Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

Watched a movie last night called Before the Devil Knows You're Dead.

It's a "best-laid plans" story that critics described as dark, fatalistic, and hard bitten. The screen writer's script is described as one that "drips with the kind of bitter world weariness that only comes with a lifetime of disappointment, family dysfunction and regret."

The movie is all of that.

I've been reading a ton of crime novels, thrillers, and espionage novels lately. Usually I mix it up, but right now it seems my brain needs a break. Pure entertainment.

In all of these stories, when the lives of ordinary people are discussed, they are described as empty, repetitive, close to pointless. Desperate.

Time and time again.

Poets do it, songwriters do it, authors of "literature" do it. Philosophers, drinkers, dreamers and criminals do it too.

Must be a kernel of truth in there somewhere.

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead captures every form of the suffering of the soul. There is violence, there is crime, but what did me in was the soul-deep unhappiness of almost every single character. Self-delusions, broken dreams, unrealistic plans for redemption, lying, cheating. An inability to recognize and cherish the beauty and salvation of family.

It captures life so honestly and so painfully. No glossing over.

It pulls back the curtain and hypocrisy of mantras like  "living your best life" to reveal the harsh truth of what life does to the best of intentions.

I May Be Allergic To Jobs

Let's review.

Moved up here on 10/31. Quit my job on 11/13. Enjoyed 2 and 1/2 months of serenity - no job. Snagged more employment in early February. Quit that job in early March. Enjoyed almost two more full months of serenity. Snagged another job late April. And here I sit.

When we first moved I was a fucking madman. Exercising my ass off, eating better, drinking less - I lost so much weight (I doubt my brother believes that) Carol continuously commented on it. And I enjoyed looking in the mirror. Previously, mirrors were anathema to me.

I felt good about myself.

Lost all control when I started Job 1. Holy shit - barely exercised, drank a whole lot of whiskey, gained fucking weight, slept like shit, ate crap. I instantaneously went from Superman to Derelict Boy.

Started Job 2. In the lead-up to it I regained some control. Not much, though. I have spent four days in indentured servitude and I am completely out of control. Again. Of course, the schedule is kind of a second shift kind of thing, so timetables are off and equilibrium is disturbed, but still.....................

I instantaneously went from Deadpool to Supreme Derelict Boy.

I hear David Spade, like in Tommy Boy, whispering in my ear...................."I can actually hear you getting fatter."

Only one conclusion is unassailable........................I am allergic to jobs. So I need to stop working.

Think about it. When I am unemployed I could sit around the house eating Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies by the dozens, and drinking Ten High Bourbon and PBR's, but I don't. I exercise like a fucking madman. I eat cauliflower with Catalina salad dressing on it for afternoon snacks. I drink two or three less quarts of whiskey a day.

BUT when I am working I exercise inconsistently and with much less heart. I pig out on whatever the hell I want to pig out on, and in massive fuck you quantities. I drink much less water, I stay up later and get a lot less sleep. If I was more determined, I would smoke crack, snort coke, and inject heroin.

I have always rebelled against employment; seems like a horrific waste of my time. But since I have recently tasted periods of freedom leveraged aginst a less crushing financial burden, things have really gotten out of control.

Not working: Cauliflower, exercise, pride, commitment and follow-through.

Working: Whiskey, junk food, sloth, and broken promises.

I have a debilitating disease. The only solution is perpetual unemployment. 

This is a cure I can wholeheartedly embrace.

Think of The Boring People You Know

 "Let me assure you that the humorless as a bunch don't just not know what's funny, they don't know what's serious. They have no common sense, either, and shouldn't be trusted with anything."

Martin Amis

Soft Dream

 All I've ever really wanted is to be drinkin' that free Bubble Up and eatin' that rainbow stew.

Compared to Taylor Swift............................

I'm not doing so good.

Her net worth is estimated to be $1.1 billion. Mine is significantly less than that.

When she puts an album out, the buzz surrounding it dwarfs the reaction to any other world event, including William Shatner's 91st birthday.

When I sing, people spit at me.

Taylor Swift owns a Mercedes Maybach, an Audi R8, a Porsche 911 Turbo, a Ferrari 458 Italia, and about seven other cars.

I drive a 2020 Hyundai Elantra. Silver. It has 40,000 miles on it, and I have two or three more years of payments to go. A tree fell on it a couple of winters ago and it has been sad ever since.

Taylor Swift owns eight multimillion dollar homes in four states. I own one home in one state. I paid $165,000 for it. It's probably worth $140,000. But I do own it. No mortgage. So there's that. No fucking bank threatening me with execution if the mortgage falls behind.

Taylor Swift is 34 years old. I am 70. I'll be dead long before she is, and I will have tasted a lot less of life.

So I'm not doing so good compared to her.

BUT

I am doing measurably better compared to Previous Me.

Prevous Me was one sad dude. Unfulfilled, and unable to hide it (except in public, at work, with the family, with friends, with strangers, in restaurants, in bars - come to think of it, in every fucking situation except for being alone). I get props for being a world-class actor, but no $ to go along with that talent.

Lately I am buoyant. Got some pep in my step. And why not?

The universe has bestowed me with extraordinary gifts and my load has been lightened. I smile a lot, I laugh freely (instead of laughing the guilty laugh of the pretender).

One last frontier to cross.

Freedom. Still not retired. Still can't retire.

I have never committed myself to anything, so I became a red rubber ball bouncing from one thing to another, no rhyme, no reason. Because I think life as it is typically lived is a joke. Still do.

However the joke's on me. Life bites you if you don't bite it. Whaddya gonna do?

I start yet another menial job this weekend. Not because I have to, but because I am a lost soul, and because I feel I need to pad our bank account to protect us from the Evil Fuck who owns the property our house sits on. A Scumbag who raises HOA fees whenever the hell he feels like it, according to long term residents here.

I need peace of mind. I need to feel safe and secure. I am 70 fucking years old, for Christ sake.

So I'll do my part. Stay ahead of the greedy, heartless motherfucker financially, until a disgruntled renter chops his head off with a machete and displays it on a spike.

I know I am on the right track, though. I know I am, because I am making better decisions. I have Kit Kat mini frozen dairy dessert bars in the freezer, and Hostess Cupcakes in the cupboard. Do you really need more evidence than that?

It's a beautiful day. I don't have to work.

Think I'll enjoy myself.

Sunday

When I was a kid Sunday was a real thing.

Sunday had legs, it was its own day, it looked, felt, and sounded different than its six brothers. Many businesses were closed, banks were closed, there was no internet, no cell phones. Many people actually had weekends off.

On Saturday you would run around and take care of errands, all the annoying little things you needed to get done, to have, so you can live your life. Maybe go out on Friday night, Saturday night, lay your burdens down and pick your whiskey up. Get a little crazy.

On Sunday people chilled. You could really unplug from life because life was shut down to an appreciable extent.

You could feel it. It was a tangible exhalation of breath. Privacy. Peace. Rest. Quiet

Sunday dinner was a thing. Sunday dinner was a must in my house, quite ritualistic and I miss it, although I did not appreciate it at the time.  People visited, or they stayed home and read the paper with their feet up.

Then the world went 24/7 - everything, always, all the time. A lot less people have weekends off now, and it kind of doesn't really matter because the concept of a "weekend off" no longer exists. You gotta be on all the time.

There is no escape from life. People do not think of Sundays in the same way at all.

But I do. I still get a sense of peace on Sundays. It's in my head, but I still enjoy it. I feel like nothing can touch me on Sunday, I feel safe. I feel authorized to goof off. I love long, lazy Sundays.

I feel good today.

Dickey Betts

From your perspective, I'm sure my reaction will be way over the top.

If that is true, it tells me you have never had a band that played music that fed your soul, healed your broken heart, and made you forget about that fucking job you hate so much. A band that you could not live without. COULD NOT.

Dickey Betts died yesterday. He was 80 years old. He was one of six founding fathers of The Allman Brothers Band. Duane Allman, Gregg Allman, Butch Trucks, Jaimoe (aka Jai Johanny Johanson, aka John Lee Johnson), Berry Oakley, and Dickey Betts.

Jaimoe is the only surviving member of the Original Six.

Dickey Betts and Duane Allman "pioneered a melodic twin guitar harmony and counterpoint which rewrote the rules for how two rock guitarists can work together, completely scrapping the traditional rhythm/lead roles to stand toe to toe."

Their playing was so unique and so exquisite it blew your mind.

Dickey was the personification of rock 'n roll. Even though he was a founding father, he was kicked out of the band in 2000 over a conflict regarding his continued alcohol and drug abuse. How fucking bad do you have to be for The Allman Brothers to kick you out of the band? Trust me, this was not a group of altar boys.

After 2000 Dickey never played with them again, nor did he appear with other former band members for reunions or side projects. What a fucking shame. What a loss for the music world.

Dickey wrote "Jessica", "Blue Sky", and "Rambling Man" among many other songs. Listen to those three songs. They alone will justify you laying flowers on his grave. They are beautiful.

I loved the way he played. Smooth. And I always said he danced when he played. Check out some videos. The way he moved when he was soloing it was like he was dancing with his guitar.

Dickey had a lot of rough edges. Getting himself kicked out of the band was a crime, although I'm not sure the judge and jury were exactly clear-eyed. But we all fuck up.

Ever the rebel, I saw him play solo in what was essentially a supper club many years ago. The kind of place where smoking was not allowed and rowdiness was frowned upon. At a time when musicans would take the stage with bottles of water.

His band took the stage, then Dickey walked out - with a cigarette between his lips, he sat a Budweiser on his amp, and went to town.     I          loved              it.

I don't like where I am in life.

On one hand, I do. I am 70, I am healthy, I got a new life, a grandson, my sons are healthy and happy and so are their women.

On the other hand, the people who inspired me when I was young are all dying. It breaks my heart. It forces me to face reality when I would much rather be dreaming.

Requiescat in pace, Dickey Betts.

You made my life so much better, so much more enjoyable, so much more bearable.

Thank you for that.

Love you, man.