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.
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.
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.
What the fuck is it gonna take?
What the fuck is it gonna take?
What the fuck is it gonna take?
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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......."
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.
"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.
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.
