Put it down, and step away.

I know that it's possible to have my heart broken, even in this day and in my age.

I can remember the heartbreak of youth; it was kind of like a knife to the gut; an actual, physical pain that lingered all through the waking hours, only to dissipate in the mists of Morpheus.

And the scar would remain; in fact, they remain to this day, and I look to them and point and say, "these scars I received on St. Crispin's Day." And the people of my generation, who attended those times with me will smile and nod and lift a glass to the times when we cared enough to have out hearts broken; and the youth that surrounds me will roll their eyes and wonder why anybody would care so much in the first place.

And my answer will always be the same: I care because I care.

But I've noticed that in my age, when my heart is broken, the pain is duller. And it only lingers in the mists of Morpheus; and it lacks a certain energy.

And it's less of a scar, and more of a bruise.

Yes.
It's easy to have your heart broken when you use your heart enough.

And even that dull pain gives me proof that I'm alive.
Which is not something I've been able to prove beyond a reasonable doubt.

It's not often you want to thank somebody for the heartbreak.
And simultaneously want to punish them for it.

It's a long road.
I'll just keep walking.
And enjoy the memory of the company.

Fair enough?

Signs.

I think it would be really nice if we could tell 'em by their limping.

I'll explain.

Years ago, I ran across a lovely Irish lass; she was a sturdy, red-haired, heavy drinking girl who stole my heart for just a little while. She gave it back to me some time later, and it was one of the few times that the heart was not the worse for the experience.

One of the things that she left me was an Irish Prayer, and it went something like this:

May those that love us, love us.
And for those who do not love us, let God turn their hearts;
And if He cannot turn their hearts, let Him turn their ankles;
So we can tell them by their limpin'.

On this day, in this time of year, in this fallen city that the Gods of Warmth have forsaken, it would be nice to know them by their limpin'.

In fact, we should be able to tell them by their limpin', by the fact that their pants are on fire, and it would be really nice if they were made of glue.

What is the proper measurement?

It's cold.

Actually, it's warmer now than it was when I arose from my winter's nap this morning. This morning, it was -11.

Now, it's 8.

The sun is shining reasonably shining, and there is no wind. The blizzard that smacked most of the Midwest didn't really reach this high up, and for that, I'm grateful, but it is proof that my buying a snow blower is keeping the really bad weather at bay.

I must apologize for the inconsistency of my writing these days; my thoughts and observations have developed a kind of tedium in my imagination, and if they're tedious to me, I would not dare to release them upon my unsuspecting readership....as diminished as that has become, lately.

I remember in my past that this time of year was a kind of respite from the rest of the year; that we all worked toward this moment...that no matter how much work had been piled upon our heads, there was always going to be this sizable block of time where we would be responsible to no other persons but ourselves, and no other things but what we deemed truly necessary.

Like food. And drink. And old friends. And family.

And to add to the glory that was this time of year, there was an occasional light snowfall to provide natural beauty.

And best of all.....people would buy you presents.

These days, the busy becomes busier; the intensity only becomes more intense; and that respite that becomes even more necessary as we eld, disappears like the lights in the distance. The meat we adore in our youth we cannot tolerate in our age; the old friends have dispersed over a wide area, conspicuous in their absence, but remembered in the cards and letters; and the snow falls like a cartoon ten ton weight.

At least there are still presents.

I'm grateful for the presents.

I'm grateful for a great many things. I'm grateful for the friends that can see me as I was and as I am, simultaneously; grateful for the faceless voices of affection from across the world; grateful for a family who successfully mixes the velvet glove and the iron fist to my everlasting benefit; for the past that has made my brain what it is; and for the future that still (despite my best attempts at the contrary) hold infinite promise within its repetitive shell.

Stay Calm and Carry On.

Philosoship of a Friendophy.

Some books are like old friends; you can go back to them, and pick up just where you left off, and the story doesn't change in the passage of time. Like good friends, you can see yourself in the reflection of the book; the best stories, of course, are the ones that touch deep within you, where the empathy lies. And the most obvious parallel between a book and an old friend is, you can easily find both, no matter how much time has passed.

I recently re-read a book that thoroughly delighted me when I first read it, well over a decade ago: It's title is BUNNY BUNNY and it's written by Alan Zweibel, and it's about his delightful relationship with Gilda Radner.

Their relationship was uncomplicated in the long run. It started out as two terrified people, coming together to get through the early stages of their work at SNL. Eventually, the love became deep, and intimate, on every level but the physical. Through career ups and downs, multiple marriages, and the cancer that finally claimed her, their relationship remained strong, virtually unchanged from the first days until the end; intimate in every way, but the physical.

One of my favorite moments of the book is when Zweibel is donating blood to Gilda, and the nurse asks him if he would like to write a note to Gilda, because she liked to know who was donating the blood. Zweibel wrote: "Dear Gilda: I knew I would get some of my fluids into you one way or another."

I laughed and cried simultaneously the first time I read it.

I think I'm being honest when I say that I don't have too many friends; I have acquaintances, certainly, but very few relationships that involve that kind of trust and affection that creates the kind of intimacy that exists between the two people in that lovely book. And the really fascinating part of it is that if I was asked to isolate the moment that those relationships began, I wouldn't be able to do it.

How does a bond become so strong without my actually noticing?

Okay, frankly, I don't care. I am grateful for the relationships.

Because, those relationships, those friendships both recent and age-old, are the blanket that keeps me warm in a world that can be quite cold.

And if they go, it's like a circle of Hell that Dante never considered, for it would have been too horrible to contemplate.

Yup. Was a hard night, my friends..and then, the day began...

Good afternoon (which is to say, good evening) and welcome to my fever.

Yes, the fever has returned, and this time, it's not taking any prisoners.

Here are some of the highlights:

An image of Abraham Lincoln, swearing at a T-bone steak. This comes from my college days, when all things strange and questionable went into my system, just to see what my system would do.

The punishment for all crimes is dependant on how well you play an old-style, no electronic scoring pinball machine.

Bradbury's Mars. With the dark and golden eyed.

Wells' Food of the Gods.

Endless reruns of a season in Hell, playing Ebenezer Scrooge, twice a day, six days a week....

Oh, GOD! The nightmare of me taking up a Cuba Libre and a Marlboro. That's still number one on my psyche's hit parade.

And, finally, everybody who ever meant anything to me, disappearing before my very eyes, pleading for help...and the last image of the eyes, unforgiving for my failure.

Music from the 80's; I only recognized snatches of the music, but I distinctly remember "Rock Me Amadeus" and "I Love the Dead." After that, it all blended together.

After all that, I went to work.
I envy the daywalkers.
Fevers really suck when you're awake and it's night.

Generally speaking, I'm feeling very badly about everything.
But I just can't seem to get a grip on it, just now.

Perhaps I need some of that sticky stuff you can put on your hands to help you catch a football.
Or velcro.
Or hot glue.
A nail gun.

To paraphrase Dylan Thomas:

"Bartender, I'll take 36 shots of pure grain vacation, right f**kin' here."

As elusive as chimney smoke and as near as a memory....

The danger on the rocks has surely passed. The cold, or whatever it was that took up residence in the various empty places inside my skin has diminished somewhat, and although I wouldn't mind just.....not......doing, I must prepare myself for my adult duties.

The snow has continued to fall here in the North, just a little here and there, since yesterday, leaving slightly more than a dusting and slightly less than an inch on the ground. The grass is covered, and the wind has picked up, so it's pretty cold outside. I know this, because I did a hurried version of decoration on the front porch earlier this morning; a little wreathing, a little garland, a few twinkly lights all about, and voila! My house is easily identifiable from Santa Land.

I did some shopping online yesterday, and I pause to wonder at just how much the world has changed since I was younger. I used my first computer when I was about
21; since then, they've added such features as a hard drive, a modem, and really cool graphics. And now, I can actually do all my shopping from my dining room table.

The future is way cool.
I do miss the jet packs and flying cars though.

And Astro.

Soon, my world will be filled with the sights and sounds and aromas of Christmas; the smell of fresh Shortbread, right out of the oven. The sound of wrapping paper being cut, and mangled, and re-cut because I suck at wrapping. The sight of my darling wife dressing the tree in the theme du anno.

And everybody is looking forward to the Christmas feast. I'm thinking of actually trying a plum pudding this year.

Of course, there will be meat. And poultry. And potatoes that have had a very serious accident.

But for now, the visions of sugarplums must dance in my head; I've got to go make the money to afford this lavish end-of-year lifestyle.

Toodles.

Down, but can still hear the Referee's count.

I have this work ethic handed down from my Father; even though you may be feeling a little under the weather, you still need to give it the best you got.

Damn it.

I've been ill for about three days now, but didn't really know it until yesterday, when I went to work and about six hours in began to see bats in my peripheral vision. Bats in the Periphery are the universal signal for "you had better go home and lie down." It has always been that way with me; and I have ignored the signal at my peril for the last three decades, when the first bats appeared.

So, I came home, had be a cocktail of Nyquil on the Rocks (that's a lie, for people that know me; I take the pill variety of Nyquil, because the alcohol content of the liquid tends to affect me badly) and lay me down to sleep.

And now, it's noon.

And I'm thinking that I feel better, and now the best part of the day, the MOST productive part of my day, is past.

You see the problem here?

I'm pissed about that. I'm actually pissed about sleeping in.

What is wrong with me?
What have I become?
Where is the life of which late I led?