While Others Die

I was motoring my way to HELL a couple of days ago and listening to a discussion on addiction on NPR.

Heroin addiction.

Intellectuals discussing a down and dirty aspect of human nature, a gritty reality that few understand and fewer know how to treat.

It was irritating to me because it was so clinical. So removed.

The expert being interviewed had that educated, life in academia tone of voice.

I don't know how much contact she has with addicts but I cannot imagine her connecting with them in any way.

Addiction is not a subject to be studied or a thesis to be written. It is a disease or a weakness or a failing (society or the addict) that destroys lives and rips families apart.

It causes great pain and unanswerable confusion.

Addicts are vulnerable. They adopted drugs as a lifestyle to deal with emotional pain or physical pain or an inability to cope with this cold life we are forced to live.

Or maybe they got into the thing backwards. Maybe they liked the initial high as a kick, as an amazing physical sensation.

Until it took control and started kicking them around.

You want to get a feel for what addiction can do? Talk to my brother Ed. Talk to his ex-wife Kathy. A mother and father who have had to deal with the unpredictability and the suffering. People who lost their only son to heroin.

That is reality. That is not a classroom.

My brother recently met a guy who runs an organization that is boldly active in raising awareness of the addiction problem in this country and does what he can to raise money to deal with it.

He is a former addict.

These are the people who get things done. These are the people who know, who connect, who communicate and actively engage the community.

Part of the discussion centered around naloxone, a drug that can save the lives of people who are in the throes of OD'ing.

When a person OD's, the brain begins to shut down respiration. Naloxone blocks the opiate from the brain, removes it from the brain and people revive.

It is considered miraculous.

The NPR discussion informed me that naloxone is sold for pennies in other countries.

Not so in this country. In this country the cost of naloxone was just increased, making it harder for law enforcement and medical authorities to get a hold of it.

Supply and demand.

What the hell is wrong with the United States of America?

Part of the discussion revolved around the high cost of treatment programs and the long waiting lists for those trying to get in.

When pressed to suggest an answer to these problems the expert insisted on talking about the importance of getting people off drugs first, saying once you get to that point then you can figure out how to navigate the system.

In other words she had no answer.

The truth is many people have no way to navigate the system. They drown in bureaucracy and go back to what they know.

Drugs.

We talk too much in this country. We are happy to talk about every goddamn thing under the sun but we are not real good at doing anything about these issues.

People make a living at talking about this stuff, and studying these things.

They make a living in safety and comfort while others die.

Still, She Waits

It occurred to me today that I am as a delicate flower being nurtured and cared for by Carol.

I flounder around trying to make sense of my life, trying to re-direct my life down the road less traveled, which is dimly visible far off in some almost unattainable distance.

I get angry, I get depressed, happiness occasionally seeps in only to be immediately replaced by anxiety.

I rant, I rave, I ponder, I despair.

Above all I waste time. Waste life.

And then there's Carol.

Always attentive. Taking care of the big things, taking care of the little things. Making me feel loved and a little safer in this cruel, soul-crushing world.

Waiting.

Waiting for me to unmask my own reality so she can finally exhale.

Imagine what her world would be like if I achieved true Joe-ness.

She knows the real man inside the confused one. She knows that I could be happy if I made the right moves.

I am not saying she is dependent on me in any way. She is a strong, intelligent and focused individual who creates her own happiness.

But...................imagine how much smoother her life would be if she didn't have to wonder which Joe would come home at night.

Whiskey Joe or Determined Joe.

Imagine how her happiness could, maybe, multiply exponentially if it were met head on by my own.

At present, that is only a hypothesis.

My mother called me a late bloomer. I cannot even guess how many times I have mentioned that in these pages.

That is because those words sometimes piss me off. I sometimes despise thinking about those words. They insult me.

Sometimes they fire me up.

Maybe there is truth in those words. Maybe she knew me better than I know myself.

Now Carol waits. Maybe. I hope she hasn't given up on me.

Last Saturday, at lunch with my aunt Dina and my brother Eddie, the discussion got around to life or happiness or something.

Carol said: "My life has not turned out the way I thought it would, but I am still happy."

Those words were a sledgehammer to my face. Not because she intended it that way; because of the way I interpreted them.

I have to be, at least in part, on the disappointment side of her happiness ledger.

Not entirely. We enjoy a lot of happiness together.

But I certainly did not turn out to be the raging success she might have imagined me to be at the tender age of 24.

It is a heavy duty realization to think you might have reduced the happiness in the life of someone you love through your own weaknesses.

Happiness is precious. It is right up there with love.

Still, Carol takes care of me. She shows me her love in big ways, she shows me her love in small ways, she is always here and always attentive.

Still, she waits.

Diggin' On Sinatra

Came a cross a real deal a few weeks ago at the local market days event.

A steal, really.

Market Days is the typical small town out on the streets diggin' summer stroll fest that is one of life's little pleasures.

Carol and I go every year. Check out the funky clothes stands, cool jewelry (I am the King of Cheap Jewelry), listen to music, look at people, look at dogs (lots of dogs), maybe scarf some food.

Grab a beer if the beer tent is not too crowded, which it was this year so no beer for me.

Which is OK 'cause I still gotta lose 20 pounds so I can squeeze into that skimpy little bikini taunting me in the closet.

?

There is a cool independent movie theatre in town called Red River Theatres. They were selling movie posters, DVD's and CD's on the cheap.

Carol and I got in on the ground floor with this cinema. We were there for the ribbon cutting ceremony and we were there for the first showing.

Red River. 1948. Starring John Wayne, Montgomery Clift and Walter Brennan.

Very cool and comfortable place. They serve beer and wine, the seats are ultra comfortable, they only have two real screens and one semi-screen. No big ass movies. Just independent and quirky stuff.

How the hell can you go wrong? It is small and it is personal. Important considerations in this 2,000 options for everything , moving fast and loud world.

Anyway.................I strolled in fully expecting to leave with a poster or two. Something ultra cool that I could decorate this room with.

Not to be. As many as they had to offer, nothing stirred me to life.

So we browsed CD's. Every CD was $2.

I came across a Sinatra retrospective from the Reprise years. 4 cd's. $8.

I have been exploring the man's music and diggin' the surprises. I cannot call myself a fan - not yet - I only know the songs you are supposed to know.

However I keep coming across nuggets I have never heard before that soothe me. Or swing me. Or surprise me. Or all of that at once.

I understand why women lost their minds over the man. He could croon.

It almost makes me want to endure a sex change operation so I can experience the full effect.

But I can't afford to replace my wardrobe in its entirety so I guess I'll pass.

81 songs. So many about love.

I was thinking about the hypocrisy of it all. Sounding so sincere singing to the ladies about love when in reality all he probably wanted to do was get in their pants.

This is not an indictment of Sinatra at all. It applies to every singer, every poet, every novelist, every artistic expression of love. It is a general comment about the complicated nature of love songs. And love poems. And love stories.

Just plain love.

And I could be wrong. Maybe the man was pining away to be loved.

Who am I to judge?

Love is all there is.

You have no career, you have no freedom, you have no fulfillment, your dream is unreachable and maybe unrealistic. If you even have one. Maybe you had one and it was beaten out of you.

All we really want is to love and be loved.

In purity and sweet release.

If Sinatra gets you there than consider yourself lucky.

Some songs bring a smile to my face, a couple have made me laugh.

Check out The Coffee Song.If you are not amused you are probably dead.

Some songs stir deep emotion in me.

I am discovering Sinatra.

Diggin' every minute of it.

That's Life

Took a walk down memory lane on Saturday.

Visited Winthrop, Massachusetts to enjoy lunch with my Aunt Dina, who is 85 years old, my brother Ed, who is chronologically 60 years old but physically 18 years old, and my lovely wife Carol who is a stunning 61 years old.

(Editor's note: I am chronologically 61 years old but physically 93 years old).

I was raised in Winthrop, Massachusetts. Spent my formative years there. Lived there from approximately the age of two straight through to the age of 24, when I fled to The Land of Responsibility.

Winthrop is a beautiful town. Nestled right up against the Atlantic ocean. A quiet, scenic, suburban peace-spot.

I don't get back there often. This trip affected me profoundly.

Carol and I made excellent time, arriving early, so we took a tour of the town.

Drove down Shore Drive, which parallels Winthrop beach.

I spent a lot of time on the beach. I put 137,450 miles on my cars cruising Winthrop beach. My mind engaged with the past as we drove up and down that road, kind of like me and my friends used to do.

Looking for babes, looking for parties, looking for fun.

Next Carol and I drove towards 120 Winthrop Street, which is where I "grew up."  Along the way we passed Thornton Park where my friend Ed Keough used to live.

Massive memories. At night I would drive around and pick up all my friends on our way to insanity. Inevitably, when we got to Ed's house and I honked my horn, the porch light would flash on and off.

That was Ed's sign - he was running late. He was always running late. We sat and waited and laughed about it.

Ed and I planned to travel cross country when we graduated high school. I chickened out at the last minute and have always considered that decision to be one of the worst of my life.

However........................ had I gone on that trip I would never have met Carol. Amazing how things work out. I treasure my wife, I treasure my sons, I treasure my sons' women.

Ed had a dog named Killy. An Irish Setter. A beautiful, loving dog.

Thornton Park was also where Gaff lived. Gaff's parents died young and he was left with the house. Gaff bought us beer and Gaff supplied us with pot.

Carol and I drove slowly past 120 Winthrop, and once again my mind buzzed. The house looks almost exactly the same, except the big tree out front is gone.

My eyes are always drawn to the second story porch. I spent countless and peaceful hours there, reading in the summer time. It was my favorite spot, my favorite thing to do.

Sitting on a lounge chair, book in hand, summer breeze, cars quietly cruising by, the big tree in my face.

It is one of my fondest memories.

Next stop was the cemetery to visit my parents' grave.

Unsettling.

The date my father died was never etched on the headstone. Apparently Ed and I skipped a beat somewhere along the line.

It felt weird.

I touched the headstone. Why do we do that? Trying to connect?

My thoughts inevitably turned to my station in life, thinking it wouldn't be too long before some family member would be figuratively touching their hand to my headstone.

I say figuratively because I won't be buried. My ashes will be scattered.

But where?

An Allman Brothers concert would have been divine, but that is no longer in the cards. Maybe I'll have them mailed to Gregg Allman's house.

Then again what are the odds that Gregg, who is 67, will outlive me? Zero. I mean, I have seriously abused myself over the years but Gregg's got me beat by a googol miles.

We hooked up with Ed and Dina and ate in a divine, little Italian restaurant close up by the beach.

Superb food, great conversation. A very cool visit.

I was sitting at the table, looking out the window towards the street my friend Dave Selig lived on.

We spent a lot of time at Dave's house. His parents were the coolest, especially his dad. We could talk to them and they to us. We spent many hours sitting around that kitchen table feeling comfortably at home.They knew what we were up to and they were cool with it as long as we didn't get too stupid.

His father kept these tiny sausages in the fridge, which we used to dip in mustard and heartily chow.

Cool memory.

I came away from this visit with a finely tuned sense of finiteness.

I am getting older. This trip meant more to me. The memories were deep and alive.

My mind is scrambled, as are the minds of all my family members, considering our recent history.

This trip was one more ingredient added to the mix.

It is quite a stew. A stew I would prefer not to have to deal with.

But there you go.

That's life, baby.

Moving Backwards In Time Through Binge Watching

Carol and I recently wrapped up our enjoyment of Californication, a show that ran on Showtime from 2007 to 2014.

It starred David Duchovny as hard drinking, womanizing writer Hank Moody.

It was pretty tasty.

When you get to the end of a series like that you feel lost. The characters get into your head, they get into your life, you look forward to their exploits and then suddenly there ain't nuthin' left to watch.

Suddenly you are drinking excessively and beating the crap out of each other.

Happened to us with Breaking Bad which was the first series we obsessively gobbled up. That was kind of funny too because when we started watching it we were not streaming Netflix; we did it through the mail.

It took forever.

We floundered for a few days after finishing Californication and then decided to jump on the way back machine to dig West Wing.

Something like 156 episodes that ran from 1999 through 2006.

Ambitious.

But what the hell, it is an intelligent, engaging show.

And we are feeling pretty hung over and I, for one, am sick of wearing makeup to hide the bruises.

After that maybe we'll dive in to The Dick Van Dyke show.

Rob Petrie needs us.

Rubio, You Moron

Marco Rubio is an idiot.

His quote: "We already have a president now that has no class. I mean we have a president now that does selfie-stick videos, that invites You-tube stars there, people who eat cereal out of a bathtub..........he goes on comedy shows to talk about something as serious as Iran. The list goes on and on."

He was attempting to lump the Prez in with Motor Mouth Trump.

What a piece of crap. He definitely has my vote.

I have to admit - when I see the Prez doing the selfie thing it makes me uncomfortable. Doesn't seem appropriate. I don't even know what the cereal in the bathtub thing is all about. That frightens me.

President Obama has appeared on a number of late night shows and other popular shows, most recently The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

The Prez is media savvy. He knows that people no longer get their information from the news; they don't even get their news from the news.

The majority of the impressive intellectuals in this country get their news from reality TV and, even worse, Fox semi-news.

President Obama knows that to get his message across he needs to engage social media and to appear on TV shows that have strong followings.

If Rubio ever appeared on The Daily Show he would get shredded. He has the brain power of a pre-school kid. Stewart is a goddamn genius.

And taking it to the next level, it would be impossible to compare President Obama to Rubio. They don't even exist in the same universe.

Rubio has zero credibility when he says that President Obama has no class. The Prez has more class in one fingernail than Rubio will ever have in five lifetimes.

This is a perfect example of the sheer ignorance and stupidity of Rubio and, by extension, most of this fine republican field we have  clowning for nomination.

The Prez is done. He is not running for anything. And yet republicans feel they still have to try to humiliate him.

I hope President Obama is brutally honest when he writes his presidential memoirs a few years down the road.

It will be a laugh a minute riot to read his impressions of the idiots he had to deal with during his eight years in office.

So You Thought

So you thought Charles Bukowski was nothing but an insensitive, drunken, misguided lout.

You would have a point if you did not dig deep enough.

As far as the drunkenness and insanity goes, in a way I admire that in a human.

Talk about flaunting convention; causing tongues to cluck and heads to wag in disapproval.

Isn't that what we all want? As opposed to being the well behaved sheep that we are?

I have had enough of a run in with whiskey and song to know I really do not want to live my life that way. Waking up every day with a ravaged body and a foggy head.

It is enjoyable to erase it all with a bit of hair of the dog and start all over again, provides one with a measurable sense of accomplishment but, and maybe this is proof that I am getting older and wiser (?) here, it feels pretty good these days to wake up feeling healthy.

Or as healthy as a 61 year old body can feel.

I'm not sure an aching hip, a weak back (Stooges - How long have you had a weak back? Oh, about a week back), a throbbing hip, painful knees, and an uncomfortable neck/shoulder thing can be considered healthy, but sometimes you gotta take what you get.

Anyway, as proof that Mr. Bukowski had a sensitive nature, I present the following.

The poem is titled "My Cats."

I am just laying it out here long form and not following the structure that Bukowski conceived.

Don't you sometimes wonder how poets decide to break up their sentences? Why one line can be one word, or a phrase is split between two lines?

Is it pretentiousness or is it creativity?

How the hell do I know? I am just a liquor store hack.

Anyway, here it is:

"My Cats"

"I know, I know, they are limited, have different needs and concerns. But I watch and learn from them. I like the little they know, which is so much. They complain but never worry, they walk with a surprising dignity. They sleep with a direct simplicity that humans just can't understand. Their eyes are more beautiful than our eyes and they can sleep 20 hours a day without hesitation or remorse. When I am feeling low all I have to do is watch my cats and my courage returns.  I study these creatures. They are my teachers."

I love my cats.

I love Bukowski.