, boy, build it behind your eyes

Carry it in your heart

Safe among your own......................

So long, old gal"

Grappling with life and death in a heartfelt and poetic way.

James Taylor, Enough to Be on Your Way

I Sing Pretty Good

Had to run out to do errands.

Had to go to Lowe's to snag a barbecue grill cover before the massive rain storm rolls in. Armageddon, baby - keep your head down.

The old cover has a gaping rip in it, which I've been ignoring because procrastination is my strong point. In fact when I lifted it off, my poor grill was wet.

Had to stop by Walgreen's to pick up drugs for Carol. I just love the way that sounds.

It is 74 degrees. There is a pleasantly insistent breeze. Brilliant sunshine. Windows down, sun roof open.

So the errands didn't hurt as much as usual. In fact, they didn't hurt at all.

And then...................................I dialed up Classic Vinyl. A Hard Day's Night comes on.

Holy shit - suddenly 62 years of my life melted away. I was young again. I was smiling - until I started singing.

I sing pretty good. Maybe as good as a Beatle. I should have called them up and asked to join the band. Of course I was 10 years old at the time - I don't think my parents would have gone for it.

In any event, on September 25, 2026, I was cruising down the road, happy.

The magic never dies.

A Saturday Morning in September

 It was a fine September Saturday morning, the kind of day that deceptively teases a longer life for summer, while the truth is oncoming winter with all its misery.

Johann felt peaceful, he was day dreaming, giving his mind a break from poisons and terror. Tom popped into his head.

Tom was a guy who ripped through life on his terms and at his speed. He didn't drink, he didn't smoke, religion guided his every thought. He exercised relentlessly - running, hiking, climbing mountains - the man was in shape.

He was intense and quite disciplined, but he had a sense of humor. A sly, sneaky, delicious sense of humor.

Cancer killed him at the age of 70. For no particular reason. The man did everything right, he improved the world through the sheer force of his personality and his goodness, and cancer killed him anyway. He should have lived to be 97.

Johann compared his life to Tom's and came up short. Embarrassingly short. He did nothing, accomplished nothing, controlled nothing, achieved nothing. He was less than. The only attribute he ever perfected was whining. That, and wasting time. At these, he excelled.

He began to feel morose. He was much closer to death than he would have liked. The major drawback to whining and wasting time is that time itself is relentless. It doesn't stop, it doesn't wait, it doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath and change direction.

As Johann began to feel sorry for himself, to wallow in self-pity, inventing hollow excuses, it suddenly occurred to him that Tom's story was as inspirational as it was sad. Johann still had time. He could do, he could move, he could re-invent. With just a little of Tom's focus in his mind, Johann could change his life.

He was energized. He got up, shook off the wallowing, and started to consider options, determined to change his life in ways that would deliver him to pride and peace.

That's how you win the game.

Cake or Death

 "I'm so tired. Tired of all of it. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do this anymore. My whole life, my whole fucking life, I worked and paid bills and did what all the good little obedient people do. I don't know why. It ripped me apart. Every minute, every conversation, every obligation, every sacrifice. It ripped me all apart.

Because I knew better. This game we all play, it is futile. It is a sad, cruel joke. I knew that going in. But for unfathomable reasons, I put my head down, put one foot in front of the other, and marched dutifully forward towards regret. I built up mountains of it, regret, and carried it on my shoulders. I kept adding to it, growing it to skyscraper heights. My knees sagged and screamed under the weight. So I added more to the load, piled it even higher, and staggered forward. To nothingness.

There is no reward for this. Only emptiness. And suffocating suffering. You reach a point where you either give up and die, or keep on staggering forward to die. Neither one a pretty option. But sickeningly commonplace.

If I was smart I would have retired years ago. Many years ago. But I never made provisions. When you have nothing, you have to give everything. Physically, psychologically - trudging forward like a donkey with a broken back. Repeating the daily cycle. Getting nowhere, despising the obligation, mourning the lack of freedom, unable to escape it.

I don't want to do this anymore. But they make me do it. The people I owe money to. The people who control my life. The money lenders. The greedy, soulless monsters who take everything I earn, then demand more. The people who arbitrarily raise food prices, gas prices, interest rates, insurance costs. The people who keep me in my place, grinding, struggling, suffering the indignity of a shattered ego.

I am too old for this. I expected to retire. I thought it would happen. I know I deserved to. But I can't. They won't let me. I don't let me. Bad decisions, no passion or dream to drive me. A lost soul in a vacuum that sucks up lost souls.

I'm so tired. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do this anymore."

His words ran into silence.

Krakatoa Karl looked up to realize he was alone. Of course he was. He thought he was having a conversation with a loved one but there weren't any loved ones. Not anymore. He drove them all away.

Not purposefully. His wife - divorced. His kids - not speaking to him anymore. His friends - too embarrassed to come around. Even his enemies - did not feel he was worth the effort. 

Because he was a loser. No one likes a loser.

He did not see himself as a loser. He was just a guy. A guy who never fit in and did not know what to do about it. As a stranger in a strange land, you got to kick, scream, slice flesh and break bones to make a little space for yourself. If you don't do that, your bones get crushed. Your spine collapses and you crawl through every day dripping blood through broken teeth.

Karl shook his head. When he did, tears flew onto the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

In bed that night, he prayed to die. As he did every night. To close his eyes and never wake up.

The following morning, the alarm shocked him awake. He put his feet to the floor and wiped the first drops of blood from his lips. He staggered to the bathroom, a walking corpse enduring a life. Preparing for another day of drudgery.

What else could he do?

The Author Knows Me

 "No disrespect to the golfers and gardeners and so on but activities don't work for me. I don't want to go gently into a future of activities. I want a whole new life to replace the one that's wearing out. I know this is unrealistic. I'm not asking to be young again; I'm not asking to be exempt from time and its punishments. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life playing games or doing exercises or taking bus tours overseas. I want to find something that will kick my discontent in its fat ass and carry me to the finish line feeling that I'd finished strong, finally grasping some sort of intensity or richness or bold embrace of life that eluded or intimidated me when I was young."

From Falling Into The Mob by Steve Zousmer

Just Another Life

 A close friend said to me:

"I am barely functioning. I wake up in fear and go to sleep defeated. In between, I pray for a miracle."

I had no words of comfort for him.

So I left.

Two Quotes of Consequence

"Old age is the most unexpected of all things that can happen to a man."

Leon Trotsky

I like that, but the quote has been misstated and erroneously attributed to Leo Tolstoy in a scene from the movie Elegy. I like the misquote better - it's more direct and hits a little harder:

1) "The biggest surprise in a man's life is old age."

2) "I wasted time, and now doth time waste me." 

William Shakespeare from Richard II

I printed these quotes in bold to really hammer them home. Turns out it was unnecessary.

Broken Dreams Defined

 "In the evening hours my brothers and I filled mason jars with lightning bugs to keep as night lights after the candles were blown out so Dad could chase the neon lights of fame, playing low-ceilinged honky-tonks up and down the Carolinas and sometimes into Georgia. When I woke each morning, Dad was always sleeping the deep sleep of whiskey and defeat on the couch with his cowboy boots still on, his guitar in its case by the door, and my lightning bugs upside down with suffocation in the grass at the bottom of their jars."

From Low Country by J. Nicole Jones

Pet Lovers Unite

This country is boiling over with hatred, violence, and disregard for the opinions of others. We excel at it. 

We are all in the same boat, striving for the same things, fighting the same daily battles, but for some fucked-up reason we have decided that if you think differently than I do, you are the enemy.

Used to be you had an opinion, I had a different opinion, but we could still drink beer in our folding chairs at a neighborhood cookout and laugh. Now you end up with a black eye or chipped tooth for disagreeing with the person next to you.

Not sure how that happened. Maybe it reveals the weakness of human nature rapidly deteriorating over time, maybe it results from this thing we used to have called democracy, maybe it's a combination of both. Whatever it is, we have crossed a line that we can never cross back. The concept of people getting along is wishful thinking at this point.

Pet lovers can save us.

I'm talking about people who genuinely love their pets. People whose relationship with their pets is sacred. People who see them as living breathing things with thoughts and emotions and sensitivity, not just as animals.

I am not talking about people who keep pets for amusement, or to make a statement. People who pay attention to them only when it suits them or when they have the time. I'm talking about people who talk to their pets, who hug them and kiss them, who continually acknowledge their presence just like you would a human being.

That kind of love is pure. It is sacred. It feeds your soul, it saves your soul. Pet lovers of that caliber experience life close to the bone, life as it is supposed to be lived. These people are powerful.

We need to establish a country-wide network of genuine pet lovers. Online, face to face, in local communities, state to state, and in nation-wide groups.

The love generated in the get togethers of genuine pet lovers and their  precious pets anywhere and everywhere would be so intense it would defy explanation. It would be a love of a magnitude never before experienced in the history of the world. It would be self-feeding and self-escalating until it would become invincible.

We could use that love to defeat all the hatred and violence, close-mindedness and stupidity, that is strangling the lives of everyday people.

We could become human again.

Huh, what? Oh shit, I fell asleep again. Was I dreaming? Oh yeah, I remember now - the pet lovers thing.

Forget it. It is only a pipe dream. Hatred is a blood sport in this country now. 

Love your pets deeply and honestly. It is good for you. It is healthy for you and your pets.

Then go out and spit on your neighbor.

Two Thoughts

1) I need to pull a rabbit out of a hat.

My situation is dire.

Of course, with my luck, the rabbit will be fucking dead.

2) I recently learned that deep breathing temporarily relieves anxiety. 

As a consequence, I also learned that, at my level of dysfunction, hyperventilation results.

Good Ideas Have The Lifespan of a Mayfly

Johnny Dinklethwaite took a job in a library.

Part Time. Two days a week.

Seemed like a good idea at the time. First of all, he needed the money, paltry as it is. Sad but true. The burden of old age unplanned for.

More importantly, Johnny loved to read. He loved books. That was enough of a justification for him to bullshit his way into the job. He thought that's all there was to it.

In the beginning, it wasn't too bad. Checking books in, checking books out - not much to it. And he got to shoot the shit with fellow readers - his people - people who read and read and read. For whom books are a religion. He had as much affinity with them as he does with drinkers. So it was a kind of sin and redemption thing - sinning with the drinkers, salvation with the readers.

In the beginning there was turnover. The director left. The assistant left. This was even better because he didn't have tyrants looking over his shoulder. It was a small, local library so there were long periods of quiet. Thirty people was a big day and cause for celebration.

Johnny enjoyed long stretches alone, when he could read, daydream, or search for better part time jobs online, jobs that paid $50/hour and required little effort and even less customer contact. That job has still not materialized but Johnny remains optimistic.

Then a new director came on board. And another assistant. Things picked up because the director wanted to make her mark. Who could blame her.

Suddenly there were four or five book clubs. Book clubs that met five feet away from Johnny's desk and spent an hour or two talking about the book. Actually, 20% of the gathering was spent on the book; 80% was spent gossiping and whining and dissecting life's mysteries.

Suddenly there was a summer reading program for miniature humans, which required Johnny to actually have to interact with these kids. Stamping schedules, handing out cheap toys, distributing gift certificates. He had a college education, for Christ sake - this was how he spent his time? Stamping smiley faces for Little Bobby?

Suddenly there was a Mah Jongg group that met on the afternoon of one of Johnny's days - every week. Two to two and a half hours of ten or twelve people meeting five feet away from Johnny's desk, rattling Mah Jongg bones, talking, yakking, loudly and indiscriminately.

The job Johnny Dinklethwaite took expecting peace and reflection, became tumultuous, irritating, and downright insanity-provoking.

When he was alone in the building, which was rare, he would pound his fist on the desk, yelling Fuck This Shit.

It was unprofessional.

He began drinking in the morning on work days. And sneaking nips into the library for bracers later on in the day.

One day a young kid came in with his Mommy and his reading program tracking sheet. Johnny was broken and a little drunk. He said "How'd you do, Little Bobby? How the fuck did you do?, you little shit. Did you read all your stupid little kid books? You want me to give you a cheap, plastic toy? Will that make your life worthwhile, you little asshole?"

The kid cried. The Mommy complained. Johnny was fired on the spot.

Johnny Dinklethwaite moved to West Virginia and took a job in a coal mine. He figured it was healthier for him than working in a local library.

It was a crafty move.

You Can Do This, Joe

I am working on not beating myself up so much.

It's a worthy goal. 

My body is covered in bruises, cuts, black and blue skin, and dried blood. When I go out in public, women shriek, kids cry, the insensitive laugh. Some point, some look away. Cars pile up, one into another.

The extra-sensitive, vomit.

I want to get to the point where I can walk around and wave the way Queen Elizabeth II did, and be met in return by benign smiles.

Be Forewarned

 You will get to an age where one wasted day is a year.

Pacific Coast Highway

Reading a book set in California - the Pacific Coast Highway is mentioned a lot.

100 years ago, in one of the many bizarre situations of my life, I was in California on business and got to cruise the Pacific Coast Highway.

Bizarre in the sense that I have bounced from one improbable situation to another in my life. My brother once bailed me out when I was kicking around between jobs, bewildered and uninspired. He got me a job working for the company he worked for, no questions asked - generous and appreciated. Eventually I got kicked out of that job as a result of nefarious, practically criminal, activity on his part. I was then bailed out by a friend of mine - Nelson - who gave me a job with his company.

Nelson and I were in California on said business trip. After surviving a meeting, we cruised the PCH - Nelson driving, me marveling. Beautiful weather, beautiful scenery, iconic road. We stopped at a Mexican restaurant, overlooking the ocean. That day is burned into my memory. Because I was where I'm meant to be. I was me.

I live in the wrong place. Winter ain't for me and, frankly, I don't care all that much about the changing seasons. I want, I need, warmth. Lots and lots of warmth. So when I am in a place that resonates with my soul, it makes an impression.

We were only out there for a few days. We did not Cruise the PCH that much, but it left an impression. So much so that as I read this book, my mind drifts back and contentment washes over me.

For the record, I live in the wrong time period too. I need soul. The 21st century is soulless. 20th century wasn't all that great either, but parts of it were a hell of a lot better than today. Strange thoughts abounded, like hope, and determination to change things for the better. Now all we have is reality TV, game shows, and bullshit.

But I digress.

It's good to have memories. It's good to have thoughts that rise up occasionally to inspire warm feelings. It's how you survive.

And if that's all you have, well, I guess it's better than nothing.

John & Rusty

John stood on his front porch looking out over his yard.

The porch was sagging and in need of a good staining; the grass could use a haircut. His car sat idly in the driveway; a 1993 Subaru hatchback - a little rust, a few dents, a lot of miles.

Smoke drifted from his cigarette as a slight breeze comforted him. He shook his head. Been doing that a lot lately.

He was tired. The kind of tired that was as much psychological as it was physical. It didn't matter though; he knew he could get up the initiative to deal with anything he had to. Nobody gets 8 hours of sleep, and everybody is fucked in the head. Still, everybody keeps moving.

That's just the way it is. Life is not glamorous. Lately John's been wondering if it is the gift everyone says it is. Doesn't feel that way very much.

Rusty, his dog and precious friend, nudges John's hand. He looks down and smiles. Rusty has been a source of so much comfort and love over the years, with many more to come. He is a warrior. John believes Rusty keeps him alive. What a gift.

John drops his cigarette to the porch and rubs it out with his work boot. He sits quietly with Rusty, enjoying the evening, appreciative of the bond they share.

Eventually he gets up and says "Come on, old boy, let's go in and watch some TV." Rusty happily trots by John's side.

He pours himself a short whiskey and slides into the recliner; Rusty lies next to him on the floor. The chair's  a little worn, a few cracks; it's broke in just right.

He turns the TV on and dials up Wheel of Fortune while looking forward to Jeopardy. Jeopardy makes him feel stupid more often than not, but when he gets a few right, he feels proud.

He drops his hand down to scratch Rusty behind the ears. Gonna be a quiet night.

John doesn't mind.

And then................

 After I re-check my failed scratch ticket, hours later, and confirm that it is indeed a loser.............I rip it up before I toss it into the trash.

That way the trash dude cannot swipe it from the barrel and cash in my million if I, God forbid, overlooked the winning number.

Two For The Road

"To live, is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." 

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."

Oscar Wilde

The Bite That Kills

Sadness grows teeth as you get older.

From the day you realize that the life you are living is foreign to your nature, a seed is planted. A sensation awakens in your mind, a mild unease that makes you uncomfortable. But not panicked. Not yet.

This is not the life you want, but you are an intelligent person - you will figure out which path is the right path, and you will course correct. You feel a little better knowing this.

But you have not accounted for the speed with which life moves, and you have not accounted for life's insidious ability to trap you in place subtly, quietly, without your awareness.

You move on, at least in time, but not in self-actualization. The sensation in your mind has moved on from unease, to profound sadness. There is a reality there, either that life has tricked you, or that you have sabotaged your own future. Either way, that reality is poisonous - it hollows out your insides.

You find yourself standing at the window for extended, mindless, moments - seeing nothing. No flowers, no birds, no sunshine, no beauty, no life. A blank stare that reveals nothing but hopelessness and despair. The excruciating realization of the most consequential missed opportunity.

It's frightening.

Are You Also Insane?

I buy a $20 scratch ticket hoping to win retirement money.

I scratch it. I don't win anything, not even a dollar.

I check it five times. Then I set it aside so I can check it later, just in case I missed my million dollar opportunity.

This is called desperation.

A Strategy

It is a waste of time to feel sorry for yourself. It invites condescension.

Better to invite tragedy into your life and allow others to feel sorry for you.

Running In Place

From the first moment you understand reality, you feel empty. Wanting. Frustrated. Uninspired. Afraid.

It is not unrealistic to be pessimistic about life. Let's face it - if you are a small human (defined by a small bank account) - you really don't stand a chance. Limited funds limit your life.

Hamsters on a wheel scurrying madly in place, exerting maximum energy, without ever moving forward. Getting more and more fatigued, slowing down, torturing optimism to death, leaving only resignation and disbelief. Looking forward and seeing the same distance ahead of you as you saw decades ago.

This is how society works. Holding out an imaginary carrot, spouting baseless cliches designed to inspire false hope, outright lying about the reality of rewards - happiness, retirement, peace of mind - just to keep those feet padding along.

Once you climb on to that wheel, it is all over. And for most of us, for the great majority of us, the die is cast at birth. The first step you take will be the last time you make progress.

"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."

(Life wisdom sung perfectly by Peggy Lee; the song - Is That All There Is? - written by Lieber and Stoller.)

A $5 Investment in Peace and Harmony

Yesterday, I paid $5 for 1 nip of WhistlePig. 1 and 1/2 ounces of whiskey for $5. Can you believe it?

It was devine.

Running around doing errands on a 100 degree day, doing the average things of an average life. I needed that shit that cleans wax out of your ears, I had to pick up a prescription for "crazy man" medication, I had to pick up some potato hamburger rolls (gourmet meal last night).

In the morning, before I went out on errands, I failed at saving my life, so I was pretty wound up already.

Can't take my job no more. Jesus Christ, putting stickers on sheets of paper for kids participating in the summer reading challenge. What is the point of encouraging them to read?  They're all gonna grow up to be criminals and drug addicts anyway. Or billionaires, which is essentially in the same category.

So I'm looking for salvation. Need a job that does not obliterate my soul, and pays enough money to get by, with just a little extra to pad the savings account.

My essence is on life support - I can hear it wheezing, sucking desperately for life-giving oxygen, fighting to stay alive. Against all odds.

WhistlePig is rich man's whiskey. Those with fat bank accounts get to enjoy indulgently, while the rest of us suck down Seagram's 7 or, worse, Canadian Hunter. Canadian Hunter is the type of rotgut that melts your liver as you are drinking it. Smoke actually floats out of your mouth as you grimace the fluid down to your poor stomach.

It was July 3, I was feeling set upon, I was doing menial errands - I deserved a $5 shot. Please don't tell Carol. She hates it when I do that AND I was driving her car. Not that I can't handle one fucking shot - shit, man - shots of whiskey to me are like formula to a baby - life sustaining.

I am continually lectured to be grateful, so I can more calmly navigate my life.

I am grateful for WhistlePig - even at $5 a shot.

Peek A Boo

 I spend the majority of my time, hiding.

Opportunity Knocks

 Came a knock at the door. Caught me off guard because I have a doorbell. Who wouldn't choose to use a doorbell over knocking on the door?

A gruff looking man stood there with a canvas bag dangling from his left hand.

"Can I help you?" I asked. He said "I have the answer to all of your problems." I let him into the house immediately.

"What problems do I have?" I asked. "For one thing, you are old and vulnerable", he said. "You have very little money and no options to get your hands on any. Soon, you will be sick. The expenses will ruin you. You will lose your house."

I said "Sounds about right. What's in the bag?" "Your salvation", he replied. "$250,000. All you gotta do is kill the elderly lady two doors down."

I asked "Why does she deserve to die?" He said "None of your business." I said "Show me the money."

He loosened the drawstring to reveal stacks and stacks of $100 bills. I was impressed. "How will I kill her?", I asked. "With this gun" he said as he drew it out of the back waistband of his pants. I told him I had never killed anyone before. He told me it was easy - just point and shoot.

"Do we have a deal?" he asked. "Sure", I replied. He dropped the bag on my kitchen floor, handed me the gun, turned and walked out my door.

I downed a shot of whiskey, then strolled two doors down. I knocked on the door, even though she has a doorbell. "Mrs. Storkowski, it's Joe, your neighbor." She knows me because I sometimes pick up her medications for her.

She came to the door. "Hi, Joe - how are you?" "I came here to kill you", I replied. She gasped, then began to cry as I pushed her into the living room. When she saw the gun she began to beg for her life, which really pissed me off because it was so weak. So I shot her.

The next day I was driving a new Lincoln, and sporting my new Movado. They both looked good on me.

They made me feel younger and less vulnerable.

From Me to Carol

 "I'm just a man, I ain't no superman, just a man, doin' the best I can

Love you, baby, with all my heart, and give you baby everything, everything that you want, I'm just a man, baby, just a man

I just want to be your hero, your knight in shining armor, oh, and wherever we go, baby, I would defend your honor.................

So many times I've let you down, you really need me, I should have been around, oh baby, shouldn't have had you worrying about me, oh, and I'm only flesh and blood, baby, you see I ain't made of steel, and I can't hold back a flood now, oh but my love, my love for you is real...........................

And if I could see the future, baby, nobody would ever harm you, but I'm just a man, baby, that's all I am, but I'm a good man.......................

But I'm just a man, I ain't no superman, just a man doin' the best I can, the best I can

I'm just a man, baby"

From Just A Man, by Tommy Castro

Please God, NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 Oh, Mama, can this really be the end, to be stuck inside of Belmont with the Austin blues again.

P.S. -  This very well could be the story they tell about me when I die:

"Grandpa died last week and now he's buried in the rocks, but everybody still talks about how badly they were shocked.

But me, I expected it to happen, I knew he'd lost control, when he built a fire on Main Street, and shot it full of holes"

From Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again, by Bob Dylan

It's Frustrating

There are 8 days left in June. At the end of the month, 2026 will be half way dead.

I have not yet earned a million dollars this year.

I have not yet won a million dollars this year.

No one has given me a million dollars.

My weekly paycheck is $47.54, of which Carol spends $47 weekly on gaudy costume jewelry.

Got myself in quite a pickle here.

You Gotta Try

When you are far enough down the road of life, and you know you gotta make a change, when you cannot survive NOT making a change - when it is a choice between breathing and suffocating, you cannot afford the luxury of one step at a time. Putting one foot in front of the other just ain't gonna cut it. It's too late, baby.

Everything you do has to be a 100 yard dash. Every change, every improvement, every adjustment - 100 yard dash. 10 seconds vs six months.

Of course, physically, that is demanding. Shit, my back hurts crawling out of the recliner. But you gotta swallow the pain. The pain of change, of changing direction, the pain of embarrassment resulting from a lifetime of procrastination tip toeing you right to the edge of your grave.

"Pain is weakness leaving the body." A stupid cliche, but I kind of like it. If you are old enough, weakness is a mountain and pain is relentless.

But, what the fuck - you gotta try.

Gone and Forgotten

Not one person cared about what he said. Not one. Ever.

It was subtle, not overtly rude, but impossible to miss. People interrupted him without hesitation, talked right over him, ignoring him when he talked over them until he just stopped talking.

It was a matter of respect. A matter of disrespect, actually. He had no gravitas, was not taken seriously as a person, someone who had something worthwhile to say. Apparently he had not earned the right.

He wasn't sure how this happened or why it happened, but it definitely happened. And it hurt.

He was lying in bed, procrastinating about getting up to begin the process of getting ready for work. It was a complicated process because it was as much psychological as it was physical. Beyond going to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, washing his face, grabbing a bowl of Wheaties and getting dressed, he had to psyche himself up to do battle with every person he was forced to deal with throughout the day.

Jesus Christ, communication was so fucking hard. Because he lacked the confidence, because people don't listen, because people are selfish, because people have agendas that don't include his personal welfare. And when you work with others you are forced to communicate. You gotta give them information, they gotta give you information, you gotta ask questions, they gotta ask questions.

His ex-wife used to joke that the perfect job for him was one where he sat in a corner by himself, a job that requires no human contact whatsoever. It wasn't really a joke.

Still, lately, this awareness of nothingness in his human interactions, the feeling that he was not recognized, appreciated or respected, had taken on a crushing weight. He felt himself slipping away.

It was an odd feeling. There was no vibrancy to his life. No excitement, nothing to look forward to. The numbness he felt was simultaneously depressing and relieving. Depressing because, what was the point of being alive? Relieving because when you are completely numb, everything bounces off you. You just don't fucking care.

Every day he felt more and more invisible. Not here, not there, just existing in a weird imitation of life devoid of feelings. Just breathing. For no apparent reason.

He thought he was dying but he knew he wasn't sick. Still, he put a little more distance between reality and whatever it was he was living, every day. Every day ended with less of him and more of a void.

He decided to get out of bed to prepare to do battle. But something was different. He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but something had tragically, drastically changed. Laughing to himself, he thought about those movies where people were not aware they had died. Was he dead? He didn't think so.

As he moved around the house it was strangely obvious that his cat was ignoring him. This really hurt because he loved her so much and she was ordinarily deeply affectionate with him. Instead she slept soundly on the footstool.

He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face, walked into the kitchen and realized he wasn't hungry. He loved breakfast, sometimes treating himself to omelettes that he was so good at cooking. But even Wheaties were a treat for him, especially when they got soggy. Today he felt nothing. In fact, the thought of eating repulsed him. Suddenly, it hit him.

He was gone. Not dead, just gone. He had retreated from life little by little over so many decades that he didn't notice the distance he was putting between life and him. Until right now.

He was not dead. He was just gone. He had faded away.

Nobody noticed.

Simple Question

What the fuck is it gonna take?

What the fuck is it gonna take?

What the fuck is it gonna take?

No Limits

What if you have been living your entire life in a wrong-headed way?

If every thought in your head was wrong, or at least seriously twisted, if your opinion of yourself was 100% off the mark, if your perception of other peoples' opinions of you were wrong.

What kind of decisions would you make? Bad ones. Lethal ones.

The power of the mind is frightening. You are what's in your head. No matter your experiences, education, outward persona, victories and defeats, your mind dictates who you are and dictates your level of anguish. Your mind creates its own reality regardless of what reality is.

Internally. You can't get away from it. It is relentless.

And if you've spent decades reinforcing your wrong-headedness, it becomes nearly impossible to get it right. It becomes ingrained.  

There is a point of no return, and once you pass that, you are doomed to suffer forever whatever hellish nightmare your brain can conceive.

There is no limit to the evil your mind can imagine. 

There is no limit to the harm you can do to yourself as a result.

Not Quite So Pretty

If it takes a glass of whiskey to get you to work every day, you are living the real American Dream, versus the fantasy you've been sold.

The Older I Get

"Plus, I hated the thought of dying in bed, physically sealed in my own secretions, surrounded with beeping machines and morphine bags and catheters and well-intended personnel who joked constantly but whose eyes would never meet mine."

From The Hadacol Boogie by James Lee Burke

That is the fucking nightmare I hope to avoid. I have a few family members and extended family members who have gone through this - people who did not deserve the indignity - people who were fighters - people who lost the war anyway, after giving it everything they had in their heart, in their soul, in their spirit, to beat back a fatal disease.

I'm cool, got no problems. I'm also 72, and you never know when your body is going to betray you, and rain down intolerable suffering upon your physical being.

The older I get the more motivated I become to buy a gun.

Ya Think?

 Cynicism works better than despair

Careful, Now

Tequila is not harmless.

Nor is it innocent.

Nice Moves

You have to earn the right to be depressed.

If changing your life is a critical need, but you have done nothing to help yourself, you have no right to be depressed.

(Pretty harsh, huh? What if you have done nothing because you are depressed? Nothing's simple, people - nothing is straight forward.)

Ultimately, life makes no sense at all, so if you are looking for logic, you might as well grab a bottle and dance naked in the street.

Hell, Things Are Not So Bad

 Aye, laddie, if a beloved dictator is working hard to destroy your life, if your landlord is working hard to destroy your life, if you are over 70 years old and feeling a financial crunch, if the only jobs you can land are menial with meager pay, your body aches unforgivingly  - one day this hurts, the next day that hurts, then what are you to do?

As Monty Python advised, Always Look on The Bright Side of Life:

"Some things in life are bad, they can really make you mad, other things just make you sweat and curse, when you're chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble - give a whistle, and this'll help things turn out for the best, and always look on the bright side of life................................

For life is quite absurd, and death's the final word, you must always face the curtain with a bow, forget about your sin, give the audience a grin, enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow, so always look on the bright side of death, just before you draw your terminal breath.............................................

Life's a piece of shit, when you look at it, life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true, you'll see it's all a show, keep 'em laughin' as you go, just remember that the last laugh is on you, and always look on the bright side of life....................................

I mean, what have you got to lose? You know, you come from nothing, you're going back to nothing, what have you lost? Nothing.

Always look on the bright side of life"

Now don't you feel better?

I feel positively ecstatic. 

It Is Always Much Later Than You Think It Is

 If it's late in the game and there is a voice in your head that says "I can still pull this off. I can make something of myself. I can put a stamp of authenticity on my life" - there will come a moment, inevitably, when you will be forced to differentiate between fantasy and reality.

Your dying breath is the worst possible moment to do that.

Hello It's Me

Popped out to see Quinn Sullivan with my brother last night.

But before that I was a whiny weakling. Hard to imagine, eh?

I slept like shit the night before and was mucho tired. Planned to leave the house at 6:30. Before that, I took a nap, but didn't feel any better. Self-pity kicked into high gear. All I wanted to do was stay home, and lounge luxuriously in the recliner with both of my cats. Like I do every night.

Now dig - Quinn Sullivan is a blues dude who I love, playing at a music venue that I love, and I was attending the concert with my brother, who I love. How fucked up is my brain to not want to do that?

I got my ass up, I got my ass moving.

We got there, grabbed premium whiskeys, and settled into our seats. Quinn walks out with his sparse lineup - bass guitar, keyboards, drums, and, of course Quinn on guitar. As soon as the first note made its presence known, I was me. Just like that. Like a ghost reuniting with its host body. In fact, when the lights went down, I became me. I have experienced that so many times in my life that it triggers automatic excitement and anticipation in my tiny brain.

Endorphins stormed the gates of apathy and my brain screamed "This is who you are." It's what I live for. I was alive, I was excited, I was happy. I was supremely content. Who wouldn't want that?

Great concert, great night. Wish I could do it every night. However, I am not wealthy, I am not free. But I can certainly do it more often than I have been.

I'm hell bent on enjoying this summer. I pissed last summer away and was then punished by a brutal winter. Last night was an excellent beginning.

But April and a good chunk of May were cautionary tales - unseasonably cold, not enough sunshine. I DO NOT NEED THAT.

So......................I am obsessed. I am going to live this summer. Gonna grab every opportunity for fun and not look back.

Come along for the ride.

Old People Have Fun Too

Just ran out to do errands.

Gas up the car, buy whiskey, etc. Stopped at the mailboxes on the way back in and felt the......................................quiet. Not just absence of noise, but absence of people. You know the feeling?

When no one is around you just feel it.

Now, our community is not exactly a hotbed of activity; the average age is 113. People call Carol and me "The Kids." But people are always around. Hanging out, plodding along, showing some life. Weeding, feeding and pleading.

So hopefully, our neighbors are out enjoying the weekend. Barbecues, orgies - whatever makes them happy. A break from the routine - especially the boring and predictable routine of people with no jobs, no commitments, no money, no youth.

This makes me happy. Memorial Day weekend is a big deal - kicking off the summer. It carries with it a feeling of freedom, independence and individuality. You are suddenly more than employee #188 with a time card. And us old folks dig it too.

Long weekends have a feel. Memorial Day - the hope and promise of another summer. July 4th - Insanity. Labor day - depression, the death of hope, but still - a desperate last opportunity at unfettered fun.

So rock on, Ancient Ones - hope your kids spoil you and your grand-kids fill your soul with pride and love. Hope you buy a winning lottery ticket. I hope a stranger treats you with respect.

Grab yourself some good conversation and a lot of laughs.

Feel younger.

Klarg The Achiever

A hot Thursday in May. What a gift.

Klarg was considering his options. He called in sick to work, a dangerous move considering all the other times he did that but, what the hell, when you work menial labor there are a million jobs available. Employers everywhere are happy to offer shit jobs at shit pay, while telling you what a great opportunity you are getting. 

So what to do. Go to the beach? Good option. First of all there'll be a lot of hot chicks wearing tiny bathing suits. Ogling is an Olympic sport and Klarg has all the medals. And when he gets hot from that, and hot from the sun, into the ocean he goes.

Still, you gotta pack up, drive, find a parking spot, accumulate sand, sweat, rinse off, drive home...........a lot of effort. Troubling.

A sip of whiskey will help the decision process. It's only 8 in the morning but, drinking is natural and rules are not. If you restrict yourself to only drinking at night, well, you are missing out on large chunks of fun. And possible inspiration. 

Klarg grabs his handle of Ten High and inhales a gulp, more than a sip, but he knows he can handle it.

Stop by the library? Klarg loves to read. You'd never know it by looking at him; he looks like a fucking Neanderthal. Nothing sticks when he reads. He could read the same book over and over again and be enthralled every time. He's an avid reader, not an avid rememberer. 

But if he goes to the library he has to deal with the librarians. Actually talk to them. Fuck it - librarians are boring, man. Absolutely nothing interesting to say. Maybe some other day. 

Another shot can't hurt.

It's 10 o'clock? How the hell did that happen?

He could go for a walk. Klarg likes his walks. Birds chirping, sweet, gentle breeze, time to think and space to do it in. Not sure, though - he's feeling kind of lazy - slept like crap last night. It was hot and he doesn't have AC. Sucks being poor. The weekend's supposed to be nice. Maybe take a walk on Saturday.

It's getting close to lunch time. Close enough, anyway. Better to make a decision on a full stomach.

German bologna, couple hunks of Velveeta, Wonder Bread, Gulden's Spicy, a Coors Light, shot of Ten High. Now we're cooking, baby. Time for The Young and the Restless; his favorite.

Thinking about Vivian, the next door neighbor. What a babe. Maybe after lunch he could do a Seinfeldian pop-in. He looks out the window and sees her on her lawn chair, reading. Not good. Last time he interrupted her reading, she asked him to leave. Rudely. Although, now that he thinks about it, she's never really been nice to him. More like tolerant. Chilly trending towards cold. He can't understand it.

Maybe some other day.

Klarg pops on to his laptop, looks around for afternoon activities. An outdoor concert maybe? Downtown block party? Market Days on Main Street? Nope. Don't people do anything anymore?

He calls up Bologna Bob. Bob works from home, and has a relaxed attitude about deadlines. No answer. Is he out or just ignoring him? Klarg is paranoid. He feels like he's an easy-going, likable guy, but it sometimes feels like his circle of friends is about the size of a pencil point.

It's 3 o'clock. Fuck it. He pours a sizable slug of Ten High, pops another Coors Light, and decides to watch TV until 6 o'clock, when he knows there is a concert in the town gazebo. Always a pleasant experience.

He wakes up at 8. He cannot believe it. Calls McDonald's and orders up a double cheeseburger, Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and large fries, for delivery. While he's waiting his ex-wife calls.

"Where's my fucking child support check, asshole?" More Ten High.

He wakes up the next morning with a massive hangover but goes to work anyway. Everyone tells him he looks like shit.

"Yeah", he says, "I'm really sick. But a paycheck's a paycheck, right?"

His co-workers laugh and walk away, not for the first time.

Klarg shuffles to the men's room, sneaks two nips of Smirnoff from his cargo pants, downs them efficiently, and gets right back to his work station.

He's a responsible employee.

For Sure

 You can be sure that anyone who is actively engaged in banning books anywhere anytime................is illiterate.

When they aren't involved with taking books away from other people, they can be seen staring at their phone - the only source of knowledge for them -  with what appears to be a blank look in their eyes.

I could be wrong.

But I'm not.

Not Just One Man's Voice

 Marc Maron, talking about the people who made America what it is in 2026:

"...........here we are on the cusp of a military dictatorship, with a rabid, fascist culture war, .......and so many people are compromised and in pain, ...........just seeing so many people ripped apart, seeing all that pain, feels good for you guys, this is what you wanted, half the population in fear and in pain, and unable to live a free life in America, just so you guys aren't uncomfortable with people that are different from you......."

Two Cats and a Widow

Ivan, my next door neighbor who died on April 15 at the age of 73, once told me his wife Judy was glad we have cats.

She is a cat lover but Ivan was allergic, so she was denied that precious and simple pleasure. He told me she loved to look out the window when she was at the kitchen sink because she could see Patsy and Emmy Lou in our picture window, which faces their house.

One of the cats is very often sitting there, and many times they are both sitting there.

This morning, as I was reading, both cats got up in the window, which is right next to my chair, sitting up as pretty as can be. Facing directly towards Judy's house.

I was hoping she was in the kitchen. I am hopeful that Patsy and Emmy Lou give her some comfort now that she is alone. I truly hope they fill her heart with love or happiness or sensitivity every time she sees them. Something to make her feel alive, something to re-connect her with the world. More importantly, something to mend her heart and feed her soul. 

These are the little things in life, the things people don't talk about, things so small and so simple that other people don't need to hear about them. But they are the things that make a person feel human in a world that works hard to take that away from you.

Two cats. Two innocent, loving lives, bringing happiness to a broken soul, just by being.

I hope Patsy and Emmy Lou do that for Judy.

I think they do.

Turning The Tables (If I Still Have The Time)

 "Give me the strength to be what I was, and forgive me for what I am."

El Mariachi, from the film Desperado.

I am trying to flip that phrase around as it pertains to my own life.

Either, Or

I feel exceptional today - physically and mentally.

A rare day indeed.

I could try to conquer the world.

Or, maybe, just chill and marinate in the comfort of a good vibe.

Birds

Birds are delicate.

They are beautiful. They sing joyously.

They share their beauty effortlessly; selflessly.

Humans, on the other hand........................

Ivan at 73

Went to Ivan's funeral mass yesterday morning at 10:00. He was only 73.

73 is not enough. Life is hard, and a lot of it is wasted on procrastination, self-doubt and laziness. 90 is minimally acceptable to me now; anything less and I'll feel cheated.

Ivan was cheated. He had thirteen grandkids and one great-grandkid. All ages, all sizes, boys and girls. 17 more years with them would have fleshed out his life beautifully. It is not to be.

Earlier that morning I was sitting peaceably reading when I started to hear car doors slamming and realized it was Ivan's family pulling up next door. That shit gets in your head.

There I was in complete contentment while the family next door was preparing to mourn. You can forget about reality, ignore it, pretend it doesn't exist, but it will always sit up and slap you in the face. Reality is harsh, baby, but you got to meet it head-on. (I am lecturing myself).

There were lots of older folks at the mass, so lots of thoughts of mortality, no doubt. A collective awareness of what is to come, inevitably. That made the vibe a bit heavier. We are aware of it, afraid of it, but death is out there lurking, waiting for the right moment to snatch us away. You can forget about it when you are in Market Basket, but a funeral mass brings it home with finality.

Ironically, it was a beautiful sunny, warm spring day. I kept gazing out the window and thinking what can be taken away from you, what will be taken away from you, in a heartbeat.

Asked about what he learned about life after being diagnosed with terminal cancer, Warren Zevon said "Enjoy every sandwich." Sounds a bit flippant, but it is right on. Most of us are not vacationing in Ibiza or driving a Mercedes Maybach. A good sandwich, a real conversation, quiet moments with the spouse, the beauty and magic of kids and grand-kids, a 75 degree, sun-drenched June day - these slip by unappreciated and we are stupid to do so.

Ivan and his wife Judy owned three restaurants in their lifetime; cooking and making people happy was his passion. COVID killed the last restaurant and sent Ivan and Judy into a financial tailspin. That, and health problems made the end of his life difficult. But apparently, even then he was hoping to open yet another restaurant. That is the definition of passion. Most of us settle for what we can get, which is typically far beneath what we feel we deserve. Dreams? I think that is a fantasy for the majority of us.

I didn't know Ivan well, only talked to him from time to time. Carol knew him better because they were on the board together. I barely knew his wife, she rarely made public appearances. And yet, after the service as we filed out, I wanted to console her but couldn't. I couldn't get the words out.

At 1:00 that same day I had a follow-up appointment for the prostate cancer I experienced a few years ago. The hospital always freaks me out. Walkers, crutches, wheelchairs. People my age, older and younger looking weak and vulnerable. I don't like it because it is reality. I'm not there yet and I consider myself lucky for that, but it is coming.

A funeral mass, a tour of the hospital - a lot to take in in one day.

My goal in 2026 is to meet reality head-on and beat the shit out of it. But you know me - I set lots of goals but get few results. But yesterday, I did drive with windows down and radio blasting.

That's not nothing.

He's Talking About Me Again

Marc Maron:

"My brain is full of psychic tendrils all looking to grab hold of something to worry about, and they're relatively successful at finding stuff. Every day I have to go through the process of getting each one of them to let go, and there's a lot of them and I gotta do it separately, it's a fucking nightmare. It all breaks down to fear. And the other element is just some poorly parented part of myself wants parents, wants to be comforted, even with bullshit."

I sleep like shit, kind of. I mean, I got the CPAP thing going, and for quite a while now it's been giving me high marks. Five or below. Five is the goal so technically I'm doing pretty good. But I wake up tired. What the fuck? Like everything else in life, CPAP helps, but it is not the divine solution they make it out to be. There's always a fucking catch, baby.

I wake up a couple of times a night, but I fall back asleep pretty quickly. Still, there's disruption. My goal is to wake up wake up at 7:00. That seems to be the point where I feel fairly decent. The catch is, that rarely happens. I'm more likely to wake up around 5 or 5:30, and then I'm screwed. The brain starts humming. Psychic tendrils on the hunt.

Three, four, five things (or more) to worry about bounce around my skull. I deep breathe, try the mantra thing, nothing stops the monster from torturing me. Next thing you know I'm up feeding the cats.

And yawning.

Marc's a little more detail oriented than me. I don't go through the process of dealing with each worry. I just let them pile up until they blend into one heavy-duty WORRY, until I have a five hundred pound weight on my chest making it very difficult to breathe.

Fear is definitely in the equation. I'm afraid this will happen, afraid that will happen, afraid I will never change, afraid I'll lose my looks (kidding, for Christ sake - lighten up). Not sure about the poorly parented thing (although Tony and Revia and I definitely did not see eye to eye); I'm not sure I'm still reacting to that. But I definitely yearn for comfort.

Every morning, every night, when Patsy's in my lap, I wish my whole day could feel like this. It is perfect. The sweet sensitivity, love and comfort - the overwhelming feeling of sweet innocence and trust, the purity of the moment. Instead, once I start moving, it's nothing but razor blades.

I'm getting much better at not giving a fuck though, and that is progress. It helps. For the longest time - years - I spent every off day obsessing about how I'm going to make a million dollars to buy me some peace of mind and safety. Now I go days without doing anything about it.

I mean, who cares? It's too late. I'm doomed to pay the price for my mistakes so I might as well just roll the dice and hope I get five or ten years of status quo before it all comes crashing down.

It would be nice if I could sleep soundly for those five or ten years. 

I'd rather not wait until I'm dead.

The Wisdom of Drunkenness

Just washed the dishes from last night and this morning.

I volunteered to do it. I try to help Carol out. She washes the dishes a lot and gets sick of it (even though she is 100% retired).

I get it. I get pissed off every time I do it even though I volunteer to do it. It is annoying.

It occurred to me as I stood at the sink that I understand why drunks avoid everyday chores.

Death's The Drawback

We live in an over 55 community.

People die here. A lot.

Been on a strange run since right around Christmas. Four people have died. The most recent being our next door neighbor Ivan on April 15. A good day to die if you owe the government.

Not sure if he's #4 or #5, but it is a definite epidemic.

This one hits a little closer to home. We knew the guy, talked to the guy, he was on the board with Carol. Wasn't very old but he got sick.

They had it tough. Owned a restaurant that went down the tubes during Covid. Then Ivan had serious health issues and couldn't work, so his wife was forced to work part time in Market Basket. They were struggling financially. Then Ivan got pneumonia a month or two ago and it did him in.

Life will do that to you sometimes. I hope they found some happiness somewhere.

The homes here are close together. Never thought I could live like this, I like my privacy, but now I don't even think about it. My recliner sits right next to a picture window that looks out on Ivan's and his wife's home. At first we used to drop the blinds at night because their kitchen window looks right into our living room. When she was washing dishes she was looking right at me.

After a while it didn't matter. I'm never naked. The blind stays up.

Our home is so close to theirs I could reach out and grab a beer from their fridge without leaving my recliner. Pretty convenient.

It makes this death more personal. We knew their rhythms. Now the rhythm has changed. The lights go on at a different time, they go off at a different time. Now she is alone, coping or mourning or suffering or crying. Trying to make sense of it. I'm sure she's in a state of shock.

We keep wondering what she is doing, what she is thinking, what she is feeling. What is it like in that house all alone? It hasn't even been a week. When you spend a lifetime with someone, their absence is crushing.

Death is a fact of life here and it is strange because it preys on your mind. Everyone downplays it, doesn't make too much about it, because we are all in line. When will the fucking Reaper point his bony finger at our house, your house, that house? Who will be next?

Brings to mind the Townes Van Zandt song - Waitin' Around To Die: "But I guess I'll keep a-gamblin', lots of booze and lots of ramblin', but it's easier than just a-waitin' around to die". Seems like that's what we should be doing.

Ivan's death is another reminder, indeed a harsh one, a wake up call, a slap in the face and a loud voice yelling "Love your wife, love your husband, don't treat them like a piece of furniture. If you have love in your life, worship at the altar with reverence."

For the past 100 years Friday night has been junk food night for me and Carol. We got away from that this winter because it's hard to venture out with 24 feet of snow on the ground and temperatures 15 degrees below zero.

Last night I ran out to snag junk food. A little thing, a very little gesture, but I felt like we needed it, deserved to treat ourselves. Felt like we had to get back up on that horse.

Turns out it was a quasi summer night, I had the car windows down and the radio blasting, feeling pretty damn good. Got me an Italian sub with hot stuff on it - it was spectacular. Carol dug her sub as well. Watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy as we ate. Talked a little, laughed a little. Whined because the Red Sox game was on fucking Apple TV and we don't get Apple TV.

It was a night.

Part of me wants to be in a raucous bar sippin' whiskey and digging on the blues. Part of me is happy to be home with Carol eating subs and watching game shows. I get to do both.

I was happy not to be Ivan last night.

Requiescat in pace, Ivan.

Weirdos Are Us

No one is normal, it just looks that way from across the street.

Like a Bat Out of Hell

Fear of 80 does not give you license to stop living at 72.

In fact, the spectre of 80 looming should supercharge the necessity for laughs NOW.

Better get your fucking ass in gear, baby.

This Would Be A Big Help

I need to find some artistic space where I can scream my fucking head off and say fuck you to the world so I can feel a sense of freedom.

Raise A Glass

If you don't have money in the bank at this moment in this country, and I'm talking about a massive pile of money, then you are a helpless kitten whose mother has abandoned you.

You are crying for someone to give you milk because you are fucking starving. But nobody's going to help you, nobody's going to give you milk, nobody's going to give you anything, nobody's going to help you out at all. In fact, they are actively working to destroy you.

You are on your own and you will suffer.

Cheers to the death of humanity.

Am I Insane?

The other night I was up until 1:30 in the morning watching Waiting For Guffman.

Would you do that?

Where You Gonna Go, Monkey Joe? (Ode To The Lost)

What are you looking for?

Too late for redemption, don't you think? Ten tons of regret is a bit much to get out from under, and karma would probably sabotage the effort anyway.

Self-actualization. You can't deal with everyone else until you deal with you. Enemies outside, an enemy within. But the walls you built are high and wrapped in barbed wire. Words that haunt: "When there's no enemy within, the enemy outside can do you no harm."

Where you gonna go, Monkey Joe?

Absolute truth. Too pure - it would kill you. An enormous shock to the system, because your soul is buried under a mountain of pretense. Safer to stay the ragged course.

Respect. That is laughable. You have to earn respect, but time is short and you are weak. Condescending opinions of you are set in stone, and reinforced by you every day, in every conversation and every situation. Trapped in your own sorrowful performance.

Pick another battle.

Happiness. Not when you're living someone else's life while yearning for your own. The most you can hope for is submission.

Where you gonna go, Monkey Joe?

Peace of mind. Noble. Also, unattainable, when you rail against your reality with every breath you take.

Love. It's there for the taking, there are people who love you. Don't you know? You take that love and twist it into something less, staring through a distorted lens. You are a starving dog, too beat down to crawl to a bowl of food two feet away.

Health. Who gives a shit.

Self-esteem. You have to know yourself to love yourself. It's much easier to hate the stranger you are.

Where you gonna go, Monkey Joe?

All the roads are closed.