So what do we do with this “new year?” Let’s forget the lies and be honest.
We spend a lot of time at the end of the year thinking about what should have been. About the things we didn’t do and the people we let down. We “resolve” to do better with our lives.
You know what I think of resolutions? Fuck ‘em. Most of them are things we should be doing anyway and they set us up for failure – and a cold, Northeastern winter is no time to be feeling sorry for ourselves.
Here is what we need to understand – 2011 will prove to have its share of disappointments and failures, lost loves and lost lives, broken promises and broken dreams.
So fucking what?
We’re resilient, right? This year we are going to take all the bullshit life throws at us, make a giant ice ball out of it and hit your devil right between the eyes and laugh when you are doing it. We are going to distance ourselves from the one asshole in our lives because we have a hundred friends who will kick their ass for fucking with us. We are going to kiss every person in our house goodnight and good morning and know nothing can touch that love. We are going to try our best, understand that we may not always succeed, then sit down at night with a beer and move on.
My friends, I wish you the best. Support each other and be nice. 2011 is all ours.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
What I Learned - A Rip-Off In My Own Words
Esquire Magazine routinely has a feature called “What I Learned” where some sort of celebrity or politician or other likewise engaging person posits some truths from their life in bullet-point form. I am not a celebrity, a politician and am barely engaging (at least when not drunk – and then I am often confused for annoying), but since none of this has stopped me before from shooting my mouth off, here you go.
WHAT I LEARNED, DAVE MEYER, CRANBERRY TOWNSHIP, PA
• Like money but never love it. But love spending it once in awhile.
• There are two sides to EVERY story – listen to both before calling bullshit.
• Tune, tune, tune.
• When it comes to time with your kids, quality beats quantity every time. (That applies to almost everything, actually.)
• You don’t have to like it to appreciate it.
• See your doctor every year.
• My dog is fifteen and routinely shits in the house now. You can’t stop loving something because you have to clean up after it when things are tough.
• Someone is always worse off.
• When someone is hurting, don’t tell them that – agree with them and let them know you are here when they need you.
• Alcohol has a warning label. Who reads labels?
• Don’t be afraid to say you don’t get Tom Waits.
• Pick your battles.
• “Serving Size” recommendations are total bullshit.
• A felony in Thailand rarely sticks.
• Your iPod has “Bette Davis Eyes” or equivalent.
• It IS the gift that counts.
WHAT I LEARNED, DAVE MEYER, CRANBERRY TOWNSHIP, PA
• Like money but never love it. But love spending it once in awhile.
• There are two sides to EVERY story – listen to both before calling bullshit.
• Tune, tune, tune.
• When it comes to time with your kids, quality beats quantity every time. (That applies to almost everything, actually.)
• You don’t have to like it to appreciate it.
• See your doctor every year.
• My dog is fifteen and routinely shits in the house now. You can’t stop loving something because you have to clean up after it when things are tough.
• Someone is always worse off.
• When someone is hurting, don’t tell them that – agree with them and let them know you are here when they need you.
• Alcohol has a warning label. Who reads labels?
• Don’t be afraid to say you don’t get Tom Waits.
• Pick your battles.
• “Serving Size” recommendations are total bullshit.
• A felony in Thailand rarely sticks.
• Your iPod has “Bette Davis Eyes” or equivalent.
• It IS the gift that counts.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Doctor Will See You Now
Few things rattle the psyche like an unsolicited call from your doctor’s office. This is especially true if you already have an appointed scheduled a few weeks hence. The kindly gentleman on the other end of the line said, “Your test results are in and the doctor would like to see you to discuss them.” GULP.
“Well,” I said as I wondered who would attend my funeral, “I have an appointment in two weeks, do I need to reschedule? Or, does she need to see me right now before I die from the tumor that is assuredly growing in my brain?”
“Umm, it can probably wait until your appointment.”
Probably, huh? “Can you do me a favor and fax those results to me right now. I’d like to see what I am dying from.”
A few minutes later, I was in full Google mode as I tried to read the doctor’s note scribbled on the bottom of the page. It said something like, “Have patient schedule (some doctor writing that I can’t understand) to discuss (underlined word that looks like pending death.)”
I was particularly concerned about my PSA score, which somehow or other has to do with prostate health. Since my dad had prostate cancer I figured this is what would do me in. Thankfully that was fine. To be sure, the doctor will fist me in a few weeks under some bright lights in the exam room while I whimper. She is such a romantic.
My carbon dioxide (aka carbon footprint), albumin and alkaline phosphatase are fine. Also, my BUN (really, in caps on the report) is well within range, clocking in at a respectable 16 mg/dL.
At the bottom of the page is where the fun started, with a few “HIGH’s” under the “Flag” column. All were related to cholesterol, including a quite troubling LDL (Lower Damn Lipids, I think) score which would make a great IQ, but is pretty crappy in terms of mg/dL.
I have been teetering around with this high cholesterol BS for the better part of a year. It has been close to high but never really high, so I was to eat oatmeal and low-fat foods. Try to do that during football season – or hockey season, or baseball season, or during the summer or winter months. Suffice to say, oatmeal is one thing, turning away a plate of wings quite another.
In two weeks, after the kind doctor and I are spooning on the exam table after my violation, I am thinking she will ever so kindly whisper in my ear, “Lipitor, darling.”
“Well,” I said as I wondered who would attend my funeral, “I have an appointment in two weeks, do I need to reschedule? Or, does she need to see me right now before I die from the tumor that is assuredly growing in my brain?”
“Umm, it can probably wait until your appointment.”
Probably, huh? “Can you do me a favor and fax those results to me right now. I’d like to see what I am dying from.”
A few minutes later, I was in full Google mode as I tried to read the doctor’s note scribbled on the bottom of the page. It said something like, “Have patient schedule (some doctor writing that I can’t understand) to discuss (underlined word that looks like pending death.)”
I was particularly concerned about my PSA score, which somehow or other has to do with prostate health. Since my dad had prostate cancer I figured this is what would do me in. Thankfully that was fine. To be sure, the doctor will fist me in a few weeks under some bright lights in the exam room while I whimper. She is such a romantic.
My carbon dioxide (aka carbon footprint), albumin and alkaline phosphatase are fine. Also, my BUN (really, in caps on the report) is well within range, clocking in at a respectable 16 mg/dL.
At the bottom of the page is where the fun started, with a few “HIGH’s” under the “Flag” column. All were related to cholesterol, including a quite troubling LDL (Lower Damn Lipids, I think) score which would make a great IQ, but is pretty crappy in terms of mg/dL.
I have been teetering around with this high cholesterol BS for the better part of a year. It has been close to high but never really high, so I was to eat oatmeal and low-fat foods. Try to do that during football season – or hockey season, or baseball season, or during the summer or winter months. Suffice to say, oatmeal is one thing, turning away a plate of wings quite another.
In two weeks, after the kind doctor and I are spooning on the exam table after my violation, I am thinking she will ever so kindly whisper in my ear, “Lipitor, darling.”
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