writing

Benign Bemusements

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After years of complaining about drivers’ inability to understand and use a well-known and researched free life-saving safety device, blinkers, it is time for empathy, time to walk a mile in their shoes. This past Monday, the 13-mile, mainly four-lane highway drive from my home to the Fitness Center at Turning Stone was the time and place. I intended to drive the entire route without ever touching the turn signal arm. It is a drive of very few turns so…and it was performed at 4:30 AM so there were few witnesses…and victims…but…

The first 12 miles were glorious: the sheer audacity and freedom was intoxicating. I changed lanes on a whim. I made my one right turn onto the highway with total abandon and when the two lanes narrowed to one, I shifted over with a youthful, carefree exuberance. That joy filled my soul and I lost myself in it until in anticipation of a left turn into the parking garage, my now-unattended brain fired the nerve(s?) of my left arm. The left hand fell off the steering wheel, my eyes dropped to watch, and the left-hand fingers descended perfectly onto the turn signal lever. Could I catch myself in time to prevent disaster or was I doomed to repeat the past? Would the turn signal lever be strong enough to resist? Would it count if the light bulb was burned out and never flashed? Is Trump ruining the entire world?

I’ll try, again, on the way home.

Speaking of Trump, is it strange he decimates social, educational, medical, and scientific services in the name of “balancing the budget” and then spends billions on immigration deportations, domestic military policing, and parades? The American Public is (are?) the idiot(s) for allowing this to happen, and by electing him in the first place. Will we do anything about it?

Immigration reform is needed, but if we assume 1 in a 10,000 Americans is a criminal, it’s safe to assume 1 in 10,000 immigrants is a criminal, right? So we are deporting them all? Indiscriminately? Court cases alone will cost billions. It is a classic case of mismanagement made sadder by the hurt it is causing innocents. And is a perfect example of baby and bathwater. It is proof we need experienced professionals running our government who understand nuance or at least are willing to learn. HHS Chief RFK firing all 17 members of an advisory board to the CDC? He don’t need no stinkin’ advice.

Political doublespeak and the attendant physical contortions are not unique to the Republican Party, or to this day and age. Democrats are participants, too, as well as being quick learners. But I just watched Republican Representative Loeren Boebert in a US House hearing perfectly detail the causes, actions, and repercussions involved in an “insurrection”. Finally, I said to myself, someone on the Republican side sees it. Finally. But she was talking about Los Angeles. Find it on you tube and watch. It is the perfect example of political…umm…selective memory? Ignorance? Oblivion? She was innocently outraged, positive about all facts, and sure anyone who didn’t agree with her was stupid, unpatriotic, and un-American. Plus, she was shrill, one of her unique skills.  Unfortunately, I cannot remember a Democrat display so completely tone-deaf and absurd, but there probably is one, someplace. It is what politicians do and we reward them for it. Let’s vote them all out next time. All new for the future.

There are so many odd, sad, funny thoughts and things happening to us old people. This post was supposed to be about those things. But Ai is ruining everything, including my brain. Politics is an ear worm, now. Anyone know a cure? Maybe if politicians stopped being stupid and self-serving…?

See? Funny things.

Truther(sic) Words Were Never Spoken

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Mark Twain is a personal idol and national treasure. He was born November 30, 1835, raised in the 19th Century and died in the early 20th, on April 21, 1910, but his observations are timeless. They defy the centuries. He recognized enduring human traits which were humorous on the surface, often dangerous to society, and funny. If you have the long view of life and believe living a good life will get you to a Good Place, Mark Twain is your prophet/guide. His life is one of triumph and tragedy as he lost 3 children to the illnesses of the times, and suffered some, himself, but his reported last words as he lay dying of a heart attack (which happened to people in those days) were “Give me my glasses.” He had more to write in the afterlife.

Most of us know Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, even though forcing a student to read something is not the best way to introduce authors and their works. Ai says the books are still being taught in “some Schools” but the subject matter can be “controversial”. Since talking about race is always controversial, Twain would be happy we are just discussing it, these days. Of course, he would point out we shouldn’t need to, anymore.

Unfortunately, our modern societal and political conversations are not about facts and truth. Pick any issue in America and you’ll find arguments, facts, and opinions to support either side, with both sides thinking the other is—at best—uninformed. My personal opinion is one side of the national debate is intent on obscuring facts and making opinion the determining factor for truth or fiction. But the opposing side doesn’t seem interested in sticking to the facts, either. Having truth be so “fluid” brings to mind this Twain Quote: “Never argue with a fool. Onlookers may not be able to tell the difference.”

I’ve written about the rhetorical skirmishes from my local paper’s opinion section, how writers pronounce themselves as know-it-alls, and lack humility. (Knowing and talking about humility, by the way, does not sound humble, does it. If there was any other way…) In speaking (figuratively) with these writers, this Twain quote often comes to mind: “The truth is no defense against a fool determined to believe a lie.” Please note in repartees with local writers I never profess 2 plus 2 equals anything, just that 2 plus 2 does not equal 5. So many political party supporters are intent on believing anything the party says. See my post about “Tribe over Truth”. An additional point is to reveal, slyly, not everybody you disagree with is wrong all the time. You agree?

But, alas, it is the fate of a semi-professional Devil’s Advocate and self-appointed Fact Watcher to learn there will always be a part of society unfazed by brilliant and cohesive skewering of a particular viewpoint. ((I honor myself un-humbly(sic), with the previous statement and arbitrarily assign myself the role of Twain in 2025. Just for this day, I promise.)) These “skewerings” are not meant to denigrate anyone or any viewpoint, but professional political statements from professional politicians are getting comical, as each one tries to satisfy what they think their tribe/party needs to hear the professional politicians say. (Hope you get the sublte, sophisticated, elitist sarcasm in the repetition of a phrase.)

This “adherence” to party dogma and debate (alliteration) leads to this post’s final Twain quote:

“It’s easier to fool people than convince them they are being fooled.”

Final declaration: Professional Politicians (Again?) have always tried to fool the voting public. Most of them do it on the fly, reacting to polling, upcoming elections, or current events. But some do it on purpose with carefully designed and artfully thought-out schemes, often involving years of planning and manipulation.

Which type did YOU vote for?

The Dawn of Man was when, again?

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Do NOT Ai (google) “The Dawn Of* Man”. The result isn’t pornographic or even humorous. Just lengthy. The exact time man “dawned” will never be known but it is fun to think about. Sometime in the past, somewhere where there were no cell phones, a hominoid stood up and said, in caveman language, “I am man.” It’s been a wild ride since. This post has elected to use “Man” as an asexual generic term referring to whatever it was(sic*) we were back in those days. Until fig leaves were found, we probably all looked similarly potato-ish* and hairy, until certain times when nature ordered us to procreate in the most attractive ways.

The idea of The Dawn of Man came up during a conversation with a friend of mine named Al. (Sidebar: the lowercase L and upper case I look the same on my qwerty. From now on Artificial Intelligence will be Ai, with a dotted “i”. Fixing first sentence, now.) Al’s name may or may not be his real name, but any friends reading this will know who he is. Al declined to engage in trying to imagine the time in history when we changed from walking hominoids closely resembling apes, to the eventual rulers/polluters of the world. His point is, well, he doesn’t have a point except that it’s a fruitless exercise and a native-born North Carolinian does not engage in fruitless exercises. When the Civil War was carelessly mentioned, he went off script, anyway, meandering around the Northern War of Aggression he still mentally fights to this day. His only contribution to my inquiry was to tell me he had to air fry some chicken, but then changed his mind to soup, adding “No one is ever going to know, anyway.”

The picture in my head of air frying soup lasted only a moment and the question of when man knew he was The Man, returned. Religion answers the question nicely, with titillating pics of Adam and Eve eyeing each other over a ripe apple. I can believe that because if God wanted it to be that way, that’s the way it would be. But I’m not sure God was that specific, in the early days. My guess is He was trying things out, seeing how they worked. Following this line of thought it’s easy to imagine Him looking at these two particular Hominoids* and saying “Yes, that’s it.” Then, maybe, a bolt of lightning into each brain and—voila—mankind is ready for dawning.

But the Robin Williams comedy lover in me sees a different scenario and it may not be that far from the truth. One hominoid kills a wooly mammoth in the middle of the summer with some shale-tipped spears and reckless abandon. He/She/Them knows the summer sun will rot the meat and comes up with the second, original idea: “I can’t eat all this today.”  He/She/Them thought this, of course, since there was no language and he/she/them had a third idea: “Give some to the others.” But how to express any of these thoughts? (PS the slate tipped spear was the first idea.) It’s my postulation that Sign Language was the first form of communication. Imagine our suddenly smart hominoid running back to the others and dragging them by the arm to the mammoth carcass. Mime may have been invented then, too. It makes sense. Our early ancestors were mimers.*

 We mark time in our history for those events we can chronicle and remember. How we got the ability to chronicle is the subject of many episodes of “Ancient Aliens”. But where the show sees alien encounters all around the world, the “evidence” is really proof of a higher power, a comprehensive, coordinated higher power. It feeds an often debunked but never forgotten evolutionary theory we are in an ant farm, and our lives are directed by the Ant Farm Owner. He/She/Them could make us do whatever he/she/them wants us to do. And somehow, they gave us just enough intelligence to contemplate free will versus fate. Genius.

So, the “Dawn of Man” is when we were dropped into the sand. And when we die (see last post) we get plucked out and thrown in the garbage bin. Unless our owner gives us a decent burial in a match box.

Make a movie about that, Stanley Kubrick.

Comments welcome, and sorry, Al for plopping your name in here.

         *Google grammar says all these are wrong. As if I care, anymore. I’m old.

Please. Stop.

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I’ve written before about the “fun” of local “Letters to the Editor” in my local paper. It was fun for several months, but then…eh..it’s been awhile.

The problem is lack of growth, lack of progress. Read any comment section and you see this scene play out: Original, breathless statement filled with adverbs, adjectives, and snarkiness. Followed by breathless comments filled with adverbs, adjectives and snarkiness. Followed by more…snarkiness. (my grammar editor is “flagging” snarkiness as not spelled correctly. He/She/Them/It is wrong. Google it, yourself, and I’ve amended the grammar police’s dictionary. Oddballs.)

Maybe it is too much to expect immediate change in the tone and structure of public discourse, but is it that hard for people to see what I see? If you were asked for the sum of 2 plus 3 and answered 6, how many times would you do that before you wondered why people were correcting you, and gave a different, perhaps correct answer. (Hopefully, there is no undiscovered ethnic group/tribe where 2 pls 3 does equal 6.) Math is easy to see, isn’t it?

Past columns have talked about “Critical Thinking” (CT) and “Reading the Rome” (RR) and those expressed thoughts were not the work of a genius, or once-in-a-generation mind. (Unless you’d care to think of me that way. Your call.) They are the thoughts of an old man who paid attention. So, if all the writers and commentators are young, high school students, does the illogical repetitiveness of the stereotypical “Statement and Comments ad nauseum” (SCAN), indict our current educational systems? Yes. And the past systems. And the present systems. And commercial television. And contemporary music, And professional sports. And Capitalism. And the Free Market. Everything, Everywhere. All the time.

Huh. Finally. Nihilism explained. Maybe. Frederic Jacobi in the 18th century said Nihilism refuted the “belief in an unknowable true reality”. Uh-oh. No “true reality”? Sounds MAGAish but Nietzsche asked with God dead, where were we to find meaning in the world?

Okay, I’m off the google sidetrack, but it made clear the need for a True Reality. Trump and many others say January 6th was a kind of patriotic “celebration”. Others say it was an insurrection. All that is true, now, as the farther—in time—we get from 1/6/2021 the “less true” that day’s reality will be for both sides. Why?

As Americans we face constant MANIPULATION. Advertising. Politics. Societal norms. Rock stars have known thins for years and made a living singing about fighting it. “Another Brick in The Wall”, by Pink Floyd. “Monster” by Steppenwolf. “For What It’s Worth”, by Buffalo Springfield. In fact, find this song on YouTube from the late 60s. It clearly and precisely represents the entire point of this post. What does it say about us that a song from 1966 identifies our 2025 problems? I’m dropping the mic.

A nice thing about aging is the natural shedding of concerns for anything but our own medical and financial condition. It’s not up to the old people to save the world, we won’t be around long enough.

A bad thing about aging is the recognition nothing has changed. And sadly, may never change.

Music, again, and Jackson Browne in 1971:

“Oh, people, look around you the signs are everywhere. You’ve left it for somebody other than you to be the one to care.”

Another thing learned as an old man, the good we do and the things we learn in our youth fade with age, and there is no guarantee any following generation will feel the same. All empires decline and fall.

In reflection, this post reminds me of a recent medical test. The test is 90 per cent accurate reading negative results, but its positive results are only correct 50 per cent of the time.

Feels like symbolism for something, but it’s nap time, so…

Pets and Grief…maybe

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I can sunbathe from my second-floor balcony. I have not had a pet in over 14 months.

You may take a few minutes to try in–your own mind–to make a nice, human story from those two statements.

Okay. Times up. When sunbathing, I am not afraid to show my aging body but aware there may be some weak stomachs if too much skin is made available for public viewing. Fortunately, the sun shines into my apartment from the balcony at certain times of the day so there is a way to be secretly nudish (sic), appreciate the sun, and ensure innocent eyes don’t suffer retinal damage: keeping my balcony door open.

Sidebar: For the thirteen months I’ve inhabited a second-floor loft in Rome, NY, not one bug has been noticed at, near, or in my apartment. They do not even bang against the large windows or get caught in the screens, even when the windows are open and allow a beautifully breezy flow of clear, clean, upstate NY air. It is welcome relief from the south where bugs are frequently co-habitants and often big enough to be paying rent. An open window in the south is an invitation for a collection of creatures wondering if they can enter, and they often do, somehow. And in shifts with night-time arthropods arriving after the daytime hexapods retire after a long day. The arachnids (spiders) were welcomed, however, and their full webs were applauded each morning, until one decided–without invitation–to be a house pet. And one morning there was a praying mantis trying to unlock my car door, True story, he/she was huge.

So. One beautiful, unexpected spring day while sunbathing with the balcony door open and my physical form hidden from prying eyes (you know who you are!), it was with little fanfare and–certainly no invitation–that a big, fat fly buzzed into the apartment, zooming right over my astonished head and off into the very bowels of the previously insect free living space. You all know how they buzz, letting you know they are there, somewhere you can’t find them. Somewhere they are secretly doing what they do. Flies. Annoying little basta%$#s.

He/She/It was fat and fast, buzzing and zooming all over, but never back through the conveniently open balcony door. I chased It with a book, a broom, a towel, and eventually sat, exhausted, in the chair after an hour of high-level, video-game pursuit.

And it landed in my lap. I struck my lap hard with the palm of my hand as It flitted away, back to the kitchen area. It was during the ensuing respite from humiliation and physical exertion that I ruminated on the fact my solitary existence in the apartment was often a cause for loneliness as my dog, Charlie, and cat Maxine, were left behind in North Carolina, The Calamities making me unfit to be the animals’ parents until such time as chasing after them was a possibility. (But I could still type a long sentence.) Missed were the big, brown, loving eyes, of Charlie and the baleful stare of Maxine as she struggled with how to do away with me and still get fed. Like most pet owners, what is missed the most is talking with them. Just knowing they are there.

Long story short, I adopted the big, fat, uninvited fly as my new pet. I decided he was a male, but did not do any research to corroborate the fact. How would one do that, anyway? (google: do flies have sex.) Naming him was easy: Jeff, after Jeff Goldblum, the actor in the 1986 science fiction classic film “The Fly”. Technically, Mr. Goldblum’s first name is Jeffrey, so Jeffrey became my new pet. Not only did I talk to Jeffrey but I’m sure he talked back, in his own way. For example, he frequently joined me in the bathroom when I did my ablutions, keeping a discreet distance while resting in the tub, waiting. We played together, too, chasing each other around the apartment. Google the song “My Best Friend” by Harry Nillsson for an example of how close a man and his fly can become.

Sadly, when this story was told to local human friends, they all said the same thing: “Don’t ever tell anyone else this story.”

So here it is, in its mostly true form.

Epilogue: Our friendship lasted several warm, spring days, but when it got cooler things changed. Jeffrey was indifferent, lackadaisical and didn’t want to play anymore. One afternoon upon returning from an appointment, my opening of the apartment door revealed Jeffrey on his back on my kitchen counter, all six legs pointing to the ceiling. Even in the end he was considerate, dying in plain sight and easily brushed into the garbage. He’d given me the best of his 15-30 days on this earth. Oddly, the same friends who warned me about telling this story upbraided me for unceremoniously disposing of him. Was I supposed to give Jeffrey a funeral?

He was just a fly.

An Open Letter to Old Fuddie Duddies, you know who you are…

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As my life has progressed, so has my knowledge and use of modern technology. It doesn’t mean I’m keeping up, just not far behind. You can imagine my surprise when old friends and new friends huff and puff about using new technology. This post will be about modern stuff young people know already, and have probably moved on from, so if you’re tech savvy (any age), don’t read any farther. You’ll be bored.

Computers, laptops and cell phones entered my life in the early 80’s and 90’s and most of my cohorts are reasonably up to a slow speed with them. Reasonably. Many still use checks and check books and balance their accounts every month. I’ve given up arguing, debating, and teaching the merits of on-line banking, bill paying, and account maintenance. It isn’t that the ship has sailed, it never even got out of the dock. If you are my age and wondering what the hell I’m talking about, ask a grandchild. Or someone else’s grandchild. Don’t bother me. Benefits? See your account activity every day, not 30 days later when your statement posts and you sit down with your calculator, check book, and mailed, printed statement. Balancing or reconciling a checkbook, monthly, is an avoidable, self-inflicted torture–by the way–some seem to enjoy…so there is that aspect to consider.

Bonus sidebar: How many of you old couples still use two (or more) checkbooks for one account? A man once told he had three: one for him, one for her, and one for the “house” to keep track. Beside the possible S and M angle (google it), maybe those monthly account balancings (sic) helped keep them together? Again, don’t ask a man thrice divorced and recently dumped.

          In 1960 when kids like you know who wanted to get a local baseball game together, we called a house phone. If someone answered, gold! As long as it wasn’t answered by a teen-aged girl waiting for a certain boy to call. If no one answered, you kept trying. Imagine getting 10 kids together for a game (we only used half the field). I cannot remember when answering machines came out, but I do remember getting my first cell phone in the mid-90’s about 5 years after a good friend got a car phone. Even then most calls still went to a “House Phone”. Car phones didn’t last long but then the cells hit and we all had them. Now calls went to the person holding the phone, still never certain of the message getting through but at least progress. Then, voice mail, group phone calls, etc.

          The next big leap was texting. Most old people are still confused about all the phones can do, but texting should be easy. It is a combination of mailing, calling, emailing and smoke signaling, all of which can be used for effective communication: effortlessly thanking distant relatives, asking out a possible mate, and getting 10 old men together for whatever it is ten old men could do. Not only does the sender get control of the message (I sent it to you hours ago. Must be glitch.) the receiver does, too. (I didn’t get your text. Must be a glitch.) Imagine both excuses happening on the same text. It’s possible. Maybe everybody’s not happy, but at least they aren’t mad. Some tried, right? Why can’t old people see how great this form of communication is? And learn to use it? Oh, and you can send a text, any time, like when you want to tell someone something but don’t want to talk with them. Early morning, around 3am is the best time for that particular text. They won’t be up for a phone call, and the text might wake them up, a bonus. Genius.

          The best modern technology to keep up with is music. I’ve spoken before of the records, 8-tracks, cassettes, and CD’s of the past, and how ear buds have revolutionized the way we can hear music as loud as we want without upsetting uptight neighbors. For anyone reading this older than me, I just found—online–and listened to a 1943 live recording of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” by The Andrews Sisters. The miracle of modern technology isn’t just the access to centuries of music, but the quality of the music, as well. A past post mentioned Jackson Browne and how the vinyl, monaural records of the past have been “digitalized” (read: fixed) and everything can be heard, now, not just the singer and lead guitar. As a single man living alone with slight disabilities, my indoor activities are often accompanied by a soundtrack no one else can hear…or complain about. Try Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks” at 11 on your stereo, then add ear buds. Write back to me about who was happier, you or the people in your vicinity. Of, course, they might be Zep fans, so, be ready to share, or explain. Learn to text, old people. Please.

          Yes, I should be listening to “The Great Courses of Mankind”. FYI: I’ve penciled them in for my next hip replacement when I won’t be able to dance for a month.

Personal Things. Look Away, if you can

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Older friends have been lamenting being older. Whenever I’m around these conversations…well…

But you can’t change life simply by ignoring it. It is true we change as we age. And especially if we want the impossible: to be left alone and never grow old.

Sadly, the only solution is to not be around “older friends.”

But younger friends…well…

This past Easter was spent with family around the table. Not one was within 20 years of my age. Conversations swirled around things and ideas I’d either never heard of or heard of over 50 years ago. The constant juxtaposition was astounding. It created a hole in the fabric of conversational time where my contributions appeared irrelevant, meaningless, unimportant, and so, unspoken. It was as if there was nothing to offer.

But…so what?

As a young man I never thought I was the center of the universe, but I did matter. Life progressed, things happened, and then life started to wind down. As the “winding down” happened, life was adjusted, tweaked, re-defined, but in small increments. It was healthy, like eating broccoli in small bites. Anywhere the body was, the body adjusted and found ways to exist with some measure of happiness. Purpose, fate, bad luck, God, none of it was ever questioned for a purpose or an expected explanation. The main reason for the acceptance of change was there was lots more time to live, lots more to accept, lots more to adjust to…years more opportunity for hope and improvement.

So, imagine the surprise when you suddenly realize there is no longer “lots more time to live”.

This isn’t about death. For us as young people, death is a far-off rumor with an import never understood until you can figuratively see the whites of its eyes, and the realization it is inevitable takes a little of the sting out of the realization it might be here. And we hope it’s happening is a peaceful event.

But…does it sound like fun wondering if Age-Related Macular Degeneration (AMD) will eventually make you blind and unable to curse the Yankees? Or if a small muscle in the anus (the sphincter) will stop working and make diapers a part of your old age fashion? Is “dribbling” in your future? (Look it up, but for the “non-sports” definition.) Will the bad kind of plaque (Oxford’s good definition: “an ornamental tablet, fixed to a wall in commemoration of a person or event.”) render all these worries moot? Cognitive impairment: a blessing in disguise? Who knew? Even worse, under a certain age who ever thought about it?

Death, then, is not feared as much as slowly, incrementally, dying.

As young people we may have accepted the inevitability of death, but did anything or anyone ever prepare us for the inevitability of “dying”, losing parts of ourselves as if on some sinister, sad, stupid schedule? And without “lots more time to live”?

Give me death when it’s my time but please, fate, stop chipping away at life. I’ll die in peace, without complaint, if God will let me, but if there are other plans, that “schedule”…I’d rather not know.

Crap. That means avoiding old folks who want to talk about it.

Eh. I can live with it. At least until the damn beta-amyloid builds up.**

** Hope you researched the correct “plaque”.

Trump! A little…

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It’s been a while since Trump soiled this spot. I’ve learned to ignore his frantic actions and words, but there is one last thing to say. Or add: he is the most insecure politician, ever. God knows why, but he needs unfettered affirmation from the press, his fans, and the American citizens. Ass kissing is a better description. Thank God, for Fox News personnel. But lately, wow, it’s gone to a new level. In his first term he made a mistake and put people in place smarter than him. He learned and now the only requirement to become a Trump Administration official is how plump you can pucker your lips to kiss his “224” pound butt. And he has physically surrounded himself with gold knick-knacks borrowed from his unlimited supply of shiny bits and bobs probably filling every corner of Mar A Lago. This particular activity should put to rest his “blue collar, working man” appeal. The saddest part is the loss of teamwork. Past presidents may have had some “yes men and women”, but those presidents had enough faith in themselves to listen to others…and learn. Think of the manager of a baseball team not wanting anyone on his team who was a better player than the manager. That’s the Trump Team, these days. If Trump were truly a genius (or a good baseball player), it might work, but he isn’t. The question of the century: how long is it going to take America to see the Emperor has no clothes? (If you are young and wondering “what the heck?” Google it.)

Eh, the Trump part went a little longer, sorry. But…America better wake up and wake up soon. Again, sorry.

I’m contemplating living arrangements…for the rest of my life. The Calamities of 2023 had me wondering if I’d ever see 2025, but, now, all is well. Back to as “near normal” as any 73-year-old cancer survivor can be. My North Carolina home, if I haven’t mentioned it, was sold by my ex-girlfriend last fall as I, in NY, pondered how much longer I might live. She took all the money and the pets and fled to California, out of reach.

So. I’ll be 73 in 2 months, homeless**, alone, and making a decision which would be so much fun if I were in my 40’s. Or 50’s. Anything but 70’s. A small bank account gives me enough flexibility to be free and make any choice…as long as it fits the budget.

North Carolina calls with its temperate weather and many friends willing to put up with me. Florida beckons, as well, with communities loaded with potential new friends. And I have always loved California. For one thing, it is a big enough state for two exes. New York is attempting to sway me, too, with a 60-degree sunny day today, not knowing I have already discovered the weather forecast and snow will be in the air later this week. In Mid-April. NY you never had a chance.

The saddest part is the lack of a partner. There is a point in even a loner/misanthrope’s life where the utility of a loving life partner makes sense. Someone to get the sliver out of the bottom of your foot. Someone to complain to who knows you’re not really complaining. It’s possible to find another, but it will take time to rebuild the rich history the dance of life rewards long-partners with, and there might not be enough time. Odd, but even as a young person there was never a “guarantee” of “enough time”, a thought never even considered in decades past. As young people, we never doubted there would be enough. Now, that time is a blessing, appreciated.

Life Partner? I was just interrupted by a text message. In reading it, the other messages on my text log were at my fingertips. Almost all were from medical personnel or offices. It looked so sad. Looks like the only people who message me are the ones who get paid…

Ah, it’s not that bad. As noted, it is a beautiful spring day. Driving to my work-out this morning, I even complained about “side-face glare” from the sun. It was inescapable. As if it knew every angle to get around visors, sunglasses, body parts, and car-body frames. After inventing new swear words and cursing the low-horizon, hydrogen-burning, retina-searing, center of our universe, the humor hit: hating winter but complaining about side face glare.

Isn’t life wonderful?

**Sorry for the clunky phrasing. I am not without a place to live, I am with out a home: my own, owned, truly mine, home. I rent. Using a hyphen (home-less) might have made more of a mess. Hyphens always do, those little bastards.

Death? Again? Noooo….

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I’m having lots of trouble sleeping. You? The mind races with thoughts about SAD, Trump, America, Social Security, Medicare, apartments, homes, health, and an ex-girlfriend whose hurtful actions can’t be forgiven

At age 73, shouldn’t another word be on that list?

As my mind raced last night that word popped into my head: Death. Wide awake and ruminating away about everything except…death (small d, this time, see the difference?).

The realization mortality was not part of my late night consternation festival kind of made me happy. Maybe, pleased with myself is a better description. Death is a constant companion in old age. When the news reports an actor’s death at 69, or the retired sports star’s life ends at 72, one can not help but think he, me, is lucky to be able to hear the news. Going to bed isn’t accompanied by the hope of waking up alive, but it is a subtext, especially if dying in your sleep is your preferred method of reaching the afterlife.

Sidebar: All morning a thought from last night has been escaping me. An important thought, I thought, but obviously not important enough for me to get out of bed and write it down. In the above paragraph it revealed itself, so I’ll share, plus many thanks to my slowing brain for not deleting the idea and making me work for it. The thought: When you die in your sleep, do you know you’re dying? Or is death just an eternal extension of sleep? Imagine being shot or stabbed, or suffering from a mortal illness. You spend at least a few moments knowing it is the end, don’t you? You may even spend minutes, hours, or days getting ready for the final breath…wishing things were different.

After reading the sidebar, it appears Death/death did enter nighttime, cranial ramblings, albeit, in a Dr. Steven Wright kind of way.

Of course, the whole point of this essay is how funny the mind works so this writing can be accepted as cogent.

Okay, I agree with myself except for the fact “cogent” refers to a well-stated “argument or case, one that is clear, logical and convincing.” So says the Oxford people. But I just read back through this jumble and can’t see anywhere a “case” or “argument” has been made.  For or against anything. Does that make the entire exercise pointless?

Let’s go with a “yes”, because an answer makes a case, makes an argument, and my inability to focus and write an essay sensible and informative suddenly becomes indisputable. I knock over your King.

With a re-read and hindsight, this gibberish fits the style of our modern news, anyway. I’m topical!

And relevant.

The real villain is SAD. “Seasonal Affective Disorder” is a real thing. A long, never-ending winter in Upstate New York is the cause. It’s been over 20 years since my life was “snowed under” by weather that saps the soul, steals the “joie de vive”, and makes an Independent Liberal long for Florida.

It won’t happen again.

Somethings I Wonder About….

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Why on God’s green earth aren’t there more days like the ones in late March or early April when the sun comes out, the sky is blue, the weather warm, and the world is full of promise? God KNOWS, we could use them. Italics mine and on purpose. The squeaky wheel gets greased.

My weekly surrender of $5 to the insidious, flinty one-armed-bandits at Turning Stone Resort and Casino didn’t work out the way Casino management planned, this morning. I put my $5 bill in the slot, played my 40 cent bet,…and the machine exploded! When the dust cleared and sirens stopped, I’d won a total of $9.50. I cashed out my $14.50 and went to breakfast at Emerald in the casino. It didn’t ruin my morning, but the price of the NY Cheese and 3 Egg Omelet was no longer last week’s $12. It is now $15.12 cents with tax. Yes, I tipped well and the day is still the best one of the year…so far. A related, no-criticizing question: when will the price of eggs go down?

It is apparent the body is affected by weather, and as noted in the first paragraph, this morning is a good morning. The 72 going on 73 year old aches and pains accepted daily as a fact of life overslept this morning. They didn’t show up for work. It is always wonderful when days like this happen. Knock on wood so it lasts all day.

As a young man I chased a romantic ideal probably consistent with most young man. The result was several close calls but nothing like The Ideal. And, as with most young men, the “ideal” changed through the years so what I might like to find now, in a partner bears no resemblance to the younger hope. Please note we are not talking simply physical ideals. It was an early lesson learned that packaging is only part of the person. Do women learn the same lesson? Anyway, the thing generating wonder, here, is the thought of how many of the young who fell short of the young Ideal, would be perfect for the new, older Ideal. To put it another way: did the quest for an ideal at 20 lead me to pass by the one who would have been ideal at 72? The first thought is yes, and it makes me want to apologize to certain females. Sadly, some might not be alive. If a second thought surfaces, I’ll let you know.

There was a beautiful, little movie on TV yesterday called “77 Chances”. DirectTV has replaced YouTube TV as my main TV content provider and I was checking out the channels. My water glass needed filling while passing a “Christian” themed station, and the movie hooked me before I could change the channel. Look it up. It’s about “point of view”, mainly, and the movie made me a little happier for the time spent with it. No guns. No Ninjas. No heroes. Just people. Of note, if it matters, it is low budget, in a good way.

And that leads into the concept of heroes and the modern, American male/hero. I’ve said so often the MAGA movement is about insecurity, and we see it every day with the whining and blaming and spite suddenly integral parts of our governmental discourse. Long story shortened: there are many heroes on TV these days who are not insecure, who can take criticism without firing a shot, and who never lose confidence in doing what is right instead of just talking about it. John Wick. Longmire. Raylan Givens.  Edward Horniman. Colter Shaw. Heroes with empathy, not insecurity. Not sure about the actors, but kudos to the writers and actors for stylish, intelligent, charismatic, likable action figures.

Nap time…perchance to dream…