Dark Silence in Suburbia.
Every day I inch closer to realizing our dream.
Hemingway once wrote, "Courage is grace under pressure." Many people believe we only show it in the face of fear or danger, but bravery isn't reserved for those who rush into burning buildings. Bravery also involves putting yourself out there as an artist.
To sit in front of my laptop and bleed my heart out night after night, to become a voice for those that aren't heard or can't speak.
Before the new decade arrives, I take a moment to reflect on how much we've already accomplished, readying myself for the victories that lie ahead, remembering the support I have received every step of the way.
So I must thank you, Tisha Garcia, for all that you have done.
You will always be my best friend, now and forever...
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
Saturday, December 28, 2019
Boredom Takeover
A-ha! Just what I predicted. It's been a whole month since my last entry. That's the length of time I've gone through where the days blended into one another. Aside from the holidays, I've been working every day with Ronald Beetsel. That's not his real name, but it's close enough. (Future Dave: Are you able to recall his actual name?). Every morning I open his door with a key I pry out of a lock box. I always seem to have to deal with them during the winter time, and have been known to give them good kicks with the bottom of my foot, because they were frozen shut. Not the best technology in the world, but his seems to open up just fine. At the door, I'm greeted by Oreo, his fat German Shepherd. The first time I came upon here, she barked and I thought, "Hmm. It's been a while since I've had to deal with a dog this size. I'm new to her. One wrong move and she could bite my face off." We're pals now and she likes when I scratch right in that soft divot of her ear. Her eyes glaze over and she has that far away look of pleasure. Poor thing is always itching. I asked Ron when was the last time she had a bath, and he said, "Never." I pointed out she's always in the mud and quite dirty, and he went to start a sentence, but then he got to thinking.
Two months ago when JayDee died, I didn't know I would be working forty hours at another guy's house. I guess things could be worse. Lately I pour Ron a glass of OJ, set out his morning meds, place a banana neatly on the table and watch as he chokes down ClearLax with his juice. I'm usually not awake and can only muster questions like, "How'd you sleep last night?" Ron makes an effort to talk, but once apologized to me for being boring. During our getting-to-know-you phase, I simply brushed him off. "NooooOOOooo. You're not boring! We've got plenty to talk about!" That was when I was only seeing him two days a week. Not that his previous caregiver is gone, I have him guaranteed for at least five days a week, and I came to a realization: he is boring and we've already run out of things to talk about. Often time I never waver in my devotion to come up with something to talk about, but I just can't be bothered. The realization that he is boring hit me like a ton of bricks yesterday. I shouldn't complain; when he doesn't need me to drive him to the bank, we spend most of the day watching old Westerns like Bonanza and the Rifleman. I used to sit in his faux leather recliner all attentive and loyal, watching even the commercials with an unbroken gaze just in case he has something to say about the Medicare ads or side effects to a new medication. The honeymoon is over, and now I catch up on my New Yorker magazines, because hey... time on this earth is limited.
Most of our breakfasts are at the Country Dell, and Ron is kind enough to treat every time. Once we went to the WaWa and I bought him breakfast. I really don't wanna' feel like money comes between us, especially considering that at heart Ron's a decent blue collar guy who worked his ass off for retirement. Then again, that was back when people were given pensions, something most of us working stiffs have no clue about. I'd love to know how he's turning 85 next week. He eats large breakfasts every day, and probably has for decades. The IHOP might be slipping in sales, but it's only because Ron doesn't eat there. He's a regular at the Country Dell, and everyone - servers and customers alike - knows his name. It's probably a tradition he and his wife enjoyed before she passed away. Ron is about 5'10", but all his shirts are 2XL. His belly is large and round, and reminds me of a bloated tick. Poor guy still is able to rock his way up and out of a chair, but I'm not sure how much longer that will last, and that means it'll be me who will be expending the discs in my vertebrae.
Two months ago when JayDee died, I didn't know I would be working forty hours at another guy's house. I guess things could be worse. Lately I pour Ron a glass of OJ, set out his morning meds, place a banana neatly on the table and watch as he chokes down ClearLax with his juice. I'm usually not awake and can only muster questions like, "How'd you sleep last night?" Ron makes an effort to talk, but once apologized to me for being boring. During our getting-to-know-you phase, I simply brushed him off. "NooooOOOooo. You're not boring! We've got plenty to talk about!" That was when I was only seeing him two days a week. Not that his previous caregiver is gone, I have him guaranteed for at least five days a week, and I came to a realization: he is boring and we've already run out of things to talk about. Often time I never waver in my devotion to come up with something to talk about, but I just can't be bothered. The realization that he is boring hit me like a ton of bricks yesterday. I shouldn't complain; when he doesn't need me to drive him to the bank, we spend most of the day watching old Westerns like Bonanza and the Rifleman. I used to sit in his faux leather recliner all attentive and loyal, watching even the commercials with an unbroken gaze just in case he has something to say about the Medicare ads or side effects to a new medication. The honeymoon is over, and now I catch up on my New Yorker magazines, because hey... time on this earth is limited.
Most of our breakfasts are at the Country Dell, and Ron is kind enough to treat every time. Once we went to the WaWa and I bought him breakfast. I really don't wanna' feel like money comes between us, especially considering that at heart Ron's a decent blue collar guy who worked his ass off for retirement. Then again, that was back when people were given pensions, something most of us working stiffs have no clue about. I'd love to know how he's turning 85 next week. He eats large breakfasts every day, and probably has for decades. The IHOP might be slipping in sales, but it's only because Ron doesn't eat there. He's a regular at the Country Dell, and everyone - servers and customers alike - knows his name. It's probably a tradition he and his wife enjoyed before she passed away. Ron is about 5'10", but all his shirts are 2XL. His belly is large and round, and reminds me of a bloated tick. Poor guy still is able to rock his way up and out of a chair, but I'm not sure how much longer that will last, and that means it'll be me who will be expending the discs in my vertebrae.
Sunday, December 1, 2019
Jim Takes A Driving Test
11/30/19
We all basically live in a self-contained sitcom. We know from life that people don’t change,
and if they do change, they change incredibly slowly, over the decades. The tragedy is, we know that’s how life
works. People are going to keep making
the same mistakes. People don’t act out
of character. People don’t go on a journey,
and people don’t change. Even if there is a major change, we all tend to ask,
“Well, how long will this last?”
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
Missing Out On Something Big
11/25/19
Cocaethylene is what forms in the body when somebody ingests cocaine and alcohol. Cocaethylene works like cocaine, but with more euphoria.
A snapshot of America after the Civil War involves an uptick in morphine addicts, one of whom was Dr. John Stith Pemberton of Atlanta. In the late 1800s, he learned about wines rife with coca that were doing gangbusters, some of which were "wonderful invigorators of the sexual organs." He made his own French Wine Coca until a prohibition was passed in his county. His product became illegal - not because of the cocaine - but because of the alcohol.
Not to be deterred, he replaced the wine in the formula with sugary syrup and by 1886 he debuted his new product: "Coca-Cola: The temperance drink." It quickly caught on as an 'intellectual beverage" among well-off whites. But when the company started selling it in bottles in 1899, minorities who couldn't get into segregated soda fountains suddenly had access to it. Anyone with a nickel, black or white, was now privy to the cocaine-infused beverage. But middle-class whites, those affable goofballs, blamed soft drinks for the exploding cocaine use in African Americans. Southern newspapers super-casually spoke of "negro cocaine fiends" raping white women, with a police force that was powerless to stop them. By 1903, the manager of Coca-Cola, Asa Griggs, bowed to white fears and removed cocaine from his product, instead replacing it with (safer amounts?) of more sugar and caffeine. Cocaine wasn't even officially illegal until 1914. Then came the bursts of applause, not because everyone's physical health concerns were addressed, but because something was done about all that white girl raping. Social effects shaped the discussion; this skittering from black hypersexuality added to cocaine's bigoted indictment.
In 1910, U.S. State Department official Dr. Hamilton Wright said, "The use of cocaine by the negroes of the South is one of the most elusive and troublesome questions which confront the enforcement of law... often the direct incentive to the crime of rape by the negroes."
Four years later, Dr. Edward Williams wrote in the Medical Standard that "... the negro who has become a cocaine-doper is a constant menace to his community. His whole nature is changed for the worse... timid negroes develop a degree of 'Dutch courage,' which is sometimes incredible.
All this talk about how people used the word 'negroes' makes me very uncomfortable, along with blaming many of society's ills on skin color. People were really terrible to each other back then, and not much has changed. The awful wretch of orange dung we have (barely) serving as president eagerly extends this idea of scapegoating by calling the people of Mexico "criminals" and "rapists." It's downright amazing that human beings still can't embrace our differences while working to lift one another up. It suggests the world is lazy and continues to favor ignorance instead of making the effort to focus on good and decent guiding principles and teaching objectivity.
Why does the sun go on shining?
Why does the sea rush to shore?
Don't they know it's the end of the world?
'Cause we don't love each other anymore...
My research on cocaine and caffeine led me down this rabbit hole, but the main reason I'm here is because of its effect on my health. The Coca-Cola we know today still contains coca, but the ecgonine alkaloid has been removed. Perfecting that extraction happened in 1929, so before that there were still trace amounts of coca's psychoactive elements in the product. The extraction is now done at a New Jersey chemical processing plant by a company called Stepan. They refer to the coca leaf extract simply as "Merchandise No. 5." Given all the pill-heads in the tri-state area, it's no wonder the facility is guarded.
It's clear that Coca Cola is still addictive. When you stop like I have, you get the feeling you're an addict, always thinking about Coke, always craving it. Order a pizza? You need to wash it down with a 2-liter bottle. Yearnings are not always expressible in language. There's always that tug. Is it the sugar? Is it the caffeine? Are there still some scant remnants of the coca leaf still lingering? Or some combination of all three? I sputtered through all of my twenties without having even having a single drop. I viewed the stuff as vile. It wasn't until I went to medical school at thirty when I became glued to the stuff. It began abruptly, like some of my fellow students who faced the stress of becoming a doctor and then suddenly took up smoking. Even then, I tried to limit my intake - no more than one can per day. Then I fell in love with iced tea. Arizona iced tea for 99 cents, Swiss Farms, WaWa, SNAPPLE. I couldn't get enough of the stuff. My mother makes her own iced tea, which I poured over ice cubes covered in table sugar for the perfect amount of sweetness. I drank it by the gallon... until I noticed by heart rate was through the roof. I learned of xanthines in school and their relation to caffeine.
Changes in blood pressure for people not in emergencies rarely have discreet beginnings or endings; it's a gradual insidious process. Having a healthy blood pressure at around 120/80 is by now well known, and I wore it like a badge. It was only around 2010 that I went in for my annual physical when I first noticed that it was headed into the stratosphere. Worse still, my pulse was bounding, speeding. My primary care doctor rested his fingertip on my radial artery, and I watched as his eyes grew wide.
"Are you feeling nervous?"
"Um... no. I feel pretty good right now."
"Did you jog here?"
(*laughs) "No. I don't jog anywhere. I hate the stuff."
His questions were both funny and disquieting, because I knew something was wrong. I told him about the palpitations in my chest - how randomly my heart would slip into and out of them. Sometimes I'd get heavy knocking under my sternum, like a THOOM! THOOM! THOOM! and then it would subside. Other times, I'd feel my heart moving around like a fetus in the womb, followed by a squirting PWOOSH!
"Arrhythmias, too," I added.
The full weight of mortality was revealed in that visit. He had me do a cardiac stress test (sound medical advice) and he wanted to get me to get on beta-blockers (Ew! NO). I said let's wait and see on the latter. I knew all this iced tea and coca cola were the root cause. Stimulants are bad. I spent the next two weeks laying off and with that came a drop in my symptoms. Thinking I had put enough distance from my iced tea intake and its cessation, I had a cup of green tea, and guess what? The problems returned. I compensated by taking deep breaths. If my cardiac tissue is going to act up, I'm gonna make sure it's at least well-oxygenated.
TWOOM! TWOOM! PWOOOOOOSH!
Now I'm watching out for other people. My mother's boyfriend, Brian, is a gym nut. Yet his blood pressure is creeping up at an alarming rate. When I asked if he drank coffee every day, he confirmed my suspicions. As a matter of fact, I'm willing to bet millions of coffee drinkers over the decades have high blood pressure, and just think it's all a part of growing old, when I'm pretty sure it's from long-term use. Just as Big Oil knew of climate change in the seventies but didn't say anything, the coffee industry knows about caffeine's effects on the heart. It's their dirty little secret, I'm sure. Compare it to, let's say the Mormons, who stay away from the junk and I'm willing to bet their heart health overall is a lot better than the coffee drinking population. Researchers? Have at it.
So I'm miserable. No longer can I indulge if I want to feel better. I'm drinking more water (which I'm sure has its own poisons, given that I live on the east coast).
That's me, the caffeine-doper, traipsing down the soda aisle, pointing to the caffeine-free Coke, my smile bittersweet and drearied by all things carbonated, counting the days when my blood pressure is back to normal... yet might it all not make me stronger? ?
P.S. The whole reason I didn't write about my day is because nothing of significance really happened. I went over to Ray's, we had breakfast, his daughter told me he likes me, I told her I liked him, then I went home an hour early to watch MJ do laundry. She was here for only an hour between her obscenely long shifts and then I watched Peep Show and an excellent movie called the Witch. I dozed off, but then stayed up until 4AM afterwards to explore my ideas on sugary drinks.
c'est ça!
Cocaethylene is what forms in the body when somebody ingests cocaine and alcohol. Cocaethylene works like cocaine, but with more euphoria.
A snapshot of America after the Civil War involves an uptick in morphine addicts, one of whom was Dr. John Stith Pemberton of Atlanta. In the late 1800s, he learned about wines rife with coca that were doing gangbusters, some of which were "wonderful invigorators of the sexual organs." He made his own French Wine Coca until a prohibition was passed in his county. His product became illegal - not because of the cocaine - but because of the alcohol.
Not to be deterred, he replaced the wine in the formula with sugary syrup and by 1886 he debuted his new product: "Coca-Cola: The temperance drink." It quickly caught on as an 'intellectual beverage" among well-off whites. But when the company started selling it in bottles in 1899, minorities who couldn't get into segregated soda fountains suddenly had access to it. Anyone with a nickel, black or white, was now privy to the cocaine-infused beverage. But middle-class whites, those affable goofballs, blamed soft drinks for the exploding cocaine use in African Americans. Southern newspapers super-casually spoke of "negro cocaine fiends" raping white women, with a police force that was powerless to stop them. By 1903, the manager of Coca-Cola, Asa Griggs, bowed to white fears and removed cocaine from his product, instead replacing it with (safer amounts?) of more sugar and caffeine. Cocaine wasn't even officially illegal until 1914. Then came the bursts of applause, not because everyone's physical health concerns were addressed, but because something was done about all that white girl raping. Social effects shaped the discussion; this skittering from black hypersexuality added to cocaine's bigoted indictment.
In 1910, U.S. State Department official Dr. Hamilton Wright said, "The use of cocaine by the negroes of the South is one of the most elusive and troublesome questions which confront the enforcement of law... often the direct incentive to the crime of rape by the negroes."
Four years later, Dr. Edward Williams wrote in the Medical Standard that "... the negro who has become a cocaine-doper is a constant menace to his community. His whole nature is changed for the worse... timid negroes develop a degree of 'Dutch courage,' which is sometimes incredible.
All this talk about how people used the word 'negroes' makes me very uncomfortable, along with blaming many of society's ills on skin color. People were really terrible to each other back then, and not much has changed. The awful wretch of orange dung we have (barely) serving as president eagerly extends this idea of scapegoating by calling the people of Mexico "criminals" and "rapists." It's downright amazing that human beings still can't embrace our differences while working to lift one another up. It suggests the world is lazy and continues to favor ignorance instead of making the effort to focus on good and decent guiding principles and teaching objectivity.
Why does the sun go on shining?
Why does the sea rush to shore?
Don't they know it's the end of the world?
'Cause we don't love each other anymore...
My research on cocaine and caffeine led me down this rabbit hole, but the main reason I'm here is because of its effect on my health. The Coca-Cola we know today still contains coca, but the ecgonine alkaloid has been removed. Perfecting that extraction happened in 1929, so before that there were still trace amounts of coca's psychoactive elements in the product. The extraction is now done at a New Jersey chemical processing plant by a company called Stepan. They refer to the coca leaf extract simply as "Merchandise No. 5." Given all the pill-heads in the tri-state area, it's no wonder the facility is guarded.
It's clear that Coca Cola is still addictive. When you stop like I have, you get the feeling you're an addict, always thinking about Coke, always craving it. Order a pizza? You need to wash it down with a 2-liter bottle. Yearnings are not always expressible in language. There's always that tug. Is it the sugar? Is it the caffeine? Are there still some scant remnants of the coca leaf still lingering? Or some combination of all three? I sputtered through all of my twenties without having even having a single drop. I viewed the stuff as vile. It wasn't until I went to medical school at thirty when I became glued to the stuff. It began abruptly, like some of my fellow students who faced the stress of becoming a doctor and then suddenly took up smoking. Even then, I tried to limit my intake - no more than one can per day. Then I fell in love with iced tea. Arizona iced tea for 99 cents, Swiss Farms, WaWa, SNAPPLE. I couldn't get enough of the stuff. My mother makes her own iced tea, which I poured over ice cubes covered in table sugar for the perfect amount of sweetness. I drank it by the gallon... until I noticed by heart rate was through the roof. I learned of xanthines in school and their relation to caffeine.
Changes in blood pressure for people not in emergencies rarely have discreet beginnings or endings; it's a gradual insidious process. Having a healthy blood pressure at around 120/80 is by now well known, and I wore it like a badge. It was only around 2010 that I went in for my annual physical when I first noticed that it was headed into the stratosphere. Worse still, my pulse was bounding, speeding. My primary care doctor rested his fingertip on my radial artery, and I watched as his eyes grew wide.
"Are you feeling nervous?"
"Um... no. I feel pretty good right now."
"Did you jog here?"
(*laughs) "No. I don't jog anywhere. I hate the stuff."
His questions were both funny and disquieting, because I knew something was wrong. I told him about the palpitations in my chest - how randomly my heart would slip into and out of them. Sometimes I'd get heavy knocking under my sternum, like a THOOM! THOOM! THOOM! and then it would subside. Other times, I'd feel my heart moving around like a fetus in the womb, followed by a squirting PWOOSH!
"Arrhythmias, too," I added.
The full weight of mortality was revealed in that visit. He had me do a cardiac stress test (sound medical advice) and he wanted to get me to get on beta-blockers (Ew! NO). I said let's wait and see on the latter. I knew all this iced tea and coca cola were the root cause. Stimulants are bad. I spent the next two weeks laying off and with that came a drop in my symptoms. Thinking I had put enough distance from my iced tea intake and its cessation, I had a cup of green tea, and guess what? The problems returned. I compensated by taking deep breaths. If my cardiac tissue is going to act up, I'm gonna make sure it's at least well-oxygenated.
TWOOM! TWOOM! PWOOOOOOSH!
Now I'm watching out for other people. My mother's boyfriend, Brian, is a gym nut. Yet his blood pressure is creeping up at an alarming rate. When I asked if he drank coffee every day, he confirmed my suspicions. As a matter of fact, I'm willing to bet millions of coffee drinkers over the decades have high blood pressure, and just think it's all a part of growing old, when I'm pretty sure it's from long-term use. Just as Big Oil knew of climate change in the seventies but didn't say anything, the coffee industry knows about caffeine's effects on the heart. It's their dirty little secret, I'm sure. Compare it to, let's say the Mormons, who stay away from the junk and I'm willing to bet their heart health overall is a lot better than the coffee drinking population. Researchers? Have at it.
So I'm miserable. No longer can I indulge if I want to feel better. I'm drinking more water (which I'm sure has its own poisons, given that I live on the east coast).
That's me, the caffeine-doper, traipsing down the soda aisle, pointing to the caffeine-free Coke, my smile bittersweet and drearied by all things carbonated, counting the days when my blood pressure is back to normal... yet might it all not make me stronger? ?
P.S. The whole reason I didn't write about my day is because nothing of significance really happened. I went over to Ray's, we had breakfast, his daughter told me he likes me, I told her I liked him, then I went home an hour early to watch MJ do laundry. She was here for only an hour between her obscenely long shifts and then I watched Peep Show and an excellent movie called the Witch. I dozed off, but then stayed up until 4AM afterwards to explore my ideas on sugary drinks.
c'est ça!
Sunday, November 24, 2019
Now We Shall Be Entirely Fed
When I woke up at 10AM this morning and saw the bleak light bleeding through the curtains, I knew it was going to be yet another cold and rainy day. Robins bounced around in the wet grass and fallen leaves for food, large drops of rain mixed with fluffy tufts of snow came down on my windshield in juicy splats, and MJ texted telling me that it was going to be so cloudy that I needed to turn on the sunlamps. The woman I am seeing has so many potted plants on our dining room table that I've dubbed the place Longwood Gardens II. I taught her about full-spectrum bulbs and even bought her a few, so now that's what's keeping our house green and lively.
Sometimes I go to work. Today I did not. Not as a caregiver. Evidently, old people discriminate against men and we are way short on hours. At any given time, my agency employs roughly 140 people, ten of which are men. Elderly men and women feel more comfortable with women, but for different reasons. Women believe other women are more nurturing and responsible, whereas men just want something pretty to look at. From their mouths to God's ears. Michael is one of those men, a fellow co-worker. I should know - I got him the job. Flags were lowered in honor of the prestigious careers we once had, and here we are. I don't really think about it much. Staying at this job gives me time to write.
So today I wanted to put my strategy of discipline to the test. The idea is to have no distractions. Turn off your phone, forget about getting the mail, screw watching TV, HULU and Netflix. Instead, set aside five solid hours sitting and looking at your laptop. No, not YouTube videos. Writing. Opening a WORD document and actually writing.
It would only irritate MJ to let her know of my new approach. She always wants me to leave my phone on in case she needed something, or if there was an emergency. Of course MJ contacted me wanting something. She worked with a client we call the Greek Lady. The Greek Lady is quite old and doesn't require much attention. She has long, white scraggly hair and looks very much like a witch. She also is stubborn and mean. She spend the whole shift talking to herself in Greek. Caregivers have attempted to put their lunches in her refrigerator only to have her pluck them out and throw them in the garbage. She also won't allow anyone to use the microwave, so all comestibles have to be eaten at room temperature. Still, when it comes to MJ's appetite and food, she will not be deterred. "Don't forget my liverwurst!" she texted twice. For the record, liverwurst is terrible. "Is she turning into my Pop-Pop?" I thought as I filled up a freezer bag full of ice cubes, to add to the tea she made last night. She wanted Pei Wei. So I went out into the freezing drizzle and ordered her up some Pei Wei. I didn't get any for myself. I thought about going to Taco Bell, but given my lack of income, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich back home sounded just as good. That was followed by a couple of baby carrots, a can of Chef Boyardee (is that surname even Italian??) raviolis, and a handful of Doritos (are they even Mexican??). The cook made her food rather quickly and as he splashed and washed a load of water all throughout his wok, I gave him a thankful nod. But on the way out, I looked in her bag and saw that there were no utensils. I pulled over, and dialed her up. Forget texting; this was an emergency. Once she picked up it was only then did I realize she was in one of those homes that didn't get any reception.
"Hello?"
"He... y (*garbled) Ye... Ffff .... nnt shhhht!"
"What? I can't here you. Do you have a spoon or not?"
"Mmmrf.... phhhhhhhhl. (*mechanical noises) "
"You sound like a robot. Just text me whether or not you have a spoon!"
I waited and she never texted. I just said fuck it and drove to the house. I used to work for the Olive Garden, and there's nothing worse than delivering cold food (especially when it's pasta).
"Oh. I had to chase the Greek Lady around. That's why I didn't get back to you," she said.
As I handed her her Pei Wei (is it even Chinese??), I wondered if she was going to kiss me or not, or at the very least, a thank you for helping out.
Luckily I got that kiss.
And what is up with the Greek Lady not cooking or sharing any of her food, anyway? Would it have killed her to live up to the stereotype?
Sometimes I go to work. Today I did not. Not as a caregiver. Evidently, old people discriminate against men and we are way short on hours. At any given time, my agency employs roughly 140 people, ten of which are men. Elderly men and women feel more comfortable with women, but for different reasons. Women believe other women are more nurturing and responsible, whereas men just want something pretty to look at. From their mouths to God's ears. Michael is one of those men, a fellow co-worker. I should know - I got him the job. Flags were lowered in honor of the prestigious careers we once had, and here we are. I don't really think about it much. Staying at this job gives me time to write.
So today I wanted to put my strategy of discipline to the test. The idea is to have no distractions. Turn off your phone, forget about getting the mail, screw watching TV, HULU and Netflix. Instead, set aside five solid hours sitting and looking at your laptop. No, not YouTube videos. Writing. Opening a WORD document and actually writing.
It would only irritate MJ to let her know of my new approach. She always wants me to leave my phone on in case she needed something, or if there was an emergency. Of course MJ contacted me wanting something. She worked with a client we call the Greek Lady. The Greek Lady is quite old and doesn't require much attention. She has long, white scraggly hair and looks very much like a witch. She also is stubborn and mean. She spend the whole shift talking to herself in Greek. Caregivers have attempted to put their lunches in her refrigerator only to have her pluck them out and throw them in the garbage. She also won't allow anyone to use the microwave, so all comestibles have to be eaten at room temperature. Still, when it comes to MJ's appetite and food, she will not be deterred. "Don't forget my liverwurst!" she texted twice. For the record, liverwurst is terrible. "Is she turning into my Pop-Pop?" I thought as I filled up a freezer bag full of ice cubes, to add to the tea she made last night. She wanted Pei Wei. So I went out into the freezing drizzle and ordered her up some Pei Wei. I didn't get any for myself. I thought about going to Taco Bell, but given my lack of income, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich back home sounded just as good. That was followed by a couple of baby carrots, a can of Chef Boyardee (is that surname even Italian??) raviolis, and a handful of Doritos (are they even Mexican??). The cook made her food rather quickly and as he splashed and washed a load of water all throughout his wok, I gave him a thankful nod. But on the way out, I looked in her bag and saw that there were no utensils. I pulled over, and dialed her up. Forget texting; this was an emergency. Once she picked up it was only then did I realize she was in one of those homes that didn't get any reception.
"Hello?"
"He... y (*garbled) Ye... Ffff .... nnt shhhht!"
"What? I can't here you. Do you have a spoon or not?"
"Mmmrf.... phhhhhhhhl. (*mechanical noises) "
"You sound like a robot. Just text me whether or not you have a spoon!"
I waited and she never texted. I just said fuck it and drove to the house. I used to work for the Olive Garden, and there's nothing worse than delivering cold food (especially when it's pasta).
"Oh. I had to chase the Greek Lady around. That's why I didn't get back to you," she said.
As I handed her her Pei Wei (is it even Chinese??), I wondered if she was going to kiss me or not, or at the very least, a thank you for helping out.
Luckily I got that kiss.
And what is up with the Greek Lady not cooking or sharing any of her food, anyway? Would it have killed her to live up to the stereotype?
Bless This Hour of Mental Masturbation
Over the years I've received plenty of e-mails on the importance of blogging. It's basically a cross between essays, journals and self-promotion, isn't it? It's been a long time since I've received a message telling me how I can effectively Blog for MOney! Is anyone even blogging anymore? I feel like I'm late to the party. I feel like I just opened up a MySpace account. I feel like I'm paying on a mortgage in a ghost town...
"Oh look, darling! There are some lovely tumbleweeds down here!"
Dreams: I don't know where it exactly was set, but it felt like a really nice leafy abbey, the kind of abbey one would find in England. A blue stone church was within arm's reach. The walkway I was on was shaded by trees. Twice someone reminded me that there was going to be a test that day on the book I was carrying. I paused, and then it took a second to realize I was in yet another dream where I was unprepared for an exam. A glimpse at the cover revealed it to be Lady Chatterley's Lover. I think. I don't know. It was just a dream. That's the impression I got. Next thing I know, I was in a classroom, third row back, leaning forward sitting attentively with my elbows planted firmly on my desk. The same position that in real life caused me numbness and tingling in my hands. Fucking ulnar nerve. If I was to be called on, I planned to have enough information about the story to fudge a response. I flipped through the pages only to discover that each word was written in shorthand, so as to save the reader time. The key was typed out on light pink and blue pages, pastels, and explained what each abbreviation meant. What the hell? Was I studying to be a court stenographer??
My subconscious mind is constantly reminding me that I had studied to be a physician. In the final phase of my dream, I looked up to see my next patient. A regular doctor who has been practicing for a while is surprised by nothing. The fellow was a middle-aged man without any limbs. He wore a blood-red turban with a matching tunic. He looked like a young and handsome maharishi with a solid black beard that came to a very fine point. They leaned him up against a curtained wall like a 2x4. I learned that he was having trouble sleeping. Trick question: Can you name the three main reasons why a man in this position might not be able to sleep? His case was absorbing, so I considered the neuropathic pain that comes with phantom limbs. Gabapentin is useful. Then melatonin came to mind. But then it dawned on me to think outside the box. What could affect a healthy man and keep him awake at night? The answer became clear, like deposits left by a receding tide. I looked to find a way to address this issue with his wife, and a good time for them to have some privacy.
On the way to work, I was stopped at an intersection. A mother and presumably her two daughters crossed the street, piling in with other kids into a nearby dance studio. I mean, these munchkins were tiny, so it was especially adorable to see how it took four of their little footsteps for every one of their mother's. Within these seemingly meaningless moments, we find the loveliest surprises: they were so happy and had the cutest smiles. Something about the bone structures of their faces made me jump seventy years into the future, when they would be old women. I aged them in my mind. By the time they reached the opposing sidewalk, I realized it was highly unlikely they will remember this moment in time and the thought suddenly made me a little... sad.
Mike wanted to bowl. 8 o'clock. It's a statistical near-certainty that working in the morning and then having to watch it get dark by 4PM means my ass was going to be tired. Heading out these days means having to take that nap-before-you-go-out nap. This is a conclusion based on years of experience with Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Mike told me his buddy, Jeff - a guy he met while working at Toys R' Us - would be there. Mike drove, so I was happy. When we walked in, Mike pointed off into the distance. "There he is." Jeff didn't look how I had expected. He had a dry blue-gray mustache. He wore an Indianapolis COLTS shirt, an Indianapolis COLTS jacket, and an Indianapolis COLTS baseball cap. The bill of his hat had that kind of round flatness to it, the kind of look that makes a guy look like a special needs patient. This was EAGLES country, so like most fans, we weren't sure what message he was supposed to bear, but I don't give that big of a shit about sports, and even used to live in Indiana. Indiana has a special place in my heart, if you must know, and I consider it my second home. "Oooh! Indianapolis COLTS! Does that make you a Hoosier?"
"Yes," Jeff replied. "Up until I was five. That's when I moved out here."
"Oh, well. I used to live in West Lafayette." There was a pause where I had the chance to search his face for a reaction, but it went blank. He obviously was holding on to the Colts because they reminded him of a time of happy innocence.
We got our clown shoes and noted how bowling alleys used to take your footwear, but I guess the attendants weren't too keen on dealing with all those strangers. Foot fungus in your palms never looks good. So at this point you're thinking this bowling alley sucks. As unlikely as it may sound, you're not the first. Chances are you're exactly like me, as you tackle such questions as: Why does this place look so new and clean? How come these people are fit and attractive? And how come they don't serve any beer? Are we making a colossal mistake by bowling without any beer??
Sending Mike out to get some pitchers was a confusing time in his life. Before walking up and down the whole length of the bowling alley, make sure to examine all the tables in the joint. See how nobody is drinking any beer? That probably means there is no beer.
"We playing more than two games?" Jeff asked. "No, way," Mike blurted. That's when I remembered two games was plenty. Especially when there's no beer. The last time I bowled, I left with a gooey-sore arm, busted knuckles in my right tossing hand, and a left hip that threatened to give out on small flights of stairs.
"When's the last time you played?" Mike said last year. Jeff said last week. I hadn't played in over a decade. "Jeff, you're all warmed up. You're gonna' slaughter us!"
Thing is, Jeff was terrible.
I won the first round at 120, with Mike coming in a close second at 105, and Jeff down around 78. Mike beat us the next time at 133, with me at 125 and Jeff at 61. His first five frames were all zeros. I kept things light when he got a gutter ball by doing my Maxwell Smart impersonation: While pinching my thumb and pointer finger together, I burbled, "Missed it by this much!" One time Mike got all but one pin, and Jeff sang, "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do!" Mike missed again in a few other sets and I said, "Ya' missed by the hair of yer' chinny chin chin!"
Fitting, since he has a beard.
After we dropped Jeff off, Mike asked me what I thought.
"He's nice guy. But I think he's a little on the spectrum."
Every day we judge people on scales that barely ever register. Jeff has been fired from every job he's ever had. He's really smart in some areas, but in the basement in other areas that average people excel at. These facts may seem small, but they all added up in Mike's head.
"I never thought about it, but I think you're right."
"Beer?"
"Yeah, sure. We can go to Applebee's... if you want."
(*sighs)
"Okay."
"Oh look, darling! There are some lovely tumbleweeds down here!"
Dreams: I don't know where it exactly was set, but it felt like a really nice leafy abbey, the kind of abbey one would find in England. A blue stone church was within arm's reach. The walkway I was on was shaded by trees. Twice someone reminded me that there was going to be a test that day on the book I was carrying. I paused, and then it took a second to realize I was in yet another dream where I was unprepared for an exam. A glimpse at the cover revealed it to be Lady Chatterley's Lover. I think. I don't know. It was just a dream. That's the impression I got. Next thing I know, I was in a classroom, third row back, leaning forward sitting attentively with my elbows planted firmly on my desk. The same position that in real life caused me numbness and tingling in my hands. Fucking ulnar nerve. If I was to be called on, I planned to have enough information about the story to fudge a response. I flipped through the pages only to discover that each word was written in shorthand, so as to save the reader time. The key was typed out on light pink and blue pages, pastels, and explained what each abbreviation meant. What the hell? Was I studying to be a court stenographer??
My subconscious mind is constantly reminding me that I had studied to be a physician. In the final phase of my dream, I looked up to see my next patient. A regular doctor who has been practicing for a while is surprised by nothing. The fellow was a middle-aged man without any limbs. He wore a blood-red turban with a matching tunic. He looked like a young and handsome maharishi with a solid black beard that came to a very fine point. They leaned him up against a curtained wall like a 2x4. I learned that he was having trouble sleeping. Trick question: Can you name the three main reasons why a man in this position might not be able to sleep? His case was absorbing, so I considered the neuropathic pain that comes with phantom limbs. Gabapentin is useful. Then melatonin came to mind. But then it dawned on me to think outside the box. What could affect a healthy man and keep him awake at night? The answer became clear, like deposits left by a receding tide. I looked to find a way to address this issue with his wife, and a good time for them to have some privacy.
On the way to work, I was stopped at an intersection. A mother and presumably her two daughters crossed the street, piling in with other kids into a nearby dance studio. I mean, these munchkins were tiny, so it was especially adorable to see how it took four of their little footsteps for every one of their mother's. Within these seemingly meaningless moments, we find the loveliest surprises: they were so happy and had the cutest smiles. Something about the bone structures of their faces made me jump seventy years into the future, when they would be old women. I aged them in my mind. By the time they reached the opposing sidewalk, I realized it was highly unlikely they will remember this moment in time and the thought suddenly made me a little... sad.
Mike wanted to bowl. 8 o'clock. It's a statistical near-certainty that working in the morning and then having to watch it get dark by 4PM means my ass was going to be tired. Heading out these days means having to take that nap-before-you-go-out nap. This is a conclusion based on years of experience with Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Mike told me his buddy, Jeff - a guy he met while working at Toys R' Us - would be there. Mike drove, so I was happy. When we walked in, Mike pointed off into the distance. "There he is." Jeff didn't look how I had expected. He had a dry blue-gray mustache. He wore an Indianapolis COLTS shirt, an Indianapolis COLTS jacket, and an Indianapolis COLTS baseball cap. The bill of his hat had that kind of round flatness to it, the kind of look that makes a guy look like a special needs patient. This was EAGLES country, so like most fans, we weren't sure what message he was supposed to bear, but I don't give that big of a shit about sports, and even used to live in Indiana. Indiana has a special place in my heart, if you must know, and I consider it my second home. "Oooh! Indianapolis COLTS! Does that make you a Hoosier?"
"Yes," Jeff replied. "Up until I was five. That's when I moved out here."
"Oh, well. I used to live in West Lafayette." There was a pause where I had the chance to search his face for a reaction, but it went blank. He obviously was holding on to the Colts because they reminded him of a time of happy innocence.
We got our clown shoes and noted how bowling alleys used to take your footwear, but I guess the attendants weren't too keen on dealing with all those strangers. Foot fungus in your palms never looks good. So at this point you're thinking this bowling alley sucks. As unlikely as it may sound, you're not the first. Chances are you're exactly like me, as you tackle such questions as: Why does this place look so new and clean? How come these people are fit and attractive? And how come they don't serve any beer? Are we making a colossal mistake by bowling without any beer??
Sending Mike out to get some pitchers was a confusing time in his life. Before walking up and down the whole length of the bowling alley, make sure to examine all the tables in the joint. See how nobody is drinking any beer? That probably means there is no beer.
"We playing more than two games?" Jeff asked. "No, way," Mike blurted. That's when I remembered two games was plenty. Especially when there's no beer. The last time I bowled, I left with a gooey-sore arm, busted knuckles in my right tossing hand, and a left hip that threatened to give out on small flights of stairs.
"When's the last time you played?" Mike said last year. Jeff said last week. I hadn't played in over a decade. "Jeff, you're all warmed up. You're gonna' slaughter us!"
Thing is, Jeff was terrible.
I won the first round at 120, with Mike coming in a close second at 105, and Jeff down around 78. Mike beat us the next time at 133, with me at 125 and Jeff at 61. His first five frames were all zeros. I kept things light when he got a gutter ball by doing my Maxwell Smart impersonation: While pinching my thumb and pointer finger together, I burbled, "Missed it by this much!" One time Mike got all but one pin, and Jeff sang, "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do!" Mike missed again in a few other sets and I said, "Ya' missed by the hair of yer' chinny chin chin!"
Fitting, since he has a beard.
After we dropped Jeff off, Mike asked me what I thought.
"He's nice guy. But I think he's a little on the spectrum."
Every day we judge people on scales that barely ever register. Jeff has been fired from every job he's ever had. He's really smart in some areas, but in the basement in other areas that average people excel at. These facts may seem small, but they all added up in Mike's head.
"I never thought about it, but I think you're right."
"Beer?"
"Yeah, sure. We can go to Applebee's... if you want."
(*sighs)
"Okay."
Friday, November 22, 2019
Before I go to bed, here is a Tweet that I enjoyed:
What’s something you can say to your partner both during sex and while at the grocery store?
... and its funniest responses...
1) Is this firm enough for you?
2) I like it with the bone in.
3) Twelve items or less, please.
4) You're not putting that in there.
5) A lot of people come here every day.
6) Are we done yet?
7) Grab the melons for me, would you?
8) Need anything while I'm here?
9) We need to workout more.
10) That's a niiiiice piece of meat
11) Can you reach that for me?
12) Can you go and take care of it yourself? I'm going to wait out here.
13) Does this smell fresh? ?
14) Double bag it.
15) I can get it cheaper online.
16) Will all this fit in the trunk?
Day-um! It's like a Dana Carvey Show Writers' Room up in here!!
What’s something you can say to your partner both during sex and while at the grocery store?
... and its funniest responses...
1) Is this firm enough for you?
2) I like it with the bone in.
3) Twelve items or less, please.
4) You're not putting that in there.
5) A lot of people come here every day.
6) Are we done yet?
7) Grab the melons for me, would you?
8) Need anything while I'm here?
9) We need to workout more.
10) That's a niiiiice piece of meat
11) Can you reach that for me?
12) Can you go and take care of it yourself? I'm going to wait out here.
13) Does this smell fresh? ?
14) Double bag it.
15) I can get it cheaper online.
16) Will all this fit in the trunk?
Day-um! It's like a Dana Carvey Show Writers' Room up in here!!
Hello
Welcome, friends!
Congratulations on making it to my very first blog. Each entry of this blog was designed to provide you with maximum blog satisfaction, regardless of whatever your blog reading purposes may be.
If you are a woman and you're reading this blog for fascinating tips on the inner workings of the male mind, look no further. Testosterone. Stubble. Intermittent crying. It's all right here!
If you are a man and you're perusing these words... what the hell are you doing? Aren't there some insipid sports web sites you'd rather be on? Don't sweat it. We can be cool, but only as long as we share the same tastes in music, you really dig British humor (humour?), and you have a thing for beer can art.
Perhaps you're a writer and you're on this site to be influenced by (steal) ideas. You'll find plenty of them here, I'm sure. The essential ingredients for interesting characters, I can tell you up front, are seeded throughout.
I am not doing this for vanity. I am not doing this to become the next Interwebz stupor star. I'm doing this because I'm tired of being lazy, and I need some degree of discipline in my life. How long can I stick with something before I get bored and wish to move on? All throughout my life, this question has never changed.
Finally, when deciding how to spend your day, remember the following: these posts are a time drain, just like anything else associated with the Internet. I'm only here because I've always wanted to keep a journal. A recent episode of the Simpsons (yes, I still watch, and yes, it's still amazing) reminded me of the importance of recording one's thoughts and life events. If Homer can do it, then so can I.
I plan to march forward while looking back (with the help of these entries)
(This'll probably be my first and last one, so, um, well, you know ...Ta!)
Congratulations on making it to my very first blog. Each entry of this blog was designed to provide you with maximum blog satisfaction, regardless of whatever your blog reading purposes may be.
If you are a woman and you're reading this blog for fascinating tips on the inner workings of the male mind, look no further. Testosterone. Stubble. Intermittent crying. It's all right here!
If you are a man and you're perusing these words... what the hell are you doing? Aren't there some insipid sports web sites you'd rather be on? Don't sweat it. We can be cool, but only as long as we share the same tastes in music, you really dig British humor (humour?), and you have a thing for beer can art.
Perhaps you're a writer and you're on this site to be influenced by (steal) ideas. You'll find plenty of them here, I'm sure. The essential ingredients for interesting characters, I can tell you up front, are seeded throughout.
I am not doing this for vanity. I am not doing this to become the next Interwebz stupor star. I'm doing this because I'm tired of being lazy, and I need some degree of discipline in my life. How long can I stick with something before I get bored and wish to move on? All throughout my life, this question has never changed.
Finally, when deciding how to spend your day, remember the following: these posts are a time drain, just like anything else associated with the Internet. I'm only here because I've always wanted to keep a journal. A recent episode of the Simpsons (yes, I still watch, and yes, it's still amazing) reminded me of the importance of recording one's thoughts and life events. If Homer can do it, then so can I.
I plan to march forward while looking back (with the help of these entries)
(This'll probably be my first and last one, so, um, well, you know ...Ta!)
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