If you need a short pre-cursor to my conversations with my gym buddy, please see the links below.
(Installment One)
(Installment Two)
I was worried Monday when Vince wasn’t at the gym. He is easy to spot when he walks the track – a slow moving figure with those (I am convinced) self-invented arm movements that he swears by.
Today, however, he was in his spot on the couch as I was leaving. He claims that he waits for it to get a little brighter before he goes home. That’s bullshit. It’s dark when he comes to the gym (about six in the morning I think) so if he was really worried about driving before the sun comes up, he would arrive later in the day. He is eighty-six and long retired, I imagine his calendar is fairly open. No, Vince comes to look at the girls. God bless him.
Anyway, today he told me that he finally made peace with the Veteran’s Administration. If his lung cancer gets to the point that he can’t stay home, he is going there. As he said so eloquently, “The Army may have tried to get me killed, but at least they got clean sheets.”
No conversation is complete without a little mortality discussion. Dare I say, the man is more prepared for death than most people are prepared for dinner? His secret seems to be two-fold. First, he has an unwavering faith in God and heaven, and is quite convinced his next stop will far exceed this current one in terms of desirability. Secondly, he is making a concerted effort in the days he has left to be completely at peace with his life and existence here.
“I’m giving everything away. These people with boats and a house in Florida, it’s just more things to worry about. When you give everything away, you are left with only the things you need. That’s a great feeling.”
He goes next week for the results of his recent PET scan (that’s where he was Monday.) “Then they are going to guess how long I have left.” He chuckles. “They have been wrong every time.”
Before I leave, he lays this line on me. “On the other hand, King Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines, so who’s kidding who?” I don’t know Vince, but I know we can all use some clean sheets once in a while.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Because Great Quotes Don't Always Come From Famous People
Our world has been blessed with great orators: Winston Churchill (“This was their finest hour!”), John F. Kennedy (“If you believe-they put a man on the moon…man on the moon.”), Jenna Jamison (“I’ve never seen a plumber with such a large – tool.”) Their prodigious words stand the test of time and still evoke emotional upheaval. They are beacons that have guided us through our troubles and light the way for our future.
Then, there are the quotes I like; ordinary people saying extraordinary things. I have begun to jot down a few and want to share them. They are from friends, associates and strangers. They are all true – I wish they were mine.
“I smell heat.”
“I’m allergic to alcohol, I break out in handcuffs.”
“Those Koreans feed, house and give blowjobs to thousands of American troops, that’s why I bought a Kia.”
“Face it, Ken, there are grandmothers out there who have taken it in the ass.”
“Don’t forget, there’s a dead leg on the ass end.”
“I drank myself sober.”
“He was in between mouthfuls of French whore.”
“The donkey screamed and the children cried.”
“I don’t eat them; the doughnuts are for my horse.”
“As much as I like helping my mom out, I’m not cut out for this shit, man. I’d rather be working at a club, mixing it up with some hotties and a few drinks.”
“Not really sure where, but we drove a long way from Bangkok.”
“Ace Fraley and Bilbo Baggins are having lunch on the green.”
Hopefully (for me, maybe not so much for you) this is only part one. Keep your ears open because this stuff writes itself.
Then, there are the quotes I like; ordinary people saying extraordinary things. I have begun to jot down a few and want to share them. They are from friends, associates and strangers. They are all true – I wish they were mine.
“I smell heat.”
“I’m allergic to alcohol, I break out in handcuffs.”
“Those Koreans feed, house and give blowjobs to thousands of American troops, that’s why I bought a Kia.”
“Face it, Ken, there are grandmothers out there who have taken it in the ass.”
“Don’t forget, there’s a dead leg on the ass end.”
“I drank myself sober.”
“He was in between mouthfuls of French whore.”
“The donkey screamed and the children cried.”
“I don’t eat them; the doughnuts are for my horse.”
“As much as I like helping my mom out, I’m not cut out for this shit, man. I’d rather be working at a club, mixing it up with some hotties and a few drinks.”
“Not really sure where, but we drove a long way from Bangkok.”
“Ace Fraley and Bilbo Baggins are having lunch on the green.”
Hopefully (for me, maybe not so much for you) this is only part one. Keep your ears open because this stuff writes itself.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Equal Opportunity Political Offending
We have breached the wall of common sense in this country. In the wake of these horrific shootings in Tucson, we find ourselves in the midst of a fierce debate over political speech – with BOTH sides shoring up their defense, and their offense.
What prompts this is the very real fact that political speech has now turned into entertainment. The frightening thing is, too few people realize it. Olberman and Beck and the like trumpet faux insight through slick graphics, snazzy production and fine fitted suits into the waiting mouths and empty brains of the hungry little birds that are eager to gobble down all the vitriol they can handle – which apparently is a lot.
How can anyone hear the Fox News mantra of “fair and balanced” and not chuckle? They are no more fair and balanced than the Huffington Post. Are we so lazy that we are going to let Bill Maher or Rush decide our views for us? Are we going to follow them right off the bridge of sanity? Scary version? It seems like yes, we are.
This isn’t Jeffersonian debate that rages on our airwaves, this is Snookie with a higher syllable count. It’s like the Manchurian Political Candidate out there – we walk around like zombies until Bill O’Reilly says “talking points” whereby there is this universal snapping of attention, and we mainline someone else’s ideas, immune to the fact that at the end, all we are doing is boosting ratings – same thing as when we watch the Real Housewives. Because it is entertainment!
Here is a quote from the Buddha that has been influential for me, I think it speaks volumes.
“O monks and wise men, just as a goldsmith would test his gold by burning, cutting and rubbing it, so must you examine my words and accept them, not merely out of reverence for me. “
Let’s burn, cut and rub the things we hear.
What prompts this is the very real fact that political speech has now turned into entertainment. The frightening thing is, too few people realize it. Olberman and Beck and the like trumpet faux insight through slick graphics, snazzy production and fine fitted suits into the waiting mouths and empty brains of the hungry little birds that are eager to gobble down all the vitriol they can handle – which apparently is a lot.
How can anyone hear the Fox News mantra of “fair and balanced” and not chuckle? They are no more fair and balanced than the Huffington Post. Are we so lazy that we are going to let Bill Maher or Rush decide our views for us? Are we going to follow them right off the bridge of sanity? Scary version? It seems like yes, we are.
This isn’t Jeffersonian debate that rages on our airwaves, this is Snookie with a higher syllable count. It’s like the Manchurian Political Candidate out there – we walk around like zombies until Bill O’Reilly says “talking points” whereby there is this universal snapping of attention, and we mainline someone else’s ideas, immune to the fact that at the end, all we are doing is boosting ratings – same thing as when we watch the Real Housewives. Because it is entertainment!
Here is a quote from the Buddha that has been influential for me, I think it speaks volumes.
“O monks and wise men, just as a goldsmith would test his gold by burning, cutting and rubbing it, so must you examine my words and accept them, not merely out of reverence for me. “
Let’s burn, cut and rub the things we hear.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Post-Workout Therapy - Part II
(For anyone who missed the introduction of Old Man Gym, please see here.)
Seven o’clock is the worst time to try and talk to Vince. Seven is when the morning spin class lets out, and with that, about a dozen latex-clad and sweaty girls walk up the stairs and right passed Vince on their way to the locker room. And he talks to every single one of them.
“How’s that cold? Chicken soup and two aspirin.” Giggle, giggle.
“Look at these two, the queens of the gym.” Smile, wave.
I’m invisible.
And on it goes. I catch Vince, with his sly smile, steal a quick glance when they pass by us.
After the parade, I ask him how his Christmas was.
“Great. The kids were in and I gave them all money. My wife still wanted to go shopping. I asked her if she saw where I put the decimal point on those checks!”
“Hey Vince!” a young girl carrying a yoga mat says. He waves, then looks at her ass.
“Vince,” I finally say now that things have calmed down, “did all the kids go back home?”
“Yeah. My son went back to Texas and the other to DC. The one in DC, I don’t get this. They are always RE-DOING (he emphasis this) something on their house. New kitchen, new...something. Then, everyone in the neighborhood has to have the same thing. Never content with what he has that one. I try to tell him it is not a contest. He don’t listen. But they all had smiles on their faces when I handed them those checks.”
“I bet they did. Money always works,” I say.
“Yep. It’s a great year…I was never supposed to have survived the last one.”
Amen. Be content.
Seven o’clock is the worst time to try and talk to Vince. Seven is when the morning spin class lets out, and with that, about a dozen latex-clad and sweaty girls walk up the stairs and right passed Vince on their way to the locker room. And he talks to every single one of them.
“How’s that cold? Chicken soup and two aspirin.” Giggle, giggle.
“Look at these two, the queens of the gym.” Smile, wave.
I’m invisible.
And on it goes. I catch Vince, with his sly smile, steal a quick glance when they pass by us.
After the parade, I ask him how his Christmas was.
“Great. The kids were in and I gave them all money. My wife still wanted to go shopping. I asked her if she saw where I put the decimal point on those checks!”
“Hey Vince!” a young girl carrying a yoga mat says. He waves, then looks at her ass.
“Vince,” I finally say now that things have calmed down, “did all the kids go back home?”
“Yeah. My son went back to Texas and the other to DC. The one in DC, I don’t get this. They are always RE-DOING (he emphasis this) something on their house. New kitchen, new...something. Then, everyone in the neighborhood has to have the same thing. Never content with what he has that one. I try to tell him it is not a contest. He don’t listen. But they all had smiles on their faces when I handed them those checks.”
“I bet they did. Money always works,” I say.
“Yep. It’s a great year…I was never supposed to have survived the last one.”
Amen. Be content.
Friday, December 31, 2010
2011 - Own It
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.
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.
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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