SIX YEARS…and seven months.

OK, two time spans are being considered. First (and least) it’s been seven months since I posted any falderal. More than half a year since adding blather. I’ve been occupied with other pursuits, endeavors that are even more of a waste than adding to this web blog, but they’ve nonetheless taken my time. I shall attempt–not for your benefit but for mine–to recfify this situation.

Next, and more significant: in just two weeks, I shall celebrate my sixth anniversary of having toppled out of my office chair and onto the floor after having had a myocardial infarction. An MFI, as it’s known in layman’s parlance. Yes, gentle reader, six years have slipped by since I experienced a Myocardial Fucking Infarction. An MFI. I endured three weeks in Tucson’s finest hospitals–Carondolet and UMC–and when my wheelchair rolled out the front door, I sported three new fuel lines to my black and withered heart.

The heart attack and first year of recovery is the topic of a series of posts on this web log. Shall it suffice today to admit I’m still micturating, defecating, consuming calories and expending energy. The operation worked. Well, for me, anyway. Many people who know me believe my survival is just one more proof of a lack of justice in this miserable, disgusting world that supports such monstrosities as Donald Trump and Mitch “the bitch” McConnell.

I suppose in comparison to those two, my survival is a mere speck on the ass of humanity.

Anyway, at least for the next nine days, I shall foist off another meaningless post each new day. Unless, of course, I don’t.

Reaching Out?

Been a while since I posted something. Why? Well, I’ve been…working. That’s difficult to believe, particularly at my somewhat advanced age, but it’s true. I’m officially an employee of a You Ess Falderal Guv’mint agency. Yup. I got an eye dee card and all that stuff. Even better, I get paid. Not a hell of a lot but it’s real money ‘n that shit comes in handy.

The money helps me reach out. Reach Out? You wanna know what the hell I’m reaching out for, like maybe my willie if I’m in the bathroom or maybe for my toes when I bend over–as if I’m proving I’m not as old as I look.

Yeah. I wanna know what I’m reaching out for, too.

I keep seeing the term in email messages from other You Ess worker bees. Today I saw the term “reach out” in a local noospaper (I won’t refer to the source as a newspaper, thus dignifying it with a title I once considered honorable). Yes. Well, in the rag’s columns a reporter referred to contacting an attorney for a comment about said lawyer’s miserable perp client.

“We reached out to lawyer A but he hasn’t reached out to us with an answer…”

Yeah, I know that “reach out” is now one of those catch-phrases that replace a perfectly serviceable term such as contact or ask or called.

Suppose I’m getting grouchy in my dotage. Dotage. I like dotage much better than reach out but we could combine both. Korea’s Little Rocket Man reached out the US’s Orange Haired Monster, implying that the monster’s well-known lack of cogency is an effect of his advanced dotage. Monster, a self-described (no humility here, no, sir) master of quick repartee, reached out to Little Rocket Man by tweeting, “Fuck You, esshole.”

Brilliant. Scintillating. Without doubt the President’s reply will reach out through the years to come with bell-like clarity. Particularly when we realize his bell has a crack as wide as Arizona’s Grand Canyon.

News in the obit column: Getting Older

 When I was writing copy for our high school radio program (Choctaw Chatter…Choctawhatchee HS, Fort Walton Beach, Florida), I don’t recall checking local obits as part of my beat. Funny, that. Obituaries weren’t at the top of my task list with the Parker Pioneer (Parker, Arizona), either, although I had moved to an editorial position, a job that involved receiving a paycheck.

I attribute these omissions in my journalistic diligence to my youth and ignorance. It hadn’t yet dawned on me that people died regardless of their age and their passing was–not just to them, either–a significant event. Now that my youth is gone, my hair is gray, my teeth are wrinkled and mini-me sleeps soundly through even the most enticing situations, I skim the obits whenever and wherever I find them. One never knows when I might discover my own name lurking there.

“So the son of a bitch finally died,” I might murmur. Or I may just heave a sigh of relief.

My army fright instructor (yeah, that one…) told me one day I might peer out through the yellowed and scarred plastic windscreen of an O1 and see something unusual in the sky. “What the hell is that?” I would murmur to myself. “Why, it’s a number,” I’d continue, my voice now harsh and scratchy. “It’s…it’s…MY NUMBER!”

Did I see a number outside my office window five years ago? No, not that I know of. I just kinda…well…shit…I don’t know what I did. My mind was transformed into a tabula rasa at least for the span of a few days on each side of that moment when blood stopped pumping in and out of my heart. That’s what hear attacks seem to cause.

Today, December 9, 2018, (yeah, my 5th anniversary of the big one) so far I can remember most of what I’ve done. I prepared a bowl of Seidenbacher (R) Number Two muesli mixed with fresh fruit. I consumed said muesli then I walked up the hill, down the hill, around the streets in the ‘hood. Three miles worth of traipsing. Later I freshened up a couple of my knives on a Spyderco (R) Sharpmaker then I ran them across a leather strop. I walked partway back up the hill so I could sit around and swap lies with my neighbor. (Not the thug next door who was out back smoking marijuana while he sold crack to his latest customers; I’m referring to the former Marine who shares a few of my values…what few values either of us still have…)

I did mundane things. I ate a slice of yesterday’s rye and whole wheat sourdough. Tonight Significant Other and I will watch a streaming video, an old movie that we passed by without comment when first it came out. 

And likely tomorrow I’ll remember what I did without going back and reading this drivel. I’ll let you guys know.

Five Years Ago: This is What Happened. To Me. Maybe…

8:55 PM–08 December 2018

Yeah. Maybe, if I believe what other people tell me, five years ago–Sunday, December 8, 2013, Significant Other ‘n I went to a local event. Dined out. Returned home. Went to bed. Well, at least that’s what she (and not to put the onus on her, other people I know corroborate her version of the 8th of December, 2013.

I don’t know. Maybe they’re all fibbing. I don’t remember the day.

Nor do I remember the day before or, an even bigger deletion from the files of my mind, the day afterward, Monday, 9 December 2013. For that matter, I might say I checked out pretty much entirely partway through Saturday, December 7–guess I was celebrating the anniversary of Pearl Harbor ‘n got my brain bombed–and then I didn’t return for business until around December 14.

Early in the morning on December 14, that’s like 3:30 or 4:00 AM, I logged back in. My world had altered significantly during this brief interregnum.

First odor of business, I needed to use the bathroom. That was inconvenient ’cause I was hooked up like a fuckin’ Nintendo game and didn’t know where I was. Now, even though I’d accumulated almost three decades of keeping a plug in the jug and the stash in the trash back in ’13, I rather vividly remembered what it was like to awaken and not know where I was.

Not a problem, dudes and dudettes. All I needed was a bit of privacy and even that was relatively optional.

Wait! Hooked up? Yeah, with cables attached to my chest and arms, a drip tube stuck in my vein, and a machine making those strange electronic chirps next to my bed. OK, I was a bit on the fuzzy thinking side but if I didn’t know better, I would have guessed I was in a hospital. That was especially likely since I didn’t smell sulfur or brimstone and the room wasn’t particularly warm.

None of this mattered to me at the moment since I really, really, had to poop really in a hurry.

I swung my legs over the side of a lumpy, crummy mattress and tried to stand. I think I did manage to get on my feet, cables hanging awkwardly from my abused bod like Dr. Frank N. Stein’s homebuilt creation. I stood, kinda wobbly, looking for a restroom or something that would serve the cause but quicker than D. J. Trump could tell a lie, I was surrounded by a herd of nurses, all of which were telling me I had to get back in bed. I explained as best as I could that I needed to poop but they weren’t interested in my desires. I had to get back in bed.

That didn’t work well. I pooped. Right there. On the floor. 

If you’re interested in this part of my story, you might want to read the collection of posts concerning my own, personal (very personal), myocardial infarction and my first year of recovery after getting new fuel lines

This missive, however, is a different story. It’s more falderal. It’s my fifth anniversary gift to myself. Point. There is no justice in the world. Don’t believe me? Watch–or even better, read–the news. If there were justice, our 45th US President would still be a bankrupt tv comedian and someone, anyone else, would have his job. Faux News would be a sick cartoon, not a sick cartoon masquerading as a news network. England would be a stalwart part of the European Union. The Crimea would still be part of the Ukraine, China would be content selling cheap trinkets instead of dominating the known world and…me?

If there were justice in the rapidly overheating, storm ridden world we’re doing our best to destroy, I would be pushing up stout stalks of cannibus sativa, the green vines growing wildly from my ashes which Significant Other would have tossed out the back window into our weed patch. 

No matter. For this half-decade anniversary, I’m going to record a few of the things I’m doing for a day or two. Unlike five years ago, I want a journal. Hope I don’t do a rerun of my last heart attack forgetfulness but here we go. This time I can read about what I did in my own words.

I’ll add to this stuff throughout the day. Pre-workout, post-workout; pre-motorcycle ride, post-motorcycle ride…I might even post a couple of motorcycle ride pix…and so on.


BLACK FRIDAY! CYBER MONDAY! bullshit everyday.



Couple of months ago I purchased a six-quart Insta-Pot for my significant other. (Had to cut her into pieces ‘fore she’d fit into the thing. OK, the pot was a gift for my S.O.) I paid $80 for the sucker from an on-line marketer. Wow. If only I had waited. We’d have missed a few nice meals S.O. had prepared using the device but I could have saved, saved…saved? Well, it’s on sale just for BLACK FRIDAY for $80.

Gawd Damn.

I know I’m not the only person who is sick of this endless marketing. EVERY FUCKING DAY SALE! LOWEST PRICES IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE! NEVER LOWER!

EVERY DAY IS S.H.I.T. DAY. (For the illiterati, that’s So Happy It’s Today day.)

What is Cyber Monday and why is it a special sale day? After all, Cyber Monday is just the Monday after Black Friday. Should this be a reason for inundating everyone with an email account with senseless, worthless and insulting sales offers?

I suppose so.

Lies are the new truth. Black is the new white. Fat is the new skinny. Every day is special…in it’s own way. It’s…S.H.I.T. Day.

Actually, you know what I mean…

How many of us remember when actually was a simple adverb inserted occasionally into speech or written communications? Let’s try that again: How many of us actually remember when actually was actually a simple adverb inserted occasionally into speech or written communications?

Yeah, you know what I mean. Actually has become one of those parts of speech that is used to fill empty spaces that would be far better left. Empty. No words employed. At all. You know what I mean?

Insults, shaming and anonymity…nothing new…

I keep encountering an increasing quantity of stories concerning the omnipresence of insults, shaming (which I sense is another term for being insulted) and the incidence of vile comments on the Internet. Well, it ain’t new, folks; it’s just an adjunct of anonymity.

Anonymity has always lent itself as a protective cover for what are usually cowardly comments. Cowardly? Well, how many of the boys hurling invective would do so by themselves–no crowd of thugs surrounding them for protection–or if their real, personal identity were to be attached to every post, every insult, every profanity that passes their lips?

Still, it ain’t new.

In Greek times political commentary was often written using false names, nom de plumes employed in an attempt to divert the anger of the masses. Two thousand or so years later, the telephone became a wonderful way to hide one’s identiy when making irritating, obscene or threatening statements. An army cliche brought up the colonel who called a unit orderly room on the phone. The call was answered by a male voice saying, “hello…” instead of the obligatory “Bravo Two One (or whatever unit…), Corporal whomever speaking. May I help you, sir?” The colonel vented his spleen before asking who he was talking to. “You don’t know?” the voice asked. “No…” the colonel answered.

“Well, fuck you, asshole…”

Internet forums are filled with such comments. I abstain from Twitter and such but I’m sure it’s much worse than a simple forum. After all, the President lurks there, he and his legions of mindless mouthbreathers, knuckledraggers, boys who enjoy sex with their mothers, people who gobble human feces with a fork and other similar creatures.

But it isn’t new. Not at all.

A “Good” Government Shutdown!

The current soi disant President of the US is quoted as saying, “We need a good shutdown,” referring, of course, to a closure of most US government offices and downtime for most US government employees.

Isn’t this an oxymoron? Is there such a beast as a good government shutdown? Yes, I understand that the fatman in DC will soon pucker his lips in his inimitable simulation of fellatio and chide the press for not understanding sly sarcasm. Is what he writes at 4AM on Twitter really a form of sarcasm?

I don’t think so. Neither does my cat. (I refer to said feline because our opinions are of roughly equal importance.)  However, going along with the concept of a good government shutdown, let’s examine other occurances we might need.

What about a Good Nuclear War? Certainly our relationship with the other crazy fat man…the one in North Korea…makes this a possibility at same point in the reasonably near future.

Consider postulating, “my wife needs a…good beating?” Hmmm? Or even, “I need a good beating?” Likely there are people who would agree with the latter suggestion, including some readers of this drivel.

What we need is a good earthquake. Surely the PotoS in DC (Yeah, it’s correct. Pot of Shit.) believes folks on the left coast deserve a massive quiver in the faultline culminating in a slide into the Pacific.

What our nation needs is a good impeachment and conviction. Hopefully that event will occur before the nuclear war or even the government shutdown.

April Fools

Donald Trump, accompanied by his wife, daughter, sons and son-in-law all gathered around the Presidential Oval Office trough, has signed into law a decree that designates officially which Americans are April Fools.

All of us. Every American, regardless of how they voted, political party membership, height, weight, gender identification, hopes, dreams, goals and moral turpitude (or lack thereof) is officially designated an April Fool.

Unfortunately for Americans (and, unfortunately for the rest of the world, too, each and every human, animal, plant, fish, or inanimate object on the planet is encompassed by this legislation), the decree specifies that each and every day of each and every year is officially designated: April Fools’ Day.