Drop to Bottom
I know you hurt worse than you thought possible.
If you are like me you hurt worse than when your parents or your brother or your sister or your best friend died. You might be in a downward spiral and you must reach out to your family, friends, and God.
You will survive.
One minute, One hour, One day at a time.
Dr. Hammurabi Malamud
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Tuesday... At my Starbucks two days after Mainio and Mikaela got married. Too young in my opinion, but that's life, eh? Kind of odd that my two other kids were there, and Hanna-Marie, and all of us divorced.
Other than being overweight, (aren't we all), I think Hanna-Marie looks much younger than her actual age.
Watching everyone around me fiddling with their expensive toys, helped me realize again how poor I am, not that the room was filled with millionaires. Because it was not.
No bouquet throwing, (no single ladies), no rice tossing, (bubble-blowing instead), and no 1964 convertible T-Bird trailing last weeks baked bean cans.
Since they've lived together for over a year, what has changed? The certificate, the promises, her name change?
I took two vacation days off which resulted in my longest consecutive time away from work since I returned to it in July of 2001. And I found that I'm doing nothing. I have nothing to do. I want to do nothing. I am well, basically, nothing.
I'm thinking something could be wrong with my levothyroxine (thyroid) medicine. I read a lot about problems with it.
My high school heart-throb, Connie B, popped up on one of the social networking sites. From all appearances she's a new member and I'm not about to request to be tied into her network and have another bubble burst.
It's funny that her profile photo, even though taken from a distance, reveals her unique posture-with-an-attitude. I wonder if her azure eyes are still as deep. And if the veins in her full breasts are as blue.
Saturday... I haven't been adding to Dr. Malamud because I've been wasting my time on the social networking sites. Not that I'm a busy bee type who's got to be 'around' people, but just that I've got to communicate all the wonderful and faultless knowledge my wisdom throws off like a spinning quasar.
I've already managed to lose a linked-friend (actually a person who I've worked with in the acting community) when I told her what I thought about her dumbassed 'garden in your backyard' thoughts. Kind of hard to do when you live in a sh*t-hole apartment. But who knows, my rantings and ravings, forced into concise 400 character segments may just convince some people they are not being told the truth. Sadly, many of them probably don't have the brain-wattage or attention span to even understand that they are not being told the truth.
Talked to a lady the other day. She got her divorce after 45 years. She told me, "Here I was, I did not even know this man who I married." I told her most men are that way. (It was a fact my own father visited hookers--something I would never do.) Married men have a separate life outside the married life their spouse enjoys. Especially if they are successful athletes. I've seen that where I work, the wives leave town and the hookers start arriving in the very, nice luxury automobiles.
I did find a dating website which I'm making the exclusive site of the Dr. Malamud page and its called Plenty of Fish and it's free as long as you don't click one of the confusing buttons that purposely sends you to a paid website for which POF gets a commission. Read more about Markus Frind founder, here.
Even anonymously the women are afraid to post anything substantial. What is really unbelievable (I haven't read the above linked article yet) is that I've got probably 40 matches right in my city...
Wednesday... Thought I'd get in at least one post for March 2010. I've been spending far too much time on the social networks. Thing is, everyone's afraid of saying anything for fear their employer, or prospective employer, may pull it up with a search engine, and fire them or not hire them, whatever the case may be. Plus, I really think many of the social networking gang really are not very intelligent.
Just overwhelmed with the 'matches' Plenty of Fish sends me. It's simply so alien to my being to send out a "Hi! Howya Doin'?" message out of the blue to any of my matches. And it's especially troubling because men are so visual, I'm picking women (both of them) who are at least a decade younger than me.
Went to dinner the other night and spent enough, on us three, to feed me for about two weeks. It's so expensive eating out any more. Just not worth it, if I'm buying. And no, we did not go to the In & Out restaurant pictured.
I've really got to lose about forty pounds and get into shape before I get serious about this 'dating thing' because I look grotesque.
Wednesday... As I step into the Borders, I'm hit with both the print & ink book smells and nostalgia.
I can hardly wait to sit down to begin writing. So the first thing I do is lose the pen that I specifically took with me from the apartment. It made it from the QT gas station, to the Walgreens where I bought 42 Omeprazole for the astonishing price of 33 cents each, all the way to the front door of the book store. (I later found my pen had slid down beneath my tee-shirt and was waiting for me beneath my belly-button-fat hang-over.)
My frequent buyer Seattle's Best coffee card expired 18 months ago. Had it been that long?
My insulated, no-really insulated, Starbucks travel mug (bought on sale years ago) has some sort of fungus living in it, but I'm hoping the hot coffee drowns it and makes it safe to drink. Because I'm using it tonight.
It is so hard to believe in 14 months I'll be 60, single, still sexy as hell, and living with my youngest child. He feels both an obligation and needs my contribution to the mortgage. Oddly enough, my daughter-in-law was raised, not by her parents, but by her grandparents so she's comfortable with this ancient Dark Crystal Skeksis shuffling around.
They are getting ready to close up shop so, with my lips and tongue becoming numb, I'll end today's entry.
Tuesday... At the Barnes & Noble Cafe after working about two-hours straight getting one of my blogs on a social networking site just right.
It's hard to stay away from the blog because, with the chance that any of 100 million plus members may read it--someone has got to agree with me.
As I observed the body of a girl I probably would have termed 'homely' in my own teen years, I was thinking, that when we are young in America in the 21st Century we're all quite attractive--her perky and firm thorax is held steady by full B cups, and she's followed by a nice caboose that jiggled just so, like too-cold Jello.
A different girl in the cafe, involved in a study group is obviously from a private religious school, because she mentioned the 'G'-word. The God word: the next utterance to be dissolved into a single letter, not because it's derogatory, but because the popular-secular-society simply wants to deny God entirely.
Seems I'm looking pretty intently at women's and girl's bodies these days. Maybe I'll get desperate enough to ask a lady out, eh?
I have a real fear (well, not 'real' or I'd do something about it) that I'll never date again. (And no, I don't mean to say, "I'll never get laid again" Thank you!) I recently viewed a biography about Vanity Fair writer Dominick Dunne who apparently became celibate for the rest of his life after his first and only wife divorced him.
Us men are so damned visual--we think we look like George Clooney or Gordon McKay, but the images in our mirrors more resemble 'Family Guy's' Peter Griffin. We expect women our own age to have the firm figure of a Kathy Lee Crosby in 1974 and the unlined skin of an 18 year old, sturdy-racked, blue-eyed, Elizabeth Taylor.
Did I just hear someone in another Barnes & Noble Cafe study group read out loud, "...alcohol restricts the risk of giant balls?"
For my social networking site I must tone down my language and it is hard here and now to relax and write about the imagined licking of a good-looking woman's freshly shaved armpits, like I used to in the good old days.
Speaking of that, I may transition 'Dr. Malamud' to a social networking site if only to provide a link back to these pages. 'Provide a link back to these pages' because for most people, who don't actually lay out their own web pages using HTML computer code (so easy even a caveman can do it), are not aware of how much both blogging and networking sites restrict everything you do.
They restrict authors in so many ways. The length of their post can be only 425 characters w/o a link appended, or with one, 1003 characters...sometimes. They limit how many photos, and what size they can be, and even where you can place them on the page. Often your post cannot be corrected, and your readers believe you to be an idiot because you used 'their' instead of 'there,' and when you do go back and correct it, rather than remaining in chronicalogical order, it moves your correction of a days-old post back to the top of the stack.
Worst of all, they restrict what you can write by use of the ubiquitous report link. On top of that, apparently one of the most popular sites, silently 'cut & pastes' your post and re-publishes everything you wrote, (should it mention an unpublished list of specific topics) over on another page that everyone on the entire social networking site can see and read whether you want them to or not.
Due to the Obamany, Barnes & Noble now closes at 10pm rather than like during the old days of G.W. when they stayed open to a surprisingly late, for Phoenix, Arizona, 11pm. They've thrown me out on the street. Well, actually the mall.
Even with my 10% 'Member Discount,' two bargain-basement hardbacks, a paperback, and a single magazine, and I'm out over thirty bucks.
I remember when hardbacks were $4.99 and our mail-ordered paperbacks were $1.75. I don't know if I'll ever get used to this inflated money we're spending today. My first brand new imported car cost $3,400 out the door in 1974, the first used car I purchased entirely on my own in 1968 required a single one-hundred dollar bill.
I checked my income stream, more like a trickle, and learned it had actually, per hour worked, decreased since 2001, when I returned to work after a decade stretch of playing a second-rate 'Mr.Mom.'
I think that's one of the challenges I face getting even a response from any females at Plenty of Fish.com. Since I'm dumb enough to be honest, I reveal my paltry income level, and they are all looking for someone who makes a lot more than I do. Especially at my advanced age. Of 38.
Tuesday... I'm outside the Barnes & Noble bookstore again. Just can't get accustomed to its 10:00pm closing time.
I've been sitting and looking and feeling like I'm wasting my precious time because I'm only sitting and looking while I let my mind wander.
Heard it reached 92F degrees during the day, yet tonight it's already cold enough to where I wish I'd brought my old red flannel long sleeved shirt.
It's odd when I'm not writing or reading or watching--still feeling like I must be doing. Moving, driving, listening--always busy. Busy doing what though?
Got a court summons today while I was sleeping. Mainio took it for me because he knew I'd just gotten off a sixteen-hour shift that would have killed any Gen-X'er.
It's from a bank (that rhymes with 'Mace') credit card that they were stupid enough to send me five years ago. It's odd because I'm not all that upset about it. Can't afford a lawyer, so I'll see what I can learn on the internet--who knows maybe I'll end up changing the law like I did in the City of Phoenix courts when, as a teenager, I fought and won a parking ticket. Wow, was the city attorney upset!
I moved to sit at a table closer to the light glowing from the Barnes & Noble windows and found the chairs were all cabled together to prevent the illegals from appropriating them so that they didn't show up on the Mayor of Soñoita, Mexico's front porch the following weekend.
Now, I'm real careful to swab out my Starbucks thermos after I've used it because I sure don't want the fungus or mold coming back. I had to soak the inside with bleach to finally kill it off. I hope it's not silently still growing inside of me from the last time I used the cup.
Forty or so years ago, there was an all night coffee place--I think it was called Winchell's, where one could sit and think.
Sure, some Denny's still have coffee counters, but I always find myself feeling bad and ordering something to eat even though I really don't have the money to spare.
I wish there were a few 24 hour Starbucks around where people could sit and write and water the plants with the coffee.
In the 5th largest city in America, you'd think that'd be the case.
The weight loss diet is so easy that the way I tell it's time to eat is that I get light-headed. In only a few weeks, I've lost considerable weight, but when I crush my bathroom talking-scales, as it wheezes out my new numbers, I am reminded that I still need to lose another fifty pounds.
No wonder all my joints (every single one injured by motorcycle racing) ache all the time, they simply got to the point where they can't handle any more cargo. Most have stopped hurting quite so much already, and I don't know if it's the less weight or the fruits and vegetables or a combination, but I'm not missing the near constant pain that even visited me when laying down.
Since we've owned huge dogs and a potassium water conditioner in the past, I am quite familiar with what carrying an extra forty pounds feels like. It's like picking up a bag of Science Diet, only instead of putting it down, I carry it all day. Only the joint-pain and the brain-fog stopped me from the early deathtrap of my ever increasing girth.
I figured out why my journeying to the Plenty of Fish.com website upset me so. It's because the ladies are presenting themselves like some kind of commodity. So many of their written profiles come off as needy, and women should never feel like they're in that position. Until they are married.
It's like Gary Busey's character says in the DVD movie DC Cab, "Why women are so uptight?--They've got half the money and all the pussy!"
Wednesday... Back at Borders books. Funny before the recession I almost went to work at a company with the name of Borders, but I would've been laid off almost immediately. So even though the pay was 35% more, it wouldn't have mattered if I didn't have a job.
I had to dig through my closet to find a clean pair of non-blue denims. A pair that in January I couldn't begin to squeeze into, fits fine now. And even though my XL tee-shirt can't be bloused-out to hide my overhang of whale blubber, I'm okay with it because I know it'll be gone soon.
About half the people here are using laptops with internet connections. I asked my wealthy friend today, whose single comic book is worth $1.5 million, (not to mention his hundreds of others, some of which he painted the art in), if he'd be getting the Apple iPad. He surprised me when he said he wouldn't.
Like quitting a 5-pack-a-day cigarette habit in the early 1970s, or stopping entirely my alcohol consumption, or going on this diet, they're all like something I needed to do rather than some huge trauma. Something seemingly requiring all kinds of teeth-gritting resolve melts away when you simply realize that you and you alone control what you do.
What's comforting about ceasing your cigarette habit is that it is so obnoxious and intrusive to your physical body, after about a year after the cure, there's not a chance you'd ever start up again.
Hell, anymore the typical young lady wears blouses or tee shirts so damned tight you can almost see the blue veins of her breasts pulsing underneath the fabric. And I'm blaming myself for almost staring at the jugs that are bouncing by the magazine rack. A rack by a rack.
There was this jackass wandering the store, talking in a normal voice on his headset earphone. I'd have to guess he's yet another Jewish asshole. He was about my age and sounded like he was talking to his mother or someone who cared. "Why by comprehensive insurance for a car that's worth five hundred dollars?" "I'm so old no one would employ me." My blood sugar's high..." Yeah, how about losing forty pounds fatass?
Funny, well not so funny, but my wealthy friend as he tried to open a gift 5-cigar box that probably cost more than I earn in two days work, told me I had weathered my declining fortunes well. When I get back home I took a calculator to income and discovered I'm earning 7% of what I did in the 1980s.
I'm exceedingly fortunate in that my life is running out of order. I was wealthy before I was forty. I retired at forty for ten years when I got to spend precious time with my two younger kids. And now, closing in on sixty, I'm single and working at an entry-level-pay job.
Wednesday... Waiting for my brewed coffee at the B&N Cafe. I accidentally left my favorite mold-infested Starbucks thermos in the car, so I'll be sipping their recycled engine oil from a paper cup tonight.
We're moving again on Monday, May 31st, which, distance-wise, will double my drive to work, but then again maybe Ill be able to subscribe to books on tape and fit a few more 'reads' in every month.
I visited my Dr Hammurabi Facebook page today. I'd forgotten the password, so I had to reset it.
I'm trying to figure out how to go about setting it up, since like our president, I've been living off the grid. Yeah, me and author John Twelvehawks.
I think my Facebook Friends will all have to ask me to Friend them, that would be a way to be somewhat sure that they have interest in what I'm writing.
However the pages must change from heartbreak to renewal and new loves. I hope.
I'm going to maybe put a duplicate of my new posts into the 'Notes' portion of the 'Personal' Profile section of Facebook, which allows me to put in photos and links. Maybe I can load some of my greatest old stuff--we'll see--it'd be pretty hard to re-read some of that stuff, even now, to see if it's worth re-posting on FB.
That's right, I've been talking about using the Facebook to drive people to my HTML pages, maybe I can put up pertinent links related to love, divorce, marriage, drugs, etcetera, onto the FB page as soon as I see them, rather than days or weeks later.
I was just thinking that looking at faces is a lot like looking at clouds because different people see different things. My thoughts of what this particular lady was like altered a bunch when I saw her interesting face was set atop an obese body. So many overweight people. It really takes discipline to remain anywhere near your school-days weight. At age 26, I was 51 pounds lighter than I am today, 32 years later.
Apparently Wednesday night is late-movie night? It appears many people are outside Barnes & Noble with me this evening, only they are waiting for the movies. With today's weird work schedules, Saturdays and Sundays are days off only for those in the upper echelons any more.
I was thinking as I saw the entirely plastic Mr Potato Head Game, at the Desert Ridge Barnes & Noble, I was reminded that we all played with a real potato. Not because we were poor, but because the game was designed to be played with an actual tuber.
I'll forever remember Dr Hamblin during my teen years telling me to lose weight or else. He passed from this world before I graduated high school. Odd, he wasn't that old.
Tuesday... I wonder if people marvel that I can sit down and simply start writing? it's not that I do, but that I must.
As the forever move continues (we have two or three more months more left on the apartment lease that we'll be paying for) I was loading up in the cool, for June 1st, 93F degree weather, when a heavy-set, young blonde lady said "Hi!" to me in the parking lot.
I returned the "Hi" and this rather large girl in t-shirt, most likely a Goth, stopped to show me her newest tattoo on the inside of her left wrist. It was like four daggers crossed and she told me it wasn't yet shaded in. She was a lovely person stretching her XL shirt, about my height, and talking to a stranger about her latest scarification. (The next time I saw her, her hair was black and she was asking for money. I gave her the single dollar bill I had.)
It was so obvious she was looking for the attention she never got at home. Parents are so important, I wish we knew that going in.
Until one lives in a free-standing single family home, one doesn't realize how intrusive apartment life is. I listened to resident Katie as she told me she was moving from the high rise towers I work at, and one thing she wouldn't miss was, "Everyone knowing everything."
In my second story room I can now clomp around and walk normally not afraid of repercussions from the below apartment renter.
I went without my earplugs, but a neighbor's dog barked for hours and hours. The street lamp, that should there ever be a fire is so close to my bedroom window I could easily shimmy down it, forced me to retrieve my two sets of black-out curtains on my next visit to the apartments.
No more jackasses screaming by fifteen feet from my bedroom window around 2AM and squealing over the traffic bumps laid out to slow them down.
No more hearing some jerk throw something in the commercial dumpster at midnight and hear it explode as if it were a grenade.
No more someone parking in our single covered parking spot and forcing me to park my car out of sight three hundred feet away where it could be used as a landing pad for anyone scaling the fence surrounding the property.
One of the added bonuses, other than being in the landing pattern for Deer Valley Airport, is that my old person's radio station KAHM, based in 20-degree-cooler Prescott, Arizona, about 90 miles north of here, comes in clearly on my desktop radio without being drowned out by the Spanglish language radio channel that normally broadcasts during daylight hours.
Tuesday... I am phone-less, timeless at my new Barnes and Noble store. My Verizon cell phone seized up the other afternoon, just 41 days outside of its one year warranty. Doesn't seem right that my contract lasts longer than my actual, physical cell-phone does. Of course, a contract has no moving parts.
Months ago, I gave up wearing my solar-powered 'Save the Planet' Citizen Eco-Drive watch after I snagged its watchband one last time on a desk edge or wall edge or door edge and it came apart. So I've been using my Verizon cell phone for a clock too.
My mind is already furiously writing before I even sit down at my mushroom-sized Barnes & Noble Café table. I don't hear much English being spoken, but from what I hear I know it's not Spanish. More like German.
A late 20's dishwater blonde is seasoning her coffee at the condiment bar. Her probably multi-hundred dollar faded denims, worn as tight as Saranwrap, displays a delightful waist on down, her butt forced up and firmed up by the high heels she's wearing. A super-tight white female muscle shirt displays a fit, firm torso sporting natural tits.
I enjoy her display, that I can assure you is not for my benefit, but why would anyone want to be that uncomfortably dressed when not being paid to do so? She's sitting opposite me, maybe I should ask Carolyn, who's now chatting with her friend in orange.
Viewed a not-well-done biography of the extremely talented and successful writer Harlan Ellison on my Netflix today. Its quite a treat to watch videos on a screen so large that people are almost life size.
So odd that Harlan is pretty much an angry obnoxious Jew saddled with short-man-complex whose stories reflect a longing for freedom, but yet, in real life he's anti-Republican and would prefer I assume, a government who owns banks, car companies and decides who will get a student loan or see a doctor. He's probably anti-Israel too . . . but I'll let MW rant about Harlan's insanely contradictory opinions.
Harlan is driven like my own father was. He's admitted he can't turn it off. Remember when I admitted more and more often I was saying things that I was surprised later that I said? Well that kind of wondering regret doesn't bother Harlan.
Later in the interview he mentions he's an atheist, which goes to explain his 24-hour-a-day anger. I was writing somewhere else that one thing I noticed when the anonymous audience was gone, when the mic was turned off and the crowds were gone how sad any and every atheist seemed.
As I closely observe the ladies, while appearing to be looking at that box of laundry soap—Wow! we kept running into one at the big-block store this afternoon ouch!—but I look at them and wonder which one will be my next wife and how today when I see her, she will look totally different than when I view her through the eyes of love. Hell, at my age, unless she's Morgan Fairchild, she's going to be as old and withered-looking as I am.
I want to get up and wander the bookstore, move around and fondle the books, find out where this store keeps its copies of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Between BN.com, their brick and mortar stores, Abe Books, Half Price Books and Borders, I've probably purchased the equivalent of $800 (at retail) books in the past few weeks, but since I only buy books when they're in the $1.99 to $5.99 used, or publisher overrun category, I've spent far less than that.
I asked Mainio, if his friends, mostly private-school educated, were switching to e-books and he said they were not, which is good, since with e-publishing we wouldn't even be aware of a Fahrenheit 451 scenario.
The authorities would simply reach at and erase or change the books as needed and no one would be the wiser.
Saturday... I've got 2 days of memoirs I've written but not yet posted to the website and I don't feel the urgent need to write. I want to dance! No, I mean wander around and look at books.
At least an hour until I have to leave for work, which from this Barnes & Noble is less than one minute away.
It's odd seeing the business-dressed ladies on a Saturday and slowly realizing they are on a break and simply well-clothed worker bees such as myself. Although, I hardly consider myself 'well-clothed.'
Tuesday... The Barnes & Noble is only five minutes from the house via the scary freeway. I still wish it were open until 11pm like in the good old Pre-O days.
The girls behind the counter at the B&N Cafe are so young! Hair so full and black, so slim, skin so smooth. It's too bad it's not an actual Starbucks since they deserve tips. And maybe a little kiss, and a feel-up from this old pervert who can't even score with grandmothers.
An exciting moment tonight as I purchased a new journal to write free-hand in even before my old journal was used up. I see notes from our families meeting with Arizona Child Protective Services: "CPS 11:15 11/6/07 9/15: report to CPS fever & vomiting"
It went on, six pages of notes about my then 14-month old grandchild whose psychotic father had, apparently in an effort to quiet him, instead almost killed him, while later, saying nothing to no one.
Again I'm seated next to people speaking in some EU tongue. Wow, this place really attracts them. Which isn't bad, just different, for I'm sure all the ladies are fluent in the 'language of love.'
In the magazine section next to me I saw a young man with a shaved head wearing earrings so large he reminded me of my mother in 1960s. Why do stuff like that when you know there are people like Lady Gaga who will more than one-up you on looks?
Who would go to a Barnes & Noble Cafe to sit and talk on a cell phone? But then we all know that they want others to hear--but not hear.
It's getting to be normal seeing the guy my age asleep in the armchair in the corner.
Could've been in a fine accident on the way here while racing with a Buick Reata on the Black Canyon northbound. Had I not hit my brakes and allowed him to merge in front of me as his lane rapidly narrowed in front of him, I do believe that happy-hour survivor would have side-swiped me.
The place is packed with studying students tonight. The girl behind me is a lovely redhead (all of them are, except for the Smart-Car-sized ones) and I had to remind myself that I wasn't 25 anymore. Still, while I sit here I can imagine she's wondering how to approach me. Yes, I have suffered too many concussions.
OMG. They are playing Christmas music.
Sitting downstairs forcing myself to type this morning. After a two-day Tuesday-Wednesday weekend, I leave for my interesting but horrible job in three short hours.
My life has been turning to sh*t, which is what happens when the 'struggles' are removed and even the tiniest goals are swept off the bedroom bureau and sprinkled into the trash like so many bagel crumbs. The bills keep streaming in faster than my trickling income. I have no desire to work the so-stressful overtime hours that I have since July of 2001. 'Stressful' because I actually care about doing a good, the 'best' job possible, while others could care less about anything except about as doing as little as possible. To me, that is such a sad way to live. Of course I've chosen a pretty sad path myself.
The Plenty of Fish.com web site, once I baited the hook with realistic age ranges is coming up with about forty 'matches' who live within an hour of me. But the process still feels so foreign, so unnatural. As do the two pay fossil-dating web sites I subscribe to: Senior People Meet.com and Christian Mingle.com.
The Christian site seems to attract colossal cows who "love the Lord." It's all very moooooving. Senior People Meet allows an affordable monthly billing plan where CM.com does not, and it appears to have more members who don't buy their shoes at The Scooter Store, so I'll probably drop the Christian dating site.
I had found a match on one of the sites, a match who actually appeared to be literate, educated, interested and pretty. She wanted me to phone her, but at the time I was 'between' cell phone carriers. I guess I could have called her from the office. Just seems like so much work anymore. Do I really want a female, my junk in her hands, controlling my life again? Yes.