Dumping is my business

Alright, it has been a long time. I have to get back in the groove. Here is a quick update. So, I have been slowly realizing that I have too much stuff. Again, not hoarding, but just stuff I have no idea why I never pulled the plug on some of it or just not gotten to the point of looking at a shelf and asked the question "what is all that shit?" I started about a year and a half back, sometime after covid took my mom off the planet and a few months before it almost tanked me. I started looking at stuff and seeing it as not just stuff I did not know why I had it, but as stuff that could be other things I did want. It is math. Have ten things and want one? Sell the ten and buy the one. This has worked out pretty damn well. Except in diving in and parting ways with stuff, I found I did not want to get much of anything. I just throw it on the internet and the money goes into my bank. After a long time wanting stuff and buying stuff - well intentioned collecting - I don't want anything. I want to just get rid of stuff. It is good stuff. I know it. The people who buy it from me know it. But I don't want anything. So I dump. And biz is good. There you go.

Always Too Much Stuff

So, I'm piling through a stack of records - my crack - and I had this flash of a thought. It was a voice in my mind, one I clearly do not listen to enough, saying to me something plain, simple, and honest. It said to me, as me, "I don't need that." It was while looking at a very nice copy of Frank Sinatra's Where Are You? lp. I have had it for several years. Now, at this stage of my life several years could be between 5 and 20 years ago. I know I have had this one fewer than 10 years. But several of my Frank lps have the small, vintage, gummed, return address labels of the previous owner, those of a young woman who lived at one point in Washington DC. I like to think she was young. Back when this lp came out, young women still did listen to this kind of stuff. So I imagine her as thus, although she could have been middle aged. I imagine she could have even, since it was DC, been a young black woman with sophisticated tastes and aspirations that reflected away from the nearby segregated south, so she listened to Frank. But I do think she is now dead. I bought this stash of Frank lps at a thrift shop in Boston several years back, and normally I would, and typically do, leave them. I know I have owned this title before, many years ago (definitely more than 20) when I was younger and would wash dishes to Frank lps on the Zenith hipster hifi console that I had waaay back, and got rid of not too long ago. I had the inner wisdom chime through on that one too, and it was time. However, lets get back to this Frank lp stash. I found them in a Goodwill - all with the same address label - which is a dang good sign that the owner went tits up. Or to a nursing home or assisted living dump, where the will to live has a stunning half life. That is how it goes. As it happens in these cases, the surviving family or, sadly, some social workers, throw the lps in a box and haul them away to the thrift shop. The reasons, places, and everything involved with our former owner buying this lp is lost. I have her name. And somehow, I do know she got from DC to Boston and brought her lps along. Her lps ended up on the floor of a Goodwill, in wonderful shape, when I found them. They couldn't have been there more than a day, as vinyl in thrifts, even back however long ago it was, get trashed pronto. I'm sure this was about 6 years ago. I was looking for a distraction. But back to that fucking voice. I really need to listen to what it tells me. It is right. I don't need this lp. I haven't listened to it more than a couple of times since I got it - this second copy. I did listen to it - my first copy - for a good run when my wife and I lived in a little rented house, that was very cozy, and horrendously cold in the winter, and had a small fireplace that you really couldn't burn anything in lest you asphyxiate, and where I watched a woman sit in her car and inject heroin from the front porch. I really liked it there. It was a nice place and time, and it seemed like every day had some opportunity hanging outside for both of us to run into. And I would stack Frank lps when I got home from work and do the dishes and clean up and get ready to go out that night and do something. That is why I bought these Frank lps again, and have kept them in my now much-larger collection of records. If I heard them I could close my eyes and be right back there. The voice is the prick that tells me I don't need to have the lp to do that. Any of them. I have been selling them off of late, to used shops and people, and giving away a few. And, yes, getting a few. I always will, I think, but they are really losing their appeal, and hold on me. That voice is right. The lp in the pile I went through, right after Frank, was a Herbie Hancock Blue Note comp, and I don't really want that either. If I were honest with myself and the voice, and even whoever is reading this, I don't need any of them. It isn't a digital vs analog thing. I am - we all are - going to end up like the dear young lady from DC. All of this shit we have will go somewhere. We don't take anything with us, and I am now understanding that we don't even get to take anything with us before we actually leave. They don't let you bring stuff like that into the hospital. You can't fit that in a retirement condo. You do not even want to. People who try, or insist they will, are nuts. I may be, or have been nuts myself. But I am now not a nut job, and that voice that speaks to me of the reality that clashes with my tomorrow-never-comes pile of vinyl. A nut's voice says to buy several copies of the same lps and keep them all. Forever. No, I and my brutal voice aren't nuts. I know it's right, and I think I am going to say goodbye to the Frank lp. And a few others. Truth is I shouldn't leave that job to someone else. But saying goodbye to a clean Frank lp somehow got hard for a while. It still is, so I am setting it as a goal for this summer. It will take a while to let go of this hobby-turned-unwanted-behavior, and it will give me something to write about. So, ultimately, our DC lady's lps will end up in a store or thrift in Minnesota somewhere this year. What a globe trotter this one has turned out to be! Maybe the new owner will be in town burying a family member like I did, and take it home on a plane to someplace he or she has gone off to. It's occurred to me that there could've been some other middle man. Maybe some college kid picked it up in DC, moved to Boston, and when leaving their sky-high priced apartment after graduating, and moving on to their new life, donated it. It's funny to imagine. There are a million stories in the naked city, but I still think my DC gal is dead. I'm pretty sure of that. And if she's trying to keep track of how she had an impact on the world in small positive or negative ways, or both, then here's to you, darlin'! Her name was Susan M from Washington 16, DC.

Try Some Quick Start

OK, lets get this out. So, I have been doing next to nothing, writing wise, and I have been slowly, and sometimes horribly, recovering from an ass-load of tragic shit. But I need to get the old writing machine in gear. It has been dead, not happening, kaput. So, shit, lets just do this and see if it grows. I hope so.

Fall Falling

Oh, God, I have been remiss in blogging. I have many thoughts, I just haven't been in the mood to write them down. Soon. Soon.

Son Of Kong

So, I’m revisiting things. Sue me. Just don’t blame me. You could always blame Bush. But really, blame King Kong. I come to bury Son of Kong, not to praise him. Or it. So, we all know that I love King Kong. Or I am fascinated by it in a more positive way, say as opposed to Honey Boo Boo. But as far as big gorillas go, Son of Kong gets no respect. It’s not right. King Kong has been remade a few times. He even pops up fighting Godzilla. Mighty Joe Young – the Edsel of big gorilla movies – even got remade. But poor Son of Kong, who appeared to be an orphan? Shit out of luck after one go round. And sure, it was a shitty movie. And who’s his mom? But lets look beyond the debacle, the shameless cash-in, and complete sham that was Son Of Kong, and lets pay respect to the majesty of Son Of Kong. It gave us….Son of (fill in the blank). When you want to let people know a film, TV show, comic book, rock band, or anything else is a lesser spun off version of a previous thing, it’s Son Of. It works only on crummy things. Frasier was a quality show, but if it had hung from a big fat prick, it would’ve been cancelled and labeled Son Of Cheers. George W Bush is Son of Bush. Put Son Of in front of anything, all expectations are lowered. I replaced a kitchen faucet once, and it was such a disaster that any venture into blind home repair gets dubbed Son of Kitchen Faucet. By me. In my head. Probably by my wife too. We never speak of it. But even with that, Son Of implies you’re around 50 to 90 years old. It’s an old timers cinematic homage to ridiculousness. Youngsters were treated to the equally compelling Breaking 2: Electric Boogaloo. A movie that actually outdid Son of Kong as a horrendously awful pointless sequel. So I guess since I wrote about King Kong, I will re-dub this Thinking of Kong 2: Electric Boogaloo. Fuck that. Son Of Kong. I can’t wait for Bride of Kong. You know they have the script written up for that somewhere.

The Things I Used To Do

Ageing for me has never been a gradual shift of opinion or perspective. There’s been no overwhelming concept of wisdom washing over me. Sure, I’ve learned things, but I think I’ve always had the good sense to recognize that while I have the ability to master complex areas of thought, that life is too short to chase a passing fancy down a rat hole. One can make a good living as a mechanic, surgeon or lab manager. I am not leaving this world as any of those. I gave up poking around under the hood of my car in my 20’s. Later than most, but good enough. I can change my oil, air filter, spark plugs and even tackle belts and hoses if the car is old and simple enough. Fairly early on I had the wisdom to pay people to do those things. I don’t know if I could reap any benefit from school anymore. Maybe. Not med school. Age has a more subtle way of letting me know that it’s made my acquaintance. It’s jarring to know adults who talk of 9/11 as a childhood event. Favorite teen songs are tripe from – oh, I don’t know – a couple of years ago. Or 15. Nowadays, I recall distantly moving my neck freely up and down and standing upright without a dull ache. I have learned over the last few years that age is a constant companion. A houseguest that slowly becomes annoying, and then just moves in. It’s here, and it’s too late to do anything about it. Because it’s getting late. Just yesterday it seems I could spend Sunday evening on the phone with Dad. He would ask how I was doing, and that part was important to him. You could hear that in his voice. The phone would be passed to my brother. Our deeper conversations happened via email or calls that weren’t for the whole lot. The Sunday call was catch up. Mom would ask of the kids, and none of us would talk about my other brother. If he were there he’d be in the background muttering. And after a while I would hang up, and think of when I could see them again. Scheduling is tough. I was cleaning the garage when my dad died. I had given permission to pull the plug on him the day before. The call had been both quick and too long to come, but it did. Both of my brother’s deaths had been via odd jarring phone calls. Mom is still here, but I’ve prepaid the funeral expenses. When I was younger I was never a huge athlete. I could run a decent clip before what – with age – would be revealed as asthma would shoot me down. I’ve put on a few pounds since dad died, as my jogging experiment triggered ankle and hip injuries. I hoped the doctor would find some easy therapy, but the repeated concept was to ease up and back into it. I’m not 25. I just think that way. I still want to travel, to wander far off places and not be thought of as an old guy or worse and on old guy who doesn’t think he’s old. I want to walk to the library, go fishing, push a shopping cart around the supermarket, go to a movie with my son. I want my son to be a boy maybe a tad longer than he’s going to be. I don’t want to sit in hospitals or funeral parlors. I don’t want to think my next car could be my last. But wanting is nice. The last few years have shown me that death does walk beside me. Age is already inside me.

In Defense of Sports - Pee Edition

I was asked to tell a story at a show, aptly titled In Defense of Sports. I am a sports fan, so I figured I could do something. Also, as it was people I like as funny people doing it, I was honored to be asked. And I was also a little confused. Not because there would be a bunch of Chicago Jack-offs up there. That can be insufferable. But the show is called In Defense of Sports. It’s hard to defend it a lot. Even the show promo card had the D and the picket fence – I can’t defend that. You see guys holding that up at a game and you know they are morons. Then there are the balls - sports balls, and right there in your face is the big soccer ball. Soccer? I went to a party in NYC a million years ago. A rave, people on ecstasy, I got a Schooly D record. Say I made a habit of that shit and I could have gone to one and smoked some weed that was dusted. I find myself on a chair, with Pele and Beckham on my lap, they’re naked, tonguing each other, Beckham’s giving Pele a hand job, and the chick who took her shirt off in the Olympics comes over and starts licking my left nipple, - I still wouldn’t give a fuck about Soccer. I’d watch. But fuck soccer. But that would never happen to me. It happens to them I am sure, but not with me and sports stars because no one ends up being in the same place as a sports star without paying. They don’t live in our world. I have never seen Joe Mauer at Home Depot; I have never run into Kevin Love at Rainbow. Never saw Kevin Garnett at Southdale. They have people like us do that stuff for them. Unless you’re a hot blonde, it is accidental. I was in a BK drive through and looked in the rear view to see in a gold Benz behind me – ML Carr. But he was retired, and it’s not the same. I have run into TV and movie people. I did meet and talk to Bruce Springsteen at a gig I did. Nice guy, short. Cool 64 Impala. I hate his music, but that was cool. But even he knows he’s no Thurman Munson. So here’s my special Sports story. It’s a boxing story. And it involves me, and not a star, but the reigning champ - and both of our dicks. I took a leak with Marvelous Marvin Hagler. It was in a hotel men’s room, not unlike the one at the BLB where the show was, but not nauseatingly filthy. It had three pissers. A guy was at one end, so I took the other, leaving the appropriate empty one between us. And he walks in – bald, and wearing sunglasses – and takes a leak right next to me. I know what you’re thinking, and NO – I did not look at his cock. Sure I wanted to. I pictured it then as now – massive, dark caramel colored shaft, purplish tinged mushroom head. All the while his forceful stream made the porcelain chime. I wanted to look but I got hold of my thoughts – He’s a boxer. A good one too. He beats the living shit out of people for a living. I just knew if I looked… It’s a sure bet I’d see he was pissing BLOOD. That would make me fucking sick. Blood out your ass? Fine: everyone has that. But, out your dick? Jesus, I would’ve keeled over. We did our biz, and the fucked up thing is a month or so later I’m walking down Boylston St, and who’s coming right at me in a Root Beer colored three-piece suit with a tall hot piece of action in an ankle length fur? SUGAR RAY LEONARD. That’s two champs in the flesh within weeks – didn’t cost me a fucking dime. No, I didn’t piss with him, so I can only imagine his mammoth prick, and bloody urine. They say these things come in threes, so its possible I played slots with Buster Douglas at Ho-Chunk and missed it. But still – two champs that I could’ve literally stuck out my hand and stabbed. So I keep it here in my heart – for a brief moment in time my cock did a synchronized whiz with Marvelous Marvin Hagler. And the other guy who probably remembers me as I do him – some asshole.