My friend Jacques (from Italy) hates snow.
He fucking hates it.
I randomly ran into him today and worked really hard to avoid the topic but it became impossible. I asked "How you doing, man?"
He said:
"How am I doing? It fucking snowed last night. IT FUCKING SNOWED! I had to shovel the fucking stuff. It took me 1 and 1/2 hours. My back hurts. My left knee hurts. My arms hurt. I am fucking exhausted. I hate snow and I hate my fucking life.
Do you know what snow is? It is piss. It is shit. I couldn't be any more pissed off if actual shit came out of the sky and buried my car. Snow is every broken promise ever made to me. It is cancer. Arthritis. It is the public beheading of an innocent man.
Snow is a royal pain in the ass. It is inconvenient. It is stupid. I am stupid for dealing with it.
If a sweet, sexy whore bit my dick off, that would be snow. If you bashed in every bone in my face with a baseball bat, that would be snow. If you buried me up to my neck in the sand at low tide and poured honey over my head next to a red ant hill, that would be snow.
Snow sucks the life out of you. It mocks you. It torments you and laughs while you shovel it.
Snow is ass cancer.
The mailman won't deliver the fucking snow unless I shovel the mailbox out. Do you know how hard that is to do after plows have gone up and down the street repeatedly? I want to wait for the mailman in a snowbank and, as he drives by my mailbox, I want to drag him from his fucking government vehicle and cut off his fingers and shove them down his throat.
Snow, man. I hate it and it hates me. It diminishes my life, reducing an already insignificant thing down to a barely visible speck. It fucking kills me. I wish it would kill me so I would never have to shovel it again. But no, it never takes it quite that far. It leaves me broken, crippled and defeated, with just enough life left in me to have to deal with it again on another day."
I was speechless.
But I agreed in principle.
Monday, December 2, 2019
Sunday, December 1, 2019
He Writes Poetry
Poetry is a strange beast.
99% of the populace have no exposure to it, by choice or by circumstance. Of those who do, 95% hate it.
Yet time and time again, I hear people say "He writes poetry" when they are trying to pass somebody off as sensitive or intelligent. In the most bizarre of circumstances.
The most recent of which was a discussion I heard on Golic and Wingo. Sports talk radio. Talking about the Myles Garrett/Mason Rudolph stupidity.
One of the commentators actually said about Garrett "He writes poetry". He was not defending the guy - they trashed him pretty good. He was trying to make the point that Garrett is a different sort of cat, a guy who thinks differently, and who knows how someone like that will react in any given situation. He writes poetry.
Poetry runs the gamut from trash to juvenile vulgarity to exquisite expression. I read a lot of poetry but, admittedly, in spurts. I read a lot for a while then step away from it for a while. Typically a long while.
Also, admittedly, I am not the guy to be objective about any discussion about the merits of poetry. I worship words. Sidebar: I wish speech could be outlawed. Then we would all be forced to communicate in writing. Which eliminates interruptions. I despise people who interrupt when I am talking. I want to rip out their tongue and staple it to their forehead.
More to the point, I worship concepts concisely stated. Song lyrics. Poetry. No meandering, no overflow, no excess words. Thoughts expressed in a direct (or creatively indirect) way so powerful they knock me on my ass.
That's what I love about poetry.
But poetry is like an exotic animal. Something you know little about, something you rarely, if ever, experience. So it becomes mystical and magical and subject to all kinds of subjective erroneous opinions.
Most of the time the people who say "He writes poetry" don't know a fucking thing about poetry. They probably hate it, if they have any opinion at all. But they say that, and wrapped up in those words are all kinds of assumptions about intelligence, creativity, sensitivity and god knows what else.
If you put Bukowski's writings in front of them and that of William Butler Yeats and asked "Which of these guys writes poetry?", most people would choose Yeats and laugh at Bukowski.
They would be wrong. Poetry is unlimited. It covers all topics, includes many different styles and is written by humans so diverse they cover the entire spectrum of human existence. (See William Shakespeare vs Gregory Corso).
My meandering point is that the expression "He writes poetry" is meaningless and usually rolls off the tongues of the uninformed.
I write poetry, for Christ sake. It sucks.
But it feels good.
99% of the populace have no exposure to it, by choice or by circumstance. Of those who do, 95% hate it.
Yet time and time again, I hear people say "He writes poetry" when they are trying to pass somebody off as sensitive or intelligent. In the most bizarre of circumstances.
The most recent of which was a discussion I heard on Golic and Wingo. Sports talk radio. Talking about the Myles Garrett/Mason Rudolph stupidity.
One of the commentators actually said about Garrett "He writes poetry". He was not defending the guy - they trashed him pretty good. He was trying to make the point that Garrett is a different sort of cat, a guy who thinks differently, and who knows how someone like that will react in any given situation. He writes poetry.
Poetry runs the gamut from trash to juvenile vulgarity to exquisite expression. I read a lot of poetry but, admittedly, in spurts. I read a lot for a while then step away from it for a while. Typically a long while.
Also, admittedly, I am not the guy to be objective about any discussion about the merits of poetry. I worship words. Sidebar: I wish speech could be outlawed. Then we would all be forced to communicate in writing. Which eliminates interruptions. I despise people who interrupt when I am talking. I want to rip out their tongue and staple it to their forehead.
More to the point, I worship concepts concisely stated. Song lyrics. Poetry. No meandering, no overflow, no excess words. Thoughts expressed in a direct (or creatively indirect) way so powerful they knock me on my ass.
That's what I love about poetry.
But poetry is like an exotic animal. Something you know little about, something you rarely, if ever, experience. So it becomes mystical and magical and subject to all kinds of subjective erroneous opinions.
Most of the time the people who say "He writes poetry" don't know a fucking thing about poetry. They probably hate it, if they have any opinion at all. But they say that, and wrapped up in those words are all kinds of assumptions about intelligence, creativity, sensitivity and god knows what else.
If you put Bukowski's writings in front of them and that of William Butler Yeats and asked "Which of these guys writes poetry?", most people would choose Yeats and laugh at Bukowski.
They would be wrong. Poetry is unlimited. It covers all topics, includes many different styles and is written by humans so diverse they cover the entire spectrum of human existence. (See William Shakespeare vs Gregory Corso).
My meandering point is that the expression "He writes poetry" is meaningless and usually rolls off the tongues of the uninformed.
I write poetry, for Christ sake. It sucks.
But it feels good.
These Are Words That Speak To Me
........................."To Court destruction with taunts-with invitations!
To ascend-to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!
To be lost, if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy."
excerpted from "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman
To ascend-to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate Soul!
To be lost, if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fulness and freedom!
With one brief hour of madness and joy."
excerpted from "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman
Just A Thought
"Life was precious. Life was all that mattered. Yet it meant nothing if you weren't living as you wanted."
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
And So It's December (and what have you done?)
Today is December 1.
I let a lot of things slide in 2019. But when December rolls around I get reflective.
Carol and I have been on a bit of an emotional roll since 2016. Somewhat tumultuous.
I semi-retired in 2016. Turned out to be meaningless.
I was diagnosed with melanoma in 2016. Had a chunk of skin removed from my back, a snip off the tip of my nose. The back operation was more involved, obviously, but kind of fun because the surgeon was a hot shit. Played blues on the radio at my request and then proceeded to talk blues with me as he hacked away. Again, compared to what was to come in our lives, my problems turned out to be meaningless.
In 2017 Carol was diagnosed with breast cancer; a tumor was discovered in her brain. She had a mastectomy in September (Labor Day weekend), the tumor removed on November 2. She fought back like a motherfucker.
2018 was a blur. A strangely nothing year. A rebound and deal with this shit year.
In 2019, Carol's job was cut from full to part time. We had to deal with switching over from regular insurance to Medicare. Dealing with Social Security and NH Retirement Fund for Carol. Lots of questions, many decisions. Stressful.
I grabbed a second part time job to try to make our lives a little better. I am tired and stressed.
Today is December 1. I am wondering what 2020 will bring. I feel we have a responsibility to do whatever is within our control to make our lives better. We don't have a lot of time left, and we deserve as much happiness and comfort as we can possibly maneuver.
Selling the house is a number one priority in 2020. That is the single most meaningful thing we can do to knock some pressure off our shoulders. Sell the house, buy a mobile home outright - no mortgage.
The two job thing on my part is designed to make that possible. Make as many repairs to the house as we can afford so potential buyers will be dazzled into offering us one million dollars.
Beyond that I don't know. We like to believe if we sell and buy we will eliminate the need to work. I am not sure about that, but I am willing to believe that, or at least hope for it. My strongest wish is to end my life in dignity and pride. Working two part time demeaning jobs does not fit into that equation.
Carol turned 66 in November. I will be 66 on January 1. Those are big numbers. Intimidating.
2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. Roller coaster ride. Unbalanced. Fear filled, stress filled, less than ideal.
2020. Reaching for hope. Reaching for happiness. Reaching for peace.
We shall see.
I let a lot of things slide in 2019. But when December rolls around I get reflective.
Carol and I have been on a bit of an emotional roll since 2016. Somewhat tumultuous.
I semi-retired in 2016. Turned out to be meaningless.
I was diagnosed with melanoma in 2016. Had a chunk of skin removed from my back, a snip off the tip of my nose. The back operation was more involved, obviously, but kind of fun because the surgeon was a hot shit. Played blues on the radio at my request and then proceeded to talk blues with me as he hacked away. Again, compared to what was to come in our lives, my problems turned out to be meaningless.
In 2017 Carol was diagnosed with breast cancer; a tumor was discovered in her brain. She had a mastectomy in September (Labor Day weekend), the tumor removed on November 2. She fought back like a motherfucker.
2018 was a blur. A strangely nothing year. A rebound and deal with this shit year.
In 2019, Carol's job was cut from full to part time. We had to deal with switching over from regular insurance to Medicare. Dealing with Social Security and NH Retirement Fund for Carol. Lots of questions, many decisions. Stressful.
I grabbed a second part time job to try to make our lives a little better. I am tired and stressed.
Today is December 1. I am wondering what 2020 will bring. I feel we have a responsibility to do whatever is within our control to make our lives better. We don't have a lot of time left, and we deserve as much happiness and comfort as we can possibly maneuver.
Selling the house is a number one priority in 2020. That is the single most meaningful thing we can do to knock some pressure off our shoulders. Sell the house, buy a mobile home outright - no mortgage.
The two job thing on my part is designed to make that possible. Make as many repairs to the house as we can afford so potential buyers will be dazzled into offering us one million dollars.
Beyond that I don't know. We like to believe if we sell and buy we will eliminate the need to work. I am not sure about that, but I am willing to believe that, or at least hope for it. My strongest wish is to end my life in dignity and pride. Working two part time demeaning jobs does not fit into that equation.
Carol turned 66 in November. I will be 66 on January 1. Those are big numbers. Intimidating.
2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. Roller coaster ride. Unbalanced. Fear filled, stress filled, less than ideal.
2020. Reaching for hope. Reaching for happiness. Reaching for peace.
We shall see.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
Somber Words On A Thanksgiving Morn
"A swirl of loneliness, rage and despair washed me into a tearful, blinded madness. I pleaded silently 'Oh, please help me.' The plea was to Fortune, Fate, God or a nameless power, a plea that is torn from every man sometime during a lifetime."
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
"No Beast So Fierce" by Edward Bunker
Wednesday, November 20, 2019
Customer Service My Ass
Finally had the confrontation I have been expecting. And it was fun.
Worked the Steven Wright show last Saturday night. When you work a big show like that you do all kinds of preparation in advance and usually things go fairly well.
But sometimes, inexplicably, things go wrong. Horribly, painfully wrong.
There is an old George Clooney movie called From Dusk to Dawn. It is a vampire movie, believe it or not, and is completely insane. Takes place in a dive bar. Cheech Marin is the bartender. Perfect.
There is a neon sign behind the bar that says "The Customer is Always Wrong". I love that. It has been my motto since I got into customer service 13 years ago.
Before I go on, I must preface my remarks, and all future remarks, with one disclaimer - I am tired. Exhausted. Since I started this two job thing it has become apparent that a 65 year old human body was not made for this kind of punishment.
There is no recovering from it. Period.
I have noticed that sarcasm has been creeping into my customer service because of that. Little by little, bit by bit, gaining strength and confidence over the last two months. I am too tired for restraint. I have been mildly sarcastic but still within acceptable bounds of normal customer service. Sort of.
Now to be fair I have never been one of those kill 'em with kindness kind of people. I don't believe in it. I believe you should be treated the way you treat me. When you are polite, I am a God. When you are rude I get cold. Very cold. Businesslike. No smile. No tenderness.
Even then, I am typically hanging on by the smallest of margins. Right on the edge of spitting in your face. Stopping just short of that.
Until Saturday night.
Saturday night was a night where I had a line of people (meaning problems) in front of me stretching from the box office out to the lobby doors. For 30 to 45 minutes non-stop.
Might not seem like a long time to you, but when you are in the middle of it, it feels like a century.
Dude and his woman came in with tickets they had printed themselves, tickets that had been emailed to them. Their printer cut part of the bar codes off so they could not be scanned. Ushers told them they had to see me. Of course that meant they had to go to the end of the long line in front of me.
When they got up to me this guy was a real shit fuck scumbag motherfucker. You know the kind. A real fuck ass dirt bag jerk off piece of shit. He gave me attitude right off the bat.
I gave it right back. My nerves were frayed at that point and, in case you lost track, I was fucking tired.
I matched all of his anger with anger of my own. And sarcasm. Full blown. Straight from the heart.
I cannot even tell you what I said, but for every objection he hurled at me, I gave him poison. Ripped up the customer service handbook and wrote a new one. One that is more to my liking.
It felt so fucking good. Cathartic.
I expected repercussions on Monday but there were none. I got away with it.
Got me thinking.....................
Worked the Steven Wright show last Saturday night. When you work a big show like that you do all kinds of preparation in advance and usually things go fairly well.
But sometimes, inexplicably, things go wrong. Horribly, painfully wrong.
There is an old George Clooney movie called From Dusk to Dawn. It is a vampire movie, believe it or not, and is completely insane. Takes place in a dive bar. Cheech Marin is the bartender. Perfect.
There is a neon sign behind the bar that says "The Customer is Always Wrong". I love that. It has been my motto since I got into customer service 13 years ago.
Before I go on, I must preface my remarks, and all future remarks, with one disclaimer - I am tired. Exhausted. Since I started this two job thing it has become apparent that a 65 year old human body was not made for this kind of punishment.
There is no recovering from it. Period.
I have noticed that sarcasm has been creeping into my customer service because of that. Little by little, bit by bit, gaining strength and confidence over the last two months. I am too tired for restraint. I have been mildly sarcastic but still within acceptable bounds of normal customer service. Sort of.
Now to be fair I have never been one of those kill 'em with kindness kind of people. I don't believe in it. I believe you should be treated the way you treat me. When you are polite, I am a God. When you are rude I get cold. Very cold. Businesslike. No smile. No tenderness.
Even then, I am typically hanging on by the smallest of margins. Right on the edge of spitting in your face. Stopping just short of that.
Until Saturday night.
Saturday night was a night where I had a line of people (meaning problems) in front of me stretching from the box office out to the lobby doors. For 30 to 45 minutes non-stop.
Might not seem like a long time to you, but when you are in the middle of it, it feels like a century.
Dude and his woman came in with tickets they had printed themselves, tickets that had been emailed to them. Their printer cut part of the bar codes off so they could not be scanned. Ushers told them they had to see me. Of course that meant they had to go to the end of the long line in front of me.
When they got up to me this guy was a real shit fuck scumbag motherfucker. You know the kind. A real fuck ass dirt bag jerk off piece of shit. He gave me attitude right off the bat.
I gave it right back. My nerves were frayed at that point and, in case you lost track, I was fucking tired.
I matched all of his anger with anger of my own. And sarcasm. Full blown. Straight from the heart.
I cannot even tell you what I said, but for every objection he hurled at me, I gave him poison. Ripped up the customer service handbook and wrote a new one. One that is more to my liking.
It felt so fucking good. Cathartic.
I expected repercussions on Monday but there were none. I got away with it.
Got me thinking.....................
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