If memory serves me well, this is the 17th time in my 57 year old life that I’m getting, “back in shape”.  By that measure, it seems it would have been much easier to just stay in shape, but that ship has circled the globe.  Four times I believe.

I’ve always been good at recognizing when things have gotten out of hand, setting a plan of action, and sticking to it.  It has worked wonders.  16 times, to the best of my recollection.

The last time I got in shape was a little over a year ago.  After an oncology check up I committed myself to lose weight, and did, about 35 pounds over a course of 5 months.  I accomplished this mainly by walking 30 minutes a day and eating whatever I wanted…so long as it didn’t exceed 1800 calories a day.  And it did work.  Went two two pant sizes and no more back problems.

I should say at this moment I’m not that bad out of shape.  I probably put back on 10 pounds of that weight I lost but this winter has caused excessive inactivity, unless snow shoveling counts.  If it does count then I am the healthiest person on the planet.

I was an avid gym guy for about 35 years, then I quit cold turkey in December of 2016.  The gym I was going to (I won’t mention the name) for 18 years was in the midst of ownership change and a makeover.  I made a remark to one of the managers that it started to resemble a hotel gym.  I was told I was welcome to leave and go somewhere else if I didn’t like it.  After 18 years.  18 years of $75 per month.  Oh, hell, it was Main Line Fitness on Haverford Road in Haverford.  Good bye.  Good riddance.  And I did not let the Stairmaster cord hit me in the rear end on the way out.

So I left.  That day.  Never looked back.  And I haven’t missed it one day.  I can’t recall ever enjoying a workout.  Any workout.  I did it because I had to do.  Because although my foundation often had cracks I didn’t want it to crumble altogether.  But I never enjoyed it.  Especially the people.  Talking about the most inane things, what they couldn’t eat, what they wouldn’t eat, having to come in extra because of Thanksgiving…blah, blah, blah.  Gym people are the shallowest and most boring people alive.

So, back to me…so, today restarting my daily walk, at 6:30 am, 2-1/2 miles, followed by 1800 calories a day and basketball on Monday nights, as always.  I expect to be where I need to be by the end of May.  Then what?  What happens, always, when we reach our goal?  And we have no more goal?  We reward ourselves for a job well done.  For about three months.  And then we start the process all over again.

The ultimate goal…is life.  Longer life, healthier life.  Which seems like a good thing.  Although I was really hoping to shuffle off this cesspool before all of the shit really hits the fan.  I’m not sure I want to see what people are like, what the climate is like, what the country is like in the year 2043.

Maybe I’ll just have another donut.

Tomorrow, my mom turns 84 years old.  And no, that’s not 84 years young.  She will be 84.  Years.  Old.  Still shrinking.  Queen of the Hobbits.  And yes, she has no idea what a Hobbit is.  She does not understand what a blog is.  She is still calling it a, “bug”.

Quite remarkable when you consider that just over a year ago Mom was diagnosed with lung cancer.  This, after smoking unfiltered cigarettes for nearly 70 years.  Yeah, that’s not a misprint.

Mom opted for treatment, which included radiation, chemotherapy, and two weeks of preventive brain radiation, and a year later she has been told she is in remission.  Not that she’ll accept that diagnosis.  “How can the doctors know that?”

I almost forgot, a month into her treatment Mom underwent major abdominal surgery and spent 10 days in the hospital.  During the surgery they removed a bread package, “twist tie” which had perforated her bowels.  She apparently had ingested the twist tie by accident while making a sandwich.  In those 10 days she threatened to walk (or crawl) out of the hospital 174 times.

And here she is, turning 84.  Her hair has grown back, silver and dark as well.

I mentioned Mom prominently in my book, and often here, in my blog.  She is adamant that everything I have written about her is not true or grossly inflated, but luckily, that is not the case.

We have so much to be thankful for that Mom is still with us.  Still complaining.  Still driving?????  But not smoking, thank goodness.

Mom is one of a kind and we hope she continues to be one of a kind for some time to come.  She will never outgrow being a miserob.  And we wouldn’t want her any other way.  Mom optimistic?  Sunny?  The world might as well end right here and now.

Happy Birthday Lucille.  We can never repay you for all of the load you carried raising four sons on your own and then raising extended families years on after that.  You have deserved a rest.  Just not a final rest.

Tomorrow she’ll tell me that she cleaned the kitchen floor and changed the cat litter boxes and that she’s making veal stew for John’s dinner.  She’ll tell me about her latest conspiracy theory and that she saw a dear departed member of the family standing right next to her.  And we will be happy and thankful that she did.

We love you Mom.  For all you have done and do.  For still making holiday cookies.   For watching 12 episodes of Family Feud per day.  For feverishly watching the daily number even though you haven’t played it in years.

Don’t change, Mom.  And don’t go anywhere.  We’d miss you.

 

This is the 20th anniversary of “The Big Lebowski”, the Coen Brothers famous, now cult-like classic starring Jeff Bridges, John Goodman and Steve Buschemi.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I have been, and always will be, an Abider.  And if you’ve never seen the movie, well, poor poor pitiful you.  I’m proud to list it on my top ten films of all time that I would take with me if stranded on a deserted island.  Although without power I don’t know what we’d do with the disc, use it to dig for clams I suppose.

It’s the kind of movie that either you will get right away or scratch your head and say, “What?  Is Duffy on drugs?”  No, the Dude is on drugs, that is, when he’s not downing a White Russian.

Unforgettable supporting performances from John Turturro, Julianne Moore, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Sam Elliott and many others makes this a cannot miss film.

Even though the Misses and I have never attended Lebowski Fest, we are there in spirit year after year.  For my 55th birthday party a few years back we had a Lebowski-themed event.  Unforgettable…or totally forgettable, depending on which table you sat at.

Where else can you hear lines like, “I’m a brother shamus, man”.  “A brother shamus…what’s that like an Irish monk?”  Or the Dude, being physically forced into the back of a limo while holding a drink, exclaiming, “Take it easy man, there’s a beverage here”.  Plus, a killer soundtrack, dream (or drug haze) sequences and an XXX actress who was a member of MENSA (I kid you not).

Bridges, Goodman and Buschemi have often admitting during interviews that their characters in this movie have been their career favorites and when you watch it, it’s easy to understand.  Goodman steals the movie.  Every scene he is in is a classic.  Forcing an opponent to change a bowling score at gunpoint…where else can you get that?  I’ll tell you where, no where Dude.  But only watch the DVD, or on cable.  Goodman’s memorable line of, “This is what happens when you BLEEP a stranger in the BLEEP”, well, on non-cable television it has been reduced to ashes as, “This is what happens when you meet a stranger in the Alps”.  Enough said.  Or not said, apparently.

The movie has everything from a Big Lebowski to a Little Lebowski to a Bunny Lebowski, a trio of kidnapping Nihilists, a cowboy in the middle of present day Los Angeles, a suitcase full of dirty underwear, a severed toe with green nail polish, a perverted bowler in a purple jumpsuit and a ferret in a bathtub wreaking havoc on a naked man.  It’s something you can’t explain.  It has to be seen.  Over and over and over again.

But not with the kiddies.  The movie drops the F bomb a whopping 260 times, and every one used in perfect context.  That’s 260 times in 117 minutes, so once every 2.2 seconds.  It’s actually a great right of passage movie, for when they turn 17.  Like taking your kids out for their first beer.

I am quite happy with myself that I’m one of the fans that gets it.  And when someone else doesn’t, it makes me feel good…about myself (please excuse the Melvin Udall reference).

If you watch it and don’t like it, well, let’s face it, you’re being very undude.  I’m looking at my Dude Bobble Head for inspiration as I’m writing this, and well, he agrees.

And it’s okay to refer to him as “El Duderino”…if you’re not into the whole brevity thing.

 

Does anyone out there remember what customer service was?  It was a circumstance where a consumer was given consideration from a business they were were buying something from.  Can anyone remember the last time they had a positive customer service encounter?  Let alone an actual encounter?

Of course the biggest problem in today’s world is that the majority of customer service personnel are actually automated systems.  Systems that rely on the fact that you will become so frustrated going through the automated steps that you never actually reach a live person and just give up.  Or that when you do reach someone they speak with an accent so thick it sounds like it must be covered in molasses.  I give credit to my employers.  They have live people answering the phones 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  You can’t imagine the number of compliments I hear about that.

The automated system people you eventually reach, these are the people who repeat,”I’m sorry” about a dozen times while often being unable to assist with your problem.  Their chart doesn’t seem to have any answers but they are always courteous.  If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard, “I’m sorry” from them, well…I’d have many, many dimes.

Two weeks ago I called and made a reservation at an indoor virtual golf facility.  This is a place I have gone to at least two dozen times in the past several years.  When I arrived at my scheduled time I was told they had no reservation for me.  And the clerk looked at me as if I just crawled off of the set of, “12 Monkeys”.

Rather than apologize, or try and make some sort of offer to make up for their mistake, I was made to feel as if I never made the reservation at all, that I had just dreamt it all.  That if it wasn’t in their system, the fault had to be mine.  No apology.  No offer.  Just a 90 minute round trip for nothing and the feeling that I actually was losing my mind.

Employees are obviously only as good as the people in companies that train them.  What is being lost today is the human element.  The person I dealt with did not look me in the eye and actually understand what it was I was saying to them.  He was too concerned only about what he saw or did not see on a screen.  A 4″ by 3″ screen, by the way.

Have you all had the experience with a business you have ventured into?  Actually inside?  And you’re treated like a second class citizen over people either on the phone or in a drive thru.  It is like you are invisible.  You have to convince them you are not a hologram.  You are actually standing in front of them.  Hello?  Magoo?  Anybody home?

How about the employees so busy chatting with each other, or checking their texts that you, a paying customer, have to wait until they are good and ready to take care of you.  It all adds up to, “We are doing you a favor by servicing YOU”.  So relax, and hold your horses.  And you feel bad to complain, you don’t want to get anyone fired.  Here’s some advice.  Get them fired!  Make them understand what they are doing wrong so at the next job they will know what NOT to do.

Ten years ago, my response to situations like these was to identify the manager and/or the owner, write a letter and push until I got satisfaction.  Now I just leave and I don’t come back…ever.  They just lose my business.  And you know what, they really don’t care, do they?

These are businesses that are so concerned about cost and cost alone.  Stores like Lowes, that on a Saturday in the Spring, have two lines with human cashiers and 6 open registers that are self-checkout.  They have taken the human element out of business, and what they are doing is eliminating their own future.

The primary problem with customer service is twofold.  You have ownership/management concerned only with the bottom line, and a staff of young workers who have grown up in the computer era and have little or no social skills.  On how to deal with human beings.  In understanding what they are experiencing and what they need.

They say retail is dying.  Not on its own.  It is being murdered, bit by bit, by faceless screens and automatic bank deductions.  When I pay cash at the supermarket I’m looked at like I’m trying to trade corn back at the first Thanksgiving.

If you own a business, or run a business, or even work at a customer-service business, don’t just hear the problem.  Listen to the people you are dealing with and even if you can’t succeed, make the customer understand that you hear them and do what you can to help them.

I have a friend who mentioned he recently went to a restaurant run by someone he knew.  He said the service was bad and the food was not very good.  And later, when the owner came over, he said nothing.  That’s on us.  It is our job, as consumers, to speak out when something is not to our liking.  To give businesses the chance to make things right.  To let them hear us.  Don’t you want to be heard?

The world is going in a direction where people eventually will never have to leave their homes or interact with anyone for anything.   I saw a car commercial the other day that boasted it had a feature that allowed the driver in the front to, “communicate with the passengers in the back”.  In the back.  Right behind them.  We have that already, it’s called…talking.

I don’t think they are listening to what we really want.  Or what we really need.  So I think we need to speak a little louder.  And a little longer.  Until they understand.  Or go out of business.

I mentioned in a blog a few days ago that when I was young, Dad never gave me, “The talk”.  Mom never gave me, “The talk” either.

Years later I’m actually grateful for that.  I think, given their parental skills at the time, it may have ended up being something I was scarred by and let’s face it, when thinking back on my childhood one less scar is fine by me.

The problem was, in the late 60’s and early 70’s there weren’t any television shows that featured the talk.  Even on family oriented shows like the Brady Bunch and The Waltons, they never showed you any of the parents giving their children that talk.  And if anyone was going to give to you, it was Mike and Carol Brady or John and Olivia Walton.

In our Catholic elementary school there was no sex education.  There was no sex.  Sex did not exist.  They didn’t even preach virginity.  Nothing about protection.  Nothing about birth control, or safe sex.  They said nothing.  You were told nothing.  Sgt. Schultz would have been proud.

So where did that leave most of us?  Trying to piece together what we thought made sense from what we saw and heard on the street.  And that was a scary, scary thing.  Thinking back now it is amazing to think any of us made it through that time.

No need to get explicit here.  It was like a 12 year-old being given the plans on how to build an atomic bomb and being told, “Be careful, don’t blow yourself up”.  I clearly remember someone once convincing me I had made a girl pregnant just by kissing her.

I don’t know what it was like in the other households.  Most of my friends seemed as lost as I was growing up, about that sort of stuff.  I first kissed a girl at 11 and had my first real boyfriend-girlfriend relationship at 14.  Fourteen.  The thought even today send chills down my spine.

And then I think, I never gave my daughter, “The talk”.  But, she had a mom and a stepmom for that.  It was never conveyed to me that either actually had that conversation.  But things seem to have worked out okay.  But who knows?  Who ever knows?

I wonder if, outside of the movies and television, has anyone ever been given, “The talk”, or has anyone given, “The talk” to anyone else?  And if so, did it work?  Or is it just a horrible memory?

How did kids make it through?  And how are they making it through now?  Do we even know?  Do we bother to ask?  Go ahead, ask.  Risk the embarrassment.

I have to imagine Harvey Weinstein’s parents never gave him, “The talk”.  Or if they did he wasn’t listening.  Today, more than ever, it seems the talk is necessary.  Vital.  But like learning to drive, it has to be given by someone who knows what they’re talking about.  Should that be a profession?  Someone who does nothing but counsel the young on, “The talk”?  And exactly how do you get your degree to teach that class? Think about it.

I’ve said before that therapy should be mandatory in this country, once a week, for everyone between the ages of 18 and 21.  But maybe, as well, all children need to be given the talk, say at age 12?   And again at 13, and 14 and 15?

I don’t claim to have all of the answers.  Not even many of them.  But this seems pretty obvious.  We’re allowed to drive a car at 16 but by then more than half of the kids in this country don’t have the first clue about sex, or respect for the opposite sex, regardless of relations.

If you can’t handle the talk on your own, find a professional who can.  And take your child there.  Or your grandchild.  Give them a flashlight instead of allowing them to fumble around in the dark.  Education is the key to every problem we have in this country.  But we need to climb out of the shadows.  We’ve been through it.  We know where the traps are.  The least we can do is pass along something helpful to our kids.

Sorry about the heavy subject matter the night before Easter.  Some things can’t wait.

Peace.

 

 

Two blogs in one day?  Well, I’m feeling creative.  And I wasn’t sure how much anyone would be reading over the holiday weekend.

Someone actually gave me a, “Happy Good Friday” today.  Happy Good Friday.  Really?  Now, my religious days are well behind me but I just had to reply, “Not so much for Jesus, no?”  The return look I received is actually still burning my eyes.

The thing I remember most as a kid about the Easter season, attending a Catholic elementary school, is that we had off on Good Friday.  However, you were not supposed to speak between the hours of 12 noon and 3 pm, supposedly the time that Jesus was on the cross.  The local stores always had a sale on chalk so we could still communicate (the texting of its time).

I usually made it without speech until 12:30.  Then I’d draw a lewd sketch in the street involving the local shop owner and the husband of the water ice store owner and that was it.  All double hockey sticks would break loose.  It’s funny, parents were allowed to hit you and curse, but we, as kids, weren’t supposed to make any sounds if we were being hit between 12 and 3.  “Mumbling Beatings” there were called.

Funny, I seem to remember businesses being open during those hours.  Parents working.  I assumed they spoke in the course of their activities.  So, basically, it was a story invented for the sole purpose of keeping kids quiet for three hours out of the entire year.

Why not just give away free candy for those three hours instead?

Okay, I realize I sound cynical.  Can you blame me?  As kids we always were more concerned about what was in our Easter basket, as opposed to what supposedly happened that holy morning many, many years earlier.

The season actually started on Ash Wednesday, forty days earlier, kicking off the season of Lent.  The ashes on the forehead always seemed a bit creepy to me, and quite often we skipped the trip to church and just dabbed a few remnants of Mom’s Pall Malls onto our foreheads, and no one ever seemed to know the difference.

We were always asked to give up something for Lent.  We were advised it had to be something of substance.  Not like our efforts to give up eating vegetables or wearing clean underwear.  Something like giving up Lillian’s miniature soft pretzels or Welch’s Cherry cough drops.  I don’t recall ever making it past the first Friday of Lent in giving up anything.  Willpower has never been a defining Duffy trait.

Then came the issue of not eating meat on Fridays during Lent.  For a family of carnivores, this was really asking a lot.  I can recall clearly pleading with Mom, “Bacon is NOT meat.  Sausage is NOT meat”.  Still, Fridays developed into all you can eat flounder night at Howard Johnsons on City Line Avenue and that was that.  But Fridays after school I could always be found sneaking a Gino’s Giant down on 63rd Street.  With a side of large fries and a vanilla shake.

Easter week always started the week before, with Palm Sunday.  As altar boys, some of us had direct access to the palms that would be given out at mass.  They were, for some reason, cherished by the parish  women, who tied them into crosses and the like.  I remember they often made it onto the car’s rear view mirrors, replacing the dad’s dice or Playboy air fresheners.  We would always steal a bundle or two of the palms and sell them for a quarter a piece just a block away in front of the library.  The church always gave out just a precious few.  The older women, for some reason, had no problem paying for black market palms.  “Hey lady, get your palms here.  Just in fresh from Miami”.

Next, we always had off Holy Thursday and Good Friday.  What could be better than that, as a kid?  The only down day was Saturday.  It stood for nothing.  Jesus was already dead, according to the story.  Nothing basically happened that entire day.  I suppose the imaginations back then ran out of ideas for every day of the week.  So we filled it in by Mom dyeing hard boiled eggs for Easter Day consumption.

Then, ah, Easter morning.  The baskets.  The plastic grass.  Jelly beans.  Zitner’s coconut eggs.  The Peeps!  The chocolate bunny in the center.  Assorted chocolate mini-eggs.  Always the Easter egg hunts with plastic eggs, filled with coins and dollar bills.  Almost made it worth having to put on a suit and drag ourselves up to church for Easter day mass.

And then to top it all off, Easter dinner.  Usually ham and ponsoduts (if you have to ask, don’t).  Fried potato thingys that must have had 1,000 calories apiece even back then.

Topped off usually by a birthday cake because both my brother Joe and my Mom’s birthdays came the first week of Easter.  Then spending the next week polishing off the candy.  What a dentist’s delight those holidays were.

For everyone who still has strong faith, good for you.  I don’t envy you but I like the fact that people have something they can still believe in.  It’s important in today’s world.

As for me, I’m off to eat my Zitner’s coconut eggs.  I have still have faith they will always taste good.

A few weeks ago I mentioned a little movie called, “Nobody’s Fool” starring Paul Newman.  If you haven’t had a chance to see it, please do.  And if you have now seen it for the first time, let me know what you think.

Movie review two is, “Away We Go”, another little film, from 2009, starring John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph, and directed by Sam Mendes.

Let me say as I’ve grown older I’ve mostly moved away from movies where everything is blowing up or a car is travelling more than 60 miles per hour for any reason.  Not totally, I mean I like the “Bourne” movies, but mostly, quieter rather than louder.

Away We Go is about a young couple expecting their first child, trying to decide where they want to live and raise that child.  They embark on a trip to several cities in the US and Canada, along the way meeting with friends and family they have known.  The lead performances by Krasinski and Rudolph are phenomenal.  Realistic, funny, touching.

The movie is so well written, aided by supporting roles from Jeff Daniels, Catherine O’Hara, Allison Janney, Jim Gaffigan, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Chris Messina just to name a few.  And you’ll want to order the soundtrack as soon as the movie is over.

But mainly, the lead performers will want you hoping there will be an immediate sequel (which there was not).  Another great rainy day movie, or with your significant other.  It’s okay to see a movie that makes you both laugh and cry.  But my ultimate recommendation is always, “Will you feel better or worse after watching it?”  Better, better, better.

On the TV end, the final season (season 6) of, “The Americans” just started, on FX.  If you haven’t seen this drama, please know it has been the best thing on television for the past 5 seasons, and now, into their final season.  The show starts Keri Russell and Matthew Rhys, (a real-life couple), who portray married Russian spies, posing as Americans, living in suburbia in the United States.

In this show, set in the 1980’s, you root for the Russians and you don’t have to feel guilty about it.  It will make you think twice about who is living across the street from you.  Seasons 1 through 5 can be seen on Amazon Prime.  Catch up now and then join in season 6.  It’s almost over and you’ll be sad to see it go.

Happy viewing!

Every once in a while it is a good idea to throw things out there you’ve been thinking of, which, as a collective group, make no sense at all.  Sort of like Congress.

Here’s my collection for today…

Yes, I am a Democrat.  Mom tells me that when I was a baby I would only drink from the left breast.  That might be why she leans slightly to one side.

Natural abilities rarely have any place of significance on a job application.  “Yes, my hair grows really fast; I can produce a full beard, if necessary, in five days”.

This is, unfortunately, a true quote: “How fortunate for governments that people they administer don’t think”.  Adolph Hitler.

Have you ever used the word topsy and not turvy or the word turvy without topsy?  If so, respond and use it in a sentence please.

To the makers of cereal and potato chips.  Save yourself the money and make smaller packages for your products.  Packages the actual size of what is inside.  What is the point of making a 12 inch high box when you only fill it with 9 inches of product?  There’s a lewd joke in there somewhere, just give me a moment.

If two couples are going out to dinner and only two of the four decide to order dessert, and share it, please know this.  The two women can share a dessert from the same plate.  One of the men and one of the women can share the dessert.  The two men cannot.  Sorry, Ed, it just can’t happen.  One plate, one piece of pie, two forks.  Not happening.

Remember, whether you’re starting your day with a smile or a clenched fist, at least you are starting your day.  And a lot of people don’t get to anymore.

Having recently been sick I made it a point to not say, “Yeah, I was sick as a dog”.  How often do you ever see a sickly dog?  Ever?  They eat trash and dig in the dirt, drink from the toilet and the street, and never skip a beat.  As well, I’ve never been as, “healthy as a horse”.  I don’t hang around stables or racetracks very often, but what distinguishes horses from the rest of us sick slobs?

Don’t we all have that friend who can’t help but lie, even in situations where there is no need to lie.  I have such a friend.  I think his system is so screwed up from years of lying, he couldn’t pass a polygraph if he was telling the truth.

People idolize the Amish as having the perfect lifestyle and that they basically, have never built anything shoddy in their lives.  I’m sure, somewhere, there is the world’s worst Amish builder.  And I’m sure I’ll be purchasing a shed from him this June.

If you’re not drawing a line in the sand, your head is probably in it.

Can we stop invoking the, “Sophie’s Choice” metaphor into everyday life.  I’ve actually heard, “I don’t know whether to watch  Fast and Furious 8 or Transformers 4 tonight…it’s like Sophie’s Choice”.  Do any of you know what Sophie’s actual choice was???

Regardless of the type of bicycle you purchase, there should be a law that states the seat of that bicycle must be in direct proportion with the size of your backside.

Dad never gave me, “the talk”.  Mom never gave me, “the talk”.  Looking back now, that explains a LOT.

I’d much rather prefer to be known than to be remembered.

You know that string that emerges from in between the kernels when you’re eating a piece of corn on the cob?  That’s as close I come to flossing.  Sorry, Vince.

Feeling blue?  Daily?  Even though your life is going pretty well?  Don’t lose hope.  My mom is starting a miserob grief hotline.  Anytime, day or night, just call 1-800-WOE-ISME.  Don’t worry, she never sleeps.

I’m growing concerned that absolutely everything at the supermarket costs $4.99.  Check it out.  Then check out.

I still consider winning the Powerball to be a viable retirement plan.  I’ve got 10 years, so about 1000 more chances.  I like my odds.

People are living longer.  Just not the right people.

Why is it that the elderly can flaunt the fact that they’re having sex but as teenagers we never had that right?

Your life expectancy should be directly related to what you do and your importance to society.  Surgeons and sanitation workers should live to 109.  Reality TV participants and lawyers to about 38.

Has anyone ever made six figures out of making stick figures?  And then have to tell people about it?

Okay, I realize I’m losing a lot of you.  That’s all for now.  Remember, this coming Sunday, when the big rock gets rolled back, and Jesus comes out, if he sees his shadow they’ll be six more weeks of winter.

Someone asked me the other day, “How’ the blog going?  I didn’t know how to answer that.  “Who’s following”.  “What are the responses?”

Honestly, I haven’t paid much attention to any of that.  The blog was intended as a forum, to put things out there for others to read.  I notified everyone I know about the blog, how to find it, and the rest is up to them.

I think I mentioned briefly last week, people have their own lives and aside from thinking that’s all great and all, they don’t really get invested.

For me, it has been great.  I love having the daily forum to write and will continue to do so whether anyone follows or not.  If all of my words are going into the great abyss, so be it.  I was always the best listener of my words anyway.

To those of you reading, thank you.  I’m never going to ask you to, “Spread the word”, or anything like that.  If you enjoy a daily dribble of my thoughts, that’s good enough for me.

So today, remember to laugh, whenever you can… at death.  When it comes to death, you have to have a sense of humor.  I’ve never attended a viewing or a funeral that I have haven’t laughed at, even if only internally.  The entire process is, well, quite insane.

Death is never going to lose.  It’s like the Harlem Globetrotters.  Whether it’s right after tip off, at halftime, or even if you take it to triple overtime, eventually, death will win out.

I was first diagnosed with cancer at 33.  After my recovery, I set my sights on what I though would be a reasonable life expectancy.  Fifty.  I reached that goal in 2010.  Then, in 2014, I was diagnosed with cancer again, at age 54.  After that recovery I set my new life goal.  Seventy.  Seems logical.  But now, that’s only a little over 12 years away and seems a bit short.  But I’ll take 70 if you offered it to me today.

If I go before it’s expected please know this.  There won’t be a viewing or a funeral.  So you won’t have a body to curse at or a grave to spit on.  In fact, only the misses gets a last look at the shell, then into the oven I go (I always did like the heat).

There’s orders for a party, with good food and drink and anyone who dares wear black will be tossed out.  Have a good remembrance and go on with LIFE.  After all, we only get one (sorry, just my opinion).

At least our florist will be spared hearing those four words most dreaded in their profession…”In lieu of flowers”.  Remember when it was never even a thought.  Death.  Flowers.  Death.  Flowers.  Now its donate to the American Cancer Society, or to Hospice or to the SPCA.  Which of course is the right thing to do.  The flowers always seemed almost as idiotic as filling a body with fluid, dressing it up with clothes and makeup to sort of resemble what was once a living, breathing unit.  So that will be our last memory of that person?  Isn’t that why we have a memory, to remember that person as they were?  At their funniest, their most healthy, their most generous?

Do we ever need to hear again, “They did a great job on him, geez, he looks like he’s sleeping”.  Yeah, I can barely see the claw marks from the pit bull that attacked him.  Let’s do away with the idea of dressing up the dearly departed like Ken and Barbie dolls.  Instead, place out a great photo, tell a great story and toast their memory.

I was always a big fan of the closed casket, photograph on top.

Everyone has their own grieving process.  But do it because you want to do it and not because you have to follow some time-honored tradition.

As for me, whether I make it to 70 or not, I’ve have a great time.  And if I’m wrong and we all eventually meet again, I’ll be happy to hear most of you tell me, “I told you so”.  Even though I prefer the heat, I hope it’s not too hot.

 

I started my Sunday morning the way most 57 year olds hope to start their Sunday mornings.  By falling down in the bathroom.

Now 14 days into whatever the hell this illness is morphing into, I felt the need to cough something up, had nothing available, walked into the bath, and in a coughing fit, stepped on the floor mat which began sliding underneath me.  The next thing I know I’m sitting on the floor and my darling wife is freaking out.

Okay, so it was technically not a fall.  It was more of a slide, and a sit.  I think it took me about 3.3 seconds to make it to the floor.  Longer than it took me to stand up, so I have than to be thankful for.

Then we are greeted on this first Sunday of the Spring by cold and snow.

Look, even Doris Day would be cracking about now.

But I am warmed by the events of yesterday.  By the millions of young (and old) people across the country marching for the future of our country, and hoping, hoping, this is finally the time that things change.

It seems so simple a thing it’s almost idiotic that we have to keep discussing it.  We could not get it done, so it is in the hands of the young.  People like my daughter, Jessica.  With will and determination like hers I do believe it will get done.  Not just this but the other important issues as well.

I was wrong, dead wrong.  The under 30 generation is not just Nitwit Nation.  They, like many of us, have had enough.

As you go about your day today, if you see a young person, even someone you don’t know, walk up to them and tell them, “We’re counting on you”.  Similar to when you see a veteran and say, “Thank you for your service”.  Because thanks to our generation sitting on our hands (and wallets), it’s going to fall squarely upon their shoulders to change this world.

So let’s look past the coughing and the falling and the cold and the snow.  It’s the first Sunday of Spring.  The season of change.  And with this thought, the snow  is, “starting to stop”, as I would say to my old boss, Thom.  It always made him laugh.

I’ll leave you with this thought.  My mom was concerned about reading this blog because she was concerned about the potential for bad language.  Here it is, mom.  Chickenshit.  Two kinds of foul/fowl language in one word.  You were right.

I’m going to find some Lava and wash my mouth out with soap.