Serious Thinks Thought Here @davio1962 - Tumblr Blog

Geriatrica

This is something I wrote about 3 years ago, when my mother-in-law was still alive. It's been sequestered to my DRAFTS folder ever since. But after rereading it, I thought I would share...

Every week, I visit my mother-in-law in an assisted living facility. And every week, I pick up my mother from a different assisted living facility and bring her to my house for dinner. You could say I spend more time in and around assisted living facilities than most people--except of course for the residents themselves and those who work there.

Either way, I have observed a lot of interesting things involving our Senior Americans. Many of which are either intentionally or unintentionally funny. I’ve been keeping a journal of my experiences and want to share them here. However, after writing a post, I always delete it. I don’t want anyone to think I am exploiting people whose issues prevent them from living independently--even if some of the things they say and do are downright hilarious.

One day, I might find myself in assisted living. Perhaps I will revel in finally not having to do all the little things one must do when they live on their own. Or perhaps, I will be resentful of it. I’ve met both kinds of people, although sadly, the majority seem to fall in the second category.

As with everything I do, I hope I can laugh at my own foibles. And in my declining years (which seemed to start right after my bar mitzvah), if I can somehow bring a smile to someone’s face with something silly I’ve said or done, I feel that I lived a life worth living.

#old age

Dance Floor Confidential

Last night my wife and I went to a wedding. Now my wife has always loved to dance (coming of age in the Disco Era in Brooklyn) and is quite good at it. I on the other hand, was never much of a dancer, having come of age listening to Punk Rock and New Wave. And when I did dance, I usually did so as a means to an end; that is, to get to know some girl better and perhaps to one day have sex with her.

These days, however, one of the things I like best is spending time with my wife, particularly when engaged in activities she finds fun. Because of this, I dance quite a bit with her at weddings. And so I expected to do the same coming into last night. I even joked that I had been working on some new "moves" and "routines" to impress her on the dance floor, although the mere mention of me doing splits and handsprings only succeeded in eliciting eye rolls on her part.

Fast forward to the wedding reception. Once the dance floor opened, things initially progressed more or less as expected; that is, the DJ played a medley of disco and other dance-oriented songs of the 1970s. Again, this isn't my first choice in music, but nevertheless it didn't stop me from joining my wife in a mutual shaking of our respective groove thangs.

That is, until the DJ opened his mouth.

See, it is not enough for someone to merely play fun, danceable songs and let the rest of us just enjoy ourselves. No. Apparently, it is also the DJ's responsibility to frequently shout directives over the music--ostensibly to ensure that the guests (us) are meeting his (DJ's) expectations as to what it means to have a good time. To that end, we were loudly extolled to:

1. Put our hands in the air (whether or not I just don't care, doesn't he know I need them for balance?)

2. Jump (I have problems doing this to the beat) and

3. Scream (how am I supposed to hear the music over this racket?)

It got to the point that after every loud command, I found myself shouting some obscenity or another in response. Fortunately, between the volume of the music and the prompted screaming (I guess not everybody is as cranky as I am when faced with a DJ manifesto), my profane reactions could not be heard.

Fortunately, the DJ couldn't read lips.

Unfortunately, the grandma of the groom reads them rather well.

#dancing #weddings #djs

One thing I have noticed, given the amount of daytime TV I watch these days, is that there are a lot of products designed to aid people who cannot do for themselves. There are motorized chairs that help those who cannot walk up stairs and oxygen-pumping fanny packs for those who have difficulty breathing.

What clearly is needed, however, is something to aid those people, like myself, who simply cannot be counted on to say and do the right thing in a given social situation. And while there is no way for ANY device to prevent someone, like me, from saying and doing stupid things in front of others (often strangers), there sure is a market for something to minimize the damage after-the-fact.

Something like the Jerk Alert™.

Picture a pendant worn around a person's neck with a large button on it. The person, in some kind of social situation, blurts out an inappropriate comment--or even worse--engages in some ridiculous behavior (Romanian Folk Dancing or performing a mime routine immediately come to mind), and upon realization, presses the button for assistance...

Voice From Pendant: Jerk Alert™. What did you do this time?

Me: Well I'm at a company cocktail party and my female supervisor just told me about her trip to Bali and how she wore just a sarong and I said something to the fact that I didn't know there was enough cloth in Bali to...

Voice: Say no more. No, really. SAY. NO. MORE.

Tell me. You're not doing any mime routines, are you?

Me: Just the one where I pretend to be in a box...

Voice: Fall.

Me: Excuse me.

Voice: Fall.

Me: Fall? Like to the ground?

Voice: Yes. And pretend you can't get up.

Me: What then?

Voice: Lie still and we'll send someone to extricate you. Remember, no 'funny/clever' comments, no "Look at me, I'm walking against the wind" stuff, got it?

Me: Got it.

Voice: Good. Our Social Embarrassment Response Team is on its way.

Me (to myself, smiling, while the camera pulls in for a tight close-up of my face): Thank you, Jerk Alert™.

#social skills #i have none

My Eulogy

I recently attended the funeral of someone I knew only in passing (sorry, that was unfortunate). Anyway, 2 people delivered the deceased's eulogy and if one was to believe the words being spoken, this person was clearly destined for sainthood. The deceased apparently did no wrong, inspired countless others and on more than 1 occasion, actually raised the dead.

While all the others in attendance nodded along and murmured their agreement, I had my doubts and suspicions. Could anyone really be as good a human being as was reported or was there some exaggeration at play? This begs an even bigger question: Does anybody give a 'fair and balanced' eulogy these days?

Well, I decided right away there would be no false words at my funeral. My eulogy would accurately reflect the life I lived--even if this means that I have to write the godforsaken thing myself.

So, to that end, here are the salient points from my current working draft of what I like to call, "My Life In Review--A Retrospective":

1. Dave was a mediocre friend. He almost always waited around for others to call him to make plans and then, once called, would immediately decline to attend said event or gathering. Why, you ask? Too busy, of course. What was he doing? Waiting around for others to call him to make plans.

2. Dave was an adequate parent. On the plus side, no one got seriously hurt. On the minus side, his children often asked their mother who that sorry-looking guy was sitting all by himself in the corner of the living room.

3. By all accounts, Dave was an expert lover. And "by all accounts" we mean reports from those private, alone moments he obviously enjoyed. "Never leave them unsatisfied" was his motto although a more accurate success rate hovered at about 73%.

#eulogy

behindthegrooves-deactivated202

On this day in music history: November 4, 1970 - “The Man Who Sold The World”, the third album by David Bowie is released. Produced by Tony Visconti, it is recorded at Trident Studios and Advision Studios in London from April 18 - May 22, 1970. Following his breakthrough success in the UK with the single and album “Space Oddity” in the Fall of 1969, David Bowie returns to the studio in the Spring of 1970 to record the follow up. The album features musicians that form the nucleus of the Spiders From Mars Band which include guitarist Mick Ronson and drummer Mick Woodmansey, and also marks the birth of the glam rock movement. The title track becomes one of Bowie’s best known and loved songs. Bowie also performs the song on his Saturday Night Live appearance in December of 1979, with Klaus Nomi and Joey Arias. It is influential on numerous musicians including The Cure, Siouxsie And The Banshees, Gary Numan, Nine Inch Nails, and Kurt Cobain of Nirvana, the latter of whom records a cover version on their “MTV Unplugged in New York” album in 1993. The albums original cover photo featuring Bowie wearing a dress is not issued in the US, and is replaced with a cartoon drawing. “Man” is re-released by RCA Records in the US in 1972, with a black and white photo of David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust period on the front and back covers, and inner sleeve. Reissued on CD and vinyl numerous times since the 80’s, the album is remastered and reissued again in 2015 on CD and as a 180 gram vinyl LP in 2015, featuring the original UK cover artwork. “The Man Who Sold The World” peaks at number twenty six on the UK album chart, and number one hundred five on the Billboard Top 200.

davio1962

Although one of my favorites, I find it hard to say that this is most enjoyable David Bowie album I own, as it is both heavy and disturbing. I find the title track and "After All" to be particularly chilling </shudder>.

#music

On My Walk

Even though I live in smelly ol' Brooklyn, there are many nearby interesting places to walk and many interesting things to see while walking. So, with my wife out with a friend and me with no one to play with, I decided to take such a walk and take in the sights.

These pictures are of a bridge. Bridges are quite useful when you need to get from this side of a body of water to the other side. Or when you need to get from the other side to this side. Unfortunately, you cannot tell which direction this bridge goes just from my picture.

Here I am looking at what is on the other side of the water. While I was looking, I imagined there was a person on THAT side looking at me at the same exact time, thinking the exact same thing I was thinking. I imagined this for several minutes until it hit me...somebody had stolen my wallet.

Here is one of many big houses I saw on my walk. You know, some people spend a lot of money to make their houses look spooky for Halloween. And some people don't have to.

Here is another big house I saw on my walk. Apparently, I live nearby to 'Tara', that house from "Gone With The Wind". Ever see that movie? No? Nevermind.

#walking #things i see

A Wall Full Of Bees

I am one of the lucky few who was able to buy a home before the housing market blew up. It's a modest house but it's mine. I consider it a comfortable refuge for me and I hate when that comfort is disturbed.

Which brings me to the subject of renovations. Apparently, houses don't last forever and require structural upkeep every now and then. And, at times, there are aesthetic changes one wants to make. I hate both of these.

To be fair, I don't really mind when work has to be done outside the house or to the outside OF the house. I can still hide in my refuge, lower the blinds and pretend none of it is happening. When the renovations take place IN the house, however, all bets are off.

This week (and next week, if you're keeping score) has been just such an occurrence. We are going to have a newfangled air-conditioner system installed, but before that, the old, in-the-wall units have to be removed and the resulting holes in the walls bricked and patched up.

I should take a moment and discuss something that absolutely repulses me. Dust. Particularly, that fine dust that comes from sawing, sanding, trimming--and especially--taking air conditioners out of walls. No matter how well you cover things, move them to seemingly unaffected parts of the house or hide them in closets or basements, they always end up with a coating of fine dust. Just running my hand over an affected surface is enough to give me the willies. In addition, I must inhale about a metric ton of the stuff, with it taking up permanent residence in both my nose hairs and my bronchial tubes.

Therefore, I dutifully covered everything with plastic and wore the equivalent of a hazmat suit in order to reduce the affect of that godforsaken substance. Still, there was one thing my wife and I weren't prepared for. And it happened when they were removing the air conditioner unit from our bedroom...

You see, apparently a group of intrepid bees had also taken refuge in my comfortable home. Actually, they were HORNETS, which are like bees--only meaner. They are like the Republicans of the stinging world if you will. Anyway, like me, the hornets were none too thrilled having their refuge disrupted by renovations. But instead of whining and complaining like I typically do, hornets tend to go on the attack.

Cut to early this morning when I began to hear some angry buzzing while still lying in bed. I quickly threw on the light and saw 2 hornets flying all zig-zaggy above me. And while stinging things tend to scare the bejeebus out of me, I WAS prepared. I grabbed my nearby trusty fly swatter (also applicable for hornets, I thought) and began swinging it like a madman possessed. I'm sure my convulsive attempts at swatting were quite entertaining to those winged marauders.

It was not pretty but eventually I was successful. That is, I was successful in completely destroying my ceiling fan and knocking one of my pictures off the wall. The hornets, on the other hand, were still no worse for wear. Eventually one of them (probably delirious with laughter) got careless and ended up straying a little too close to my swatter.

I left him a crumbled mess on the floor while at the same time trying to draw the other hornet's attention to his now-deceased partner in crime. I hoped that it would serve as some kind deterrent, some motivation to declare the mission aborted. Unfortunately, hornets are the sociopaths of the insect world. And for that reason, the other hornet appeared completely unaffected by the loss of his comrade. Sadly for him (but fortunately for me), he too eventually felt the 'sting' of my plastic swatter. I stood hunched over their 2 corpses with my chest heaving and tears in my eyes. Then I went to fetch a tissue to help dispose of the bodies.

For the rest of the day, I stood vigilant by the hole in my wall/Hornet Hotel. A few stray, uninvited guests made their way in only to be swatted like those before them. Of course there was more collateral damage, but those irreplaceable keepsakes needed to be sacrificed for the common good. Finally, our contractor came and sealed off the hole in my wall. Sure, he was stung but it could have been worse.

It could have been me.

Disclaimer: I know it took me almost half of this post to get to the 'Wall Full Of Bees' title reference and then it turned out to be hornets. But 'Wall Full Of Bees" just sounded better. Feel free to fight me.

Disclaimer 2: The picture attached to this post is stock. I doubt the situation in MY wall was as severe. Hope you're not too disappointed.

#house #bees?

Don't get me wrong, crack is bad. But KRACK is great--especially when it's done by Soulwax. If this song doesn't make you want to grab your glowsticks and pogo the night away, then perhaps you're just not alive.

Soulwax - Krack

#music

On Life and Death in the Urban Garden

Gardening gives us the mistaken impression that we are god. “Watch me bring forth this living piece of nature from the soil!” However, in reality, we are just as clueless and powerless as we are in every other aspect of our lives. “Shit. Why did this thing die?”

I experienced both during this planting season. I live in Brooklyn, where the national tree is the streetlamp. I do what I can to add some flora to the sea of concrete and asphalt that surrounds me. However, my results every year seem to hover around the break-even point. That is, about half of the things I plant seem to thrive. The other half wither and die–in spite of my efforts. And in some cases, because of them. Lets look at 2 specific cases, shall we?

The yellow hanging plant is called a begonia. It started off in the front of the house, where we get very strong sun. To counteract the heat and light, I tended to water it quite frequently. Apparently, I did something called “over-watering”. What the hell does that even mean? Any extra water I poured in typically came out of the bottom of the pot. Besides, plants supposedly need water to make food or something. In any case, I learned that if you give a plant too much water, it drops leaves faster than a shoplifter caught red-handed. Within a couple of weeks, all I had was stems. I was planning to throw it away, but decided to give it a second chance in “Dave’s Plant Emergency Room” in the back of the house.

I put the plant in a shady portion of the yard and basically ignored it for almost 3 weeks. Good thing we don’t receive that kind of “care” in human emergency rooms. Apparently, what the plant needed more than anything was some solid neglect. I don’t get plants. Anyway, I take credit for nursing that sucker back to health and now it adorns the awning over the back porch.

The abomination on the porch floor is Greek oregano. When my wife and I bought this herb, it took to the planter and its location right away. In fact, it grew so fast, it began to resemble the Monkee’s Mickey Dolenz’s hair–circa 1968 (Google it). I used to have nightmares that it would continue growing until it was able to reach into my 2nd story bedroom window and have its way with me (plant porn is a thing, Google it). But as is my general approach to plants, I guess I watered it too often as well. And like the begonia, it began dropping its leaves in disgust. So I tried to send it to “Dave’s Plant Emergency Room”. I brought it up to the back porch and attempted to neglect it to the best of my ability.

Well, apparently oregano doesn’t like to change locales and gets indignant when ignored. It continued to drop leaves–probably out of spite. It became an eyesore, like something you would see in a pot outside an abandoned building. We began to hate each other, the oregano and I. If it is possible, I think it gave me the ‘side eye’ more than once. I finally decided to put it (mostly me) out if its misery and dispose of it into the compost bin. As Garden-God, I guess that’s within my purveyance. I felt a little guilty deciding its fate like that, but at least as compost it has a chance to help something grow that has less of a bad attitude.

#garden

behindthegrooves-deactivated202

On this day in music history: August 3, 1979 - “Fear Of Music”, the third album by Talking Heads is released. Produced by Talking Heads and Brian Eno, it is recorded at Chris and Tina’s Loft, The Hit Factory, and Atlantic Studios in New York City from April - May 1979. Recorded in just three weeks, mostly in Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth’s New York City loft, with The Record Plant’s mobile recording truck, they expand on the sound of their previous album “More Songs About Buildings And Food”, incorporating more dance oriented rhythms along with David Byrne’s eclectic lyrics and vocals featured front and center. The album’s cover art features a matte black cover with a metal diamond plate floor pattern embossed on the front and back with the band name and title printed in green ink. The initial idea was to make the LP jacket out of a plastic material, but when that proves to be too expensive, the artwork is printed on regular cardboard paper stock. It spin off two singles including “Life During Wartime” (#80 Pop) and “I Zimbra”. Originally released on CD in the mid 80’s, it is remastered and reissued in 2006 as a hybrid DualDisc featuring four additional bonus tracks. The DVD side features the album remixed into 5.1 surround sound, and also contains the videos for “Cities” and “I Zimbra”. It is also reissued as a 180 gram vinyl LP by Rhino Records in 2013. The same year, a limited pressing on marbled green vinyl (500 copies only) sold exclusively through Boston based record store Newbury Comics. “Fear Of Music” peaks at number twenty one on the Billboard Top 200, and is certified Gold in the US by the RIAA.

davio1962

Still the most paranoid album ever recorded. Who else could sing about not trusting air, minds, animals, electric guitars--or especially--I Zimbras?

#music

In Sickness and In Health

Marriage is a series of tests, administered over the course of many years (if you're lucky--or unlucky as the case may be). But possibly the biggest test, other than providing the correct answer to the question "Does this outfit make me look fat?", is the challenge of taking your wife to one of her doctors.

Just in case you've been living in a cave for your entire adult life and do not know better, women sometimes have to go to different doctors than men. In fact, practically every organ that biologically separates women from men actually has its own doctor.

Now, I like to think of myself as a supportive spouse. So if I'm available, I will offer to drive my wife to one of those woman-doctors (not to be confused with woman doctors). When we enter the office, the most obvious thing is the almost complete dearth of other supportive spouses. Because of this, I feel like I've just entered the polar opposite of one of those 'gentlemen's clubs' you sometimes see in old movies and TV shows. You know, the ones where the men sit in big armchairs, smoking cigars and discussing "the market".

Women at these doctors seem to have an unspoken connection with one another when they enter the office. The give each other looks that say, "I feel you, sister" or something womanly like that. Contrarily, I as a man receive only looks of derision. "What are you doing here?" their eyes seem to say, "Why don't you wait outside with the motor running like a good husband." Perhaps the worst offender is the female receptionist. I never saw a person switch from a warm and friendly "Welcome, is this your first time here?" to a venomous "Why don't you and your testosterone take a seat--waaaayyyy over there" in less time than it takes to say--oh, I don't know--'penis'.

But I soldier on. I like to read while I wait for my wife to be seen but, as expected, the magazines are all skewed towards their specific clientele. On a positive note, I now know (probably) more about sore nipples and menopause than I did before. On a negative note, I now know (definitely) more about Gweneth Paltrow's latest feminine voodoo products than I did before. Win some, lose some.

At some point, I run out of activities with which to occupy myself and begin the subsequent interval I like call 'desperate waiting'. Minutes feel like hours. Hours feel like days. The stares and eye-rolls become deafening to my delusional ears. I begin to sweat profusely, which is actually a good thing as it hides the fact that I am starting to cry. Invariably, at the point where I feel the absolute need to bolt out the door, my wife usually reappears. "Just bill us for the co-pay!" I typically shout behind me as I carry wife Tarzan-style out of the office.

And then we re-enter the comfort, safety and security of our parked car. "How was the exam?' I typically ask. "When's your next appointment?" I inquire. And then, holding my breath, I invariably find myself muttering, "Need a lift?"

#family #marriage #doctors #i'm not really this big a tool

My Week At The Shore

I was lucky enough to spend several days at the Jersey Shore (yes, THAT Jersey Shore, reality TV junkies). Now, any of you reading this no doubt know that I like to think of myself as a ho-dad, surfer kind of dude. Not that I actually surf, but I do like to think of myself as one. And remember, this is America--you can be anything you want to be. I prefer to be self-deluded. But I digress. In any event, I am quite at home when I am on the beach and/or frolicking in the ocean.

A typical beach day for me starts with preparation. I begin with a thorough sunscreen application session. Since I tend to burn like a bad english muffin, I ask my long-suffering wife to apply sunscreen to my body via a t-shirt cannon. Once I am sufficiently lathered (I now look like the Stay-Puf Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters), I make my way downstairs to load my gear. I cannot say I travel light, so my sojourn to shore includes a beach chair, large UV-A/B blocking umbrella, fold-out canopy, thermo-cooler and wooden gazebo. I have to be honest, in the interest of avoiding melanoma, I generally attempt block out my access to the sun completely. Once, I was hanging out at the beach for hours and never realized that it was during a solar eclipse.

Once my red beach wagon is appropriately loaded, I make my 2 block trip to the beach. Given the sheer weight of my gear, it generally is about a 2 1/2 hours commute--traffic dependent, of course. This is why I prefer to leave the night before. I like being the first person there. This allows me to position myself on the beach strategically. You don't want to be too close to the water in case of high tide. You don't want to be too far away from the water in case of fire. But no matter how far you are away from the ocean, there is 1 important rule: NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO SIT BETWEEN YOU AND THE WATER. Apparently, a view of the ocean is sacrosanct. Offenders are open to public ridicule. Sometimes if I am in an ornery mood, I will sit as close to the boardwalk as possible, just to watch people leave an unoccupied alley that spans the depth of the beach. It looks something like that 'dividing the Red Sea' scene in "The 10 Commandments".

Once I arrive and after the 3-hour set-up period, it comes time to hit the waves. Whether surfing or boogie-boarding, my march to the ocean is all-important. I try to maintain good posture while simultaneously adopting that hang-loose slouch that surfer dudes tend to adopt. I just want people to stop whatever they are doing and say to themselves or out loud, "There goes that surfer guy again." Some just say, "Hey, tubbo, you're blocking out my sun", but whatever.

While some people run into the water like lemmings, I tend to make that transition a little more deliberately. In fact, I sometimes move so slowly that to the naked eye I appear to walking backwards. Sometimes I actually am. I really don't like cold water. I can't help it if my body takes a while to adjust. I mean, it's 98 degrees inside me and several degrees colder outside of me. You can't make up this difference in a few minutes. Or hours. It's a "process" I repeatedly say to the lifeguards who tell me that I should go home since it is now 9:30pm.

However, should I happen to get used to the water before nightfall, I tend to spend several hours riding the waves. Or more accurately, waiting for the perfect wave to ride. You only live once, so you just cannot waste time riding crappy waves. So you wait. This one is too small. This one is too big. This one is breaking too far out. This one is breaking too far in. To be fair, I actually spend most of my time in silent judgement of my fellow surfers and their suspect judgement as to which waves to ride. That's what makes someone a supreme ho-dad, surfer-type dude. Or so I keep telling myself.

At long last, my day at the beach comes to an end. And in spite of my best efforts, I somehow still have developed a case of sun poisoning. Just another one of nature's mysteries, my dermatologist tells me. But it was worth it. I cavorted with the sea and impressed a beach-load of gawkers, thereby solidifying my cred. And cred is important. Is it more important than actually SURFING the waves? It's debatable (this person says "yes", however). I pack up my gear and begin to bid farewell to my fellow surfers. And also the EMTs who provided me with mouth-to-mouth and CPR after what they will later call, "The Jersey Shore Incident of 2018".

"Surf's up and Dave's down," I heard the people say. Just before I lost consciousness.

#jersey shore

Life Is Good

Hey, I don't know about you, but nothing gets my engine revving like one of those delightful, northeast, 97°/86% humidity summer days. I would saunter through the streets singing its praises, but I keep slamming into a veritable brick wall of congealed atmospheric moisture.

And as wonderful as it is above ground, it was even more of a dream in one of our many subterranean train stations. Let me tell you, nothing beats breathing air that has been trapped below the Earth's surface since about 1966. In fact, even when my train arrived, I could barely tear myself away...probably because my sneakers had melted themselves to the floor.

Thankfully, NYC subway cars are temperature-controlled. They basically have 2 settings: 'tundra cold' and 'inoperable'. Fortunately, my train was set to the former, which after adjusting for the change in temperature extremes, had a "real feel" temp of about 5°F, leading 3 of the other riders to develop frostbite.

#weather #nyc

On Liberty

The other day I was reading one of those "Hack Your Life" blogs and I came across an article titled,

Stop Wiping So Hard

And I thought to myself, "Wait a minute, this is America (for how long I do not know, but...). Nobody can tell me in what manner I am allowed to clean my nether regions. I mean, there has to be some things that are sacrosanct, right? RIGHT?!

Now, I am not angry at the "Hack Your Life" blog, I know they were just trying to help. And to be fair, they did provide some ideas worth considering on how to avoid an itchy tushee. For example, they advised that I change the consistency and texture of my toilet paper. Apparently, they advocate using only 2-ply, soft & plush. I have that variety, along with single-ply, sandpaper-course and thin. Different tools for different tasks, I always say. Sometimes, you need something that removes more skin than debris and falls apart mid-wipe, leaving your bare hand exposedNO WAIT.

Regardless, the point is that as long as we have free will, we should be able to conduct our lives whatever way we see fit. Even if the way you go about things seems totally cretinous to me (you know who you are). Oh and by the way, we are on the precipice of an actual, dyed-in-the-wool, constitutional crisis where our freedoms are in considerable danger, thanks to the topmost levels of our government.

Thought I would just add that.

#freedom

My First Moments of Retirement

At approximately 1pm today, I left work for the last time. Even though my retirement does not become official until Sunday July 1, I was functionally retired at 1:01pm today. Many people do wonderful things when they are retired. Some volunteer. Some travel the world. Some write novels or paint great paintings. I have not done any of those things. I watched 1 1/2 episodes of Law And Order: SVU. Already I am a retirement disappointment.

#retirement