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.