Cats/Vacation/Earthquake!

For those of you that like to watch movies, you might recognize the three words of the title to this installment of my blog are all movie titles, too. They’re not necessarily good movies, but they more or less sum up what’s been happening in my life for the last few weeks.

The featured image for this post is the album cover from Pink Floyd’s ninth studio album, Wish You Were Here. It was released in 1975, and it’s probably my favorite album from the Floyd boys.

* * * *

Perhaps Little Known Fact About This Band: The name Pink Floyd was created on the spur of a moment in 1965 by Syd Barrett, one of the founding members of the band. The name came from two blues musicians in his record collection: Pink Anderson and Floyd Council.

Yeah, I’ve never heard of them either.

Wish You Were Here is essentially a musical tribute to Syd, who was booted out of his own band in 1968 due to mental illness and increasingly erratic behavior secondary to profound psychedelic drug use. Seven years later, his band mates still missed him.

It’s a musically sad album, but also very sweet and beautiful. It’s grief and anger, interspersed with doses of love.

* * * *

Cats is a 2019 feature movie directed by Tom Hooper, that was based on the 1981 play composed by Andrew Lloyd Webber, which was based on the 1939 poetry collection Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats by T. S. Eliot. I’ve never seen the movie. Or the play. Nor have I read the book. But I’m pretty sure I’ve heard a song or two from one of those productions.

Here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa, Cats has been translated into los gatitos cuatros, and a great majority of my waking life has been focused on the care and feeding thereof. We gave Gremlin and Pixie, the two starving orphans that found us in early August, full run of the house 12 days ago, and then we held our breath.

Operation Kit-ten Integration is in full swing.

Mika and Mollie haven’t exactly been friendly with their new house mates, but there hasn’t been any overt declarations of war either. So this is probably going about as smoothly as it can, at least as far as Lea and I are concerned.

I was kind of hoping our adult cats would be a bit more welcoming. Now I’m hoping Mika and Mollie will simply come to grudgingly accept Gremlin and Pixie over the next several months. Or years…

* * * *

Gremlin and Pixie are snoozing on the couch in the living room as I type this. It’s a good thing because Pixie had been walking on the keyboard a few minutes earlier. I appreciate her trying to help me, but she doesn’t type any better than I do… The babies are about four months old now. They’ve been very entertaining to say the least. They’re cute as kit-tens, and almost irresistible.

Mika and Mollie are a little over four years old, and they don’t appear to anywhere near as taken with the cuteness of the babies’ antics as Lea and I are. Maybe they don’t remember they were once cute little bundles of furry energy, too.

The babies are finally healthy, having recovered from damn near starving to death, being covered with fleas and fungi, and being infested with intestinal worms. They have fat bellies, and their fur feels like silk. I’m not sure they could be any happier or more content with their new lives.

From my point of view, our older kit-tens should be happier with the new circumstances of their lives. They’re certainly getting better service and more attention from Lea and I because of the newcomers. I clean all four of the litter boxes twice a day now, and we both take the time to check on Mika and Mollie throughout the day to make sure they don’t look too miserable segregating themselves from everything and everyone.

It reminds me of the approach I used to take with my Borderline Personality Disorder patients back when I was a psych nurse. I’d meet with them first thing in the morning and go over a few reasonable and attainable goals. I’d drop in frequently during the day to give them little pep talks, give them whatever PRN medications they desired, and prayed for the best with those bitches. You can never trust a Borderline to do the right thing for too long.

Yo, Mr. Psychiatry. This is interesting and all, but what sort of fungal stuff did your cats have, if you don’t mind me asking…

Not at all. They had ringworm.

* * * *

Ringworm of the body (tinea corporis) is a common skin infection that is caused by a fungus. It’s called “ringworm” because it usually causes a circular rash (shaped like a ring, duh) that is very red and extremely itchy. 

I can personally vouch for the truth of the above statement.

It’s also very contagious, therefore, extremely easy to spread. You can also get ringworm of the scalp (tinea capitis), which is worse than ringworm of the body, mostly because it’s much harder to treat. And there’s also the possibility you could get ringworm of the groin (tinea cruris).

It’s unfortunate our veterinarian didn’t notice the ringworms the first two times we took the babies in to her office for treatment and vaccines and stuff.. Lea and I didn’t know we had been fungally contaminated until we were on the second week of our —

* * * *

Vacation is a 2015 American comedy film written and directed by Jonathan Goldstein and John Francis Daley. It’s the fifth theatrical installment of the very popular National Lampoon Vacation film series. As far as I’m concerned, they should’ve stopped at two. And there are literally thousands of movies that have the word vacation in the title, so if you don’t like this movie either, you can easily chose another.

Vacation is also a song released by the all-female rock band, the Go-Go’s in 1982. The song was the first single from their album of the same name. Vacation, the song, became one of the Go-Go’s highest charting singles, reaching No. 8 on the Billboard Hot 100 and was the band’s second US Top-10 hit. 

And there’s this little tidbit from a couple of the band members, “We still saw videos as an annoying waste of time,” Jane Wiedlin said. “After seven or eight hours we sent out someone to sneak in booze.” Kathy Valentine recalled, “…we drank lots of champagne. Lots.”

Yep. Being a rockstar in the 1980’s was every bit as banal and boring as you might have imagined it was.

* * * *

Lea and I flew back up to the States at the beginning of September, and we spent two weeks exploring the State in which we had resided the longest, Minnesota. We visited with a select few family members the first few days we were there, we shopped our asses off. We visited a few places special to us, and attended one activity that we loved.

We went to the State Fair — The Great Minnesota Get-Together — it’s a very big deal in Minnesota. There were just under 250,000 people at the fairgrounds on the day we went, and we spent the entire day with our youngest daughter, Abi. That was probably the best part of our visit — we never get to spend much time with her anymore.

We went to the North Shore of Lake Superior, where the entire population is less than 250,000 people. It’s probably my most favorite place that I’ve ever been.

I have to remind myself that we actually had a great time, most of the time. The timing of our trip ended up being perhaps the worst time we could’ve picked to leave our home. And all of our kit-tens. And then Queen Elizabeth II got dead!

Fortunately, our oldest daughter and her husband and their dog had just returned to live in Mexico for the next several months until they get bitten by the Travel Bug again and take off to…wherever…again. Gwen took care of the kit-tens. John took care of everything else, and he sent me pictures of all of the kit-tens every day while we were gone. What a guy!

The first week of our vacation flew by, and that’s when things started going a bit south for us. Ironically, we were on the North Shore when I realized the itchy red circles that had erupted on both of my forearms, and Lea’s forearms, too, was fucking ringworm.

* * * *

If I had been a Med/Surg nurse instead of a Psych nurse, I probably would’ve recognized the hallmark symptoms of ringworm sooner. And then I might not have ended up looking like unto a leper, or someone who had snuffed out half a pack of cigarettes on his forearms.

Lea had a milder case of ringworm than I did, but I had spent way more time with our malnourished orphans than she had. I ended up with seven fulminating lesions on my right arm, six on my left. Fortunately, I didn’t end up with ringworm of the scalp. Or on my groin, thank you Lord. The treatment was relatively simple. A lots and lots of antifungal ointments. And hand sanitizer.

My arms look almost normal again, whatever that is.

* * * *

Once we realized what was afflicting us, Lea and I cancelled all of our remaining visitations with everyone, simply because we didn’t want to take the chance of passing our fungi on to anyone else, and we just wanted to go home. Unfortunately, if we wanted to fly back to Mexico with the tickets we had already purchased, we had to wait four more days to do so. They were some of the longest days of our lives in recent history. We bunkered up in our Airbnb in St. Paul and binge watched TV shows and movies.

We flew home on September 13th. I wanted to scream at our veterinarian, Dra. Bereniece, when we brought the kit-tens to her office to be treated for ringworm the following day — but I remembered I used to be healthcare worker — and sometimes shit just happens. And Dra. Bereniece has given our kit-tens excellent care all of the other times we’ve had to bring them to her office, so I kept my temper on a short leash, and told my mouth to sit down and shut up.

It took ten days to complete the oral meds for the kit-tens. And I gave them antifungal shampoos as often as I thought they needed them. Somewhat amazingly, the babies endured all of those treatments remarkably well. And Gremlin just might be the coolest cat that ever lived because he essentially let us do whatever we needed to do to him without so much as a hiss.

* * * *

But wait, there’s more! If you’ve been following this blog, you might remember this is the Rainy Season in the Lakeside Area. We’ve had over 30 inches of rain since mid-June. And when you get that much rain, you better have a leak-free roof.

We didn’t think we had any leaks in our roof before we went on vacation from retirement. Yeah, we were wrong about that. But I’m pleased to say those leaks have been sorted out by Tacho and Lupe. The mold that appeared on the ceiling of the master bedroom has been remediated. The ceiling around the fireplace in the living room is going to need some cosmetic work, eventually, once everything dries out.

* * * *

All of that crap was bad enough to come home to, but Lea and I both came down with terrible head colds when we were flying home. This isn’t the first time we’ve had that happen, but we’re hoping it will be the last time. We’ve been sicker than hell for almost two weeks, and have just now started feeling better enough to want to live again. It’s not COVID, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve had that shit, and I know what it feels like. And Lea appears to be immune to it.

We were expecting an actual true-to-life visitor to the resort last week, but I ended up begging her not to come down, and pleasepleaseplease reschedule her trip. Thankfully, she decided she’d like to celebrate her next birthday here at the resort in January.

Thank you, Jaye. You did the right thing.

* * * *

And that brings me to the third part of title of the post —

* * * *

Earthquake is a 1974 American ensemble disaster/drama film directed and produced by Mark Robson, starring Charlton Heston, Ava Gardner, and a cast of thousands. The plot concerns the struggle for survival after a catastrophic earthquake destroys most of the city of Los Angeles, California.

I’ve seen this movie, probably more than once. I guess it was okay. My kinda/sorta roommate when I was in the US Army, Specialist 4th Class Randy Paul was from Los Angeles. The movie gave him nightmares after he saw it because, “…that’s where I fuckin’ grew up, man! You don’t know what it’s like to see almost everything you know get wiped off the face of the earth, man.”

He had a point, so I stopped laughing at him.

* * * *

September 19th. It’s historically been a tragic date in Mexico. Three earthquakes have hit this country on that date. In 1985 at 7:17 AM, a magnitude 8.0 earthquake hit Mexico City, destroying huge parts of the city and killing at least 5,000 people, and injuring tens of thousands of people. 

In 2017 an earthquake struck at 1:14 PM with an estimated magnitude of 7.1 and strong shaking for about 20 seconds. Its epicenter was about 35 miles south of the city of Puebla, Mexico. At least 370 people were killed by the earthquake and related building collapses, including 228 in Mexico City, and more than 6,000 people were injured.

We were living in Mexico when that earthquake hit, but we didn’t feel so much as a quiver from it.

This year at 1:05 PM a magnitude 7.7 earthquake struck between the Mexican states of Michoacán and Colima. There were only two reported deaths attributed to the earthquake, and less than 500 people were injured. Somewhat ironically, there had been a nationwide disaster drill about an hour before the quake. Maybe that’s why there were so few deaths or injuries. Everybody already knew what they were supposed to do…

Like unto almost every earthquake that has ever quaked, there have been several aftershocks here of varying magnitude in the days that followed. We haven’t felt any of them, but several of the people I know here have felt them, and they haven’t been any more fun than the first quake had been.

* * * *

I was sitting in a restaurant waiting for our take-out lunch order to be filled when the earthquake hit. I was sitting in a wobbly chair — you know, it kind of rocked from side-to-side because of uneven ground. Or uneven legs. Or both. And then I noticed my chair wasn’t the only thing rocking back and forth in the restaurant, and I started feeling like maybe I was drunk or something.

Everyone seated at the restaurant was looking around trying to figure out what the hell was happening. I know I was.

“Earthquake! Everybody get outside! NOW!” I’m not sure who said that, but it was someone that had definitely been through an earthquake before. In terms of terror and destruction here in the Lakeside Area, this wasn’t much of an earthquake. Only one business that has closed because of “earthquake damage”, and it probably wasn’t in that good of shape before the quake hit…

The lack of terror and destruction aside, I have to admit it felt very weird to feel the ground beneath my feet jiggle like unto Jell-O. I immediately tried calling my lovely supermodel wife to make sure she was okay, and she didn’t answer her phone. This has happened every goddamn time there’s been an emergency, and I absolutely needed to talk to her, right now!

Seriously. That’s not a joke. So, in a way, I was used to it. I told myself she was okay, and paid for our take-out order. Hey, we were hungry, and if we weren’t dead we going to need to eat… The restaurant I was at is less than a mile from our house, so it was a quick commute back home. Lea was intentionally standing in the doorway when I pulled up to the gate to let me know she really was okay.

When the earthquake hit, she had done the same thing I had. She ran outside just in cases the house decided to collapse. And when she got outside she realized she had left her cellphone on the couch. By the time she had retrieved her phone and tried to call me back, the circuits were so busy from everybody in Mexico trying to call someone else to see if they were okay that no one could call anyone.

* * * *

I don’t think I have ever hugged her so hard. And I could not stop myself from shaking. When I was reasonably sure I wasn’t going to vomit, we sat down and had lunch with our kit-tens. French dip sandwiches. And peanut butter pie for dessert.

Life will go on for us, and thankfully, almost everyone else in the seismic country we have adopted as our new home.

* * * *

I had no idea how to end this post, so I took a break from it for the last two or three weeks. I’m still not sure how I’m going to wrap this up, I only know that I need to do it. It’s time to get moving again.

I meet with a few guys every Monday to discuss our individual life experiences, and anything else that pops into our heads. I just came back from this week’s meeting. I call it A Meeting of the Two Wise Men. It gives us a certain amount of leeway, just in cases one or more us decides to do something stupid.

Yeah, it still happens, even though we’re supposed to be old and wise by now.

One of the sometimes Two Men is a guy named Bill Merrill. Bill is a much more social animal than I am, and a lots of people stop by to say hello to him when we meet. I don’t know most of the people he knows, so Bill introduces me like this, “This is my friend Mark. Mark is on a spiritual journey.”

* * * *

I can’t argue with that intro. I am on a spiritual journey. I spend more time communicating with God, the Universe, and Everything than I do with anyone else. Including my lovely supermodel wife, and I know have to start doing a better job at that.

I have found God to be almost totally unlike everything I was taught to believe about God. And my relationship with Him. Perhaps the most surprising part is how easily approachable He is. And how near. My prayers don’t have make the Kessel run to reach him. Nor do I have to wait 78.24 light years to hear a response from Him.

The guy that wants a lightsaber will understand that reference.

* * * *

The fact that I have to essentially un-learn almost everything I know is somewhat daunting. The fact that I’m totally willing to do it might somehow shorten the process, but I really do possess a headful of crap in my brain. And how does one actually empty one’s mind? This task leads me to comparisons with Hercules cleaning the Augean stables. And even the Star Wars guy might have to Google that reference.

I don’t know where this journey will lead. I only know that I’m committed to finding out, and I’m not sure I could stop now even if I wanted to. From my point of view, the ending can’t be worse than anything I’ve already seen.

So there’s a better than average chance that will have to be an improvement…

Twisting by the Pool

My lovely supermodel wife and I have been living the dream down here in Mexico for almost six years now. Yeah, it doesn’t seem that long to us either, and conversely, it seems like we’ve always been here.

Like unto any other place in the world, there are pluses and minuses about living here. For one thing, it’s a foreign country. The language barrier would probably be at the top of my list– but, thankfully we live in Gringolandia. We don’t speak a whole lots of Spanish, but almost everyone living in this area speaks at least a little English. Conversations can be tricksy, but we almost always find a way to get our messages across.

The two things that bother me most about Mexico don’t have anything to do with language. Those two things are: roof rats and the swimming pool here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa.

* * * *

The common roof rat has about fifty different names, and can be found no matter where you live. You don’t have to come to Mexico to see one. The first Mexican roof rats probably arrived with the Spanish conquistadors back in the 1500’s, and they are in no danger of ever being added to the Endangered Species List. Anywhere.

Roof Rats got their name from the fact that they build their homes under the the clay tiles that everyone puts on the roofs of their houses in Mexico. But if they can’t find a roof, they’ll live in trees. Or anything else that a rat can build a home in/on/near.

In essence, these fucking rats can live goddamn near anywhere.

There are probably people that love rats, but I’m not one of them. Remember the Black Plague? That was caused by a bacterium named Yersinia pestis, that lived inside of fleas that lived on rats. Commonly called the Black Death back in the 1400’s, this plague is estimated to have killed anywhere from 75- 200 million people — more than half of the population of Europe back then.

It’s still the most fatal pandemic in human history.

* * * *

I’ve no doubt written about both of these subjects in my blog before. I tried to kill one rat that was hanging out in our carport, and failed. I killed the second rat I found, which was hanging out on our back patio. There are possibly dozens of rats still living here at the resort, and I will never be able to get rid of them. Without using dynamite. Or a flamethrower. That’s the worst part of this scenario for me.

Two rats died to death when they fell into the swimming pool and couldn’t get out. That’s about the only good thing I can think of to say about the pool. It has killed more rats than I have. For the most part, the pool has been the bane of our idyllic existence here at the resort.

* * * *

Twisting by the Pool is a song by the British rock group, Dire Straits. It was released in 1983 as a single record, and it probably got a lots of air time on the radio way back in the day. It’s a catchy tune, so if you’ve never heard it before, it’s worth a listen or two…

* * * *

I can’t say that I hate our swimming pool. I can say that I’ve never used it, and that’s mostly because I’ve never been a swimming pool guy. The first time I jumped into a swimming pool when I was in the fourth grade, I almost drowned. That’s because I didn’t know how to swim.

Over the years I’ve learned to swim a little bit, which would only lengthen the amount of time it would take for me to drown now if I were to find myself in water deeper than my height. So, yeah, I don’t spend much time frolicking in any water, no matter how deep it is or isn’t.

* * * *

Having a swimming pool might be a dream for some people. Not for me. Our house in Arizona had a pool, and Lea got a lot of use out of it. We lived at that house for nine years, and I can count all of times I used it on one hand.

Lea lounges in the pool here during the hottest days of April and May. Gwen and John hang out by the pool when they’re here, but I don’t think either one of them have ever used it. Todd uses the pool more than anyone else when he’s here, even in the winter. He must be part polar bear… I’ve never been inside of this pool when it had water in it. And I don’t see that ever changing.

* * * *

The one nice thing about our pool in Arizona was it was relatively new, so it was mostly easy to maintain. This pool was probably installed in the 1960’s. The easiest way to maintain this pool would be to drain it, fill it with rocks and soil, and turn it into a garden. The second easiest thing to do would be to completely rebuild it, which we aren’t going to do, mostly because it wouldn’t be easy. Or cheap.

We’re reasonably sure that our landlord isn’t interested in rebuilding it either, so we have to try to maintain the pool just enough to keep it fuctionable for the limited number of people that use it.

Even though we have a guy that cleans our pool twice a week, I clean the pool on the days our pool guy isn’t here. I grab the net and skim leaves, insects, and other sundry/miscellaneous shit out of it almost every day. I do this because it makes my wife happy to see a clean swimming pool, and a happy wife is so much easier to live with than an unhappy wife…

But finding a good pool guy here has been harder than it was to find a reliable dope dealer back in the ’70’s and ’80’s. That’s when I used to smoke a lots of dope…

* * * *

Our first pool guy was Miguel. He was the gardener/pool guy/yard maintenance guy when we moved into the resort. Miguel worked for us in that capacity for two years. After Todd and I started resurrecting the gardens, Miguel would grab his hoe and rip out all of the flowers and plants we had just planted. So we fired him as a gardener. Then we fired him as a yard maintenance guy because we figured if he had actually done the maintenance he was supposed to do, we wouldn’t have had to contend with the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow at all.

We kept him on as our pool guy for another year, mostly because he was the only person that understood how the complex plumbing for the pool works, and I felt guilty about firing him from two of his jobs and reducing his income. He has a wife and more than one child, and his oldest kid is in college.

Yes, I do have a soft heart. But don’t tell anyone…

It seems that Miguel was about as interested in taking care of our pool as he was in trimming hedges. He was a lousy pool guy most of the time. And that surprised me. Miguel works for the guy more or less across the street from us, and he busts his ass for that guy… Seriously, I’ve seen him work there. He doesn’t mess around.

It’s something that makes me scratch my head and wonder what his problem was with us.

At any rate, after one week of especially terrible service from Miguel, I sent him a text — in Spanish — telling him what I would like to see him start doing with our pool. I felt I wasn’t being too unreasonable in my requests. Apparently, Miguel did. He came over and gave me his keys to the gates, and said he couldn’t work here anymore.

* * * *

When Miguel resigned, we hired a new pool guy, Christian. He was referred to us by a pool service company just down the hill from the resort. Christian came over and spent an hour cleaning the pool, emptying the skimmers and filters and stuff. And we were impressed!!

We chatted with Christian while he cleaned, and we told him about Miguel — who was very prompt, but did a lousy job of actually cleaning. And everything went great with Christian for about two weeks. Our main issue with Christian was we never knew if he was actually going to show up to clean the pool. I had multiple, MULTIPLE conversations with Christian about his inconsistent arrivals.

Life is unpredictable. Shit happens. I get it. If something comes up and you can’t make it here, send me a text, I will understand.

Christian said he understood, too. But there was one thing he just couldn’t do. He couldn’t bring himself to let me know he wasn’t going to be able to get to our pool on the particular day he was supposed to. I put up with Inconsistent Christian for three months, and then I fired him. I changed all the locks on the gates, and that was the end of the Christian Era.

* * * *

And that brings us to Armando. He’s our latest pool guy. He’s been working for us for almost a month. Armando actually owns a pool service company called Pool Stuff. It’s a couple of miles west of the resort on the carretera, the main paved road in the Lakeside Area.

Armando does more than clean pools. He services water filtration systems, too. We have a filtration system, and all of the filters needed to be changed when I hired Armando, so this seemed like a good match for both of us. And he just completed a major overhaul of our pool filter. There were at least two broken pieces deep inside the filter, and he changed all the sand, which may or may not ever have been done before.

We’ve been pleased with Armando’s work so far. Both Lea and I have talked to Armando about our previous pool guys, so he understands the punctuality thing is important to us. And he’s probably shown up on time at least half of the time he’s been working for us. On the days he was late, he usually called to let us know he would be late. And he has a really good reason for not being here.

Armando’s wife has been extremely ill and has been in and out of the hospital for the entire month that he has been working for us.

* * * *

Lea and I have been where Armando and his wife are now. Shortly after we got married, Lea was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. Over a three year period from 1992 to 1995, Lea spent a year and a half in the hospital. She had five major abdominal surgeries, and almost died five times.

I actually started writing her obituary before her first surgery. And then edited it four more times. I don’t have it written down anywhere, but I could probably write it in half an hour if I had to. I already know everything I need to say.

We are two people that can relate to the rollercoaster ride from Hell that Armando and Mrs. Armando are going through. And we listen whenever Armando needs to vent his frustrations, which is every time he comes here to clean our pool. When he says he has to go NOW, we understand if he can’t finish the job he’s working on.

I’ve gotten very good at vacuuming the pool. I actually like vacuuming, even under water. I’ve taken my wife on shopping trips just to buy a vacuum cleaner. We’ve had vacuums that my wife never figured out how to use, because she never had to use them. Ever!

* * * *

Well, that’s about it from here, boys and girls. Have a great summer. And if you ever find yourself in the neighborhood, be sure to drop by the resort. Don’t forget to bring your swimsuit! 👙 😉

The NeverEnding Story

You may not be surprised to see that I’ve written a second story for my blog in one week, but I am. It usually takes me a couple of months to even start thinking about what I might want to write about next. Apparently, my Muses have returned from vacation and they have a lots of stories to tell me. It’d been so long since I’d heard from any of them I thought the bitches had left me for another writer or artist. Like, Ariana Grande, maybe.

* * * *

The NeverEnding Story is a 1984 English-language West German-American fantasy film co-written and directed by Wolfgang Petersen based on the 1979 novel The Neverending Story by Michael Ende. Is there anyone that hasn’t seen this movie? If you haven’t seen it, get off your ass and watch it. Right now! It is simply one of the best fantasy movies ever made, and the theme song was so amazing it was a Top Ten hit in both the US and the UK.

The story is set both on our Earth and in a fantasy world called Fantasia. This magical land is created by the hopes and dreams of humanity. When even one person on Earth stops dreaming or hoping, part of Fantasia is destroyed. It is rebuilt as soon as another person starts dreaming or hoping.

In both the book and the movie, the magical land of Fantasia is being devoured by a malevolent force called The Nothing. In the story, much of humanity has given up hope and stopped dreaming, therefore, Fantasia is rapidly being smashed to pieces. A young warrior named Atreyu is given the task to save Fantasia by the Childlike Empress.

That’s what she’s called for most of the movie. You could look it up.

A young boy named Bastian from our world is reading the book that tells this story in the movie. As the story progresses, Baston finds that he has become a character in the tale. As the story ends, Bastion is able to save Fantasia and all of its inhabitants because there is no limit to the human imagination, and therefore, there are no limits to the boundaries of this fantastical land.

Yep, he uses his imagination to rebuild the world.

* * * *

Little Known Fact About Fantasia and the Kingdom of Heaven: both of these places are simultaneously real and imaginary. And neither of them have any boundaries. They actually have a lots of similarities, now that I think about it. I’ll probably have a lots more stuff to say about that one of these days.

* * * *

So, you are going to tell us more about the night God, the Universe, and Everything talked to you, right?

Um, no. And yes. This is not an easy thing to describe in words. It would be much better if I could use one of those Vulcan mind-meld things, but I don’t know how to do that. And you would have to actually be here for me to do that. Seeing how no one is ever going to visit us at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa, it doesn’t appear that it’d do me much good even if I did know how do it.

* * * *

The first thing you need to know is God, the Universe, and Everything didn’t actually talk to me. It’s not like we had a conversation. And that brings up a valid point everyone should understand. If someone tells you they hear the Voice of God — RUN!

The answer I received from God, the Universe, and Everything was more like unto an image, but it was even more like unto a peek at a glimpse of a flash of an image. And then it was like unto one of those dominoes videos. You know, one domino falls and then a whole lots of them collapse into a multitude of designs and patterns.

It was the most coolest thing ever. It was breathtakingly thrillingly exhilarating. It was like unto getting everything you wanted at Christmas wrapped up in one little package while you ate your most favoritest dessert, like, you know, ice cream with sprinkles — at the same time.

And then it was pretty much the most terrifying thing you will ever experience– darkest night filled with every fear you have ever known. For me, the terror came when God, the Universe, and Everything stood me in front of a mirror that revealed my human self to me. I don’t know if that happens to everyone, but I suspect it does. In my case, I found out that I was The Nothing.

* * * *

The main reason that I’m reluctant to elaborate on this subject is I’m still trying to process most of what I saw myself. Have you ever heard someone try to explain a process they don’t understand themselves? It isn’t pretty. In fact, it’s painful. Except for the parts that are hilarious.

I’ve been using my lovely supermodel wife as a sounding board as I try to make some sense of what I saw. Lea has been remarkably receptive to letting me do this, which might be the most surprising outcome of all. I was afraid she’d initiate commitment proceedings to have me locked up on the nearest psych ward.

That’d be a fair bit of irony for me to experience, eh.

I’m not at all concerned with what anyone else reading this will think. You know, like, I’m crazy or something. That has nothing to do with my hesitation to write about my experience. I’m confident that most people who know me already think I’m off my rocker.

Yeah, I’m pretty much used to that shit by now.

* * * *

There’s another reason why I’m not going to try to explain what happened to me the night that God, the Universe and Everything answered me. Philosophical truths are a matter of opinion. I could painstakingly type a double truckload of words to try to convey what I saw, but will that convince you that my new truth is more better gooder than your old truth?

Probably not. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but nothing appears to stronger than stupidity. The last few years have cast that fact into a glaring silhouette that have left a great many of us scratching our heads wondering what the hell went wrong.

So why waste my time and yours? The truths I saw are truths that have to demonstrated, just like a science experiment or a mathematical equation. They are that fucking absolute. I have no idea if that’s something God, the Universe and Everything wants me to undertake or not. And if that is the case, I have no idea how I’m supposed to do that. Yet.

* * * *

And there’s one more thing: Do not give dogs what is holy; do not throw your pearls before swine. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and then turn and tear you to pieces. Matthew 7:6

* * * *

Oh. This isn’t what I expected at all! I thought this was going to be one of those great revelations or something like unto that.

To tell you the truth, this isn’t what I expected it would be either. The visions I saw weren’t my visions — this is not my plan. This is the Plan, the Purpose, and Desires of God, the Universe, and Everything. If they were my ideas, it’d probably be a whole lots easier for me to describe them.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my studying and questioning of God, that one thing is this: Sooner or later, God always gets what He wants. When it comes to winning, God has a better record than Tom Brady. Even if it takes Him fourteen and half billion years or more — He is going to get what He wants.

* * * *

Like pretty much everything else in life, this is going to be a process. My greatest fear is that it’s going to a long, gradual process. And just when I have everything all figured out, the Big One is gonna hit me and I’m going to die to death.

Another part of me thinks this is going to happen sooner than we will be able to prepare for — some things have become clearer to me already as the first months of this year have ticked by. More clarity will follow, I am certain of that. And when I have the words to describe what I need to share with you, I’ll post them in my blog.

I think this is going to be the most exciting and interesting time of our lives. Whatever it is that God, the Universe, and Everything has been planning, the time has come to start working on it to make it a reality. We have all got to try to make this world a better place, and from what I’ve seen, God, the Universe, and Everything have some very, very cool ideas on how to make that happen. Very, very, very cool ideas.

I am all in. I am doubling down. Anything I can do to assist The Powers That Be in achieving this goal — I will make the attempt, or die trying.

And that was the last thing I saw. I have no doubt that if I am to play a large part in achieving this goal, it is going to cost me my life. The pastor of the little church at the bottom of the hill where we live was right.

Redemption always requires blood.

Takin’ Care of Business

Hey there, little buckaroos. Yes, it has been awhile! I’d apologize, but I doubt anyone has gone through withdrawal symptoms because I haven’t written anything for a few months.

* * * *

If you aren’t familiar with the song Takin’ Care of Business by the Canadian rock band Bachman-Turner Overdrive, I don’t know what to say to you. It was released in 1973, and it’s their best-known song of all time. The song has been used in a few hundred thousand movies and commercials. If you can honestly say you don’t know the song, you need to get a life.

* * * *

I’ve been retired for five years now. If you’re not retired, you should try it sometime. If you are retired, you may have noticed the same thing that I have: Retirement is literally days, weeks, and even months of not having to do anything if you don’t feel like doing it. You don’t have to go work anymore. You don’t have any pending appointments or meetings you have to attend on your calendar.

There might be some things you’ve been thinking about getting around to doing, but they’re not anything pressing, so if you decide today isn’t the day to tackle them, no one is going to care.

And then it’s almost as if all of the things you didn’t have to do conspire and BOOM! all of a sudden there’s a whole lots of shit that needs to be done.

Right. Now.

And that’s one of the reasons I haven’t been writing about my mostly incredibly boring and bucolic life. I’ve actually been busy.

* * * *

Way back in September, I conceived an idea to write about. A lots of goddamn stuff has happened since then, and I’m no longer interested in writing about it. I may get around to explaining that — we’ll see… Instead of writing, my lovely supermodel wife and I flew back to the States to attend my Aunt Noreen’s 90th birthday party at Lion’s Park in beautiful downtown Swanville, MN.

Aunt Reen is the last surviving matriarch on my mother’s side of the family. All of the elder relatives on my dad’s side of the family got dead years ago. Reen is my mom’s youngest sister, and to the best of my knowledge, she’s the oldest living person in my family’s history. We don’t tend to live much beyond the age of 80. And far too many of us tend to die much younger.

Noreen is a really neat gal, very much like unto my mom. They were best friends, and when Reen came over to my parents’ house to say good-bye to my mom just before she died, that was the sweetest thing I have ever seen in my life. It still makes me cry whenever I think about it.

It’s the only reason why I thought it was important to go to her party. I doubt any of my cousins will ever come visit us in Mexico, so I don’t see a preponderance evidence that suggests I need to spend a lots of money and energy connecting with people that aren’t going to make any effort to connect with me.

And speaking of people I don’t want to ever connect with again, there’s John, my Idiot Brother. As you have probably deduced, John and I are not good friends. Mainly because every time John contacts me, he threatens to kill me. I don’t believe 99% of the bullshit that emanates from him. I’m not sure if he’d actually kill me if he ever saw me again, but I have no doubt that he’d try to.

I knew there was no way John would miss going to Reen’s party, if for no other reason than there would be a whole lots of free beer there. So, yeah, this created a bit of a dilemma for me. As it turns out, I’m not the only person in my family that doesn’t want to be around my Idiot Brother. None of my cousins wanted him at their party either, however, they didn’t think he would even bother to attend.

Cut to the chase: John arrived at the party about half an hour before Lea and I arrived. My cousins messaged me to let me know he was there — even though they still didn’t think he would come — then they asked him to leave. John said, “You don’t think I’d really kill my brother with all these witnesses present, do you?” And they replied, “Because you say things like that, you have to leave. And if you don’t leave now, we’ll call the police.”

It was a very nice party. I got to see my old friend, Shorty Girtz. I’ve written about him and our epic vacation in Dallas, TX. You can look it up in the archives if you’re really bored. He took Lea for a ride on his new touring motorcycle, which I have to admit surprised me. Lea has never been all that interested in motorcycles, but she had blast.

According to the 2010 census, there are 350 people that live in the city of Swanville. At least half of the town was in attendance at Noreen’s party, mainly because she is probably related to almost everyone in Swanville in one way or another. Reen was very happy that we had flown up all the way from Mexico for her party. I gained a new level of respect for my cousins. And my Idiot Brother messaged me to tell me he was really going to kill me the next time he saw me, this time for sure. Again.

* * * *

We were in Minnesota for five days. On short visits like unto this one, you scramble like hell to see as many people as you can before you leave. The list of people that I’m willing to try to see keeps getting smaller, mostly for the reason previously stated above. The other reason is the impermanence of life itself. And that’s the other reason we went back to Minnesota.

I wanted to see Paul Anderson before he died to death.

* * * *

Paul and I were registered nurses, and we worked together at the Minneapolis VAMC in the In-patient Psychiatric Department for the entire twenty years I was employed there. Paul was mostly an excellent nurse. I had the utmost respect for him as a colleague, and I learned a helluvalot from him about how to do my job with the most efficiency. We supported each other through every fucking miserable event that befell us during that time, and we both had more than our share of traumas and tribulations over those two decades.

We celebrated every victory together. We celebrated even when there wasn’t much of anything to celebrate. I taught him everything I knew about smoking marijuana, and he taught me everything he knew about craft beers and red wine. Yeah, he was my drinking buddy. Unlike all of my other drinking buddies — who didn’t want to have anything to do with me after I quit drinking — Paul and I remained close friends.

In vino veritas. We knew everything there was to know about each other. He was my best friend, possibly the best male friend I’ve had in my entire life, despite the fact that he rooted for the much-despised Green Bay Peckers.

* * * *

If you’re wondering why I’m not writing another installment entitled For Whom the Bell Tolls, I just don’t have the courage to do it, even though Paul is more than worthy of a tribute from me. I’ve lost two of my best male friends in less than four months. Those losses have taken a lots of wind out of my sails, simply because losses like unto these are roughly the emotional equivalent of getting kicked in the balls.

The pain from the grief is acute enough as it is. Opening myself up to further pain by writing about it is more than I am willing to take on right now. And it’s one of the reasons I haven’t written. I rarely know what I’m going to write, and yeah, the idea that something like unto that would pour out of me honestly scared the shit out of me. I had to wait until I was sure that wasn’t going to happen.

Writing about Francisco’s death helped me process the shock and dismay that plagued me in his absence. I needed to write about him. I don’t have to do that with Paul. I’ve known he wasn’t going to live very long for the better part of this year. He told me he was dying in May. I told him to stay alive until I saw him in September.

He promised me that he would.

Lea and I drove out to see Paul, one last time, at the house he built, mostly all by himself, on September 20th. It was a bright and sunny day as we headed east on Highway 94. We visited with Paul and his wife for about an hour. That was the extent of the strength he had left. Lea and I have a boatload of fond memories of Paul and Synneva’s house. We got together frequently, usually at their home in rural Wisconsin, and shared many an ice cold beverage and a lots of laughter over the years.

It wasn’t bright and sunny anymore as we drove west, back to Minnesota and the Airbnb in St. Paul we had rented for our stay. Dark gray clouds had rolled in, and the skies opened up, unleashing torrents of rain that fell like rage. It was as if the sky had offered me an unction by crying the tears I no longer possessed.

If you were to ask me where I am in my grieving process right now, I don’t know if I could tell you. I’m not even sure who I’m grieving over half of the time. I don’t know if I can grieve individually anymore. It’s all become a kind of Grief Casserole to me, and I don’t really know how to cook.

The one thing I have going for me is I discovered I have a really great support system. My friends and family here have been there for me every time I’ve needed them. And they will be there if I need more from them.

Excuse me, I’m going to have to take a break here…

* * * *

I talked to Paul almost every day after we got back to Mexico. Our conversations rarely lasted even five minutes. I just wanted to hear his voice again, knowing there wouldn’t be many times we would talk.

I sent him all the pictures I had taken of our adventures, and his family, because I had fucking forgotten to pack them when we flew up there. I had pulled them out of storage, meaning to give them to him when I saw him, and set them on the bookcase in the Peach Room. And that’s where they were when we got back to Mexico.

He appreciated the pictures. We had had a lots of great times together, and he smiled a lots remembering them. His wife told me that.

I was going to call him on his birthday, Monday, October 11th. But when I opened my Facebook account, I had received a message from Synneva. Paul had passed away in his sleep during the night. He would have been 65 if he had lived three more hours. On the bright side, he got to see his beloved Packers win one last football game that they should have lost at least twice. So there was that.

* * * *

Time ceased to exist for me for awhile that morning. I went to the end of the patio because it was it was in the sunlight, and the mornings are getting a little chilly here. The birds were chirping in the trees. A light breeze was blowing, just enough of a breeze to tickle the hairs on your arms, but not enough to really do much more than that.

A few hummingbirds flitted from flower to flower in the garden. A vermillion flycatcher flew into one of the plumeria trees, looking for a meal. The warmth of the sun felt good. And I smiled, remembering the good times, wishing there had been at least one more visit…

Paul would have liked Mexico if he had ever gotten down here. He was planning to visit us in May of 2020. He had even bought his airfare. Then the pandemic hit and brought the world to a screeching halt. Paul cancelled his trip, with the idea to reschedule for a later date. Then he got too sick to travel, and that ended up being that.

True to his word as always, he stayed alive long enough so we could say good-bye to each other in person. Thank you for doing that.

Twenty days later, he, too, was gone.

Vaya con Dios, Mr. Anderson. The last thing you said to me was we will meet again. That is a promise you had better keep. I’m counting on you to show me the ropes again.

* * * *

In early October, our oldest daughter, Gwen, her husband, John, and their dog, Tori Belle, took up residence in the casita we had set up as a guest suite. They’re going to stay here for the next five months until they decide what they want to do when they grow up. They both work remotely from here. I guess that’s one positive outcome from the COVID-19 pandemic.

This has been somewhat of a surprise to us, that one of our kids would want to move back in with us, but it has been a good surprise. We have a kind of communal living experience going on here at the resort — minus the drugs and free love that were so popular back in the 1960’s.

It’s also somewhat ironic. Prior to moving into this house, I observed that there are a lots of gringo mansions down here. Huge honker homes that were probably occupied by one or two old, white people and maybe a couple of dogs. And then we moved into one one of those huge honker places… That’s why we invited Todd to move in with us. We had more than enough room for another person here.

When Gwen and John asked if they could take over our casita for an extended stay, we were well-versed in the process. Things are going smoothly for all of us as far as I know. If there’s anyone that is not satisfied with our current living arrangements, they haven’t talked to me about it.

* * * *

Because we no longer had a guest room for all of the people that said they were going to visit us, but probably never will — and because I needed something to do — I repainted the Peach Room and turned it into our new guest room.

I guess you could call the Peach Room a bonus room/flex space. We had it set up as a second living room/den, but we never used it. The kit-tens used to hang out in it occasionally. They probably used it more than any of the people that live here.

Yes. It’s a very big room. And that’s a queen-size bed. There’s an adjoining Jack and Jill bathroom between the guest room and Todd’s room. In this picture, the bathroom would be to your right. If you come to visit, you’ll have to share that.

* * * *

The next thing that needed to be done was repairing the ceiling in the master bedroom. I can’t remember exactly when it happened, but a few months ago our landlord finally replaced the malfunctioning solar heater for the swimming pool. Said heater rests on the roof of our bedroom.

The summer months here are the Rainy Season. We received over 40 inches of rain this year, so yeah, they call it the Rainy Season for a very good reason. That’s how we discovered the leak in the roof. We assume it originated with the new solar heater because it wasn’t there with the old solar heater. Our property manager sent a crew here to repair the roof three times. The Rainy Season has ended, so we probably won’t know if the leak has actually been sealed until sometime next June…

Just in cases you didn’t know, all of the buildings in Mexico are primarily constructed of bricks, mortar, and steel. Someone told me it was because of the termites, which are pretty much everywhere down here. Maybe that’s true. I don’t really know. Concrete might have a lots of advantages as a building material, but one disadvantage it has is it is very porous and sucks up water like unto a sponge.

And that’s pretty much what happened on our roof. Water followed the path of least resistance and after one particularly heavy thunderstorm, part of the ceiling in our bedroom kind of collapsed — not much, just a little — but it continued to do so with each consecutive rainfall. After a couple months of this process repeatedly repeating itself, the ceiling in our bedroom was in a very sorry state of affairs.

Repairing the ceiling amounted to scraping away all the loose mortar and paint, then plastering all the cracks and crevices and canyons that the leaking roof had created, and then sanding all the rough spots down until they were more or less smooth. Plastering isn’t something I would call one of my strengths, but the end result looked comparable to the other repairs that had been done to the bedroom ceiling prior to when we moved in.

Lea said she was happy with it, and that was really all I needed to hear.

The worst part of this process is the mold remediation. If you have never attempted to get get mold out of a concrete ceiling, you haven’t missed much. It is a long and tedious process. Oddly enough, the mold is no where near the spot where the ceiling first started falling apart. I might be done with that part of the job by Christmas…

When we moved into this house, we hired Francisco to paint almost every room in the house. Just about the only surfaces he didn’t paint were the ceilings — except in the master bedroom. It must have looked like hell, so that’s probably why Lea asked him to paint it. It’s the only reason why I had paint that matched perfectly, and I won’t have to repaint the entire ceiling.

The final bedroom renovations entailed moving the TV set that had been in the Peach Room that no one ever watched into the master bedroom and connecting it to the DVD player I had purchased at Best Buy® while we were in Minnesota.

* * * *

Probably Little Known Fact About DVD’s and DVD Players: they are coded for the country they are manufactured in. Yeah, I didn’t know that either, until I bought a DVD player that was made in Mexico. It would not play any of the DVD’s I had purchased in the United States of America.

* * * *

It took me awhile to switch from VHS tapes to DVD’s, but once I did I thought it would be stupid to have just one DVD. Hey, do you want to come over to my house and watch my DVD? See? I told you… So I bought a lots of them over the years.

* * * *

It took me the better part of an hour to figure out how to change the codes in my Mexican DVD player so we could watch a movie, and I’m pretty sure we didn’t bother to even watch it after we finally got everything working. I don’t use that player to watch movies. I have it hooked up to the stereo on the patio because DVD players also play CD’s, and I have a lots and lots of CD’s.

* * * *

The last thing that kept me from writing was working in the gardens here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa. They were starting to look tired, so I tore almost everything out of most of them. Then Lea decided she wanted to trim the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow in the South Garden.

I guess I should have asked her what she meant by the word trim. Lea more or less ripped out everything that had regrown, leaving the fence looking almost exactly like it did one year ago when we originally attacked the hedgerow.

I was originally a little bummed out because the hedgerow looks like hell now, but as we have seen, it will return again. And her extreme trimming may even benefit the vines that I actually want to grow. Time will tell on that account. All I know is they didn’t fill in the places I wanted them to this year…

* * * *

It’s been a tough year for me. It just goes to show you that you should never think things can’t get any worse than they were last year…

I had originally planned this post to be about the Anti-Vaccine Movement, and how incredibly selfish those people are in the midst of a global pandemic that has changed, and will continue to change our lives for the foreseeable future.

I think they’re moronheads. And that’s about all I have to say about that anymore. Except I hope the Green Bay Peckers don’t secure a bye in the playoffs because of Aaron Rodgers being an anti-vaxing sissifated sniffle-snaffle. It’d serve him right.

It’s also been a very good year for me. I am very aware of that. I don’t need anyone to point that out to me. Life is all about balance and equilibrium. My life is balancing out gradually. I no longer experience the wild mood swings that owned me in July.

I remain resilient. The losses I have felt this year have bent me and stretched me to my limits at times, but they did not break me. At least, I don’t think they did.

I have lost dear friends, but I have also found support from a group of people that I didn’t expect it from. That was another good surprise.

Thank you, everyone. Everyone that has supported me. Everyone that has helped me support Francisco’s family. Thank you all from the bottom of my broken heart.

It isn’t as broken as it used to be. And that is very much because of all of you.

Move Along

“Hey Mark, how’s it going?” “Hola Marcos, ¿cómo estás?”

It seems like a simple question, doesn’t it? It’s a greeting that we utilize so many times during each day that it’s almost automatic with everyone we meet, even people we don’t know. We say it without even thinking, and that’s usually how we respond.

“I’m okay. How are you?”

For about a month after Francisco took his life, I had no idea how to respond to that question. I wasn’t okay, and I didn’t have the energy to even try to fake it. But no one really wants to hear your problems if you’re not okay, so I responded thusly, “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know how I’m doing right now.” And I left it at that. So did most of the people I talked to because they had no idea what to say in response.

I’ve gotten to the point where I can fake being okay again, though it very much depends on the day. As an example: I’ll be fine on Monday, but on Tuesday I’m a basketcase. I honestly don’t know how my wife has been able to deal with my volatile moods of late, and when I say volatile, that is an understatement.

I gave up driving for a couple of weeks because I found myself screaming at everyone whenever I got behind the wheel of our SUV.

* * * *

“What the fuck are you doing, you goddamn morons!“

“Honey, you need to settle down. Those people were sitting at the bus stop.”

* * * *

I’ve expounded on my General Theory of Guys in previous posts. Guys are simple creatures. Amoebas are more complex than most guys. Guys essentially have two emotions: they are either okay, or they aren’t. And that’s about it. Guys are not built to process complex emotions.

For me, it’s as if everything inside my heart and head were pureed in a blender then poured back inside me, creating a mélange of melancholia suffused with sorrow and regret, with hints of pain and loss. And yet, somehow, there seems to be some vital ingredient missing…

I would like to take a moment to thank the Cooking Channel for making that complex emotional description even remotely possible for me.

* * * *

Perhaps Little Known Facts About the Grieving Process: There are five stages in the Grief and Loss Process — Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. In situations like Francisco’s suicide, I think there’s a sixth step that precedes all of the others: Shock. And you have to recover from the initial shock before you can start fumbling your way through the other stages.

Progression through the five stages of grief isn’t linear — you bounce around in and out of all of them like unto a superball thrown in a hallway. It’s probably even possible that you can be in all five stages at once. More than once…

In addition, progression through the stages isn’t like playing a video game where you complete one level and move on neatly to the next. You can revisit each stage of grief as many times as you like — even if it’s a stage you’d rather not visit anymore. There’s no timeline on grief and loss. You can complete all five stages in five minutes and be done with them. Forever. Conversely, fifty years may not be enough time for you to get through one stage.

There are no rules. There’s no right way. There’s no wrong way. Every person goes through this process, and every person does it differently. When you look at it in that light, it’s amazing that any of us finds our way through the maze and comes out safely on the other side.

* * * *

Move Along is a song by the American rock band the All-American Rejects, released in early 2006. It was the band’s biggest hit, and it got a whole lots of radio air time. I bought the CD and have the songs on probably more than one of my playlists. The song, somewhat ironically, is more or less an anthem for suicide prevention. The lyrics encourage believing in oneself and persevering in the face of problems.

* * * *

It’s times like unto this that I wish life would take a time-out and give you the opportunity to get back on your feet before it kicks you in the balls again, but life doesn’t work like that. Life simply goes on whether you’re ready or not.

So I found myself in an incredibly vulnerable position when I lost another friend just a couple of weeks after Francisco’s death.

Her name was Hope. We were friends on Facebook. Hope was also a writer. In current lingo, I think Hope was what you would call an Influencer to most of her followers. She read at least one of my blogs, and had messaged me a couple of times about my blog. She thought I was a very good writer, so I thought she was a very cool person.

Hope was battling cancer, and I fell in love with her attitude. She was going to fight this disease, and she was going to kick its ass. In that regard, Hope was my polar opposite. I expect that I’ll be diagnosed with cancer sometime in the next twenty years or so. Unlike Hope, I have no intention of going into battle against that dragon. I don’t want surgery. Or radiation and chemotherapy. I plan on going on the M&M diet, and that is all.

M&M stands for Motrin and Morphine. Lea and I want to be as free of pain as possible. Beyond that, we don’t want any extraordinary measures taken to prolong our lives. We just had our Living Wills filled out this week and notarized here in Mexico because you never know when you’re going to need those kinds of things, and it’s better to be prepared than it is to wish you hadn’t procrastinated on getting that paperwork completed.

I followed Hope’s Facebook page daily. She had had at least one tumor removed before we became FB friends, and was undergoing radiation and chemotherapy when our virtual relationship began. No matter how lousy she may have felt physically, mentally and emotionally she remained positive and upbeat.

I enjoyed her numerous posts and her sense of humor — she swore a lot — and cheered on her progress against her disease, despite my opposing view on the level of treatment I was willing to endure. She was young and vibrant, and she felt she had a lot to live for. I am about twenty years older than Hope was, and I simply hope I have another ten to fifteen years left on this planet before God enrolls me in His energy recycling program.

Hope felt her treatments were going very well. Her scans were promising. All signs of her cancer had disappeared, and she believed she had won. Her jubilation was palpable, even on social media. All of her friends rejoiced with her. Including me.

Then her cancer returned in three places. Her liver, kidneys, and I cannot remember the third site no matter how hard I try. And within a matter of weeks, she was gone. I think she fought for as long and as hard as she could, and when her cancer returned, she had nothing left to fight with.

* * * *

In retrospect, I doubt Hope’s death would have hit me as hard as it did if it hadn’t come so closely after Francisco’s. Lately, I’ve had TV commercials reduce me to tears. Except the Charmin® commercials. They make want to kill those fuckin’ toilet paper hoarding ursine assholes.

Thankfully, Japan decided go ahead with the Summer Olympics despite the pandemic, despite the reservations of their people and some of the athletes, and despite the restrictions they imposed on anyone who wanted to attend the games.

The Olympic games — with all of their pageantry, ceremony, and competition — were just the distraction I needed. The backstories of the athletes were inspiring. Some of the competitions were riveting. Lea and I were on the edge of our seats more than once. And my lovely supermodel wife doesn’t really like the Olympics all that much.

She thinks the games last too long, and some of the events are, well, boring.

Because we’re US citizens living in Mexico who watch Canadian satellite TV, we found ourselves rooting for athletes from the three countries that comprise North America. And I always root for the athletes of the host nation. I think it’s the least I can do for all of the expense and effort that goes into producing and orchestrating these events.

The most significant moment of the Olympics didn’t have anything to do with performance or competition. It happened when Simone Biles dropped out of the women’s gymnastic events. It was the most courageous performance of any Olympics, ever. It highlighted the enormous stressors and pressures elite athletes are under, not just to perform, but to win at any cost. And when she said, No. My mental health is more important. It made a whole lots of people sit up and pay attention to an aspect of life that has been mostly swept under the rug.

* * * *

In a completely different but parallel universe, 25% of the front line nurses in America’s hospitals are seriously considering leaving their chosen profession because they just can’t take the workloads, the lack of support from their administrations, and the profound trauma that the COVID-19 pandemic has subjected them to.

I was a nurse for 30 years, and I can attest to the fact that nursing is a job you have to love in order to perform it — simply because it sucks far more often than it doesn’t. The worst part about nursing is it has a ton of responsibilities, but virtually no power. It is an incredibly toxic combination, and I don’t see that changing any time soon.

If you think being a patient in a hospital is bad, it’s nothing compared to working in one every day, year in, year out. Hospital administrators are about as empathetic as Genghis Khan, and studies have shown that T-Rex was capable of more compassion than most hospital administrators are today.

Nursing burnout has been discussed quietly, mostly in whispers in the dark, for a very long time. But now it is being shouted in the streets in the light of day. It is the singular most important issue the healthcare industry is going to have to address, and quickly, unless they want to deal with the fallout of a crisis of their own creation.

I’ve occasionally wondered how I would’ve responded to the COVID pandemic if I hadn’t retired when I did. One of my work daughters answered that question for me the last time Lea and I travelled to Arizona, which, ironically, happened to be one year ago this week. “Oh, you would’ve been the first person they fired.” she said. “Oh, no doubt,” my other work daughter agreed. “There’s no way you would have been able to go along with all the bullshit they put us through. You would’ve demanded better treatment, and they would’ve fired you. Absolutely.”

* * * *

The Olympics enabled me to do one thing I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do again, and that is hope. Yeah, another little bit of irony there. But maybe, just maybe, something good can come out of the deaths that have recently impacted my life. And maybe, just maybe, we will defeat this pandemic and life can assume a semblance of the normalcy we all once knew and took for granted.

That last part is very large maybe, given the resistance some people have about getting vaccinated against a disease that has killed almost 4.5 million people worldwide. And that’s with several lockdowns and quarantines. Face masks and social distancing. And all of the other safeguards that have been put in place. 4.5 million. How many more people have to die before everyone agrees that no one else should be sacrificed to the Coronavirus?

The sheer unmitigated stupidity of these people is just…indescribable. This isn’t an issue of freedom of choice. This is matter of life and death. Period. End of story.

* * * *

There’s nothing I can do to help Francisco, but his death doesn’t negate the promise I made to him. I’ve been working with a friend of mine, Dave Naisby, to put together a group of donors to financially provide for Francisco’s widow, Oyuki, and his three children for the next several years. We call it Francisco’s Angels. Every peso, every penny we collect goes directly to the family.

Oyuki needs roughly $10,000 pesos a month to put food on the table and pay her bills. That’s approximately $500 US dollars a month. I don’t think I’ve ever lived on that amount — even when I wasn’t making $500/month.

Several members of my country club have stepped up to donate on a monthly basis, but not as many people as I thought there would be. These are people who knew Francisco, and claimed to be his friend. That has been very disappointing for me. Several friends of mine from the States have stepped up and donated to this cause, which absolutely stunned me and left me crying tears of gratitude. These are people that didn’t know Francisco, and never will, and yet they opened their hearts, and wallets, to help provide for a family that is in desperate need of support.

Providing for the financial stability of Francisco’s family has become a huge honker of a deal to me. In psychological terms, I’ve sublimated my grief into this cause.

I never envisioned myself being in this position, probably because I suck at being a prophet, but I have no pride in this matter and will take help from anyone that is willing to assist me. If you would like to donate to this cause, you can contact me by leaving a comment. We’ll talk.

It’ll take about a month for your donation to get to us here. If you write a check, make a notation to Francisco’s Angels in the memo thing in the lower left-hand corner. Lea and I will provide a free one week vacation at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa, including meals, for anyone who contributes to this cause. That is a no-bullshit offer, but you have to provide your own airfare to Guadalajara…

My deepest gratitude and thanks to anyone that decides to donate to Francisco’s Angels.

Future Shock

Hey there little buckaroos. How’s everything going out there? I am admittedly out of touch with most of the things going on in the world right now. My life has become a fairly insulated cocoon of intentional oblivion. I’m not terribly interested in much of anything that happens beyond our gate anymore. Perhaps you can relate to this. I don’t think I’m the only person that feels this way.

No news is good news. Ignorance is bliss.

There might a lots of truth in those statements. There might not be any. They aren’t mottos or credos that I try to uphold in my life. The only reason I mentioned them is they’re the kinds of things I’ve heard other people say when they’re not terribly interested in what’s going on around them either. And it’s not as if I’ve gone completely off the grid of current events. I don’t watch the news very often anymore, but I receive daily updates on what’s going in the world via social media and the Interweb every time I log onto one of my mobile devices.

* * * *

According one recent report I read, the Minnesota Vikings are suddenly considered to be serious Super Bowl contenders by at least one sportswriter. That made me laugh, so that guy might not be a sportswriter anymore. Football season hasn’t even started yet! That’s probably why the Vikings are contenders to be world champions at this precise moment in time.

Every team has the same chances of winning the Super Bowl right now because they’re all undefeated, and no one knows how good or bad they are. There haven’t been devastating injuries to key players, and there’s almost one or two of those that happen to just about every team as the season progresses. Unless the Vikings field a vastly different team than they did last year, that prognostication won’t stand up very long. They did spend a whole lots money this year upgrading their defense, and everyone who follows American football knows that defense wins championships. Right?

That’s a hope I’m trying to keep alive, though it has dropped precipitously on my priority list over the last few years.

Speaking purely for myself, I’ve been disappointed by the Vikings so many times in my life that I don’t care if they ever make it back to the Super Bowl again. If they do, my doctor is going to have to put me on a whole lots of Valium for the two weeks between the NFC Championship game and the Super Bowl. He’ll probably have to admit me into the hospital and have me sedated during the game because I won’t be able to watch it without having a heart attack or a stroke. And if they lose for a fifth time, he might just as well put me down. I’m not sure I could live through one more post-season heartbreak from them.

Maybe that’s a hope I shouldn’t try to keep alive anymore…

* * * *

A couple of weeks ago I read an article that former president Donald Trump shut down his radically new and revolutionary social media platform (From the Desk of Donald J. Trump), after just 29 days. It turns out that his SMP wasn’t much of a platform. Not even for him. It was, wait for it — a blog. That made me laugh, too. I LOLed. And LMFAOed. And I ROTFLed. Then I re-LOLed some more.

There’s a reason for my reactions. Mr. Trump originally said he was going to create a new social media platform that would redefine the genre and make Facebook and Twitter about as meaningful as Myspace. Both of those sites suspended his accounts indefinitely after he incited a riot that resulted in the deaths of five people.

Given the fact that The Donald is a failed influencer that needs to be in the spotlight, he had no choice but to create his own social media platform, just so he could put himself back into the spotlight, especially after those fascist assholes at Facebook and Twitter wouldn’t even let him appear on their stages anymore.

* * * *

I will never stop hoping that Trump will someday be indicted for a lengthy list of crimes, and imprisoned for a very lengthy period of time — and five counts of murder/manslaughter/homicide need to be on that list. I know this will never happen, but that doesn’t mean I can’t continue to hope that it will. And it doesn’t begin to describe how disappointed I am in the American justice system for letting him get away with… everything… so far.

There. Are. No. Words.

* * * *

You’d think that this self-proclaimed genius would’ve known better, wouldn’t you? A blog? I mean, OMG! WTF?!? That’s a terrible medium for The Donald — for a multitude of reasons. He was at his best — if you can call it that — when he buffooned and clowned his way around the stage for his Trump-pets, speaking off the cuff in front of a microphone with a whole lots of cameras rolling.

It would appear that Donald Trump put as much effort into revamping social media as he did in creating a healthcare system that would improve upon on the Affordable Care Act. Or preventing the pandemic. Or fixing the American budget deficit. Or making America more better greater again… I can do this all day, people. I have a really long list of President Trump’s failures.

A blog, for the most part, is a written venue of communication. There isn’t any means for immediate interaction between the writer and the audience, and there is no opportunity to ad lib anything. Additionally, The Donald cannot spel. Nor can he write a complete, comprehensive sentence. And most of his supporters can’t reed rede read.

_{The Sharpie is mightier than the Quid Pro Quo}

According to the article, that was the reason an infuriated Donald Trump shut down his cutting-edge social media platform. I mean, his blog. No one was reading it. I might have actually had more people reading my mostly meaningless blog than Trump had reading his totally pointless blog. That makes me smile a smile of vast contentment. Unfortunately, The Donald wasn’t infuriated enough to have a heart attack or a stroke.

Oh well, maybe next time… Like, when he finally figures out the election he lost will never, ever, be overturned.

* * * *

I have a lots of hypothetical situations that run through my head, so I’m going to throw this one out there as an example: I doubt that any of the thirteen people who regularly read my blog are Trump supporters, but on the off-hand chance that you are, and you’re female, and you’ve been wondering if you could be in a relationship with me because I seem like an urbane, erudite, cool guy — um, no. We couldn’t.

For one thing, I’m already in a relationship. I’m very happily married to my lovely supermodel wife. But even if that wasn’t the case, no, we still couldn’t be in a relationship. To sort of paraphrase Meatloaf, I can overlook a lots of things. But I can’t/won’t do that.

* * * *

Maybe it’s because I’m no longer as young as I used to be, but keeping up with the pace of life has become exhausting. I didn’t have insomnia prior to the first Coronavirus lockdown. Oddly, I do now. I’ve had it for about the last year. And I consider my life to be more free from stress than it has ever been.

At some point in time in this post I plan on exploring that issue. We’ll see how long it takes me to get there.

The fact that I often have trouble sleeping now — like tonight — doesn’t bother me as much as it bothers my doctor. He seems to view my insomnia as a personal affront to him. I’ve been taking Melatonin regularly at night for the last couple of weeks to make him happy. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

I’m retired. If I don’t sleep, it’s not like it’s going effect my performance at work the next day. And if I decide to take a nap in the afternoon it’s not going to get me fired. I don’t see this as a big problem.

There’s at least one more thing I should take into consideration about my current level of physical/emotional enervation and semi-frequent episodes of insomnia: As my wife has pointed out to me several times, I’m not 64 anymore. It’s pretty much all downhill for me from here on out…

To quote my brother-in-law, N. William Pfaff, “They can only kill you once. Everything else is just foreplay.”

Like unto many things in my life, I’m going to stand pat with the Wait and See approach; continue to monitor and assess myself from a distance because I don’t want me to know that I’m under surveillance.

* * * *

Don’t you worry. When things get back to normal again, your life will get back to normal again, too.

Perhaps. But there’s this: The world has changed, and whatever it returns to will not be the same world that existed prior to COVID-19. And there’s also this: No one I know has ever used the word normal to describe me. You probably don’t want to be the first person to go there.

* * * *

¡Feliz Día del Padre! And it’s the first day of summer too. The sun is shining. The US Open Golf Championship is playing on the TV. I usually golf on Sunday, but I took today off for a few reasons:

I haven’t been playing much golf since Todd decided he needed a vacation from us and drove up to Minnesota in early April to see his son, his daughter, and his grandson. We’re assuming that he’ll return in about a month or so. But there was never a strict timeline on his plans, so everything is subject to change. It’s one of the perks of being retired. You get to play a whole lots of things by ear.

I was under the illusion that I’ve been in a bit of slump for the last year or so. I wasn’t pleased with my scores because they, you know, sucked. But the word slump implies that at one time I wasn’t playing poorly, and I’m not sure I can state that with a clear conscience anymore — if I ever could.

I seem to remember that just before the first quarantine I was consistently scoring in the low 80’s, and I was convinced that I was going break 80 in the very near future. But I’m also the guy that forgets why he went into the kitchen in 20 steps or less, so I’m not sure my memory of being an almost not-so-terrible golfer is accurate.

Theoretically, a slump should be time-limited. Shouldn’t it?? After a year of slumping through the fairways, the roughs and the trees, the sand traps, and the greens — I’m starting to think this isn’t so much of a slump as it is a strong indicator that I’m simply not all that good at golf.

* * * *

While we’re on the subject of golf theories, I’m going to present Naisby’s Postulate of Bad Shots. And Stuff. Dave Naisby is one of the members of my country club, and he explained his theory to me the last time we played together. He’s Scottish, so you have read the next sentence with that wicked cool Scottish accent.

“Bad shots are neither created nor destroyed. They merely rotate in a random manner from one hole to the next.”

It’s the most succinct explanation of the vicissitudes of golf that I have ever heard in my life. Based on the way I’ve been playing, I’m pretty sure I’ve proven Dave’s theory multiple times, and it can now be classified as a Law.

* * * *

Another reason for decreasing my time spent on the golf course is pure psychology. I have previously described golf as a fickle mistress. One day she’s all happy to see you and treats you really nice. The next time she doesn’t have time for you and slams the door in your face. I figure if I start treating Miss Golf like I’m not interested in her anymore, she might start being nicer to me when we get together.

That ought to to do the trick, eh.

* * * *

The final reason I didn’t golf today was the weather. I know I said it was a beautiful day here, but yesterday Tropical Storm Dolores hit the western coast of Mexico, and we’ve gotten about four inches of rain in the last twenty-four hours. It was extremely soggy here this morning, and I thought it would get even soggier. But the prevailing winds must have blown the remnants of Dolores off to the north of the Lakeside Area, and it turned out to be a really gorgeous day.

The Chinese Mountains to the west of the resort will green up and look like heads of broccoli in a few days. The temperatures will moderate and cool off a bit. The dust and pollen have been erased from the sky and you can actually see the other side of Lake Chapala clearly for the first time in months.

_{See? I told you it was beautiful here}

I love the beginning of the Rainy Season. Everything feels fresh and clean. It’s like unto a second Spring. And I won’t have to spend several hours a day watering the dozen or so gardens we’ve resurrected after subduing the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow from Hell. With all of my free time I’ll be able to keep the lawn mowed and trimmed, and make sure that the current hedgerow remembers the limitations its boundaries.

And I might feel like writing more often. We’ll have to see how that goes, too.

The only negative thing about the beginning of the Rainy Season is the bugs. June bugs. Flying Buffalo Ants. The Other Flying Ants. Mosquitoes. Giant motheses. They all appear at this time of year. In hordes. Lea absolutely hates the bug invasion. I have to admit it is kind of creepy.

The only good thing about it is it’s brief. And it does provide a veritable smorgasbord for all of the birds that live around here.

* * * *

It’s been awhile since I wrote anything in my blog about my mostly boring life. I’ve actually been too busy to write. And I’m not making that up. We had a few visitors here at the resort in May. Lea’s sister, Leslie, and her husband, Bill, flew down from southern Minnesota, and spent a week with us taking in the sights and the some of the food here in the scenic Lakeside Area.

I was mildly surprised that Les and Bill made the trek down here. Neither of them is in great health, and they both have varying degrees of mobility issues. I hope they come back soon, and often. They said they would. They’re both sweet people and you’ve already had a sample of Bill’s sense of humor. He makes me laugh.

* * * *

Here’s another hypothetical situation for your consideration: Leslie is eight years older than Lea, and Bill is two years older than Leslie. That part isn’t hypothetical. That’s actually true. Bill leaves Philadelphia in a train traveling west at 65 miles an hour. Leslie leaves Chicago in her smart car traveling east at 45 miles an hour. How many tropical fruits can a Bananasarus Rex eat before Leslie will have to stop to the use the restroom for the first time?

* * * *

Lea and I both took short trips back up to the States in May. Lea said she needed to do some shopping, so she flew to Austin, TX and spent a week with her daughter, Gwen. I suggested that she get the J&J COVID vaccine while she was there because I didn’t have any faith in the Chinese vaccine we had received here. No one — not even the Mexican government — knew when the second injection would be available. And neither of us wanted to spend another ten and a half hours waiting to get it.

* * * *

I thought that little piece of paper stating you had been vaccinated would end up being far more important than it has turned out to be, didn’t you? I’m disappointed that no one has asked to see it. If I wanted to return to the States, that piece of paper is worthless. I’d have to go get another swab shoved up my sinuses to get another piece of paper that says I tested negative for COVID.

That doesn’t make any sense to me.

* * * *

When Lea returned to Mexico, I flew up to Austin to get vaccinated. And that’s the only thing I did while I was there. I flew up on a Sunday. Got the J&J vaccine on Monday. And flew back to Mexico on Tuesday. When I returned, Gwen flew down with me. She spent a couple of weeks hanging out at the resort, and we played several rounds of golf before she flew home.

Gwen is not a good golfer either, but she has demonstrated moments of being just about the luckiest golfer I’ve ever played with. Sooner or later the golf gods are going to notice that. They always do.

* * * *

Future Shock is a book by the American author, Alvin Toffler. It was published in 1970, and I remember reading it in high school. I can’t remember if it was a reading assignment for one of my classes, or if I read it because I liked to read back then. One thing I do remember is it was one of least enjoyable books I ever read. It didn’t have a happy ending.

In the dictionary, shock is defined as a sudden upsetting or surprising event or experience.

In the medical field, shock is an acute medical condition associated with a fall in blood pressure caused by blood loss, severe burns, bacterial infection, allergic reaction, or sudden emotional stress marked by cold, pallid skin, irregular breathing, rapid pulse, and dilated pupils.

In the book, future shock is a psychological state created by “…too much change in too short a period of time”.

In that regard, all of the events of the last year have unquestionably met that criterion. This profound physiological state — that’s how I’m going to describe this flashflood of multiple noxious stressors — can be experienced by individuals, a group of individuals, and even entire societies.

* * * *

In the dictionary, stress is defined as a feeling of emotional or physical tension. It can be caused by almost anything, depending on the person and their perceptions. Something that one person experiences without stress can produce a goddamn pants-wetting panic attack in someone else.

A Perhaps Little Known Fact About Stress: Stress is not necessarily a bad thing. For instance, stress can help you face difficult challenges and achieve your goals. The right amount of stress can help you accomplish daily tasks more efficiently. That’s right. Stress can actually make you elevate your game.

Stress can also serve as a sort of early warning system, producing the fight-or-flight response. When the brain perceives a possible crisis situation, it starts flooding the body with epinephrine, norepinephrine, and cortisol. These hormones focus your senses, enabling you to quickly react and avoid potentially dangerous situations. Stress can actually save your life.

It’s only when you’re overwhelmed with stress that it becomes detrimental.

* * * *

The term future shock seems to be incongruous to me. It’s not the future that shocks us. It’s the present set of particularly nasty circumstances that make us wonder whether or not we will even have a future. And that’s where the shocking part comes into play as far as I’m concerned.

According to Toffler, all of this shock and awe about the present/future has been caused by industrialization. Just in cases you were wondering, the first Industrial Revolution started roughly in the mid-1700’s. All we have done since then is streamline the process to the point that it now has a super-charged Hemi engine complete with a couple of twin turbos.

In Toffler’s opinion, we created a monster that has become an out-of-control juggernaut. The genie has been let out of the bottle and there’s no way to get it back in there again. All we can do now is hope we can keep pace with it or we will surely be crushed to death if we don’t.

When I look at the situation in this way, the pandemic appears to be more of a blessing than a curse. It forced us to slow the fuck down, son. It gave us the opportunity to catch our collective breath and reassess almost everything we had been doing.

We have been an industrialized society for almost three hundred years. There’s no way we are going undo that process. Even if we all wanted to do that, I’m not sure it would be the smartest thing we could do. I absolutely love the fact that I have access to an ocean of information at my fingertips, even if I’m not interested in 97% of it.

It took a little over two hundred years before Toffler came up with a name for the menace we had created, even if it’s a stupid name. And we’ve spent some of the last one hundred years trying to figure what we could do about it.

In recent years, a paradigm shift has occurred. The dark future that Toffler was convinced would occur is by no means etched in stone. He may not have been able to see a path that would change his outcome, but that doesn’t mean other people couldn’t. Individuals, groups of individuals, entire societies, and most importantly, corporations have started making a conscious effort to to raise the bar of ethical standards in everything from agriculture to zoology. And that includes pretty much everything in-between.

These are very good things. These are the things that enable me to keep hoping for a better tomorrow. And if enough of us can keep this up, we might not end up destroying ourselves in the process of improving our lives.

To be sure, we still have a lots of work to do. And we have long way to go before we sit back and try to believe that we’ve done enough to correct the error of our ways. But we are doing something. And that’s the most important thing.

It’s All in the Wrist

I’ve heard it said that growing old is a privilege because it’s something that is denied to many. Yeah, that’s probably true, so I don’t have an issue with that.

But it probably isn’t true about being old. Being old appears to be more of a pain than it is a privilege. And I mean that in the most literal sense that I can.

* * * *

I think it was last week that I finally realized that my blog has become an on-line diary of my incredibly bucolic and mostly boring life. I’m not a smart man, but even I know that. It mostly surprises me that it took me so long to figure it out.

I’m starting to remind myself of our 1997 Chevy S-10 Blazer. We had it for 11 years, and it’s my favorite vehicle of all time. It was a deep metallic maroon color. It had running boards and heated seats. And it had four-wheel drive. Because of the length of time we had it, and possibly because of the way we utilized it — we took it down the most spurious roads we could find on the North Shore of Lake Superior– the Blazer required far more serious maintenance than all of the other cars we’ve had in the last 33 years combined.

I’m pretty sure I ended up replacing every mechanical apparatus on it except the engine and the transmission. And I upgraded the sound system at least once. Lea eventually got tired of all the upkeep on it and more or less demanded that I get rid of it.

* * * *

It’s all in the wrist is a phrase typically used to indicate a certain level of skill or mastery at something where the hands are involved somehow. It’s a reference to the deft skill required to successfully perform certain activities. It’s mostly a sports reference.

Toss a ball in the hoop with nothing but net. Sink a long putt in golf. Throw a Frisbee. Throwing a perfect spiral with a football. Casting a line or better yet — fly fishing — you got it. It is all in the wrist. That’s the latest part of my body that has been malfunctioning for the last month. And I’ll apologize in advance for putting you through this yet again

* * * *

The weird part is I couldn’t think of anything I had done to injure my wrist. The only thing I did on the day it started hurting was wait in line for my first COVID-19 vaccine injection. It took ten and one-half hours. You wouldn’t think that any mishap could befall you by doing essentially nothing except play on your phone while you wait seemingly forever for the process to run its course, but that’s what I was doing on St. Patrick’s Day this year. And that’s the only reason why I remember that date.

* * * *

Why am I here? That’s a question I have asked myself countless times in my lifetime. Not necessarily in any spiritual or existential sense. It’s more like unto Why did I come into the kitchen? I was in the bedroom, and I know I came in here for a reason… I just can’t remember why anymore…

I can’t even say that this is something new. I did it thirty years ago, too. The only difference is the number of stairs I have to climb before I forget why went up them in the first place. Here, it’s only one. In Minnesota, it was a flight of stairs that led up from the basement. And it usually took three trips up and down the stairs before I could remember what I was trying to accomplish.

_{If anything, you’d think that my ability to concentrate would actually improve…}

* * * *

If you’ve read any of my previous posts about my adventures with the aging process, you know that the first thing I do when something like unto this happens to me is diagnosis my ailment. I have described this as the process of ruling shit out until you can’t rule something out anymore. Because I am both a guy and a nurse, I tend to pick the worst outcome I can think of, then work my way back to sanity from there.

So, yes, we can eliminate getting stabbed by knives and being attacked by wolverines. Some of you might possibly be thinking, You know, a much more common wrist malady is Carpal Tunnel Syndrome… And that’s what I’ve come to believe it is, too.

* * * *

Carpal Tunnel Syndrome is a condition that causes numbness, tingling, or weakness in your hand, or a combination of any/all of the above. And a ridiculous amount of pain in your wrist. It’s my right wrist, and I am right-handed. It has changed almost everything about my life, so much so that I’ve contemplated coming out as Left-handed and trying out that lifestyle for awhile. I’ve even stopped playing golf because I don’t want to have start wearing Depends®.

CTS is caused by too much pressure on your median nerve. It runs the length of your arm, goes through a passage in your wrist called the carpal tunnel, hence the name, and ends in your hand. The median nerve controls the movement and feeling of your thumb and the movement of all your fingers, except your little pinky.

The main cause of CTS is chronic, repetitive motion — like typing, or any wrist movements that you do over and over when your hands are lower than your wrists, like, playing with your mobile device while you wait in line for ten and a half hours straight without a break.

Studies have shown that the incidence of CTS exploded with the emergence of the Computer Age for one simple reason. Not everyone used a typewriter before the age of computerization. Then, pretty much just like that! Everyone was using a keyboard to conduct business, for personal use, and entertainment. Up to five percent pf the world population is currently effected by CTS with varying levels of severity.

I have broken bones, sprained both of my ankles, pulled muscles, damaged my right knee three times, and partially separated my left shoulder. Those things hurt. But there is nothing that compares to the sheer motherfucking agony of putting too much pressure on one little nerve for an extended period of time.

It takes your breath away. It consumes all of your attention, so don’t get any stupid ideas about going into another room for anything. You could get lost for hours. You might end up as a Silver Alert, and that would just be embarrassing when the search party finds you in the bedroom staring at the ceiling…

* * * *

Being a nurse probably caused my CTS. At the very least, it played a significant part in my developing it. I’ve had CTS symptoms on and off for the last twenty years. My decision to try to become a rich and famous author certainly didn’t help any. And writing my blog is probably the stupidest thing I could do right now.

See? I told you I wasn’t smart.

I have a wrist splint that I have sometimes worn when I go to bed ever since the late 1990’s. I only use them whenever my right wrist greatly pains me. Historically, it has happened in streaks, then has disappeared for sometimes extended periods of time. I wouldn’t have described my symptoms as severe, until this last flareup. At least, that’s how I remember it.

I don’t think my CTS was progressively getting worse. This was more of an unanticipated blitzkrieg of pain. From hell. This was, hands down, the worst recurrence of it ever for me, and I’m hoping that it will go away again and go bother someone else for awhile. That’s probably how that phenomenon works, too.

The treatment of CTS is simple. Rest — stop doing the stuff that caused the flare up, Wrist splinting. A splint that holds your wrist still while you sleep can help relieve nighttime symptoms of tingling and numbness. And NSAIDS, drugs like Motrin® and Aleve®. And if those don’t work, you’ll probably need surgery.

* * * *

I’m not a huge fan of surgical interventions for anything, especially when there are so many non-surgical options available, so I’ve been doing all of the preventative measures mentioned above, plus, stretching exercises to try to pop my wrist into non-pain producing positions My caddy taught me how to do them. And I bought a new splint because I figured splint technology has probably changed a little in the last two decades.

My right wrist is mostly better now. Except for the low-grade ache that never really goes away, and sometimes hurts like unto two hells whenever I try to do something manly, like, open a jar of pickles. And the tingly sensation that sometimes extends from my elbow to my fingertips. And the fact that my fine motor skills are sometimes greatly diminished. My only fear is this flare up has lasted longer than any of the others. I’m not sure it’s going to bounce back all the way this time.

All of these things are more annoying than they are anything else most of the time, and I am more than accustomed to dealing with stuff like unto that on a daily basis. There are several parts of my body that are working at 80% of the capacity they had only ten years ago. As much as it sucks sometimes, getting older still beats the hell out of the alternative. It just seems to be the price most of us have to pay for staying alive.

* * * *

I want to jump back to the ten and a half hour wait that Lea, my lovely supermodel wife, Phyllis, my golf wife, and I had to endure for our first COVID-19 vaccine. It’s probably the most exciting thing I’ve done all year.

Obviously, it wasn’t well-organized. If it was publicly advertised, I didn’t see or hear about it. Almost everyone we talked to while we waited, and waited, and waited some more — had heard about from word of mouth — like us. Or they read about it on Facebook.

It was held in the little village of Ajijic — in the park down by the malecón, and it was a first come-first serve administration of all the vials that happened to make it into town on that particular day. It was sponsored by the Mexican government, and was free of charge to anyone in the country. All you had to do was produce three pieces of mandatory paperwork at the time the vaccine was being dispensed.

One of these pieces of paper was a form you actually had to fill out on-line to register for the program, then print out that form and bring to the administration site. Yes, you’re absolutely correct. You would think that once you registered on-line that would’ve done the trick. It probably would’ve worked in any other country on the planet. The other two pieces of paper contained essentially the same information as the on-line form. Failure to have the three correct pieces of paper meant that you could not receive the shot, no matter how long you had waited.

Lea said she filled out her online in form about ten minutes. It took me more than half an hour to even sign into the goddamn website. Phyllis was easily as challenged as I was by the process, and at the end she couldn’t get the form to print. Phyllis emailed all her information to Lea, and even she couldn’t get it to print. Fortunately, Phyllis had brought along almost every piece of legal paper she has collected in her time here. A government official somewhere in the vicinity of the park okayed a different piece of paper as an acceptable alternative, and she was allowed to receive the vaccine.

I’m going to guess that Phyllis wasn’t the only one who wasn’t able to print the registration form.

* * * *

It is a well-known fact of modern life that all bureaucracies run on paperwork. But the Mexican bureaucracy appears to worship paperwork. Getting a legal document down here can be one of the most frustrating processes you will ever experience. Every document has to drawn up by a notario. They’re like unto attorneys down here, only more important. All legal documents are written in a highly specialized form of Mexican-Spanish that is so stylized it’s almost incomprehensible, and the entire thing must be correct down to the punctuation. If there are any errors, the entire document must be completely re-written and that process can take months. And months…

That’s why notarios are so important. They make sure every i is dotted, every t is crossed, and every comma and period are all in the right places at the right times.

And there isn’t much logic when it comes to what is deemed to be the correct pieces of paper to have in any given situation. There are a few forms you always seem to need, but after that it is anyone’s guess.

You have to fill out reams of paperwork to get a Mexican driver’s license — which has your name, your address, a picture of you — and a shitload of other information that the Mexican government generates — but it cannot be used to prove who you are, where you live, or any of the other numbers and codes that the government provided to you, and only you.

A driver’s license is just that. Something that allows you to get behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle and do pretty much whatever you want when you’re on the roads down here. And that is all.

A rental agreement, something that is written in that very specific Mexican-Spanish jargon of inestimable profundity, cannot be used to provide proof of residency. You need something much more vital. A utility bill for telephone or internet service. Or you need a bank statement.

Evidently, commercial billing is far more of a reliable source of information to the government than anything the government actually produces.

* * * *

At the end of our ten hour wait to get our injection, there was another half-hour process where dozens of high school volunteers filled out one more piece of paper that verified all of the information we had already provided to get the shot, and they also wrote down telephone numbers and email addresses. I asked if anyone was actually going to contact me so I could get my second shot of the vaccine. Everyone that heard my question laughed. Even the people taking down all of our information.

* * * *

Yes. Three weeks later we had to go back down into the little village of Ajijic, in the park by the malecón again and wait in line once more, but this time for only two and a half hours. We had to have the three all-important pieces of paperwork with essentially all the same information again so we could to receive the piece of paper that had been filled out for us, but not given to us, after we received our first shot. You know, the one with all of the same information on it one more time, plus our telephone numbers and email addresses that no one needed because no one contacted us. We heard we had to go get this piece of paper by word of mouth, again.

This is just a guess, but I figure we’re going to need four pieces of paper to qualify to get the second COVID -19 vaccination, whenever that might be. Phyllis will probably hear about first, and then she’ll let us know once more.

* * * *

I have serious doubts about how effective this global vaccination program is going to be in the long run. I’ve read reports about people who have received the vaccine coming down with COVID. I even saw one report about a woman that survived the illness, got the vaccine, then came down with the ‘Rona again. I guess the good news is she’s still alive, but this disease doesn’t seem to play by the rules, and that’s a serious cause for concern.

The Mexican government bought all their vaccines from China. By all accounts I’ve seen, this vaccine is the least effective of all the vaccines that are currently being employed against the pandemic. I may have wasted half a day of my life for a vaccine that might not do anything against the disease it’s supposed to prevent. I had lab work done about two weeks after I received the vaccine. One of tests I had done was a COVID antibody titer test.

It came back negative.

I have no idea if I have any COVID antibodies in my system even though I may have had COVID when we went to Mexico City in December of 2019, and I most definitely received the vaccine in March of this year. The world has changed. There isn’t as much certainty as there was before the pandemic. There aren’t as many answers as there used to be. And many of the answers we have right now are I don’t know. We’ll have to see. Maybe…

* * * *

The world has been in the closest thing to a total shutdown that it could achieve for the last year. People have quarantined, worn PPE, and social distanced during that entire time. Pandemic fatigue started occurring about ten minutes after the lockdowns started, and it has continued to fester away ever since. It has been boiling over for awhile, but now it’s starting to reach a fever pitch almost everywhere on the planet

I watched a news story this morning about revenge travel. It’s a visceral reaction to not being able to travel anywhere. With the gradual relaxation of travel restrictions, people are starting to hit the road and airways to any place they can. They don’t even care where they’re going. It just has to a be a destination that isn’t the fuckin’ couch in the fucking living room.

It’s possible that this is going to be the most dangerous stage of the pandemic. Only time will tell. We’ll know soon whether or not all of the things we have done as a global society will be enough to stop the spread and continuation of the Coronavirus pandemic.

The Big Question is, have we done enough?

* * * *

I remember the first time I had to administer an injection as a nursing student. My patient was an elderly nun. If I screwed this up, I’d probably get kicked out of nursing school, and I would surely go straight to Hell for torturing Mother Teresa. I’m pretty sure my hands were shaking as I drew up the medication. I told my instructor how nervous I was, and she reassured me that I was going to be fine.

“Take a deep breath. Relax. Giving a shot is easy. Pretend you’re throwing a dart. It’s all in the wrist.”

I did all of those things, except the imaginary dart I threw probably would have traveled halfway to the moon. I felt the tip of the need hit the periosteum of her femur. That had to hurt like unto three hells. It was the worst shot I would ever administer in my life. And it was probably the worst injection Mother Teresa ever received in hers.

And she didn’t say a word.

My next injection went much better. By the time I gave my third injection it was like I had done it hundreds of times. It no longer produced the adrenaline rush that it did the first time. And I had gotten past the idea that I was intentionally inflicting pain on another human, even if I was doing it for a good cause.

* * * *

There comes a time in everyone’s life when you cease to be a highly-skilled participant and transition into being a once-great-but-now-mostly-forgotten spectator. For me, that transition started on the day that I retired. Four and a half years later, I had assumed that almost everyone I used to work with had forgotten all about me.

Yesterday, something I wasn’t expecting happened. I received a message from a nurse had I worked with at the last hospital I worked. She had just started a new job a new hospital — the second hospital I worked at in Phoenix. I worked on a Gero/Psych Unit there. All of the nurses on the unit knew how to handle the myriad of medical issues their patients brought to the hospital with them, but they had no idea how to address the psychiatric issues their patients had been admitted for. I taught my Med/Surg nurses how to think like Psych nurses.

Lynn said the staff there still talked about me all the time, and what a great mentor I had been to them. She ended her message saying, Thank you for the difference you have made in all our lives!!!

No. Thank you, Lynn. And Julia. And Al. And Liligene. And all of the rest of the staff on the SAGE Unit at Del E. Webb Medical Center.

You see? Being a psych nurse is easy. All you have to do relax. And find a way to make your patients laugh. It’s the most important therapy you will give them.

It’s all in the wrist.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

Almost fifty years ago, I started writing my first novel. I was living in an apartment in Little Falls, MN at the time. I don’t think it had a title. I had no idea what I wanted to write about. I didn’t even own a typewriter. My novel consisted of a bunch of notes I had scribbled down on a yellow legal pad. Probably when I was drunk.

I don’t think any of the notes I had scribbled down actually looked like a novel. It was mostly ideas I was contemplating trying to turn into a novel. I had a few of the chapter titles written down in my notes. You know, like, I had an outline or something. The only thing I’m sure of is the title of this post was the title of one of the chapters of one of the books I never wrote.

* * * *

In one of my previous posts I mentioned that I suffer from Involuntary Musical Imagery, otherwise known as an earworm. Usually, it’s just annoying. But for the last month or so it has been almost intolerable because the song that was stuck in my head was Coward of the County by Kenny Rogers.

I know, right!

The song was bad enough when it was released in 1979, having to hear it 20 times a day or more on the radio. There are no words for the torture that it was having to hear it for all of your waking hours for 30 days in a row. or more. I’m just relieved that it somehow got kicked out of my mental playlist. Finally.

* * * *

Hey. How’s it going? I hope you’re all surviving the seemingly never-ending saga of the Coronavirus pandemic. I don’t think it’s even been one whole year since this thing started. And yet, it somehow feels like it’s been going on for most of my life. And I am old.

I don’t think I know anyone that has died to death from COVID-19. Several of my friends have had it, and they have all survived. However, several of my friends have lost friends or family members to the Coronavirus. I’ve been extremely fortunate so far. I hope my luck holds out for a very long time to come.

Up in the States, most of my friends have received one of several types of vaccines that are now available. Most of them have posted pictures on social media with their official documentation, which is something we’re all going to need in the future if we ever want to travel to another country, or possibly, even leave the house.

I don’t think any of the vaccines are available here in the Lakeside Area. My doctor thinks they might arrive here by June or July. Or maybe next year. This is Mexico. Time is very relative here. And there’s this: Many of the people that live here are gringos from different countries. Canadia. The US. England. New Zealand. South Dakota…

I’m not sure we’re a huge priority to the Mexican Government.

Up until he contracted COVID-19, the Mexican President didn’t believe the pandemic was real. I’m not sure how much his experience has changed him. Andrés Manuel López Obrador has been a bit a of an enigma while he’s been in office. He’s turned out to be a disappointment to almost everyone that voted for him.

Much like unto the former President of the United States, AMLO didn’t do much of anything to stop the spread of the Coronavirus in Mexico. He left that up to the governors of the 31 states. The governor of Jalisco, Enrique Alfaro Ramírez, has been very proactive in trying to keep the people he represents safe and healthy. and alive. And that hasn’t been an easy accomplishment.

Not because the people of Mexico haven’t complied with most of the preventative measures that we’ve all experienced. No one down here has protested about alleged infringements on their rights or freedoms. It’s the whole family thing.

Family ties are huge down here. Ask any Hispanic person you happen to see and they will tell you that family means everything to them. Families here get together as often as they can to celebrate anything and everything. Or nothing.

Hey, man. The ‘Rona might kill me, but if I don’t go to my abuela’s birthday party– She’s gonna be 95 this weekend! — I’m a fuckin’ dead man for sure! At the very least she’ll slap me silly with her chanclas.

And that’s not an exaggeration. Not going to a family gathering can have serious repercussions. So now you have a better idea of the situation down here.

Governor Alfaro has ordered at least three major lockdowns in the last year, and I don’t know how many minor shutdowns. His latest directive will remain in effect until December 15th — pretty much the rest of the year. I think he just got tired of having to re-issue statements every other week.

* * * *

Despite the fact that there isn’t much to do here because there just aren’t many things to do not only here, but pretty much everywhere right now — we’ve been keeping busy here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa. Retirement has turned out to be a helluvalot more work than I ever imagined. That probably wouldn’t be true if we weren’t the Stewards of the Realm at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa.

We’ve spent a lots of time and money improving a place that doesn’t belong to us, and more than likely, never will. Those things weren’t part of our rental agreement — we aren’t obligated to do any of them. I’ve written about all of them in previous posts, so I don’t think I’m going to list them all again. But the longest and most expensive endeavor we’ve taken on has been renovating the yard and all of the gardens.

* * * *

Every living thing goes through various stages of development in its lifetime. According to a guy named Erik Erikson, humans have eight distinct stages. I know I had to memorize them when I was in nursing school. And then I forgot almost everything about them because once you get out of nursing school, no one is ever going to ask you about them again.

The one thing I do remember about them is they all had kooky-sounding names — like, your biggest challenge in each stage was not to kill yourself, or everyone else you meet. Trust vs. Mistrust. Autonomy vs. Shame & Doubt. Initiative vs. Guilt.

See? I told you.

According to Mr. Erikson, the stage of development I’m currently in is Integrity vs. Despair. Whatever. I see it more as a setting in of the Three G’s. In alphabetical order: Gardening, Getting Older, and Golf.

* * * *

Lea and I both prefer things to look neat and orderly. And so does Todd for that matter. Todd is our roommate. He moved here from Idaho about a year and a half ago, and took up residence in one of our guest rooms. He’s Lea’s oldest friend, and he’s become my closest male friend and golf partner.

That whole neat and orderly thing: that was probably the greatest impetus in our decision to improve the appearance of pretty much everything in the yards. That’s why we decided to have the pool repainted. And to annihilate the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow, and all of the other vines and vegetation that hadn’t been trimmed or manicured in the last forty years. All of those things started way back in the middle of last October.

I’m sure the lockdowns and shutdowns and restrictions from the Coronavirus had something to do with our decision There wasn’t much of anything else to do, and we had been here long enough that looking at the overgrown hedges and shit really started bothering us.

Lea and I have improved every house that we’ve lived in for an extended period of time, whether we owned them or not. It’s become kind of a habit for us.

* * * *

The pool had been bothering us for awhile. It wasn’t on good shape when we moved in. Additional time, and continued use, didn’t do anything to improve its appearance. So we made a deal with Lord Mark, our landlord. He would pay for the prep work, paint, and any miscellaneous supplies. And we would hire a painter to paint the pool.

We drained the pool and let it dry out for three months. In January we had all of the pool surfaces prepped by Tacho, and Lea and I pressured washed every inch to get it ready for paint. Francisco Flores Bernini, my friend, caddy, and the guy who has painted almost the entire inside of our house, painted the pool a deep, dark blue. Jaime Mendoza, our property manager, had 40,000 gallons of water delivered in two huge trucks.

I have to say it turned out better than I thought it would. If we ever have any visitors here, I think they’ll love it, too. It’s the jewel in the crown of the resort once more. Or it will be once we get the solar heating system working again.

The solar heater is on the roof of the master bedroom, and it is a Mexican technological wonder. It’s so complicated even other Mexicans haven’t been able to understand it. We’ve had a few guys come over to look at it to repair it, and they all say it just needs to be replaced.

We’re going to start that process this week, according to Jaime. We’ll see how that goes. There’s more than one person involved in finding a solution to this problem. It might take awhile to get them all together over here. Personally, I think we’ll end up with a new heating system eventually, simply because that’s what everyone has been saying we’re going to need. But this is Mexico. When it comes to stuff like unto this, nothing is ever as straightforward as it seems.

* * * *

When I was a kid, I spent almost every summer working in the fields on my grandparent’s farm by day, and was preyed upon by my pedophile uncle by night. As a result, I had no interest in becoming a farmer when I grew up. And yet, as an adult, I have done far more gardening than I ever thought I would. And that is all because of my lovely supermodel wife.

Lea loves gardens, but she doesn’t want to do any gardening. That’s where I come in. And the Five Languages of Love. I’m a guy. So you can believe me when I say I had no idea there were any love languages.

* * * *

This couple gets married. On their honeymoon night the guy looks at his beautiful bride and says, “Hey Mrs. Stevenson, you wanna retire into the bedroom and let me fuck your brains out?”

“That is just so rude!” his wife snaps. “I knew I wasn’t marrying a Casanova or anything, but couldn’t you at least try to be polite about it?” The guy thinks about for a minute, runs his hand through his hair and decides to try again.

“You’re right, honey. I apologize, and I’m really sorry I said that. Now, could you please pass the pussy?”

* * * *

Lea’s favorite love language is Acts of Service. In my case, that ended up translating into Build me a garden. Or in Lea’s case, a lots of gardens. I constructed at least three gardens for her in Minnesota. In Arizona I transformed our backyard into a desert oasis. Okay, I didn’t do anything except sign the check in that instance. But the results were worth it.

Here at the resort, the gardens had been completely swallowed by the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow and all of the untrimmed vines that covered the fence in the backyard. All Todd and I had to do was find them again. And I should add that Lea played her part in hedgerow annihilation, too.

Lea doesn’t like digging in the dirt because it ruins her manicures. If I spent any money on taking care of my fingernails, I probably wouldn’t want to do anything to fuck them up either. Oddly enough, Lea actually enjoys trimming shrubs and vines. It’s that whole neat and orderly thing again.

* * * *

All of the things I’ve already mentioned are true, but there’s one more reason why I decided to tackle the daunting project of hedge demolition and yard improvement. I really suck at sitting on my ass all day listening to the TV. Yeah, it kind of surprised me to discover this, too.

Lea says she’s not surprised. She apparently understands me better than I do. We have been married to each other for over three decades, so her comprehension of me isn’t all that surprising. I’m pretty sure I understand her better than she understands herself, too.

Speaking of TV, I’ve been able to get our streaming devices to actually work on a consistently reliable basis. So we’ve actually been watching a couple of series: The Crown, and The Mandalorian.

I’ve found that I actually like the young Queen Elizabeth II. And I detest pretty much everyone else in her family, the fucking royal sissifated sniffle-snaffles that they are.

The Mandalorian guy reminds me of The Rifleman. It was a TV western way back when I was kid. They were big back then, and there were a lots of them to choose from. I really liked The Rifleman when I was a kid. I watched a rerun of it a few years ago on a quiet Saturday morning, and I changed the channel after five minutes. I thought The Rifleman was just about the stupidest fuckin’ show I had ever seen.

That’s pretty much what I think of The Mandalorian too. It’s very predictable. The dialog is mostly boring and repetitive — except Baby Yoda is so damn cute I put up with all the stupididity just for him. I’ve watched five or six episodes. I’m still waiting for the Baby Yoda kid to say something. I don’t know if he ever speaks, but I’m hoping like hell that he does. And soon.

* * * *

Earlier in this post I said that restoring the gardens was expensive, and you night think that I spent a bunch of money buying plants to put in the gardens. That would be incorrect. I’ve probably spent less than two hundred bucks on new plants.

The expense was hiring someone to haul off all the shit we chopped down.

A guy named Guillermo was driving by the resort in his beat-up pickup when he saw Todd dragging a bunch of branches out to the curb to be picked up by the local garbagemen. He asked if we would be willing to pay him to do it.

Our garbage guys can haul off only a very limited amount of branches and stuff at one time, and everyone in our development always has a bunch of yard debris that they need to get rid of. If we had waited for them to perform this task for us, we would still have a mountain of debris to get rid of, and we started almost five months ago. For the very reasonable fee of $25 bucks a truckload, Guillermo hauled away about 20 truckloads of branches and vines and shit whenever we needed him.

It ended up being a good deal for all of us. Guillermo couldn’t find any work because of COVID-19, so we were an absolute godsend to him when he was desperately looking for a way to make some money. And we were able to demolish stuff at a much faster rate because we weren’t limited by the local garbage collection limitations.

* * * *

With the debris removed, we could focus on making the yard and gardens all pretty and cutey once more. We took the hedgerow out in sections, therefore, we also reconstructed the gardens in sections. With that in mind, we now have gardens that are very well established on one hand, to gardens that are just beginning to sprout flowers. If that pattern continues to repeat itself, there will always be one part of the gardens in bloom, no matter what time of the year it is. There isn’t really a winter season here. It’s more like unto varying degrees of summer all the time.

Now you understand why I think this place is a paradise.

We’ve been pleasantly surprised by the flowers that started growing once they could see the light of day once more, and that was what convinced us that our resort used to have gardens at one time, long ago in the past.

Morning glories, brown-eyed susans, amaryllis, dahlias, and lantana have sprung to life, adding pops of color along the south side of the house. Lilies and geraniums started growing around the bougainvillea and the monster poinsettia tree. At least seven varieties of vines are climbing the stone walls and fences that enclose our grounds. And we uncovered a mango tree, a papaya tree, and an avocado tree.

Unfortunately, flowers aren’t the only things that have sprouted up in the once-forsaken gardens. We also have a very impressive crop of weeds growing, too. This is where the helluvalot of work started coming into play for me. And Todd. And it involves the two W’s of the first G of my version of this stage of my development in life.

Watering and Weeding.

* * * *

To the best of my knowledge, there’s no such thing as a garden that doesn’t require any maintenance. If there is, I sure as hell didn’t plant it here. We used to have a gardener — well, he was more of a yard maintenance guy than he was a gardener — and that was our main reason for letting him go. He was one big reason the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow had grown to such outrageous proportions.

Miguel is no longer our gardener, but we did hire him to maintain the pool. He’s probably the only person on the planet that knows how the enigmatic plumbing for the pool works. Just in cases you were wondering, he likes what we’ve done with the gardens.

According to a reliable source that I can no longer remember, the one thing that all plants need to live is water. That makes sense to me, so I’m not going to research it any further. It’s the Dry Season down here right now. It won’t rain in any appreciable amounts until the middle of June. The gardens we decided to uncover need to be watered on pretty much a daily basis. At the very least, every two days.

Yep, I’m going to be busy for awhile.

Todd tends to set up sprinklers to water any part of the yard or gardens that he takes care of. I’m a bit more hands-on. I bought a shitload of hoses and wands and nozzles with a variety of settings and strengths, and I more or less water everything by hand. It takes me a few hours every day to make the rounds to all of the gardens. It’s one of the reasons why it’s taken me so long to write this post. I think I’ve been working on it for at least a month. Maybe two… I honestly can’t remember.

I like to see how my plants are doing. Are they looking okay? Do they need more water? Less water? More sunlight? What’s that fucking thing? Is that a new weed I’ve never seen before? Is it a flower? Maybe I’ll leave it there for awhile and see what it grows into… That’s kind of how I roll when I’m watering the gardens.

* * * *

Gardening is a fairly mindless enterprise for most people. There is nothing mindless for me. My mind is always running, and it hasn’t been my buddy for quite some time. I have to seriously counter the natural tendency of my mind to make me feel as bad about myself as it possibly can. It’s become more or less a full-time job lately.

Age has given me some perspective on my life. This is the second G of my version of this stage of my development in life. Being sober has given me an extended period of time of reasonably sane behavior. But the more I seem willing to embrace myself, warts and all, the more my mind seems to think it needs to step in and do something about that.

It’s probably still mad at me for quitting drinking…

We’ll work this out sooner or later. I’m smarter than my brain thinks I am, and I am way more patient than it is. One of these days it will realize that and leave me alone.

* * * *

A weed, by definition, is any plant that you don’t want growing in your yard or garden. And they are pretty much the bane of my existence right now. Mostly because weeds don’t come to you. You have to get down to their level to get rid of them. My back is no longer built for that kind of movement. And I’m sure this is true for more people than just me, but for every weed I remove, ten weeds seem appear out of the ground to take its place.

And I don’t know what is in the soil here, but it took a toll on my hands. After one week of weeding, the skin on my hands took on the texture of 90 grit sandpaper. Then my skin started to crack around the beds my fingernails. It surprises me how something so tiny and seemingly insignificant can hurt so goddamn much. I couldn’t have typed anything even if I had wanted to. I could barely hold a golf club without breaking into tears.

I’ve started wearing work gloves out of sheer self-preservation. And I’m applying lotion on a daily basis now. I think my hands will recover and return to their previous state of feeling like I’ve never done an honest days’ work with them.

* * * *

Most of the garden restoration was accomplished simply by relocating the plants we already had to different locations, which was another back-breaking exercise for me, and seeds. I love seeds because they’re inexpensive and I don’t have to bend over to get them onto the ground. I more or less throw them in the general direction of where I want them to grow, and add water.

I’ve kind of become the Marky Flower Seed of Mexico.

My helter-skelter approach to gardening drives Todd crazy. He’s much more scientific and methodical in his approach to. He tests the soil and makes his own compost. He grows a lots of plants in small pots, then replants them exactly where he wants them to be, in more or less specific numbers.

Last year I sowed a few hundred seeds and almost nothing grew. This year I sowed a few hundred thousand seeds, and almost all of them germinated. Yeah, I don’t get it either. It’s one of the mysteries of Life in Mexico. I may not understand why it happened, but I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. And I really don’t care what Todd thinks when it comes to my gardening techniques. I have created the gardens of ten thousand dreams here, and I am well pleased.

Marigolds, zinnias, sweet alyssum, and cosmos. Lavender, lupines, bachelor’s buttons, and daisies. Calendaria, dianthus, and carnations. Salvia, asters, delphiniums, and mums. Sunflowers, snapdragons. scarlet pimpernel, and foxglove. Ageratum, hollyhocks, nasturtiums, and sweet william.

We have a lots of garden space, therefore, we have ended up with a boatload of flowers to try to fill them all. Most of these I’ve grown from seeds or cuttings from monster-sized plants. And almost all of these plants produce more seeds. I may never have to buy another packet seeds for as long as I live, even if I live for another two decades. There’s no such thing as too many flowers. Or too many types of flowers.

The end result of our labors has been so dramatic that it’s hard to adequately describe. It’s like unto a caveman/hippie/beatnik guy that decided to cut his hair and join the human race. It opened up the outdoors and let the sun shine in. Now all we have to do is keep it trimmed and manicured until we die, and then it will become someone else’s problem.

For now, there are three of us on the job so it hasn’t become a major ordeal for anyone. But we all can see that it’s something we’re going to have to be very proactive about or we’ll end up another Hedgerow from Hell in no time flat.

* * * *

And that brings me to the third and final G of my version of this stage of my development in life. Golf. Prior to the onset of all the COVID-19 lockdowns and precautions and stuff, I was consistently scoring in the mid-80’s. I fixin’ to get ready to start to begin to break 80, and go onto the Professional Senior’s Tour.

And then one day, for no particular reason, pretty much almost everything about my golf game just fell apart, and it stayed there. I was scoring in the mid-90’s and golf became a whole lots less fun than it had ever been.

I’ve tried to remain philosophical and positive about sucking at golf once more. Everyone goes through a slump. You’ve just got to play through it until it gets bored and goes away to ruin someone else’s game. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.

That’s how dieting works. For example, if you lose several pounds, they float around through the atmosphere until they run into someone else, and that person suddenly gains several pounds. I’ve lost 15 pounds since I retired. And I’d bet at least one person reading this has gained 15 pounds in the last four and half years.

I rest my case.

* * * *

And that’s about it from the Chula Vista Resort and Spa for now. We’re still accepting reservations, and we now offer special Friends and Family Rates that will be available for a limited time — like unto those TV ads for Dr. Ho’s Circulation Promoter and Pain Relief System.

Y’all take care of yourselves and stay safe out there. I’ve come to the conclusion that gardening is an apt metaphor for life. Plant a lots of seeds. Keep the weeds away. And water as needed.

When you look at that way, life isn’t away where near as complicated.

Waiting for Guffman

If you follow me on Facebook, you won’t be hearing from me for awhile. I’m in Facebook jail, again, for thirty days for posting this incredibly insensitive and controversial statement. Back in May.

_{I know right! What the hell?!?}

Yep, it was so outrageous that it took Facebook five months to realize they should have been outraged almost half a year ago. What sort of twisted human sifts through five fucking months of Facebook posts? Not even super-creepy stalkers do that kind of shit!!

There are no appeals in the kangaroo court of Facebook. I should know. I’ve been in Facebook jail so many times I’m like unto Norm on Cheers. Everybody there knows my name.

* * * *

If you’re not familiar with the film Waiting for Guffman you should check it out. It’s fucking hilarious, and you could probably use a laugh right about now. You’ll definitely need one when the second quarantine starts after Trump loses the election.

I’m kind of hoping that once Trump is gone, someone in America — maybe even the next President — will remember that Science used to be a respectable profession before this putz of a president came along and told his mindless followers that Science was stupid and couldn’t be trusted.

We don’t have to wait for the election for that to happen here. Starting Friday evening, we’re turning the clocks back to March or April and initiating another lockdown. Lea has been reading the restrictions to me as I write this. It’s not going to be a complete shutdown, but it sounds like there are going to be a significant amount of restrictions, especially at night and on the weekends.

And if you have to be out and about, you had better be wearing a facemask, amigo.

Enrique Alfaro Ramírez, the governor of Jalisco, has been threatening to reimpose a lockdown for the last couple of months because he’s dismayed by the number of COVID-19 cases in his country. And he apparently thinks he can do something to change that.

* * * *

According to the latest statistics available, there have been 901,268 confirmed cases of COVID-19 in Mexico, resulting in 89,814 deaths. And Mexico has done an horrendous job of compiling accurate data. In the state of Jalisco, there have been 33,339 confirmed cases with 3,967 deaths.

* * * *

Despite those appalling numbers, an increasing number of people down here have ceased using any and all personal protective measures.

I call it Pandemic Precaution Fatigue. And the thought process goes something like unto this: I am over this. I’m going to come down with this crap and live, or I’m going to come down with this crap and die. Either way, I don’t care what happens anymore. I just want my fucking life back.

In an previous post, I wrote about something I called Spousal Fatigue. It’s a term I coined to describe what happens to some retired people when they find themselves trapped with the person they married without a break, day after day after day…

This year, you didn’t necessarily have to be retired to find yourself in that situation.

Okay. I remember the richer or poorer part. Sickness and health. Yep, for better or worse… But I don’t remember anything about twenty-four hours a day, every goddamn day!

Perhaps that’s one reason why some people are willing to take their chances with contracting the Coronavirus. Oh yeah, and a vaccine is going to be available any day now, right? Didn’t President Trump say that, what, about…eight… months ago?

Whether they become infected with COVID-19 or not, there’s a fair chance that the life they want back won’t exist once this pandemic is finally over. I don’t know if this good or bad, all I know for sure right now is there doesn’t appear to be a whole lots of people that seem to understand this fact.

And there’s this: there’s no such thing as a flu vaccine that is 100% effective. Most of them fall well below, and I mean way below that mark. The COVID-19 vaccine, whenever it’s finally unveiled, isn’t going to be the panacea that some people believe. And given the stance of the anti-vaxxers, there will likely be as many people, or more, who will choose not to be vaccinated, so there’s that to take into consideration.

* * * *

I’m kind of going through my own sense of fatigue right now. I spent a fair amount of time over the last couple of years trying to convince several people that Donald Trump is a pig of a human being, a criminal, and a traitor to his country. And not one of the people I preached to has had a change of heart, not even with the preponderance of evidence that I feel proved my argument beyond a shadow of a doubt.

We are all of us, most likely, tired of something right now. Even my Muses have been strangely quiescent of late. I’m not sure what to make of that. Maybe they’re under quarantine, too. Or maybe they’ve been replaced by the infrequent tactile hallucination I’ve been experiencing for the last couple of months.

* * * *

Tactile hallucinations aren’t the most common form of false sensory perceptions that people can experience, but they’re not rare by any means either. I’d elaborate on this more, but my wife has practically begged me not to say anything about it. To anyone. After I told her.

I’m guessing she also meant I shouldn’t write about it…

My lovely supermodel wife has always said she considers me to be quirky and unique. I don’t think she’s ever seriously considered me to be, you know, crazy. Until now. I’m sure she’ll let me know how she feels after she reads this.

Sorry honey, I have to say something about this.

This phenomenon happened maybe a dozen times in a row, in two different rooms of our house. I felt someone, or something, very solidly hitting/tapping my right hand twice, when I was performing a very specific…task.

Yes, it was kind of freaky. No, I’m not going to elaborate on this any further. Trust me, you really don’t want to know.

I simply changed the manner in which I perform this…task, and I may have outsmarted my hallucination because it hasn’t happened since. I seemingly have to work around some of the things that happen inside of my head far more often than I’d like to admit.

* * * *

Fortunately for me, I don’t have to physically interact with any of the people I’m disappointed in right now because none of them live in the Lakeside Area. Those wouldn’t be pleasant conversations for anyone.

Equally unfortunately, I doubt the governor’s actions are going to accomplish much of anything to change the attitudes of the people he’s trying to save. It’s been my experience as a psych nurse that when people stop caring about whether they live or die, there’s nothing you can do to help them until they decide they want to live again.

Nor do I think that his actions are going to appreciably alter or slow the progression of COVID-19 here in the Lakeside Area at this point in the game. It doesn’t make much sense to fix the fence after all the livestock have escaped, but at least he’ll be able to say he tried to do something.

Buena suerte, Governor Alfaro. You’re going to need all the luck you can find for this plan to work.

* * * *

To the best of my knowledge, this is the first global pandemic I’ve faced in my life. Some of my Trump-supporting friends have cited other flu-like outbreaks from previous years, and the fact that more people died from that year’s combination of letters and numbers disease than this year’s letters and numbers disease.

Cold and flu season strikes every year. Does that mean we’ve been visited by a pandemic every year, and, what, we were just too busy to notice? I don’t recall any extraordinary global measures being instituted to try to save lives and prevent the spread of those past disease events. Do you?

Consider this: There’s a football season every year, too. Does that make every football game played the Super Bowl?

I’m pretty sure that even Donald Trump and all of his supporters understand that there’s only one Super Bowl. And it will remain that way until the Donald tells his fanatics there’s actually more than one Super Bowl, and then they’ll believe that shit, too.

Interestingly, Trump’s supporters all claim that they don’t blindly believe everything he says, until you question them about the basis of their political views. And you will discover that, yeah, they really do blindly believe everything The Donald says — no matter how ludicrous it is. I also find it very strange that they don’t seem to realize that they do this, even after you point it out to them.

Don’t believe me? Trump says the only way he can lose this election is because of voter fraud. And, yes, his supporters believe that, too. As for the rest of us, we all know what a non-issue this has been in American politics over the last two centuries.

Just sit back and watch what his supporters do and say when he loses. Personally, I can’t wait. I might even drink a glass of champagne…

That said, I am also filled with dread and apprehension regarding this election. There’s one thing that Donald Trump’s supporters don’t realize —

My mistake. You’re right. There are many things…

This is the thing I had in mind: Every principle and ideal that the United States of America was founded on is on trial in this election. Trump’s supporters see him as the last defender of freedom in America. They cannot see that he has been systematically dismantling the last shreds of democracy that remained while he’s been in office.

Trump’s supporters think they possess some arcane knowledge about this president that no one else has. They are absolutely committed to him, they will do anything he suggests to them, and they have guns. A lots and lots and lots of them.

They’ve been preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse for decades, somehow missing the fact that they’ve become zombies themselves.

_{Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools… Romans 1:22}

* * * *

This could become very ugly, very fast. The curtain has been pulled back, and what it has revealed about America under the Trump administration, for the most part, hasn’t been pretty. Long after Mr. Trump no longer sits in the Oval Office, his supporters are still going to be out there. If that thought doesn’t daunt you, it should.

They are the reason I believe that America isn’t in danger of losing the qualities that made it the most celebrated country on the planet.

It already has.

* * * *

When the last quarantine went into effect, Todd and I decided to become gardeners. Guess what we’re going to do during this lockdown!

A couple of weeks ago, Todd and I started attacking the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow on the south side of the Chula Vista Resort and Spa. I’m going to guess that it was planted about the same time that our gringo mansion was built, way back in the 1950’s or 60’s.

That, more than likely, was also the last time it was manicured. The Royal and Ancient Hedgerow stands roughly twenty feet high, and is probably eight to ten feet thick. In layman’s terms, it’s a jungle out there.

_{You never know what will pop up on a Google image search…}

The primary shrub in our overgrown hedgerow is bougainvillea. It’s a hardy plant that’s virtually impossible to kill. And it has thorns. Some of the thorns in the branches in our hedgerow are over an inch long. And they are incredibly sharp.

When we attacked the hedgerow, it attacked back. Todd and I both look like we’ve been wrestling jaguars. And it doesn’t look like we’ve been winning.

But we are.

We have taken some significant hunks out of the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow. You can actually see Lake Chapala from a few spots in our yard now, and sunlight filters into the bedrooms on the South Wing for the first time in decades.

That said, we still have a long way to go to tame the beast. It will easily take us another month to complete subdue it, and that’s probably about how long the second quarantine/lockdown is likely to last.

Todd and I have been discussing adding some flowering vines into the areas that have been opened up again. The flowers will add some color, and vines don’t generally have thorns. That’s a big plus. After that, it will just be a matter of keeping the hedgerow regularly trimmed. It should look better than it ever has by the time we’re done.

* * * *

Waiting for Guffman is a 1996 American film loosely based on Samuel Beckett’s play, Waiting for Godot. The movie mockingly documents a community theater musical that tells the history of a sleepy little Missouri town called Blaine. The director is an eccentric outsider, who claims he knows an important Broadway producer in New York City named Mort Guffman, whom he has invited to come to see the show. 

The director tells his cast if Mr. Guffman writes a favorable review of the play, they could all end up in a Big Broadway Show. They’ll all be able to get the hell out of Blaine, and they’ll probably all become world famous or something like unto that.

The play is beyond awful. I’ve gone to a few of these small town productions in my lifetime. The only word I can think of to describe these shows is painful. Guffman never shows up, a rave review is never written, and everyone involved with the show more or less goes back to their mundane lives once the show is over.

It might not sound like much, but I think it’s one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen. Oddly enough, one could make the argument that the movie could be interpreted as an apt metaphor of current day America. Well, the voices inside my head seem to think so…

Okay. I see where you’re going with this. The eccentric director is Donald Trump, right? The awful play is the Trump administration’s response to the Coronavirus, correct? Or, it could be everything the Trump administration has done because you don’t really like this guy much. The cast would then have to be Trump’s supporters.

How am I doing so far? I guess there’s only one thing I don’t get. Who, or what, is Guffman? Wait a minute! I’ve got it! Guffman — is the vaccine!

Damn! There’s nothing funny about that ending. This fucking sucks, dude.

Yes. Maybe now you understand.

Time Passages

Remember when we were going to do that two week thing to flatten the curve? Whatever happened to that? Are we still doing that? Does anyone know which phase of COVID-19 we’re in now? Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?

There is some good news. We’ve made it to October. In quick succession Halloween, Thanksgiving, then Christmas will be upon us, And then we can say, Adios, motherfucker to 2020.

And hope that 2021 isn’t one of those years that says, Here, hold my beer…

* * * *

Time Passages is a song by the Scottish singer/songwriter Al Stewart. The song is story about a guy who starts daydreaming on a cold winter morning before he goes to his dead-end, boring-ass desk job or something.

I research a lots of things that end up in my blog posts. Seeing how I know next to nothing about Mr. Stewart, I decided to look him up. He apparently has quite an esteemed status among those in the music industry, which is something I never would have thought possible.

I have at least one of his CD’s. I consider his songs to be musically intricate, but mostly corny. And Time Passages is one of his corniest. But here’s the ironic part: Al agrees with me. Even he thinks this song is crap.

* * * *

Time, being relative — it has seemed to drag by at times this year. But not even COVID-19 can make time stop. Life has gone on, which is what it always does. One of my virtual friends in Canadia had a baby. It’s a girl! Thank God. She didn’t think she could handle a fourth boy.

A couple of my virtual female friends in the States are unexpectedly in relationships — something neither of them thought would ever happen again. I hope it works out well for them.

We’ve all gotten older this year, those of us that didn’t get dead. Three of my real friends have lost family members this year. My best friend from high school lost one of his sisters to suicide. My best friend from the Minneapolis VAMC lost his oldest son to an accidental drug overdose. My best friend who chronologically fell in between my other two best friends — his dad just died.

Those deaths are immense tragedies to my friends, and they’ve hit me hard as well. My heart rejoices, and breaks, just like it always has. Even in this very strange year, there are some things that haven’t changed.

* * * *

I find it hard to believe that we’ve been living in Mexico for only four years. It’s even more unreal when you consider that this is the year I had planned to retire. I originally thought I’d work until I was 65, but then I had to change my plans and retire at the age of 61.

Yeah, that was a real bummer…

Our time here somehow seems like it’s been much longer, almost like we’ve been here most of our lives. Maybe it’s because Einstein’s concept of SpaceTime is four dimensional… I’d expound on that further, except I have no idea what it means, and I’m not interested in doing that much research.

Likewise with our darlingpreshadorbs purebred Mexican street kit-tens.

Mika and Mollie. See? I told you they were cute

My lovely supermodel wife and I rescued them a little over two years ago, and we cannot imagine our lives without them now. They keep us entertained, and shower us with a lots of love and affection.

We adopted them just before we moved into the Chula Vista Resort and Spa, the spacious gringo mansion in which we currently reside. And it seems like we’ve been here longer than two years, too.

Our lease is coming up for renewal soon. We know we’re going to be able to renew our rental agreement, we just don’t know for how long. We know our landlord likes us because Lord Mark just upgraded the washer and dryer, bringing the laundry room into the 21st Century.

We’re also going to collaborate with him on getting the swimming pool repainted. I think Lord Mark had it done on the cheap just before we moved in, and it shows. We’re planning on doing a much more lasting fix this time around, one that will stand the test of time.

* * * *

Time. The country of my birth is obsessed with time. Everything must run like clockwork. Time is of the essence, and time is money. Life runs at a hurried pace. In fact, it’s a rat race, and races are always won by the person with the fastest time.

It’s possible that time is also important in Mexico, but I haven’t seen much evidence of it here in the Lakeside Area. We don’t live in a sophisticated urban area. We live in a little rural village up in the mountains. Here, time is much more of a whatever/whenever kind of a thing.

It’s been a bit of a readjustment for us, but all in all, it’s been a good reminder. There are actually very few things in life that are so urgent that they need to be done NOW.

* * * *

Time. Nothing escapes the passage of time. Everything is changed by it. I was young once. I had hair. I’m going to be 65 in December, and I can’t remember the last time I actually had to comb my hair.

With the passage of time, some pains are lessened. And others are only made worse. In terms of aging and growing older, the emotional pains I’ve carried around forever are starting to fade away, apparently so they can be replaced by the physical pains of no longer being young.

Waking up in the morning is usually a painful experience for me. Thanks to years of risk-taking behavior, I have two bad ankles, one bad shoulder, two hips that take turns having bad days, a bum knee, and a totally fucked up back.

I’m relieved that no one has videotaped my first steps in the morning. It’s an unattractive combination of an ambulating penguin and the rusty Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz.

_{See? I told you. And it’s my right knee, too}

In my opinion, it’s the worst part of getting old. I don’t know how this works for the rest of you who experience chronic pain, but when my pain level rises beyond more than usual, I am overwhelmed with nausea, which makes everything feel just a little bit worse.

I’ve lost at least 15 pounds since we moved here, and I wasn’t on a weight loss diet for any of that time. People tell me I look good for my age. I’m sure they mean it as a compliment, but from my point of view, I’m more of a pig that has learned how to apply lipstick.

* * * *

Time. I remember the days when time was a precious resource that had to be carefully monitored and managed. I used to be a registered nurse. There was never enough time to do all of the things you wanted to do in an eight hour shift.

Time is now a more or less mundane resource that I possess in abundance. My view of that might change as I grow closer to death. I spent the first third of my life trying to kill myself, the second third of my life wondering how I managed to survive, and now I’m finally learning how to live in peace with myself.

I’m going to guess that much like unto Socrates, I’ve spent a goodly amount of time examining my life. And after all of that introspection, I’ve come to two conclusions: One, I may have done a lots of things in my life, but one thing I didn’t do very well was take the time to actually enjoy it. And two, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to stop examining my life.

Seriously.

There are times when reviewing the videotape is a good thing. You can dissect your words and actions, analyze the outcome, and figure out what you can do differently to make improvements.

There are other times when reviewing the videotape will only highlight what a fucking idiot you were, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. All you can do is accept it, and be grateful that you are no longer that person.

I’m learning how to become that person. I haven’t been doing so great at it so far… I’ll probably get better at it as I becoming more practiced doing it. After all, it’s not golf.

* * * *

Time. It’s something you tend to have either too much of, or not enough of. It rarely seems to be measured out in perfect doses. The hardest part about writing this post has been knowing that I wasted so much time being wasted.

One of these days, probably right after I make peace with myself and my past, I’ll probably want to have some it back.

The Hero Takes a Fall

2020. We’ve had a global pandemic. A quarantine and lockdown. Social distancing and facemasks. Murder hornets — maybe some of you have seen them. Riots and protests. Did I miss anything?

It might seem like a strange combination, but none of us had ever experienced a global pandemic before. I almost said none of us had lived through a pandemic before, but this thing is going to go on longer than any of us anticipated. There’s a possibility that not all of us are going to survive it.

Over 500,000 people have died worldwide already, and every medical expert that has been questioned about the COVID-19 pandemic says it’s only going to get worse. The long-term effects of this pandemic are yet to be seen, but the short-term effects have been significant.

Other than my lovely supermodel wife, I may never hug another person again. I have two facemasks, and I’m seriously contemplating buying a dozen more. I haven’t used so much hand sanitizer since I was a nurse. And those are only the things I can think of off the top of my head.

The COVID-19 pandemic has been the end of the world as we know it. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Our world needed to be shaken up. A whole lots of things needed to change. 

A paradigm shift has occurred. People are mad as hell, and they’re not going to take it anymore. Any time you have contents under pressure, there’s a danger of said contents exploding. That’s not my opinion, that’s science and physics.

Well, it’s happened. The anger is no longer repressed and restrained. It is out there, and like unto Pandora’s box, there’s no way to neatly put everything back inside. The best we can hope for now is that we don’t destroy civilization in the process of trying to rebuild it.

* * * *

Hero Takes A Fall is the first single from The Bangles debut album, All Over the Place. The Bangles are an American, all female pop/rock band from Los Angeles. All four of the girls in the band were hot babes, and I was in love with all of them way back in the 1980’s. 

See? I told you they were hotties. Gotta love the 80’s hair styles

Hero Takes a Fall is a song about how arrogance can lead to a downfall. That, apparently, is what my Muses want to focus on this time. As always, there’s a reason for that.

* * * *

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think we’ve had three rounds of protests this year. First, were the Anti- lockdown protests. Second, were the Anti-racism protests. And third, were the Monument protests.

It’s possible that the riots and the protests would have occurred independently of the quarantine, but the lockdown probably pumped up the volume on them. Everyone was suffering from cabin fever…

* * * *

A monument is a type of structure that was explicitly created to commemorate a person or event, or which has become relevant to a social group as a part of their remembrance of historic times or cultural heritage, due to its artistic, historical, political, technical or architectural importance.

The monuments that have become so offensive lately are Confederate monuments from the American Civil War.

* * * *

The American Civil War was fought from 1861 to 1865. Depending on the statistical analysis you use, there were anywhere from 600,000 to 750,000 deaths that resulted from the 10,500 battles, engagements, and other military actions that occurred during that time period.

You’re not going to give us another history lesson, are you?

Yes, I am. If I weren’t already writing this for you, I’d tell you to take notes. Perhaps Somewhat Interesting Sidenote of the Civil War: both sides thought God was on their side.

This incredibly bloody war began primarily as a result of the long-standing controversy over slavery.  The Confederate States claimed it was a struggle to uphold states’ rights, but the only right the eleven states that comprised the Confederacy were fighting about — was the right to keep their black slaves.

Case in point, the Confederate States had a central government. It was based in Richmond, VA. The President of the Confederacy was Jefferson Davis. His vice-president was Alexander Stephens. If they were really opposed to the idea of a federal government, they shouldn’t have created one of their own.

In a speech known today as the Cornerstone Address, Alexander Stephens described the Confederate ideology as being based upon …the great truth that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery, subordination to the superior race, is his natural and normal condition.

It’s a good thing he was a Christian. I’d hate to see what he would’ve come up with if he was a barbarian.

* * * *

The main reason the South wanted slaves was because of cotton. Cotton was the Number 1 export from America in the 1800’s. 80% of the cotton used in England and France came from the South. The Southern plantation owners were making money hand over bale on their cotton crops, and they didn’t have to pay their slaves one fucking dime to work their fields.

The demand for cotton was the ace the Confederacy had hidden up its sleeve. They believed other nations would recognize their claim of independence from the North, and possibly support them financially, politically, or even militarily. All because of the demand for King Cotton that only the South could supply.

Any questions?

On September 22, 1862, President Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation, changing the legal status under federal law of more than 3.5 million enslaved African Americans in the secessionist Confederate states.

The Proclamation turned foreign popular opinion in favor of the Union by gaining the support of anti-slavery countries and countries that had already abolished slavery, mainly, the United Kingdom and France. The same two countries the South was hoping would support them.

Psychologically, it was the turning point of the war. The Southern hopes for foreign recognition and support for their cause went up in flames, kind of like the city of Atlanta did on July 22, 1864.

* * * *

I’ve been fascinated by the Civil War for as long as I can remember. It’s certainly the most romanticized war in American history. And to be honest, my portrayal of the events leading up to the war have been seriously condensed, so if you want a more in-depth perspective, get on the Google® and start surfing.

My great-great-grandfather on my dad’s side of the family fought for the North. I believe I fought for the North, too, in one of my previous lives. I’m pretty sure I got killed to death in the Battle of Gettysburg defending the Devil’s Den. I’m not sure why I think that, I just do.

The only things I’ve researched more than this war are God and religions, and I’m sure I still don’t understand God. No one completely understands God, not even priests and pastors, and they probably understand their boss less than I do.

* * * *

Just in cases you didn’t know, the North defeated the South. General Robert E. Lee surrendered to General Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Courthouse on April 9, 1865.

To the victors go the spoils. The North started to memorialize their victory over the South as early as 1865, the year the war ended. The South wasn’t allowed to memorialize their lost cause until 1890. The United Daughters of the Confederacy were the driving force behind the monument movement, and once they got the green light, they erected over 700 statues in 31 states, plus the District of Columbia. 

That’s 20 more states than the number of states that seceded. These monuments aren’t just in the South, but that’s where they had their greatest impact.

The pinnacle of their efforts was Stone Mountain, essentially the Confederate version of Mount Rushmore. It’s a gigantic carving of Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee, and Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson carved into the side of a mountain in Georgia. It took more than 50 years to complete.

Then I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie’s Land I’ll take my stand, to live and die in Dixie!

As if the monuments weren’t enough to remind the black population of where they were, and who the bosses still were, the Confederate flag was proudly flown all over the South. Even today, five southern states still have symbols of the old Confederacy in their current state flags.

William Porcher Miles, the man who designed the Confederate flag, had the same racist/political views as Alexander Stephens. The stars and bars design is meant to specifically represent white superiority. He didn’t do it because, Oh, you know, I just thought it looked kinda cool.

The memory of the antebellum South — the grand plantations, the demure Southern belles, the gallant Southern gentlemen — these were the nostalgic notions the United Daughters of the Confederacy allegedly wanted to preserve.

The reality is vastly different. First, the Confederacy of Southern States stood for the disunion of the United States. Second, its constitution was based on the belief of racial inequality, and that slavery was the natural state for all black people. Simply stated, the Confederacy was a treasonous and racist institution.

The Civil War monuments are a constant reminder of the oppression perpetrated by the racist South. The South turned Democrat when Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation, and Republican when Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act.

The fucking South fucking sucks! End of story. Since 2015, at least 138 Confederate monuments have been “removed” from public places There will likely to be more to follow.

While removing these monuments won’t change history, it will do one thing: It’ll wipe the smiles off the faces of those debutante cunts who thought they were slipping something past all us stupid Yankees.

And if you’re one of those fucking people that are all upset because some fucking statues of some fucking dead guys who supported slavery are being torn down, get over your fucking yourself.

Maybe you should take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror. Look deep. You’re probably not going to like what you see.

* * * *

In the spring of 1969, The 5th Dimension released Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In. It was a two song medley originally written for the musical, Hair. The song spent six weeks at Number 1 on the pop charts, and won a Grammy for Record of the Year.

When the moon is in the Seventh House
And Jupiter aligns with Mars
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars
This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius

I tried to do some research on Astrological Ages, and I had to stop. That shit is more confusing than Chinese math. We might be living in the Age of Aquarius now, or it might not happen for another 25,000 years. Each astrological age lasts a little over two thousand years, and each age is characterized by specific qualities based on the signs of the Zodiac.

Harmony and understanding
Sympathy and trust abounding
No more falsehoods or derisions
Golden living dreams of visions
Mystic crystal revelation
And the mind’s true liberation

Please feel free to do some research on this yourself, and if you can figure it out, let me know.

The only reason I bring this up is because the Age of Aquarius is supposed to be a time of enlightenment and harmony — two things this world is in dire need of. And if we have to wait another 25,000 years for that to happen, well, we’d be better off dying from COVID-19.

Let the sunshine, let the sunshine in, the sunshine in

It is time for a change. Our old beliefs and mindsets have done far more damage than good. We, as a people, need to redefine our priorities. A lots of people talk about making this world a better place. It’s time to start doing it.

Oh, let it shine, c’mon
Now everybody just sing along
Let the sun shine in
Open up your heart and let it shine on in
When you are lonely, let it shine on
Got to open up your heart and let it shine on in
And when you feel like you’ve been mistreated
And your friends turn away
Just open your heart, and shine it on in

Just in cases you haven’t noticed, this is the only planet we have.

The Waiting Game

Waiting Game is a hit song by the English pop group, Swing Out Sister. Rumor has it that Swing Out Sister was the only thing the members could agree on when they were trying to come up with a name for their group, and all of them agreed that they hated it.

SOS has had a number of hit songs over the years: Breakout, Surrender, Twilight World, and my personal favorite, Am I the Same Girl?

The answer is: Yes I am, yes I am. Just in cases you were wondering.

Their songs have catchy melodies. And Corinne Drewery has some serious pipes. I have several of their songs in various playlists. You can find their videos on the YouTube® if you’re interested. Or bored, which is highly probable.

My lovely supermodel wife was so bored yesterday that she washed both of our cars. It’s something she hasn’t done in more than a decade.

* * * *

How’s it going out there in Quarantine Land? Today is the 175th day of the month of April. Yeah, that is what it feels like. And I actually like staying at home. Vehicles equipped with loudspeakers have been cruising the streets here in the Lakeside Area broadcasting messages in English and Spanish, telling everyone to stay at home. But if you must leave your home, you better have a facemask on to avoid infection, fines, and death.

Have a nice day! ¡Que tengas un buen dia!

Lea made masks for us a couple of weeks ago. She said they were easy to construct, and she was happy to do it. Good thing. We might be using them for the rest of the year. Maybe longer, you know, like, the rest of our lives.

The world has changed, has it not? And when this whole Coronavirus thing ends, it will not return to the way it used to be. I don’t think any of us can yet see the full impact this is going to make, but I have a feeling that it’s going to be significant.

I was skeptical about the Coronavirus initially. I thought everyone was overreacting when they started talking about social distancing, isolating at home, quarantine precautions, and cancelling every interesting sporting event on the planet until further notice.

I’m no longer skeptical, but I am bummed out that March Madness, the Masters, and, yes, every other sporting event for this year has been cancelled, postponed, or will be rescheduled for a much later date. Even the Summer Olympics!

Many of the articles I’ve read talk about extending the precautions, not shortening them or, God forbid, ending them. I’m sure this will all end someday, but I’m no longer sure that it will end soon.

We’ve been planning a trip back to the States. We were originally hoping for April. Then we were shooting for May. It’s starting to look like June, but it might not happen until July or August the way things are going.

These advertisements sum up the current state of affairs very succinctly

A couple of our friends were planning on coming down to visit us this year. Maybe they’ll be able to get here by September, but possibly, not until next year…

* * * *

One of the things you have to adjust to when you retire is suddenly having a lots of idle time on your hands. I guess some of you could think of this time as a preview of what your retirement life will be like. If you find you’re not enjoying it much, do yourself a favor and start rethinking your plans for the future now.

Todd, Lea and I have been trying to keep ourselves busy with various projects and hobbies. Todd has been working on several goldarn things in the workshop. I know because he’s been using a variety of power tools.

Lea has reading books on her Kindle®. A lots of books. And she instituted Operation Opossum. She feeds the herd of opossums that stroll through our backyard at night. Fortunately, opossums eat almost anything, so they’re easy to feed. She even named two of them: Ollie and Opie.

If you want to know anything about opossums, ask Lea. She’s probably read two books about them by now.

* * * *

Todd created Operation Oranges for Orioles. He started by hanging oranges in the tree where Lea has her hummingbird feeder. That worked great, until the goddamn squirrels started devouring the oranges.

So we built a small wooden platform and put it in the triangle garden at the far end of the swimming pool. The birds are happy. The squirrels don’t dare come that far into the yard.

Mischief managed.

* * * *

Todd and Lea have been cooking their asses off in the kitchen. Let me tell you something, it is hell having to be quarantined with two chefs!

The Swedish Chef and Christy Turlington. She really does look like Lea

Kind of by accident, I started listening to cooking shows on TV. I’ve listened to all the home improvement shows multiple times, and I was getting bored with them. I don’t actually do any home improvement, so it’s not like I needed to master any of the things they do. I don’t actually cook either, but Lea and Todd started watching the cooking shows. And they say things, like, Ooh! That looks like that would be fun to make!

Maybe it wasn’t an accident…

* * * *

I’ve been making sure everything is clean and tidy, and running smoothly here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa. We’ve had a couple of issues with the pool. All I have to do is call our property manager, Jaime Mendoza, and let him know something needs to be repaired, and he takes care of everything else.

The solar heater for the pool seems to be about as reliable as the LG refrigerator we used to have. It’s been repaired once already this year, and needs to be repaired again. The guy who installed it, and already repaired it, is supposed to be here today. We’ll see if he actually shows up. Then we’ll see how long it takes to get the heater running again. And finally, we’ll see how long this repair will last…

We’ve been hanging out on the patio a lot lately, and seeing how we’ve all been spending so much time out there, Todd and I put our heads and resources together, and we constructed a stereo system on the patio to listen to music while we do stuff outside.

I had an Aiwa® receiver/CD player, but no speakers. Then Todd remembered he had a big box with two sets of Sony® speakers and a subwoofer, somewhere. All we had to do was figure out where he put them.

We did. The patio stereo sounds pretty damn good, but I think we need at least two more speakers to make it perfect. Four would be better, but I’ll settle for two. Todd hasn’t had anything to say about my idea because Lea thinks I’m out of my fucking mind, and he, wisely, doesn’t want to do anything to piss her off.

* * * *

For me, this quarantine experience has been like unto Retirement 2.0. I have idle time that I can’t fill with any of the activities I used to do because I had nothing else to do. Like, golf. My golf course closed at the beginning of April. It will reopen again when the lockdown ends, whenever that might be.

I’ve had to resort to gardening to fill the hours until we’re given the green light to resume our lives again. I’ve written about my experiences with gardening before. In short, it involved drinking beer and playing in the dirt.

Now, it’s just playing in the dirt. And it’s become a bit of an obsession for me. It started innocently enough. I repotted a few plants on the patio because I hadn’t paid enough attention to them and they were more or less dead.

That’s on me. I never should have ignored my responsibilities for my plants. Our maid, Monica, waters the plants when she cleans the patio, but I think she’s kind of hit or miss when it comes to watering. Her main focus is cleaning.

I’ve got my mind right now. I’m refocused, and I won’t falter in my duties again. I replanted the patio plants that weren’t completely dead in the backyard gardens, and it all went downhill from there. I spent all of last weekend working in the gardens, which was just about the stupidest thing I could do.

My back and my right knee filed for divorce from me on Monday.

* * * *

My back has been a major pain in my… back… for about the last week. Normally, it’s my lower back that bothers me. Now, it’s almost my entire spine from the third thoracic vertebrae my to my sacrum and coccyx.

I can’t sit for more than a few minutes. And moving around doesn’t always do much of anything to decrease my level of pain. I eat Motrin for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It helps, but nothing makes the pain completely go away. Swinging a golf club appears to have been doing my back far more good than I realized.

I’ve been working on this post for five days because I can only write one or two paragraphs at a time, and then I have to take a break. If I’m fortunate, I might finish it sometime this week.

* * * *

Okay, back to gardening…  I’m not a master gardener. I’m more of a Chance the Gardener — from the Jerzy Kosiński novel, Being There. It was also made into a movie starring Peter Sellers and Shirley MacLaine.

If you’re not interested in reading the novel, you can watch the movie. I love it

For those of you that don’t know, Chance was the original Forrest Gump. They’re both slow-witted, kind-hearted guys, and they both unwittingly influence everything that goes on around them. I resemble two of those three attributes.

I’m not a smart man, but I know a couple of things about playing in the dirt. Annual flowering plants are a quick way to add a lots of color to your garden. If you buy mature plants. And in a temperate climate, there’s a good chance these plants will automatically reseed themselves from year to year.

Further proof that I’m neither smart, nor a master gardener: I didn’t buy plants. I bought a bunch of packets of seeds. I’ve had some impressive results with marigold  and delphinium seeds down here, so I figured I’d have equal success with other flower seeds. All you have to do is sow them and abracadabra!

See? I told you

I don’t know what kind of flower seeds I bought. The descriptions were in Spanish, and I was too lazy to translate the words. But the pictures showed pretty flowers. And that’s what I wanted. Pretty flowers with a lots of splashes of colors.

I picked three prime spots in the gardens, and I call them prime because other flowers were already growing around them. I cleared the areas, carefully planted my seeds, and watered them daily for a week. And not one flower sprouted. It’s probably closing in on two weeks as I write this, and I still haven’t seen anything that looks like unto a fucking flower shooting up out of the ground in those areas.

Todd says it’s possible they’ll sprout later this year, or even weirder, next year. I don’t doubt that he’s right, he knows far more about this stuff than I do. However, marigold seeds do not behave thusly. You throw them in the ground and they start growing immediately! All I know is that I’m incredibly bummed out right now.

Seeing no need to make any special preparation for my remaining seed packets, I picked a neglected corner of the gardens where nothing was growing – not even weeds – and dumped all of my remaining seeds on the ground, and watered it periodically.

I ended up with two hundred flower sprouts growing in about a ten inch by ten inch area. Yeah, of course that method worked. So, yes, I had amazing success, but no one needs that many flowers growing in a small area in a part of the garden that no one can see without a map and a pair of binoculars.

That’s how I ended up working in the garden for the entire weekend. I spent hours moving random groups of baby plants to multiple areas throughout the gardens. And I water the gardens daily. In a few months, maybe more, our gardens are going to look better than they ever have since we moved in. Maybe better than they ever have, period.

* * * *

Another thing we don’t do is go out to eat at any of the fabulous restaurants here in the Lakeside Area. We did that once after the Coronavirus precautions went into place. Our youngest daughter, Abigail, grounded us. On social media. From Minnesota.

* * * *

Social media has been both a blessing and a curse for me during this time. It’s been a blessing because I can stay connected to everyone that doesn’t hang out with me here in the living room. It’s been a curse because not all news is good news.

* * * *

Our very good friend from Arizona, Nikki Scheidecker, had a stroke last week. That came as a huge, unpleasant surprise to everyone that knows her. She’s one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, and she’s only 45. It was described as a minor stroke, but she spent the better part of a week in ICU on IV medications trying to get her blood pressure under control.

I’m not a real nurse, but this doesn’t sound like a minor stroke to me.

Her husband, Justin, has been sending out daily updates on her status via Facebook. She was moved out of ICU today, and now her rehab can begin. We wish you the best of success, Nikki. And know that you are in our thoughts and prayers for a complete recovery.

* * * *

The other Curse of Social Media has been all of the political posts. I’ve been trying to decide how deep I want to wade into the mud, slime and ooze in this post. I just took a shower, and I’m loathe to get dirty again.

I don’t post a whole lots of political posts, but if I see something funny, I’ll probably share it. I’m not a political expert, I see myself as more of a political dilettante. I despise Donald Trump, Mitch McConnell, and Lindsey Graham. And all the rest of the Republicans. But I’m not in love with the Democrats by any means. I think both political parties suck ass, and all of the current members of Congress need to be sent packing.

I found this newsflash to be especially outrageous, and shared it on the Facebook

The average American household lives paycheck to paycheck. The $1200 stimulus checks that some families will receive is a drop in the bucket compared to what they really need to keep their heads above water if they are unable to earn a living during this crisis.

If you make more than $99,000 to $198,000, depending on how you file your taxes, you’re not even eligible for a stimulus check. Unless you happen to be one of the above noted select number of millionaires.

President Trump fired the man who was supposed to oversee the disbursement of stimulus funds. And he has gone on record saying that he will not adhere to a portion of the $2 trillion coronavirus stimulus bill that would authorize an inspector general to oversee how $500 billion in business loans will be spent.

* * * *

I foolishly thought that something The Donald did would have to backfire with his supporters. I figured this would be the something that even they couldn’t ignore.

I was wrong.

Donald Trump owns his supporters; heart and mind, body and soul. He could take a shit on their living room floor, and they would have it hermetically sealed and preserved to proudly display on their mantle. And their friends would be envious.

His hold on his supporters is bulletproof against logic, facts, and the truth because there is only one arbiter of the truth. Donald Trump. And EVERYONE else is lying. I don’t know what he put in his Kool-Aid, but that stuff is 100 proof.

Today, The Donald suggested injecting disinfectants into your veins as a possible treatment for COVID-19. This is his quote: “…And then I see the disinfectant, where it knocks it out in a minute. One minute. And is there a way we can do something like that, by injection inside or almost a cleaning. Because you see it gets in the lungs and it does a tremendous number on the lungs. So it would be interesting to check that. So, that, you’re going to have to use medical doctors with. But it sounds — it sounds interesting to me.”

Roll up your sleeves and bend over, bitches. Trump supporters, you can jump to the front of the line. We don’t mind. After all, this is your boy talking here, and he can do no wrong.

I can’t wait to see how Dr. Donald’s Miracle Treatment works on you.

* * * *

There ended up being a fair amount of discussion on my Facebook post, both pro and con. And then the personal attacks began from the Trump supporters. It’s what their hero does all the time, so there’s no reason why they can’t do the same.

One guy chimed in that I live in a shithole country, and I should just keep my mouth shut. He’s never been to Mexico, but he’s heard a lots of stories…

A couple of people wondered if I was going to get a stimulus check. The answer is no, there are people who need the money far more than I do, like, a forty thousand millionaires who need to keep making payments on their McMansions, and their vacation homes in the Hamptons. And they have car payments on their BMW’s and Mercedes.

Someone suggested that I was jealous. Nice try, but I live in a gringo mansion in the middle of Paradise, that came equipped with a gardener and a maid. And I pay less for all of that a month than you do for the house you live in that doesn’t have a support staff.

I covet nothing. I have nothing to be jealous of.

I understand the need and the hardships that people are going through. We’ve made donations to more than one of the local food banks, as well as more than one of the local organizations that are trying to help all of the people that have been unable to provide for their families because they can’t work right now.

Hey Jealousy, can you say the same?

That same person added that some Mercedes and BMW vehicles are made in the USA. They’re probably made in China, too. What’s your point? Our Buick Encore was made in South Korea. It doesn’t mean, or even prove anything.

* * * *

Pop Quiz!

Pick the American car company because you want to Buy American:

A.) Toyota

B.) Mercedes

C.) Chevrolet

D.) BMW

Please take the quiz and leave a comment. I’ll post the results.

* * * *

And then the guy that suggested I was jealous implied that I was having sex with our maid. This guy has been a friend of mine since the 1970’s. We’re probably still friends, but it’s not the same anymore. I doubt it ever will be.

So, well done, my friend. You successfully defended a man who wouldn’t cross the street to piss on you if you were on fire. And he sure as hell wouldn’t let you be a member of any of his country clubs.

Big deal! I don’t play golf, so I don’t care!

No, you probably don’t. And once again, you’ve missed my point entirely.

I’m a guy. I might forget that you hit me below the belt, Bill. But I will never forgive you for doing it.

¡Que tengas un buen dia, pinche culero!

La Cuarentena

How’s everyone surviving the mandated isolation precautions?

When this all started I had no idea if this pandemic thing was serious or not. I’ve gotten past that. COVID-19 is a particularly nasty form of viral pneumonia. I had pnuemonia way, way back when I was a kid. It almost killed me to death way back then. I’m not in a hurry to press my luck a second time with that shit.

I’ve seen people die from a cytokine storm before. It’s a terrible way to die.

But in an attempt to provide some balance in this exercise, there are worse things than contracting COVID-19. You could be a Trump supporter. People that have been infected with the Coronavirus appear to have at least a 98% chance of recovering and getting better.

* * * *

In terms of complying with the Stay at Home orders we’ve all been dealing with, I’m the kind of guy that if you tell me I can’t do something, I’m going to try to find a way to do it anyway. I’ve talked to a few people down here who also struggled with this when the pandemic precautions were first instituted.

You have to learn to pick your battles.

That was probably the hardest lesson I’ve had to learn in my life. Russ Bacon, one of my friends and co-workers at the MVAMC told me that. Several times. Just in cases you are also someone that has had trouble with this, I’m going to give you some advice that you can ignore, much like I did for a long time:

You’re only one person, not the US military. And even they pick their battles

* * * *

I hope you’re all doing well and haven’t gone completely batshit crazy being stuck at home with the people you love most. Yeah, those annoying assholes. A lots of my real friends and virtual friends have been complaining about being bored to death while they’ve been stuck at home on social media. I’d like to take this opportunity to remind them of something: To the best of my knowledge, you can’t actually die to death from boredom.

The entire world has essentially become the Hotel California. On the bright side, if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to live in Iowa, now you know. And remember this, sooner or later the quarantine will end and a day will come when you wish you were still being told to stay the fuck at home.

That’s kind of how life works.

* * * *

Aside from my golf course closing for the entire month of April, my life hasn’t really been affected all that much by the government lockdown. I’m retired. I get paid to do nothing. And I’ve discovered that I’m really pretty damn good at it. If I could do my life over, this would be my dream job.

That said, it is nice to get out of the house every now and then. Yesterday, we all took a trip to the golf course so Todd and I could retrieve our golf clubs. Lea drove our new car. She loves to drive, and she probably needed to get out of the house more than any of us, if only for an hour.

Todd and I might want to practice chipping in the backyard or something seeing how we can’t play golf right now. We’re either going to end up really good at chipping, or we’re going to be replacing a few windows. Maybe both…

Hey, Rocky! Watch me pull a rabbit out of my–sonuvabitch!!!

On the way back from the golf course we stopped at Soriana. It’s like unto the Mexican version of Walmart. We needed a few groceries. And stuff. Todd and Lea knew what they were looking for because they do all the cooking. I wandered through the aisles purposelessly while they shopped because I didn’t need anything.

I spent ten minutes seriously perusing everything in the Barbie® aisle. And I wasn’t even stoned! Or planning on buying a Barbie® doll.

* * * *

Despite my earlier stated aversion to work, even I can’t sit on my ass all day. I’ve been busy doing stuff here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa. I thought I had completed all of the things on my To-Do list a couple of weeks ago, but then I remembered all of the things I had procrastinated on doing for so long that I had forgotten all about them.

They were things that involved climbing a ladder. I can’t say that I’m afraid of heights, but I’m a lots less comfortable with them as I’ve gotten older. And I should clarify this statement. I don’t have any problems climbing a ladder. It’s the descent part that I seem to have problems with.

I’ve taken more than one misstep on a ladder in my lifetime. Based on my personal research on this, it’s true what they say. The falling part isn’t that bad. It’s the sudden impact at the end that fucks you up.

I don’t think I’ve ever broken any bones falling off of a ladder, but my right knee cringes every time it even sees a ladder. Thankfully, almost everything involving a ladder has been sorted out for now, so my right knee can relax for awhile.

* * * *

I’ve been doing a little gardening over the last couple of weeks. I used to do a lots of gardening back when we lived in Minneapolis. My lovely supermodel wife loves gardens, but she hates gardening. She asked me to put some flower gardens in the backyard for her, so I became a gardener.

Our gardens in Minnesota looked great.

See? I told you

I attribute that to the secret formula I had developed for successful gardening:

Step 1.) Buy some plants and flowers and stuff.

Step 2.) Open a beer and start drinking.

Step 3.) Dig holes in the garden and plant flowers and stuff until you run out of things to plant. Or beer.

Gardening back then was probably a lots more fun than it is now, which is one reason why I only do a little gardening now. That, and anything that involves me having to get on my knees is a very time sensitive undertaking. That’s the primary reason I only do a little gardening.

* * * *

I started doing some housework last Saturday because we told Monica, our maid, to take a few weeks off until all this Coronavirus stuff settles down. She’s still getting paid, so you don’t have to worry about that.

It didn’t seem fair that we should just wait for her to return to work before the house was ever cleaned again. Besides, we have two kit-tens, and they shed hair like unto an elm tree dropping its leaves in October. Last week, I vacuumed up enough cat hair to knit two sweaters. It wasn’t as bad this week, and there’s a reason for that.

Unlike my dad, I have no problem doing housework. My mom had eight kids. She put us to work doing chores around the house as soon as we could walk. And I think it’s important to have a division of labor in a modern relationship. No woman ever shot her husband while he was doing the dishes. Or vacuuming the floors. It’s probably saved my life more than once.

I vacuumed the entire house last Saturday. It took me two hours. I’m very thorough when I clean. I’m even more thorough than Monica, and she’s the best housekeeper we’ve ever had. It’s a byproduct of being a nurse, and working in the OR for a couple of years.

I use all of the attachments on our Dyson® when I vacuum. I move furniture. I remove all the cushions on our couches and suck up all the crumbs and stuff that collect under them. That’s why there wasn’t as much cat hair this week. I’m sometimes capable of an incredible single-mindedness of purpose, especially if I’m wielding a vacuum cleaner.

Today, I vacuumed the floors again, and Todd followed along behind me and mopped them. All of the floors are clean and the whole house smells like lavender. My lovely supermodel wife had had a few reservations about living with two guys when Todd moved in with us. But between cooking and cleaning, Lea says she thinks she’ll keep both of us around for awhile.

And no, we can’t come over to clean your house next week. I mean, we could, but we’re not supposed to leave the house…   I find doing these mindless kind of tasks is good for me. It gives me something to do while my brain, and my Muses, sort out what they want to write about.

That’s one of the downsides to being a writer. You never stop thinking about writing.

I’ve been trying to write my blog, but I haven’t felt all that inspired to write lately, even though I haven’t had much of anything else to do. It’s taken me about a week to get this far with this installation. That’s because I have been very inspired to delete everything I’ve written and start all over several times already. I’m not disappointed with this one so far, so I might actually post it when I’m done.

* * * *

One of the things that I did earlier this week when I got bored was I downloaded a bunch of CD’s onto our laptop and updated my music collection.

I love music, but I have an intense dislike for our laptop. I should probably start spending some quality time with it. You know, get to know it better, become buddies with it; something like unto that.

I say that for a couple of reasons. One, it took me a few hours to figure out how to upload the CD’s I had ripped to the Windows Media Player® to my Google® Music account because I haven’t done it in a couple of years. And then I had to remember how to transfer the songs I wanted to all of my mobile devices. If I did that kind of stuff more often, I wouldn’t get as frustrated with it.

And it just occurred to me that it’d probably make writing my blog a helluvalot easier if I typed it on the laptop. I’m not sure if I thought of that or if someone just inserted that thought into my head because I’m evidently too goddamn stupid to think of it myself.

I’ll have to give this thought more thought…

I write almost everything on my Samsung Galaxy Tab 2®. I used to use my phone, so as hard as it might be to imagine, this is actually an improvement. I’ve gotten used to it over time, and it’s not like I have a deadline with any of the things I write.

At any rate, when I finally got all of the songs ripped, uploaded, downloaded, and transferred, I decided to create a few playlists to suit the four or five moods that I apparently still have.

One classical music playlist. Two rock and roll playlists; one male, one female. One country music playlist, all women. And one easy listening playlist, both male and female artists, with music you’d play at 3:00 AM when you’re coming down from an acid trip and you don’t want to fall off the ladder. Or wake up the neighbors.

I’m listening to the Guys That Rock playlist as I sit on the patio by the pool and slowly type this. Todd is floating in the pool. Lea is sitting to my right playing games on her Samsung Galaxy Tab E®.

Our backyard runs parallel to the first fairway of the Chula Vista Golf Course. A small forest of old growth trees lines the hillside of the golf course. They keep most of the errant golf balls fired in our direction out of our yard. By accident or design, the trees have also turned our backyard into kind of a bird sanctuary.

Lea feeds the violet crowned hummingbirds. We don’t have the hordes of hummingbirds we used to have at our last house, but we have enough of them to keep her happy. Todd puts out oranges for the altamira and summer orioles, and the blue mockingbirds. Vermillion flycatchers and pink house finches flit from tree to tree in a flash of color. If I remember, I’ll try to get some pictures. 

* * * *

Evening is falling here in the Lakeside Area. The rufous backed robins are chirping in the trees, signaling the end of another day. When it gets darker, the nightjars and the whip-poor-wills will add their lilting calls to the night.

In the dead of night I can hear owls hooting in the trees, but I’ve never seen an owl in Mexico. Maybe that’s a good thing. In Native American folklore, owls are a symbol of impending death…

In the morning, the great kiskadees will erupt in raucous chorus impelling you to wake up and get out of bed because a new day has dawned and it’s time to get moving. Now!! I guess they didn’t get the memo that everyone is sheltering at home, and no one needs to be in a rush to move from the bedroom to the living room…

So stay safe, and stay home. This, too, shall pass.

And if you can’t stay home because you work in an essential business, all I can say is Thank You for the service you’re providing. And to my friends and former co-workers in the healthcare profession, we owe you a debt that cannot be repaid.

And if any of you need a vacation after the dust settles, contact me. We have plenty of room, and a pool. And stuff.

And you can choose which playlist you want to listen to…

Q & A

It’s been a busy year so far at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa. We’ve had illnesses, cancer scares, and various and sundry other medical issues that needed treatment.

I  had the Mexico City Flu, and a couple of precancerous lesions by my right eye that were removed in January. At the same time, our roommate, Todd, had a Shingles outbreak around his right eye. It took about three weeks, but that has resolved, so things are getting back to normal for both of us again.

Our kit-tens, Mollie and Mika, are doing great. Mollie is helping me type right now, so this could take a while. Kit-tens are apparently immune to the flu. And Shingles. They’re still the cutest kit-tens ever.

* * * *

We’ve had visitors in February. Our beautiful and talented oldest daughter, Gwen, and her husband, John, were here for a week. While they were here, we had a major plumbing problem with the kitchen sink. It started leaking. And then it stopped draining.

I can usually fix most simple plumbing leaks on my own, but this is Mexico. I’m not sure if there are any construction codes in Mexico, and if there are, they’re probably viewed in the same manner that traffic laws are. They’re more like unto suggestions than anything else.

The pipes under the kitchen sink are a perfect example of that.

The plumbing looks something like unto this…

So I called Jaime Mendoza, our property manager, and he called Tacho, our general fix-it guy. Tacho looked at the weird configuration of pipes and started swearing in Spanish.

“Now you know why I wanted you here.” I said.

It took Tacho two weeks to fix the leak because he would fix one leak, and another one would mysteriously appear. After the first week, we were pretty sure that dynamite would be the best solution because houses in Mexico are made of concrete. But Tacho preserved, and he eventually fixed all of the leaks and cleared out the huge clog from somewhere under the kitchen floor without having to resort to explosives.

* * * *

We also had a couple of issues with our swimming pool. The solar heater stopped heating, and there was a leak in one of the pumps. Those problems took closer to a month to fix because the replacement parts had to be ordered from Guadalajara, and then the repairmen had to be reminded that they had to come back to install the new parts, even though they had the parts that needed to be installed.

There was a defective valve in the solar heater. Once that was replaced, it worked better than it ever has. Our solar heater isn’t the top of the line model, so we ordered five solar heating lilly pads to augment the heater from a guy named Rodrigo. He owns a garden store that sells a lots of pool equipment. We’re going to pick them up later today. The total cost on those is less than $50 US.

And the leaking pump was sorted out with a new gasket.

Mischief. Managed.

* * * *

The heat shields on my propane grill needed to be replaced because they had more or less disintegrated in the eleven years that I’ve been using it. Finding replacement parts for your grill isn’t a big deal in the States. It’s a huge deal in Mexico. The easiest way to replace the three heat shields here seemed to be to buy a new propane grill, and while a lots of things are way less expensive in Mexico, propane grills aren’t one of them.

And then I met Ed and Kat. Ed is grizzled-looking gringo who kind of retired down here, but still wants to work for some unfathomable reason. Kat may or may not be Ed’s wife. She’s a very attractive Latina, probably thirty years younger than Ed. She has really big eyes, so she’s a lots of fun to talk to.

I love the Google Image Search!

Ed opened a shop called Baja Grills that sells propane grills and smokers. And fishing bait and supplies. And hot tubs. And fireplace inserts. And stuff…  He didn’t have the replacement heat shields I needed, so he made new ones for me. They probably cost me $60 US. 

Winter in the Lakeside Area lasts about a month — from the middle of December to the middle of January. It doesn’t get freezing-ass cold here, but there’s about a ten degree difference between the outside temperature and the temperature inside of the cavernous gringo mansion we’re renting.

It’s colder inside of our house than it is outside. We have three gas fireplaces at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa, but none of them have the requisite inserts that make them functionable. Probably because propane fireplace inserts are outrageously expensive down here, too. 

We have three portable propane heaters that we use during the coldest month of Winter. But one of Ed and Kat’s fireplace inserts might work perfectly in our living room fireplace. Lea and I are going to go take a closer look at it later today…  It’ll all depend on what kind of deal we can get.

* * * *

And there’s been golf. Todd and I play at least three times a week, sometimes more often depending on how we feel. So far, we tend to take turns having reasonably decent rounds of golf. Last Sunday, we played 36 holes of golf. I beat Todd by three strokes on the front nine with an 89. We both shot 88 on the second 18.

Yesterday, we both sucked.

I started playing golf back in my thirties because it was the only way I could talk with my dad. He loved to play golf, and he was a wicked good golfer. My favorite part about golf back then was I could drink beer and smoke cigarettes while I golfed. And there was that whole hitting the shit out of a little white ball thing…

The more I golf, the less it resembles what I thought it was in my youth. “Good golfers hit the ball as hard as they can. Great golfers hit the ball as hard as they need to.” I can’t remember who said that, but he was right. I would add this: Good golfers have a strategy. Great golfers are able to execute it. 

Golf is like unto playing chess with an opponent that never moves any of its pieces. Hitting the shit out of a little white ball has become the least important part of my game anymore.

Strategy was something I had no concept of until I started playing in the Go-Go tournaments at my country club. Go-Go is like unto regular golf, except with a twist. Or two. And that’s where all the strategy comes into play. I would like to take this opportunity to thank Dave Naisby and Bill Merrell. They’re the guys that organize and coordinate the Go-Go tournaments at the Country Club de Chapala.

I can’t say they’ve made me a good golfer, but I suck a whole lots less than I did three years ago.

And then there’s that whole balance thing. I need to be physically relaxed when I hit a golf ball because my fucked up back can take only so much abuse. If my swing isn’t relaxed and fluid, I’m going to be in for a long and very painful day. But my mind has to be laser-focused because half of this game is 90% mental. And trust me when I say this: I can be too relaxed when I golf sometimes, and that’s not good.

It’s an odd set of contradictions that I have to manage every time I pick up a golf club. Sometimes it works very well. And those are the days that keep me coming back for more abuse.

It’s kind of like being a psych nurse, except the pay is worse. But you meet way fewer assholes.

* * * *

I’ve spent a few days trying to imagine this post as a question and answer piece about my nursing career. Or just a question and answer thing about anything. There’s one major obstacle to this concept. No one ever asks me anything about being a nurse. Come to think of it, they don’t ask me about much of anything else either.

So if I’m going to do this, it’s going to be all my imagination.

There’s one compelling reason for me to go down this road. A couple of my former patients have been on my mind lately. And I’ve learned not to ignore those things when they happen.

* * * *

What was the most heartbreaking thing that happened when you were a nurse?

The suicides. I was a psych nurse for thirty years. I couldn’t tell you how many of the people I had a role in caring for killed themselves after they were discharged from the hospital. There were dozens of them. In 1990, twelve Vietnam veterans at the MVAMC took their lives in one month.

I remember my first patient who took his life at the Minnesota State Hospital in Anoka. He drowned himself in the Rum River. I remember the last one, too. He was at St. Luke’s in Phoenix. He had had a stroke, and the day before he was discharged he met with everyone on the evening shift to thank them and say goodbye. He shot himself two days later.

And I vividly remember each of the five patients that killed themselves while they were still in the hospital. Those are things you never forget, no matter how much you try. If I exclude the suicides, there’s one person who jumps to the top of the list. That said, I probably have a hundred stories similar to hers.

* * * *

Her name was Audrey. I met her at the Minneapolis VAMC. She was a sweet woman in her forties. She was admitted for depression, and if I remember correctly, a lengthy list of somatic complaints. She was a cancer survivor, so one possibility was her cancer had returned.

As I’ve said before, diagnosing is essentially a process of ruling out all of the things that aren’t wrong with you until your doctor figures out what’s left. The first thing her doctor did was order a full body CT scan.

One of the great things about working at the VA was the ease of doing consults with other specialty clinics. Sometimes the consulting physicians would come to the unit, but usually we had to transport our patients to the various departments, then return them to the unit when their consult was done. 

I was transporting Audrey in a wheelchair to Radiology for her CT Scan. And she told me this story:

“I remember when this began. I had just turned 30 when the pain started. I went to see a doctor. Hell, I went to a lot of doctors. And none of them could find anything wrong with me. One of them said my pain was a figment of my imagination. You know, like I was crazy. After awhile, my friends all started thinking I was crazy. It went on for months. After about a year, even I started thinking I was crazy.

“It was so frustrating. There was nothing wrong with me, but the pain was unbearable. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t have a life. All I did was go from one doctor to the next, only to hear the same fucking thing: All your tests have come back negative. We can’t find anything physically wrong with you…

“And then I was diagnosed with cancer, and this is going to sound really crazy, but I almost felt happy! I think I cried genuine tears of joy when I heard that! I was so relieved because it wasn’t just all in my head. There really was something wrong with me! I wasn’t crazy!! That’s just so fucked up, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t answer her. She looked back over her shoulder to see if I was still there. I was trying unsuccessfully to choke back my tears. 

* * * *

What’s the weirdest thing you saw in your nursing career?

There’s a lots of competition for this one. Lesbian encounters in the night. Guys accidentally getting foreign objects stuck up their asses. Guys jamming foreign objects into their penises. The list goes on. And on…  But the hands down winner has to be the guy that drove his girlfriend from Arizona to Michigan. It doesn’t sound that weird, except she was dead for most of the trip.

I don’t have any other stories like unto this one.

Her name was Christine. She was 31 years old, and was a frequent flyer at Aurora Behavioral Health in Glendale, AZ. She was a dual diagnosis patient, meaning on top of her psychiatric issues she was also chemically dependent. In layman’s terms, Christine was a trainwreck. She was one of the most exhausting patients I’ve ever met, and I wasn’t her nurse. Now that I think about it, she wasn’t even on my unit, and I probably spent more time interacting with her than I did with all of my patients combined. 

Christine lives forever in my Top Five Patients From Hell List.

In June of 2014, Christine was discharged from the hospital. She was picked up by Ray, her 62 year old boyfriend, and Ray’s 93 year old mother. We cheerfully waved goodbye as they all climbed into Ray’s van and headed off to Michigan. We prayed that they all made it there safely and never returned to Arizona again. Ever.

Christine probably accidentally overdosed on her discharge medications by swallowing the entire contents of a bottle of OxyContin on purpose, and then died to death somewhere in Oklahoma. See? I told you she was a trainwreck.

And then the weird part happened. Rather than stop and report what happened to the police, Ray put a pair of sunglasses on her face, placed a teddy bear on her lap, and kept on driving.

Across hot and humid Oklahoma to steamy Missouri, through sweltering Indiana into Illinois — you get the picture– stopping only for gas, fast food and bathroom breaks until he made it to Michigan. And then Ray decided to notify the police that something had happened to his girlfriend. It didn’t take the police long to figure out what was wrong because Christine’s body had begun to decompose. 

Police chose not to press any charges against Ray. Or his mother.

This is Ray. The story of his road trip made National News. You could look it up on the Google…

* * * *

When I first envisioned this post, I had imagined a lots more questions and a few more stories. And then I realized most of my stories bear a lots of similarities to each other, so there’s that.

It might explain why no one asks me a lots of questions.

The Impermanence of Memory

It’s been another good day here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa. 

They’ve all been good days.

Most of the our kit-tens are getting along well with each other, most of the time. Todd and Julia and Lea and I are all getting along well with each other. Julia is Todd’s girlfriend. She doesn’t live here, but she spends a fair amount of time hanging out here. In that regard, things are going about as smoothly as they can.

* * * *

The Minnesota Vikings have won four games in a row now that I’ve become a Detroit Lions fan. Unfortunately, one of the teams my old favorite team beat in that stretch is my new favorite team.

My lovely supermodel wife is actually upset with me for changing allegiances. She says it’s disgusting! I’d think she’d feel a bit of gratitude…  At any rate, I’m still rooting for the Lions. And if things continue on this arc, the Vikings might win a Super Bowl before I die.

* * * *

Todd and I bought a golf cart last week, officially making us serious golfing guys. Now all we have to do is start golfing like serious golf guys. And get the brakes fixed on our cart. And probably the steering…

Presentando el carrito nacional de golf de México

We had all of the batteries replaced when we bought it, so it runs great. Stopping has been somewhat problematic at times…

Seeing how my life is as close to perfect as it will ever be, the Universe has to provide a few areas for me that aren’t ideal, otherwise there would be an imbalance in The Force, and we all know what happens after that.

Whoa. It’s even worse than I thought…

Right now, all of my problems start and end with golf.

Problem #1. The Rainy Season has essentially turned our golf course into a swamp. Swamp Golf might sound like fun, but it’s not. In my case it has everything to do with wet socks. When my socks get wet, all I want to do is sit down and cry. The seasonal rains should end in a couple of weeks, then everything will start drying out and Allergy Season can begin again.

That should benefit my score. 

Problem #2. Todd and I have been taking golf lessons because we’re serious golfing guys now, and that’s another thing serious golfers do. I’ve been trying to tweak a few things with my swing to improve the consistency and quality of my shots. I seriously want to get rid of those shots of random suckdom that plague every golfer at pretty much any level of skill.

If I can do that, that will definitely benefit my score.

Problem #3. My biggest problem has been vision related. I now have three pairs of glasses with the same prescription, but each of them is just a little bit different. Depending on the weather conditions, I was shuffling my corrective lenses around when I golfed.

Between minor variations in how I was seeing, golf lessons to change my swing, and then trying to remember all of the things I was supposed to be doing — I wasn’t having random shots of suckdom. They all sucked!

That hasn’t benefitted my score at all!

I quit shuffling my glasses. I’m wearing my newest pair all the time now, and my eyes are getting used to them. I stopped thinking about the seven things I’m supposed to be doing and focused on a three. Keep your head down. Slow down your back swing. And follow through.

I played nine holes with my golf wife, Phyllis, this morning. I shot a 47. I one-putted five greens because my chip shots were so deadly. And, I replaced the black laces in my magic golf shoes this morning with bright neon green laces. That might have been a contributing factor. Julia needed black laces for her Medusa costume, so I gave her mine.

My caddy, Francisco Flores Bernini, told me I was fun to watch. It’s the first time he’s said that to me. I’m not sure there are any words to describe how pleased I was to hear that.

* * * *

Lea has been helping Julia with her zombie costume much more than I have. The Thrill the World dance is this Saturday. A bunch of people all across the world dress up like zombies and dance to Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Julia is going to be zombie Medusa. 

In Greek mythology, Medusa was one of the Gorgons, three beautiful sisters — Medusa, Stheno and Euryale — who were turned into dreadful, horrifying monsters with live, venomous snakes for hair by the goddess Athena. They were so hideous that anyone who gazed upon them was turned to stone.

* * * *

If you’ve never seen the featured image of my latest blog, you really need to get out more. It’s The Persistence of Memory, by the Spanish artist, Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí i Domènech, Marquis of Dalí de Púbol. He’s one of the best known Dadaist artists of the 20th Century.

Dadaism was an art movement that began in Europe after World War I. Dadaists thought the modern world was stupid and meaningless, so they set out to ridicule it as much as they could before they got dead.

Little Known Fact About Salvador Dali: he hated paying for anything, and whenever he wrote a check he would draw something on the back, knowing the person he wrote it out to would never cash it.

There’s a whole page of his check art on the Interweb. You could look it up if you’re interested…

* * * *

Memory is a tricksy thing. How tricksy is it, you might ask. Well, scientists have been studying memory ever since one of them tied a string around his finger, way back in 1885, so he wouldn’t forget to start studying it. And after all that time, no one understands the exact mechanism of how memory works.

Originally, many experts were fond of describing memory as a sort of tiny filing cabinet full of individual memory folders in which information was stored away. This cabinet was in a select part of the brain.

As technology adanced, researchers likened memory to a neural supercomputer wedged under the human scalp. One with an undetermined amount of RAM. And memory was stored in more than one area of the brain.

Today, experts believe that memory is far more complex and elusive — and that it is located not in one particular place in the brain — but is instead a brain-wide process.

* * * *

I used to think I had a great memory. I no longer think that. Aging affects memory. So does drug and alcohol abuse. And trauma. When I take all of that into consideration, I’m impressed that I still remember my name.

I’ve kind of written about some of the aspects of my particular flavor of insanity. I admitted that I have thought insertions. You can read about it in my archives if you like. Or you can Google it…

In a manner somewhat similar to the way that other people’s thoughts can somehow be inserted into my mind, I’ve come to the conclusion that they can also seemingly be extracted. I could give you an example, but how do you explain something that you can’t remember anymore?

Let’s find out.

* * * *

Behold, the Pleiades

The Pleiades, also known as the Seven Sisters, are a star cluster in the constellation Taurus. They’re somewhat west and north of the constellation Orion. You should be able to recognize Orion. It’s one of the most conspicuous constellations in the night sky. If you’re awake at around 5:00 AM this time of year, look up. It’ll probably be right over your head.

* * * *

In Greek mythology, Orion was a supernaturally strong hunter of ancient times. He was the son of Euryale (Yep, the aforementioned hideous sister of Medusa), and Poseidon, the god of the sea.

Everything I’ve read about Orion indicates he was a complete asshole. He liked getting drunk. He raped Merope, the princess of Thebes. And then he decided he wanted to kill pretty much everything that moved. So Gaea, the goddess of the earth, killed him to death.

In the Bible, there once was a mighty hunter named Nimrod. Orion and Nimrod are probably one in the same. Interesting side note: Nimrod allegedly ordered the construction of the Tower of Babel.

* * * *

Hey, that’s really cool and all, but what does this have to do with you not being able to remember stuff? That’s what we were talking about, right?

If you look at the Pleiades with the naked eye, the only way you can see them somewhat clearly is with peripheral vision. When you look directly at them, they practically disappear.

That’s what it’s like with some of my memories. I know they existed. I even know the context in which they existed. But when I try to find them, they are gone. I’m not sure that explanation makes any sense to you, but that’s as close as I can get.

* * * *

Back when I was a nurse, other nurses, girl nurses — real nurses — would sometimes ask me what the essence of my job was. Real nurses don’t tend to have a lots of respect for psych nurses. They think psych nurses are essentially babysitters for icky people. And I would tell them a story.

It was about a mother talking to her child. And that’s the extent of what I can remember. I can’t remember how I came to know the story. It might have been something I actually experienced. I know I told the story at least three times that I can remember, and you’d think I’d remember something I did that many times.

There’s one other thing I remember: that story was fucking perfect. 

Those real nurses would look at me and think, Damn! I totally want to have sex with this guy! Okay, they probably didn’t think that, but they had a higher level of respect for pysch nursing and psych nurses for at least a few minutes after they heard it.

* * * *

I don’t know how explain Donald Trump’s frequent lapses of memory, especially in terms of geography. In his latest gaffe he apparently thinks Colorado is one of the states bordering Mexico because he said part of his Great Southern Border Wall is being built there.

He called the European country of Belgium a beautiful city. And he thinks Paris, France is in Germany. Nor does he understand the differences between England, Great Britain and the United Kingdom.

The Donald said this during an interview with Piers Morgan in August of this year:

TRUMP: You have different names — you can say “England,” you can say “UK,” you can say “United Kingdom” so many different — you know you have, you have so many different names — Great Britain. I always say: “Which one do you prefer? Great Britain? You understand what I’m saying?’

MORGAN: You know Great Britain and the United Kingdom aren’t exactly the same thing?

TRUMP: Right, yeah. You know I know, but a lot of people don’t know that. But you have lots of different names. The fact is you make great product, you make great things. Even your farm product is so fantastic.

There are a few possible explanations for Trump’s general lack of geographical knowledge.

Theory #1. He’s old. He’s 73. As stated earlier, aging does impact memory. So that’s a remote possibility. Plus, all those places. They’re never in the same place twice. If only the planet would stop spinning. Then locations would finally settle down and stay in one place.

Theory #2. He fabricates stuff all the time. Maybe he thinks he can do the same with geography because it’s so difficult for anyone to actually ascertain the exact position of any particular place on this planet. It might also be a symptom of Trump Derangement Syndrome, so there’s that.

Theory #3. He’s an idiot.

The prosecution rests.