health

The End of Civilization…Maybe? A Minor Rant

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It’s hard to know who to blame, but modern Western Civilization is coming to an end. If there are textbooks in the future, the demise of Democracy and the 21st century world will be written by whoever survives. Historical museums and archives of apolitical thought will all have gone the way of the Edsal, and history will be whatever the New Order says it is. Research will result in facts dominated by the Group-thought of the Cults who survive and pour out of their bunkers after the mild-mannered Armageddon.

A paragraph like the one above usually starts a science fiction novel which begins with a sudden, apocalyptic fireball, world-wide pandemic, or alien invasion. But our current president and his minions are reshaping American Life without germs, radiation, or pointy-headed anal probers. And some of America supports them.

The dismantling of a federal Government that has historically held people together, kept them safe from external forces, won world-wide wars, and met nature’s tests, means…nothing. Nothing will be left for workplace safety, protection from predatory billionaires, bird flu, brain-eating amoebas, and the rest of the small things trying to kill us. Pollution will become the dominant problem before climate change, and both will conflate to end mankind. The Trump Administration will crow to the rooftops about how great they made America right to the bitter end.

Eh. Maybe not. This might be what you would call Trump Derangement Syndrome so it’s best to avoid any Trumpian news stories, but The Kennedy Center For the Performing Arts issue is astounding, prescient, and indicative of The New Trump World mentality. Trump made his usual off the cuff rants about The Kennedy Center not being Trumpian and then fired all 17 members of the Board of Directors and made himself temporary chairman. He then made the Kennedy Center into what he wants it to be.  You can read detailed reports of how it all happened for at least a little while longer since Trump monitors have not been able to erase all bad news, yet. But the funny-not-funny part is Trump put a butt-kissing crony in charge. The new MAGA governing body now has control of The Kennedy Center and will make it “great” again, “for everyone”…in their own, political image.

Oddly, some people disagree with the New Director and the New Board, and plan protests.

Ha. Funny, right? Wait, you haven’t heard the funny part, yet. The new, very sensitive and self-aware director of the center had this to say: “Any performer who isn’t professional enough to perform for patrons of all backgrounds, regardless of political affiliations, won’t be welcomed. In fact, we think it would be important to “out” those vapid and intolerant artists to ensure producers know who they hire—and that the public knows which shows have political litmus tests to sit in the audience.” Is that irony or hypocrisy?

The Kenedy Center was named after John F Kennedy, a war hero, and former Democratic President. It was established in 1971 and “serves as a living memorial to John F. Kennedy, and hosts world-class performances, offers extensive educational opportunities, and is a unique public/private partnership.” -wikipedia.* And it has been for over 50 years without complaint or adverse action or lawsuit, or—screw it. It doesn’t matter. It catered to a world-class audience and Trump felt excluded. Something had to be done.

The astounding tone-deaf-ness of the new director’s statements is the problem, read it again. No one is right, correct, and morally sound but him. Now, with the old 17-member board and old director, and old programming gone, the New Board will get it Right. Literally.

For more, fun, Trump is even after Wikipedia and wants to put that impartial, publicly edited and monitored information source away.

We’ll have Trumpedia and The Trump Performance Center in our future.

Who’s vapid and intolerant?

And what a start for that End of World novella…

*The wiki entry has been edited since the date of this post.

It’s A Wonderful Modern, Thoughtful Life

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Life. Take a pause and just think about Life. Birth, followed by death, disease, accidents, catastrophes, pandemics, and finally possible cognitive decline which renders it all irrelevant, unremarkable, and easily forgotten by your survivors.

Take a little longer pause. It doesn’t get any better, does it. In the quick moment you answer, you want to argue, you’ll say it does but when you pause and think…

This is not an argument for suicide. Or depression. Or giving up. It’s an argument for knowing.

One of the sharpest “pangs” of senior resentment is the “undebatable knowing” things could have been different, could have been better. I could have been a doctor, for example, and saved lives. If you take another pause and think about how much better your own life could have been well…don’t do it. Funny, how even if you’re told not to do it, you’ll do it anyway. Thinking our lives would have been better if they had been different appears to be a mandated process baked into our genes. Wonder if Mother Teresa ever felt this regret. Einstein. FDR. Bob Dylan. Clark Kent.

Two interesting stories in the news this past week might help us understand…something Two different people clinically “died” and then came back to life: Patient 1 after 6 minutes and Patient 2 after 21 minutes. They both had stories to tell. Patient 1 felt peace, light, and colorful beauty, including the “white light” most resuscitated patients report. But Patient 2 reported being approached by beings who “shackled” him and restrained him, resulting in them “harvesting” his soul as part of a “soul farming operation”.

Another story in the news articulated the centuries-old debate about the origins of life. When read in chronological order you can see human intelligence struggling to define the “how” of life while struggling with the why, what, when, and where surrounding the start of it all, as well.

Ai says “a prominent estimate from the Population Reference Bureau (is) 108 billion people have ever been born.” Subtract the “estimated” 8 billion people currently alive and you learn an “estimated” 100 billion people have lived and then died on this earth. How many do you remember?

So? This post has gone off the rails and needs to be euthanized as its point has slipped away. Like most of our “lives”, it began well but got sidetracked by “life”. Maybe that’s the point? Would be interesting to read comments from anyone who can make sense of this page. I personally, feel lost, but okay, as if it were meant to end this way. The post is what it is and I can deal with it. (Hint?)

As my favorite Doctor Steven Wright says: “I intend to live forever. So far, so good.”

But…nothing ever makes it easier, permanently, does it. Words of wisdom and thoughtful machinations* help, but only momentarily, like falling head over heels, today, for a lover you can’t stand 6 weeks later. (See Seinfeld: The Low Talker”.)

And the questions return.

Guess I’d better conclude with another pertinent Wrightism and see how long it lasts: “A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking.”

Amen?

*google the definition for full effect. It reveals intent.

Three Sentences…Again

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A  new, worst traffic enemy plagued me three times this past week. It is the car (removing all personality from this complaint) whose brake lights come on before the turn signal. New curse words were invented each time.

Streaming services have lost their collective minds as each time I look for a better one, their advertisements tout their “over 100 channel” line up. If someone watches two channels at a time (one for each eye), for one hour at a time, for 10 hours a day, in five days they will have viewed all the channels for which they paid over $100. If either of those two sentences make any sense to you…

My Late-life discovery of ear buds and “you tube” music videos continues to amaze. Every day in July I listened to parts of the April 2025 Madison Square Garden concert of The Brothers, an Allman Brothers legacy spinoff which includes two original members from 1975. Google “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed”, insert buds, recline, and enjoy.

My recent—and last—hip replacement surgery went as planned thanks to the brilliant Dr. Wickline and the exceptionally enjoyable Apex Surgery Center in Westmoreland, NY. The June 18 surgery was more than enjoyable, and almost fun. Makes me wonder what joint to replace in the future.

Local Trump supporters are getting a little antsy. Their “letters to the editor” have increased in volume but not in fact or relevance, and they are using the Trump trick of throwing stuff out to see what sticks. The saddest part of our entire political scene is neither party can see that with the current polarity, strict party affiliation means EVERYTHING “the other party” does is bad, even if it isn’t.

Trump recently posted angry words about a Gayle King. I’ve no idea who she is but I can’t help but wonder why he bashed her. One of the questions I ask Trump supporters is “Would you like Donald Trump to be a member of your own family?

Turning Stone Resort is a 24-hour casino/resort so last Sunday–after my 6 am fitness group–I went to the 24-hour restaurant for a hearty, healthy breakfast. Not much else was open and there were very few people (one of the reasons for going early) until I passed the Smoke Shop. Over 20 people were waiting in line for tobacco products.

The New York Yankees suck. The Yankees suck. The Yankees suck…this year.

It’s hard to know what to eat, these days. As I recover from cancer treatments the best way to build back one part of the body causes havoc with another part. How vitamins, minerals, proteins, iron, water, cherry juice, potassium, and pizza all work together is very confusing.

I purchased glasses on line for a lot less money than my local eye center wanted and the on-line company promised 24-hour customer service. When my order got lost by USPS, however, I was dropped into automated hell dealing with bots and phone trees leading to bots. The Ai future is here.

When will it all end?

What? Football season is here? Thank, God.

Older Life Tips. Not OLD, Older…

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Life doesn’t get easier with age. Here are some thoughts.

My eyesight is great, even with Age-Related Macular Degeneration (AMD). AMD slowly robs your central vision…if left untreated. Get an “Ainsler Grid”, or simple sheet of lined graph paper, and tape either one to your refrigerator door. Look at it often, one eye at a time, and if any of the lines get wavy, get to an Ophthalmologist as soon as possible. An optometrist might be able to diagnose your AMD but he/she couldn’t treat it, so get to an OPHTHALMOLOGIST. If the word is too long, google “Retina Specialists” in your area. Of note, learn the difference in eye medical professionals.

Vision is great but not young. I suffer from the standard old age loss of “elasticity” in over 70-year-old eyeballs and need help with fine print. Like the smaller and smaller instructions on Tyson chicken about how to cook it. Or how to take prescriptions. You can buy “reader” glasses almost anywhere or pay your optometrist (sic, learn) for a fancy pair but if you’re like the rest of us who use them only for reading, you’ll need several pair (I have 10) spread around the house and car. They get lost, often, as if they have legs. Most often they’re lost on our heads. Since you need so many pairs, you don’t want to pay a high price for them. Dollar Stores have “trees” and trees of $1 readers in any magnification you need. They are just small magnifying glasses. The dollar store models really should not be called glasses because they are made of plastic. They work perfectly if you don’t scratch them, and if you do, buy another bunch. Like 10? My eyes were getting a little fuzzy, one time, and it made me wonder if my eyes were getting worse. Maybe a higher magnification? Thankfully, I was smart enough to see it was the plastic lenses getting “foggy”, not my eyes. A moist wipe didn’t clear them up, so I planned a dollar store trip to get cleaner, new ones. Google it! Yes, I did and after dropping all my foggy plastic glasses into warm water with a little dish soap, wiping with a paper towel, and letting them dry,—voila!–my eyesight returned to normal. Sadly, I was both pleased with myself, but angry it took ten years, and google, to learn how to clean “plastics”. Hope this one helps someone.

Try to remember the world is getting less and less interested in you and what you have to say. It shouldn’t need to be mentioned, here, but…life has passed us by. Get over it. If you pay too much attention to car and beer commercials, you’ll get depressed. For comfort, enjoy the prescription drug commercials: they are meant for us and young people with problems. But do not think the drug companies care about you, they want money. And, yes, young people do have problems but don’t “help” them by pointing it out…unless they ask and even then, be careful

Recent conversations with younger and older people have reminded me of how complex, diverse, exciting, and possibly fulfilling our old lives have been . If you feel bad about being passed by and rejected by modern society, close the blinds, turn off all electronic devices, and revisit your past. If we can remember our pasts, every one of us achieved something, saved something, earned something, did something, or otherwise enjoyed the heck out of our lives in those long-ago years. Celebrate it all. Blow your horn. But to yourself. Write it down, Record it with video or voice. Besides the self-therapy aspect of letting it out, imagine how much everyone else will miss you when they read about your life and what you’ve done, what you’ve accomplished, what you have survived.

And that’s a good place to end: The End. If you reached a certain age, especially if you’ve made it longer than the average life expectancy or lived longer than your parents: Woo Hoo! Champagne for all.

But let the kids pay for it. And don’t drink too much.

Is The Doctor In?

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It’s been a wonderful 2 and half years of medical frivolity. Starting in March of 2023, The Calamities have been a wild ride through the Modern American Medical Establishment (MAME), and its partner, the Modern American Insurance Establishment (MAIE). MAME and MAIE were new to me in 2023 since I’d only visited their ancient ancestors in the past for the occasional broken bone, (ahem) UTI, or abscessed tooth when ERs were the only things open 24 hours.

In 2023 I was fortunate to live in an area with 4 major health systems supported by local universities. For those of you who know the meaning of “The Wrong Color Blue**”, I’d selected the University of North Caolina at Chapel Hill (UNCCH) as my medical playground, instead of Duke University (DU), after arriving in NC in 2007. It was not a value choice but a convenience choice. UNCCH had an office close by and driving one mile to UNCCH seemed like a better idea than 6 miles to a DU office. Ah, the mistakes of the young…

When The Calamites hit, the entire UNCCH system came into play and its hospital was ten miles away. (25 miles during rush hour, timewise.) Later research revealed DU is a higher rated system. UNCCH is very good, but DU is better. A small distinction carrying enormous import in medical care.

As I took up residence in the UNCCH system, the internet became the most valuable tool at hand. The internet is a wonderful place for a writer and sportsman, with the entire “Brain” of humanity there for the picking. It soon became a patient’s best friend and “shadow” doctor. There wasn’t a medical adjective, adverb, noun or conjugation (in English or Latin) in my medical reports I did not look up on The Internet. As an added feature, the IT department at UNCCH “dropped” or “posted” test results to my “portal***) account as soon as the test was completed. This allowed me and my internet friend to learn, analyze, and critique test results before a doctor had a chance to explain them. My head usually exploded from the raw data. Then notes were taken, questions formulated, the internet was queried, and answers found…wait…was what my friend, The Internet telling me right? For the record, at least half of it wasn’t. There were many times something on The Internet was not even close to what it should be or was way off the mark of the research question.

In the early days the doctors humored me, but it became obvious when they were frustrated by not just questions, but stupid questions. My goodness, had I become a pain the ass? A know-it-all? Me? How did it happen?

Medical people have a nickname for this patient: Doctor Google. You’d think with the hundreds of dollars they get paid for talking, the real doctors shouldn’t mind. They get paid for listening, too, don’t they?

It took months to realize I was not just wasting my time, but the doc’s too. And, logically, other patients’ time. (Ever have a doc appointment be on time?) That huge internet “Brain” was half full of crap and I did not have enough medical school training (In fact, none) to know the difference.

A valuable option then presented itself: google only respected sites from respected hospital systems and organization. Most of them appeared in the search results, but not always at the top of the list. I looked up government organizations, too, like the NIH, CDC, USDA, and others. My medical questions, now, do not go out to the entire big brain, but to Harvard Medical School, The Mayo Clinic, and MD Anderson, et. al. These sites are filled with peer-reviewed facts, plus curated blogs written by other people like me or you looking not just for answers, but correct answers that fit our own, unique circumstances.

Being a Doctor Google is not a bad thing if you remember you are NOT a doctor.

And if you do careful research from respected, trusted sites, you will someday ask your doctor—or any medical professional—a question they will appreciate. Your care and maybe even someone else’s care will be all the better.

This advice is not just for medical care, but all news and information gathering. Use your Critical Thinking skills to be careful, be diligent, and not be a fool.

** If you want to meet new people, visit the Durham-Chapel Hill area and proclaim yourself a fan of either the dark blue Duke or robins-egg-blue UNC. Someone close by will hate you immediately and let you know why.

*** Computer terms everyone should know and use…but don’t. Ask your healthcare provider.

Funny and True Stories from Daily Life

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I was sitting at my favorite money-taking slot machine on the gambling floor of the local casino when this conversation between two nearby strangers happened.

Him: “You come here often?” (Said hopefully, but also shyly.) Her: “Yes. I like these machines.” (Said without hesitation.) Him: “Ever go to Vernon Downs?” (A different gambling place about 5 miles away.) Her: “No.” Him: “Oh. The machines pay better.” Her: “I know! I won a $100 there last week.”

My local Mcdonald’s drive thru voice instructed me to “please pull up to the second pick up window” after placing my order. When I turned the corner there was one unmarked window, one window marked “Pick-up 1”, and the window I went to, marked “Pick-up 2”. I waited until there was an arm waving in my rear view mirror calling me back to “Pick-up 1”. I reversed back to “Pick-up 1” and was told “people go to the other window (Pick-up 2) all the time.” The speaker looked about 13 years old. Me: “Why don’t you instruct customers to go to Pick-up 1?” 13 year old: “That’s a great idea.”

A week later I was back for the really good 2 for 1 breakfast sandwich deal and was told by a familiar voice to “Please pull around to the second pick-up window.”

This next one isn’t funny, it falls under the “Just My Luck” heading. Complicated story, so hang in there. On April 1st my Primary Care Physician (PCP) discussed a colonoscopy. My last butt invasion was in 2021, four years ago and the result was great with a recommendation to have another anus probe “in seven years.” (A great timeline for an over 70 male.) But radiation treatments and chemo in 2023 wreaked havoc on my digestion so as a compromise PCP and I settled on a ColoGuard test…just to see if anything was going wrong, cheaply and easily. On April 14th ( In case you missed it thirteen days later!} someone from the PCP’s office called to schedule a “colonoscopy.” I referred them to PCP’s notes about the Cologuard. On April 15th the Cologuard test kit arrived, but I waited until Monday, April 21 to do the stinky deed** and send it back. On April 22, I found a research study from the University of California at San Francisco claiming “CAT scans and other radiation in the area of the pelvis” might be causing new and different cancers in current cancer patients already being treated for cancers in the “pelvic region.” (Whew.) As a Prostate Cancer patient in 2023, radiation was used in diagnosing and treating cancer in the prostate area which is adjacent to the pelvic area. Very adjacent.

If you’re still with me, here is the ending: On Friday night, April 25 the “Positive” (sounds good, right?) Cologuard test results were emailed to me and said this: “you have a higher than average chance of having advanced precancerous polyps or colon cancer.” Easy to understand, yes? But then, this: “It is not the same as a cancer diagnoses.” Oy.

A safety sign in the pool at the fitness center is loaded with “Pleases”. For example, “If someone is drowning, please call 911.” And if someone is in distress, please call 800-xxx-xxxx.” The last admonition is the best: “DO NOT SWIM ALONE”. (It may take a second to get this one. Please don’t worry, that’s normal.)

There’s more, but it’s nap time. At least I didn’t mention Tr—

** Cologuard sends you a nice set of plastic utensils so you can accurately poop directly into a small popcorn container, add some magic juice, seal it up “tight”, and ship it overnight to their lab. I sent them an email asking how I did, shipping-wise, but no response. Maybe it leaked all over and the “positive” result is their way of getting even…hopefully….Maybe?

My Two Brains

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For many years, now I’ve wondered if there are two brains in the body. You, too?

My vacation to the Warm South was meant to be a break from the Winter North, but also to test hopefully repaired, rejuvenated, and reclaimed physical abilities. It was during this testing, the “proof” of my second brain was finally revealed.

There have always been internal conversations–such as the infinitely confusing argument between doing good or doing bad–but I assumed those discussions were a normal personality abnormality, simple sophistry inspired by too much Devil’s Advocacy during young, formative years. It would go away with time and maturity, and the accumulation of wisdom. But the second brain discovered in North Carolina last week is different, it actually-,better tell the discovery story, first.

Sometime in the mid-morning hours of Thursday, March 27, 2025, I was in a Happy Place: a public tennis court surrounded by tennis players my own age. It was a time to celebrate recovery, patience, and give the beleaguered medical corporate establishment some credit for good work. The early moments were a time full of insults, name-calling, trash-talking, and too many hugs, all of which were greatly appreciated. Sadly, the second brain discovery happened only moments after actual physical activity was perpetrated. Yes, perpetrated. Perfect word for what happened. Look it up.

A now ex-friend hit a soon to be outlawed (hopefully) shot called a “Drop Shot”. For the un-tennis among you, the Drop Shot is a nasty trick played on mature, semi-immobile tennis players by younger, fully mobile tennis players. Given the abundance of gray hair and joint braces this morning, there was no expectation any one of us would ever have to face such a nasty play. I felt especially free from worry as I was recovering, attempting to resurrect my game, and open to any special treatment benefiting my progress. In a later post we will discuss whether or not there is honor among septuagenarians. (Full disclosure, it was our groups lone octogenarian who hit the shot, so I’ve no legal basis for claim, if so inclined.)

The beginning of the unappreciated drop shot was quickly seen by my Big Skull Brain (BSB), and  BSB immediately broadcast the signal to the entire body to move forward at a rapid pace to get to the falling tennis ball before it hit the ground. Perfect. Just right. So far.

But the next thing to hit the ground was me. The “ground”, by the way, in public tennis courts is painted concrete.

If you are at all familiar with the saying “got out over the ends of my skies”, then no more explanation is needed. For the rest of you, as my BSB issued commands, some other, smaller brain not only cancelled those commands, but did it with prejudice. As I lay writhing on the ground/concrete watching the yellow ball bounce next to my skinned knee, a comment between my BSB and the other, smaller brain was overheard. It went like this: “Move? Hell, no. We ain’t going nowhere.”

And thus a mystery was solved: we do have two brains. At least I do. A naïve, uninformed person may say the smaller brain is located in the penis of a male and it is hard to argue they’d be wrong. We will not attempt to locate the female smaller brain or even make the argument the females are equipped with one. Utter discretion. And maybe one is all they need, anyway

That NC morning’s facts are: one brain said “go” and the other said “no”. My big skull appeared to follow BSB’s directive and moved forward. Parts of the upper body followed, but reluctantly, as if the debate between big and small brain was already happening and non-brain parts were confused about which command to follow. The penis theory might be right because the lower parts followed the small brain directive and pretty much stayed in the same spot, leaving my big skull, and upper trunk to accept gravity’s invitation and topple over, risking major injury if no more action was taken. Fortunately, some sort of “emergency” system (a THIRD brain??) kicked in and my arms extended to absorb most of the impact. The upper body rescued itself and rolled over, saving the heart and lungs for later abuse.

It’s as if the small brain was punished for its incalcitrant (sic) actions as most of the medical carnage was done to knees and lower extremities. Take that, small brain. Aside: why do skinned knees take so long to heal?

You can understand how hurt BSB was, but it did a masterful job of pretending not to be hurt and graciously accepted every ounce of empathy.

It was a distracted drive home with the constant stream of debate between brains. I tried not to listen but did hear the word “insurrection” more than once.

The one, major positive about aging is the things you learn about yourself. One positive, now is—with a second brain—all the bad things done in the past are not entirely my fault…are they?

Hello, miss me?

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I’ve tried not to talk too much about The Calamities which have visited me these last 20 months, but what happened recently deserves noting.

Cancer, AMD, arthritis, and now anemia, caused by cancer treatments make up The Calamities. Of the four, The Big A, arthritis was the biggest pain in my arse(sic), and just about every joint, but especially in my left hip. It was the companion who went with me everywhere, to the tests, and treatments and recovery for all the other Calamities. Arthritis was with me every minute of every day for the last 20-some months. It even slept with me. When I rang the bell at the end of radiation, I had to limp up to the ringer.

Slowly we knocked the others off. We beat cancer, so far. We stopped AMD, so far, and anemia is being tracked, ready for elimination. But The Big A treatment required surgery, something we couldn’t do until the body could take it. Curing The Big C came first.

December 6th, 2024 the body was ready. At the sparkling Apex facility on Route 233 near Westmoreland, NY, I entered the Star Wars of medical care at 6:30am. Every single person from Doctor to receptionist was not only friendly, but treated me as if I were King Charles, or whoever is the big deal in England these day. Questions were answered, treatments were explained, hands were held, and flirting with nurses was allowed (so my daughter says).

Somewhere there is a record of the exact moment I came out from under anesthesia, but all I know, all I care about, all I celebrate, is the moment of the final, complete extermination of my painful companion. A “thing” that had dogged me, disabled me, and caused life to be severely limited…was gone. There was a picture in my mind of Dr. Wickline throwing my old hip bones into a red, medical waste bin, gone forever, to the cheers of his staff.

It’s safe to assume surgical drugs helped my post-op euphoria, but I knew the difference. And even when those drugs wore off and “NORMAL” surgical pain presented itself in the following days, it still felt painless, liberating, and rejuvenating. There was a new life to live…with out The Big A.

It helped that Dr. Wickline not only prepared me for all that was to happen, but he put it in a book so I could read and follow along, knowing all the time exactly what MIGHT happen, all the while hoping very little of it did. Dr. Wickline’s books, and his employees, and the Apex people, made the experience of gaining a new lease on life a real adventure, an enjoyable surgery, and thanks to all of them for getting me through it.

The days of recovery are saturated with noticing and analyzing pains and swellings, and bruising and possible nerve issues. All of which were in the book, and were already being treated by the “Recovery Drug” protocols outlined. Now, on my 12th recovery day, my only real problem is keeping my self from jumping with joy (Watch those sutures!) at the freedom and promise of new life, with both, now, my every day companions.

One last thing, if you are man my age, and you remember when coaches told you to “throw some dirt on it”, take notice of those pains, and modulate them or fix them before its too late. Don’t be so manly. I should have replaced the hip years ago.

Oh, and for fun: if I hadn’t gone to the doctor for The Big A in February 2023, I may not have caught the other Calamities in time to cure them. Think about it old men, and women. Get to the doctors. Now.

Early Morning Something or Other

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It’s 1:30 am, EST, and I’m not only awake, but rested. The Yankees won, so, that helps. And Aaron judge finally homered. Yay.

My days, lately, have inverted themselves. I sleep/nap a lot in the day and spend the night wide awake, rested and wondering about all the things a 20-year-old never had a clue he would be wondering about 52 years later. As a possible misanthrope, (don’t know where to go to get a fair and accurate diagnosis) it’s a pleasure having fewer people awake and milling about, doing nothing but making noise. In this area of upstate NY there are no 24 hour stores, or fitness centers, or any other place to wander around, so here I am. I’ll be at one or the other my fitness centers when they open at 6, and be back to my apartment, toned and refreshed, by the time most everyone else arises and starts to ruin the world.

This early morning post is obviously going nowhere, more like therapy. The daily dose of news has been consumed. The times for the day’s sporting events have been entered into my crowded schedule. I’ve checked my credit union to make sure my identity has not been stolen and money siphoned from accounts. Finished my Kia Warranty paperwork for Limpy, the car that shut down on me while driving. Getting it repaired was a thoroughly enjoyable venture into the world of corporations who communicate poorly and care little for 72 year-old health-challenged humans who need their car. Nuts, to them. They won’t have me to not call back much longer.

As a slower burner of calories, it’s time to plan the days food festivities. Being disabled has reduced my step rate from a healthy 8-10,000 a day, pre-Calamities, to the current dis-respectable average of 2,500 steps. I allow myself the luxury of not worrying about it, anymore, since swimming doesn’t translate into steps, so…I’m good.

I should probably go the bathroom. Maybe a piece of toast. Too early for 120 calories of carbos?

Huh. I’m tired. Just now. Just like that. 2am and back to bed. Not bad. Wonder how many calories I burned typing…

Are you Content? Happy? Both?

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In an article titled “Is Contentment an Underrated Goal in Life?” By Jill Suttie | August 26, 2024. she reports on a study that “suggests contentment is a positive emotion with some unique benefits for people who seek it.“

Researcher Yang Bai summarized her research for this study this way: “Compar[ed] to other positive emotions, contentment makes us more accepting of ourselves,” and “it can bring [people] the strength to accept the good and bad sides of their lives.”

Hmph. That’s not a grumpy noise, but a startled one, as if I just sat down, exhausted, after looking all over the house for my keys and then found them in my pocket. Dedicated readers may remember my August 1, 2024 essay titled “Why Now?” where contentment is happily reported as the possible by-product of misfiring neurons and tangled, silly synapses. (Silly? Synapses, synapse, synopsis, synopses, sinopsis, et.al.)

A fun-filled debate could be had about whether you’d want to be happy or be content, but I see it as the car you own. “Happy” is driving a high-powered Lamborghini with one, free tank of gas and one free month of insurance and maintenance. “Contentment” is driving an NHTSA (Look it up) 5-Star rated car which runs on human farts. I mean, very little gas.

Happy is hard to control. It’s like fireworks: it comes and goes as it pleases, with lengthy pauses to reinforce its spectacular return.

Contentment is the slow smoking of brisket, and the knowledge your hard work will pay off in the end.

Contentment seems easy to find: a good sunrise, actual help from someone in Customer Service, or having your Klondike bar melt perfectly without making a mess. Or having trees talk to you. It’s all around if we find the time and the way to see it.

The study noted above was also looking into whether or not people knew they were content. Or happy. Or if they even knew the difference. Ever have a very good day and wonder why no one else was? You just had a case of the Contentments. The saddest thing, ever, then would be you surrounded by contentment and not know it as you strive mightily for happiness.

Remember Yang Bais words about accepting the good and bad of our lives. Accept the contentment life offers, while waiting for the happiness you seek.

Now, I’m off to the Citadel of Contentment: The Chair. Hope you have one of those.