Writing, BlogTalking, Coolwalking, Smoothtalking...Yeah, Right!

Well, let’s try a new font while I sort through a bunch of activities, things, semi-accomplishments and observations, as I come out of realizing that my body is growing old.

Not me, mind. Just the vehicle I’m traveling around in. As the parts start to age, I find I’m dealing with the realization that upgrades and tune-ups may no longer be an option.

My hands are definitely becoming an issue. My touch-typing is not what it once was, and I feel like my brain and body need to be in tune and in sync in order to work. If not, my fingers are all over the place, and the muscle memory is not quite as good.

Finding out also that I have to really focus to keep on point. Certain tasks require it, and I’ve been able to focus my mind on them, and accomplish them pretty well.

Other things, not so much. I have too many things, interests, and I have to figure out how to manage them.

Case in point: I end up doing a lot of small projects, such as writing for Broadwayworld.com, PopImpressKA Journal (more on that in a bit), and now contributing to Plaisted Publishing House.

Okay, have I namedropped enough?

Then we have the radio fun and merriment. Radio PA continues apace, and going well; my stability is pretty much predicated on that. Not a job, again; but also my last stop in the business.

Now I’ve gone on at length about The Music Club, on Radio-Airwaves Station, which is still a hell of a lot of fun, and keeps me up on the new music that interests me.

I have also been tabbed by my publisher, Brown Posey Press to host a talk show.

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/bookspeak/2018/04/13/brown-posey-press-show--tory-gates-interviews-author-sharon-marchisello

My first show...here on the site you will find shows from the varied imprints of Sunbury Press Books, and it’s getting easier for me to get back into to swing of hosting such a program.

Now, getting my fellow authors to do the show...well, it’s a help and a boost to the sales, believe me.

I made a trip to Carlisle today in honor of the Indie Bookshop recognition day. Whistlestop Bookshop is right in town, a neat little place with exceptional taste.

The cat's name is Mulan. 

I’ve spent the past several months working the owner to get my books in there...or a signing, or something.

You have to keep working it...Jeff promises to check my work out.

I was there today as my old friend T.M. Becker celebrated the release of her book, Full Moon Rising, on Prospective Press.

Tsiph (her full name is Tshipuneah) is a lady I met eight years ago through a writer’s group. She was working on this story way back then. I know the feeling of working, editing, writing, rewriting, and waiting years for your opportunity. Very happy for her.

Can’t wait to start reading this. And you know, reading other people’s books is a must as an author. Been trying to expand out on that, and I have to with the Blog Talk program. Sharon Marchisello’s work is out of my field, Going Home was not unlike my latest work, Live from the Cafe. Going back to the hometown, to find what’s changed and what has not was Luc and Emily’s MO, but for different reasons, and two people not expecting to see one another again.

I’ll be interviewing Robert Barsky, author of Hatched, also of the Brown Posey imprint next week. I think that will be a fun interview. I try to make them fun, two people talking about books and stuff, and that makes it work.

I am also open to those from outside the imprint. Tsiph wants to do it.

      

We also talked about finding places to sign and sell, and it gets harder than ever. Even indie bookstores aren’t always so interested...to be fair, time, space, resource, I get it.

But like Tsiph, I can do a signing and not be in your face and in the way. Damn thing works, and you can make it work.

It has boosted interest in this, HINT HINT HINT...

https://www.sunburypressstore.com/Live-from-the-Cafe-9781620067147.htm

I guess for me I am still finding my audience. I know my voice is finding its way to the page, and in a manner that is necessary.

Three books down, and the first of the Sweet Dreams Series will go later in the year. Searching for Roy Buchanan is the subtitle, and I’ve talked a lot and at length about it.

More editing, and I’ll be seeing my cover artist in May, hopefully; more legal stuff to do, more of too many things to do, and the knowledge we cannot quit this thing.

I do not quit.

Notice that yet? Yeah, I’m stubborn as fuck, but if it’s worth doing, you do it.

This is.

Now, back to health briefly...spending a bit more time at home, partly due to feeling like I have to get back to it. Lived here two years; not much has changed in the home, but I will be making a few minor changes as time goes by. It’s most comfy here; and regardless of where I live, I prefer and can handle it.

Also have to decide whether or not a certain Rx is gonna keep being used. I did something to my back over a week ago, and spasms were pretty bad.

I have seen the chiro, seen the doc, changed my sleeping position, etc. Now I do have a lovely muscle relaxant, but I can’t use it before work.

But two days of it, and I know what it’s done. I am alert, but it drops me back a gear, and I do not like it. I think the rest for a couple days outside the job was good, but I’m feeling better, and I just don’t want to go a full month of this shit.

People who really need it? I get you. The opioid epidemic here in PA is pretty bad, but I think we know where we can point the finger. Not at the victims of this, either.

And for those of you who ask:

Kao is adjusting well. She is a little monster. She “garbages,” which my mother used to castigate our old Beagle Rufus for doing. I’ve made it so she can’t really do that, and Kao has managed to get along with the others.

She is a quirky cat; doesn’t like getting picked up, and petting her is when she damn well feels like it.

Now what else?

Well, the feeling I have of not being able to relax, yet knowing I need to. I have a string of books that while not ready, are close to it. I could put one out a year for a very long time, but I think a bunch won’t see the light of day in my lifetime.

But I plan to hang out in this body for a while, so...get used to it.

I think as an excuse, I find other things to finish, or do, to avoid whatever unidentified thing exists that I don’t want to do. I still have no idea what that is.

Oh yes...I have a photo shoot tomorrow, courtesy of my longtime friend Alice. These are for this little publication:

https://popimpresskajournal.org/

Pretty cool, eh? Well, I have written a short piece on my good friend Gene Dante for the upcoming magazine, which can be picked up physically or online...the art world collides with fashion and so much more.

So much more to do...reading...been working on a number of books, and getting through them. Isabelle Allende’s The Japanese Lover was interesting; not a fan of hers, but this one worked out nicely.

The Gift of Rain...this is fucking brilliant. Tan Twan Eng’s historical novel of pre, during and postwar Malaya from a British mixed-race young man (and old man’s view). Detailed, graphic, violent, and unflinching.

We can only hope to write like this.

Not sure why, but I gave Amy Tan another chance. The Bonesetter’s Daughter was not as great as many made it out to be, just hard to follow. But The Joy Luck Club, despite jokes some have made...not done yet, good, but still a focus thing I have not been able to figure out. But the characters are very well done, and crafted nicely.

Tsiph’s book goes up top with all these others. As for the SDS, I am slowly probing the areas that need to be, to get it a bit better, and to also figure out how to promote again, and to do it right.

I also finished a manuscript, or the second draft, of a YA work, The Feels. It’s got a way to go; but I am now seeing there is a real, dual line of my writing.

The SDS is one line, and that contains, ready for this, two other trilogies written, and a book that could be three!

WTF, right?

And...the string of stories that are of a different vein. Serious ones, but also stories that find a way to celebrating a youth that I never celebrated.

So we’ll see where we go.

As usual, I’m a man in a hurry, but whatever. It’s how I’ve always been.

Peace, Out. 

Cyst Removal, American Health Care and Who in Russia is Reading My Blogs?

Okay...I am lying in bed with my wounded leg propped up, and Mitsuko Uchida is finishing off Schumann's "Davidsbundlertanze & Fantasie" on my iTunes, though I can barely hear it with the fan going.  I am not officially on the disabled list, but I have to be good and not do too much over the course of the next few days.

Right up front, I want you to realize that what I'm writing about is not to bemoan my condition, or that I am at death's door.  I've already been there once, so let's forget that.

But...what was to be a routine procedure turned into a week-long agony of weirdness which brings is to the state of the average person's health care and the wonder of why we need to do something about it.

If you don't know, I'm staying quiet on this because I really don't want to talk about it, but I can't help it.  Here's the deal:  I have over the years found myself susceptible to having a thing called a Sebaceous Cyst, or rather, several of them on my body.

I have two along my jawline, one of which got to be the size of a damn golf ball a few years ago before it blew, and I spent the better part of two days squeezing blood-tinged cottage cheese out of it.  Lovely sound it made, too.  The same one blew again a couple years ago, but cleared itself out with one huge sound of like someone blowing their nose.

I have one on my lower back which has been there for years, and the one on my inside left leg, right near the family pride.  They tend to be hard as rocks, and occur when hair somehow gets twisted up inside the skin (I think).  Sebum, this lovely white substance that is either like cottage cheese or hard as a rock, fills into the area and makes things get really big.

They are not cancerous, nor are they particularly dangerous.  They're just there; some people notice them, some people don't.  I don't like it when people stare at the one on my face, and immediately think something's the matter with me.

Surgical removal is the only way to officially get rid of the things.  Draining them doesn't really work, you have to remove the wall of the offending area.  

So anyway, a week ago I'm on this same bed, and I felt and heard the cyst go...internally.  A very strange feeling.  Where's it going, is it getting into my bloodstream, etc., etc.  These things make you wonder.

I was urged by a friend of a friend to go to find a doctor, fast.  I went to a Patient First outfit, and I must say I like the place.  They're open a lot, and provide decent service for not much money.  

The doctor there took one look at it, there really wasn't much to look at but the now diminished ball; he saw no issue, no sign of infection, but, "We don't do that here."

The above is almost like the mantra for a lot of doctor places.

This fellow says I need a General Surgeon, for an in and out job.  Okay; need to see primary care physician, can't see anyone till Monday.

See where the trouble is beginning?  The delay in getting this looked at becomes a problem.

Well, my primary care physician is on vacation (heard that one before, haven't we?).  I get her boss; a doctor who was way too happy with the world around him.

By the time this dude sees me, that cyst is now reddening, and not looking so good.  I'm doing my best to keep it clean, but the swelling makes it rub...everywhere.  Against my skin, against my clothes, against everything.  It's getting raw, and it's getting ugly, folks, see where we're going here.

Well, the doctor takes one look at this mess and says he does not dare tap it himself.  Okay; why not?

Too many other patients (customers) waiting?  Worried about your skills?  Or are you just grossed out by what you're seeing and I'm feeling?

So he sends me out front to the desk people and it's call the General Surgery people up the street and get me an appointment.  Oh, and drugs.

Antibiotics and me don't get along.  I'm allergic to penicillin, and most sulfa meds.  So they call in a scrip for a powerful, and expensive antibiotic.  Very expensive.

And they try to book me.  Oh, tomorrow they say?  But he won't have the antibiotics?  Let's again ask the doctor if that's okay, shall we?

Appointment lost. 

Meanwhile, I'm standing there, and realizing that the pain that is coming out of that throbbing mass of gristle inside my skin is getting worse.

So they call again..."they have one on the 14th," the young lady behind the counter says.

Eight more days...let's pause for a moment here.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, LADY?  IS THERE ONLY ONE SURGERY I CAN GO TO?  ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?

I'm saying that to myself of course.  They then find one for today (this day), and I figure all right, I can hold out till then.  Knowing in the back of my mind, that I am in trouble.

The glutinous mess inside my leg is now expanding and hardening again.  There's one small area that's flaming red, and losing its skin.  I cannot even put bandages over it, it's that painful.

So, two more fucking days of this and trying to act like everything's okay.  And people say our health system is the best ever?  NO.  NO.  FUCK NO.  YOU SNOTTY LITTLE FUCKTARDS WITH INSURANCE FOR LIFE, GET REAL!

I have insurance, and it don't pay for shit.  I pay $180 for TEN, count 'em, TEN Avelox pills.  They make me dizzy, they make my body temperature rise and fall like the waves around Cape Horn, and you hope they actually work.

So I'm toughing it out.  The only way I can be comfortable and pain-free is lying down or sitting and not moving.  When I stand, not good.

Okay, flash forward to 4 am.  I am awakened by something, and I know it ain't good.

I don't even dare move, but I have to.  Something down on my leg does not feel right.  I feel something there; it's wet.  Thick.  Glutinous.

It blew.  Outward this time.  Now a closer inspection reveals the top of this dome has opened itself up to the air.  It's dark purple, it's ugly, it's bruised, it's bleeding.  Oh, and the pus.

The wastebaskets in my bedroom, office and bathroom became repositories for medical waste.  And lots of it.  The fucking thing is bottomless, and I am in fucking agony.  Two more Aleve (how many of these have I had?) and I finally force my body to calm down enough to where I figure I have no choice but to take the pain of wrapping this semi-fecund mess and hoping I can make it to the appointment.

Bless my friend Alice, for coming to drive me out there.  I could not have done it.  Into the surgery place, which is basically a doctor's office for the specialty; the guy who leads it looks a prize.  

Paperwork, another copay, loud old people SHOUTING AT ONE ANOTHER EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE SEATED BESIDE ONE ANOTHER IN THE FUCKING OFFICE.  And whatever else.

So finally I am brought back to another waiting room, then into the exam room.  More questions, blahfuckingblah and I meet the young female MD who's going to do the job.

Wow.  A smart one.  One who doesn't think she is all that; one who is professional, not a smiley faced nut, and actually seems to have a handle on the matter.  

Nothing against her colleagues, but HOLY FUCKING SHIT.  THIS IS NOW INFECTED, ABCESSED.  WE DID NOT HAVE TO GO HERE.  THIS, as I told one of their receptionists, SHOULD HAVE BEEN DEALT WITH A WEEK AGO.  THEN I WOULD NOT BE HERE.

Well, the Doctor gets down to business.  Now...I should tell you if you are eating, STOP READING THIS RIGHT NOW.  This is not for the squeamish.  This is not even for the sadistic or those who derive cheap thrills out of reading or watching a train wreck happen before their eyes.

Needless to say, breathing near this dome of infected flesh causes pain.  I keep telling myself that I've endured much worse; my car wreck in '94 and all that went with that, yes, damned sight worse.  But this had its own fun little moments, to be sure.

Anyway, the procedure generally calls for a draining of the blood and pus, removal of the cyst (if anything hard actually remains) and a cleaning out of the wall.  First things first, cleaning around it...

...my doctor did a very good job, and she was very keen on causing me as little discomfort as possible.  (Mozart's Mass in C Minor, with valkyries singing along with forboding music has begun...oh this works).

That done, the injection of painkiller, with a very long needle.  The young lady medical assistant did take an effort to hide the length and thickness of said needle from me, but I still saw it.  Strangely, that did not bother me; consider that my dental hygienist went through school sticking those into her own gums as part of her training before she got to me...and you will find that not much fazes me.

"You'll feel a stick, and then a burn..."  Well, not so bad, really.  I felt it, sure, but again the doctor showed her skill at doing this without much issue.

Then we get to the issue.  I barely felt the incision, only about an inch long through the infected epidermal layers, and down and in we go.  The doctor begins the "draining."  Actually, more of a heavy-handed massage of my thigh...the top of the dome had been seeping out all this shit in the morning, so I could only imagine something reminiscent of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919 going on where I could not see.

That is one creepy fucking feeling...you can feel the ooze splattering, gushing and crawling down your leg into the waiting formerly white medical stuff they use down there to catch shit.

I have seen Youtube videos of this kind of procedure; if you want, go there and then you'll really be grossed out.  

Now if this is not enough for you (are you with me still?  Good.), we then get to the main event.  REMOVAL.

I don't know what tool the doctor used, a forceps of some sort, and she started working around in there with it.  Now the pain really starts.  This is a unique brand of torture; didn't last long, but that was enough.

The doctor shows me a piece of the sebum that was in there; half the size of a dime, it looked like a piece of plastic that had been chewed on by some animal.

So while they fill a wastebasket full of the remnants of my leg, they finally clean it off again.  In the past, they used to pack the entire hole with cotton or something other; you'd have to have it removed every day, cleaned, repacked, etc.  They don't do that anymore.

The wound is still open, and the idea is to keep it draining.  You tuck a corner of a gauze bandage into the hole, then hold that in place while you use your second and third hands to wrap it in place.  Not too difficult, but you have to be thorough.  You need to get it tight, but not too tight.

So...hopefully there's a scrip for Vicodin awaiting me, though I don't think I will need it.  The post-operative pain is very little, and Aleve does a good number on me.  I can shower, but I cannot swim, so I need a new training adjustment.

I have to keep an eye on this wound, and make sure it stays good until next Tuesday, when the doc wants to see me again.  Hopefully we'll have made progress; a re-drain, maybe or something other.

Anyway...the point I make about all this is that I really don't feel I should have been made to fucking wait an entire week to have this done.  I would not have an abcess and infection had I been able to have access to my doctor, or any doctor and be able to get this done.

Instead we have this; someone has to be seriously fucked up or near death before anyone will act.  I have never understood the world of insurance billing, but I know when things don't work.

The argument over what kind of health care works and does not work is left to the people who think they know what works.  I don't want anything to do with it, and I'm sick of hearing all the lies about how wonderful it is.

It is not.  It is a fucked up system where bureaucrats and non-medical people are deciding how things will be run, and doctors, nurses, assistants and patients have to figure out how to work within that.

You may not like Obamacare, but is it worse than what we have now?  Or what we once had?  Remember HMO's?  Managed Care?  Horseshit, was what it was, and I know because I had to fight with them every fucking time I went to the pharmacy or to any doctor's office.

So...just to make a long story short, I'm okay.  I'm taking it easy and hopeful this all works out.  I think it will.  Exercise in patience.

###

Now, here's the update on my moving of the blog.  I will likely be leaving here and going to Wordpress.  The aim is to attract a wider audience and have something a bit better to present.

Also, to stop the Russians from pinging me, or whatever it is they're doing.

I'm getting a lot of hits from Russia, but I don't think they're humans.  If you are, please leave a comment and tell me what you are reading of mine.

Some kind of bot or engine is doing it, and I don't know why.  Weird.

Anyway, I shall have hopefully better things to write about.

Oh, and I have studiously ignored the Olympic Games.  They really rather bore me.  NBC's coverage has been absolute shit, and the BBC has totally owned them.  The Brits get that little nuance that there are actually nearly 200 COUNTRIES WHO HAVE SENT ATHLETES TO THE GAMES.  

IT IS NOT THE AMERICAN OLYMPIC GAMES, NBC.  GOT IT?  I doubt it.

Time to crash.  Hope your week went better than mine.  Peace.

The Open Road...Rocky Horror Reconsidered, Living on Zoloft and other Strange Thoughts...

Well, that's a good beginning, isn't it?  Back in the Office on the 4th of July, and "Farewell to Arms" is playing by ELP.  A ballad for whatever this state of mind is I'm in.


I have a lot to tell you of, and also this is the cleansing of my twisted insides for what must be the millionth time.


I am actually in a good state of mind right now, and it feels good.  Of course, 30 minutes on the bike and another 10 or so in the sauna on a day that's pushing 95 in the shade will do that to you.


So, let's see...I was on the road early Saturday, once more to return to Boston and help say farewell to the Loew's Theatre in Harvard Square, Cambridge.  The theatre has been home to the Full Body Cast of the Rocky Horror Picture Show since 1984.  It's final turn is this Saturday.  


I am actually working on the 7th, so I did my turn on the 30th.  My first time in that theatre to perform was on April 5, 1990, as a "Rocky."  Yes!  I did not become Riff Raff until a couple months after that.


iTunes update:  "Hurtin' Me, Hurtin' You," by Steve Earle.  The music fuels my fingers, what can I say?


From my pretentious hotel (I have to have a little fun, dammit), where I can cause heads of the allegedly wealthy to turn when this maniac dressed like a biker with a guitar strides through the lobby; anyway it is a comfy place, and I do like a little of that when I can get it.  View of the Charles is lovely, and it's close to stuff.


Like I wrote last summer, Cambridge (where I was), Boston, the whole city...it's alive again.  I really miss the activity, and yet with that comes the concerns I have about being able to survive in a city with such high tension. With the activity comes the tension and the stress.


Six weeks plus off Zoloft is like detox; I am fighting off a drug addiction.  I didn't even realize it.  I am still having issues with it.  Tension rises, the E-string gets fucking wound, and then look the fuck out.


"Moby Dick," Led Zep.  Hmmm...


In a city of millions, you can still feel alone.  I have written lyrics for a new song, which will be called "Strangely Unfamiliar."  That's how I felt.  I knew the whole city like the back of my hand; been here for many years, and yet it is not the same.  The change is good, but how to comprehend it, and adjust to it.


I need change; lots of it.  I keep saying I need to leave PA; I have almost nothing to hold me here, but for the off-chance that I can prove to certain people that I have value.  It would provide the base for which I need to do every other thing.


Every other important thing in my life.


I popped into Magic Dragon Comics in Arlington, and I caught up with my old friend and Rocky Horror compadre Eric Carter.  Eric is the former lead singer of Rogue, and a brilliant artist.  He tipped me to some of the independent comic and manga work being done in the area, including that of George O'Connor, former Rocky and Rogue member.


George is author of a zombie type work that is getting some attention out there.  Fully independent, and no strings attached.  


I made my pilgrimage to Newbury Comics, and the Jewelry/Tattoo shop to get a new ankh.  My last one broke; very interesting omen there.


"Rock this Place," Fabulous Thunderbirds...now we're talking.


Getting ready for the show, I could feel a terrible depression come down on me.  Excited to be back, then crashing hard.  


I drifted over to the Harvard Theatre early, and sat across from the place at the church steps.  This is/was the gathering point for the Rocky people for years, before we could be let inside the building.  I thought back to years of being here, being with these people, my people and how it's all going away. Bittersweet memories.


I felt ill.  I didn't want to do this; I didn't want to perform, and I actually thought about no-showing.  But I had to get one last turn on the stage for fun, and to remind myself why I did it all those years.  It was fun; and it was okay to seek that fun out.


There's a terrible guilt trip we lead on people; to enjoy life is somehow a bad thing.  We have to work, make money, find a spouse, fuck the spouse and spit out a bunch of kids, etc., etc., etc.  Modern living.


Most of us never did that.  Well, a lot of the Rocky people are now married, have kids, real jobs, but they didn't lose their sense of fun.  


I had attributed this line to my friend Lisa Risley, but it was not written by her.  In a play Riz directed me in, her character says, "The theatre is a home for lost children."


Think about that.


We are.


I was.


A Lorenna McKennitt song came on...I skip.  I hate to say it, but I find her music annoying.


Carlos del Junco, "Don't Worry Your Pretty Little Head," is next...blues guy, but this is a slow, jazz type of thing with harmonica.  Different.


It's funny what makes the fog lift.  Two ex-cast members suddenly popped up in front of me.  They were not there to perform, but they dropped in.  Then two more.


These photos by the way are on my Facebook; there are two folders, so check those out.


So we all got to talking, like we did, and I felt awake again.  Thanks.


The gang slowly came in...Wombat, the techie for life it seems, and others...the dark, the scantily clad (all ages, haha), and the rest started to show up.  There is a kinship that will never die with these folks.


Another reason to go back.


The show was an all-star mashup of performers, tagging off as the night went on.  I had the middle part, which I fortunately remembered.  I look old...damned old in those pictures that were taken.  But it was fun.


Preshow was an extended set of performances, and a free for all Time Warp.  How do you do that?  All Riffs (4), all Magentas (3), all Columbias (2 or 3), and I got one last leap off the riser.


Fun.


That was something else.  The good news is, the FBC has a new home, in Boston Common, which begins on August 4th.


"Killer Queen..." -- do I have to tell YOU?!?


Sunday...I hung out with an old friend, Gretchen and I later had my collaborators' meeting with Riz and Jen (the latter the hand behind the Sweet Dreams Series).  


Jen is as crazy busy as ever...she's become a workout junkie, and looks remarkably fit.  We found our way (thanks to Jen's GPS) into the Medford Suburbs...yes, "Meh-fuh" does have them!


Riz's new home with her new boyfriend and his daughter is a wonderfully cluttered little home with lots of intriguing curiosities.  Al is a laconic New Englander, but a good guy.  I liked him immediately.  The youngest daughter, last one at home is Lex.  


Hardcore Otaku.  I love her.  Riz and Lex have bonded over Invader Zim, and numerous other such things.  I have not seen the woman so happy, and she deserves it.


"When a Guitar Plays the Blues," Roy Buchanan--THE SONG THAT STARTED THE SWEET DREAMS SERIES.  ALL OF IT.


So anyway...a certain press is looking at the SDS, manga version.  The possibilities that they will pick up the book could happen.  It's now a wait.


Meanwhile, the cover concept must be set, so we can make a second submission to a publication for previews and promotional purposes.  We're back in the business, again.


Another long night...Monday...I took a walk along the Charles, and for once saw that side of the river along Memorial Drive in a way I never had.  I needed the exercise, and damned if I would get any in the hotel pool.


Hotel.  Pool.  Tourists.  Kids.  Enough said.


I got a good walk into Kendall Square, which has grown up a bit over the years.  Found an indie coffee shop to hang in, and had a scone which weighted about three pounds!  The upwardly mobile, the MIT crowd and the rest all getting on here, as in every place through this city.  Indeed.


I kept walking eventually, back toward the river, and passed a coffee shop I could later go back to.  Voltage. 


This is a minimal, coffee and art place.  Art works hang on its bare walls, and while the coffee is pricey, it's pretty good.  


I did some shopping...yeah, guess what?  I do.


I do think some changes to my life will come; every now and then this snake (my totem animal) needs to shed skin, and I will do that again as time goes by.


Later, I had dinner with Riz, and we talked for three ours.  Another part of the world in Medford has changed:  Wellington Circle is gone.


I worked the Strawberries there from 1989-90.  It's all gone, replaced by a mini-city called Station Landing.  Weird.  It's kind of like Hunt Valley, for those who have never been there and live where I do now.


Riz is dealing with numerous issues, as always, but I feel a corner will turn with her.  About time.  I am hopeful to turn my corners as well.


"Victims of Comfort," Keb' Mo' -- now isn't this an indictment of not just the rich, but quite a few of us?  It is on his first album, great song.


Our modern world has taken us into a corner, all of our own making.  I wonder about what we've done, and what I have to do.


As it stands, I have no job.  I am on-call, for both WITF, Radio PA, and yes, Clear Channel.  There's no work; no unemployment, but I have lived quietly and alright.


I am not starving, and though I fear it, homelessness and being dead-ass broke is not going to happen.  I will not permit it.


"Come into My Life," Robert Plant.


Of course, you must think, "Well, he just took a trip to Boston to hang out with those weirdos from his past!  Blah, blah, blah."


Trying not to worry about it all.  But there is so much that we do think are like the necessities, when they're not really.


So anyway...zoomed outta Dodge early on Tuesday, avoided the holiday rush and bullshit and made it home before noon.  I have before me a lot of work to do, and a lot of changes to make.


These will take a long time.  I do not know if tomorrow I'll have a job, if I'll suddenly have to move, or if something even bigger occurs.


I have had people criticize me for having "no life."


What does that mean?


Look around, and at you:  what do I see?  I see a life that I can't shit on, because I am a part of it.


What do we do in this world?  We make money.


Money provides a lot of things; "breathing room," as my old roommate Kevin once said.  Yes, that's so.


Too much will kill you.  Why make tons of money in a job you don't like?  For what?


To buy a new car, when the one you own runs just fine?  The Silver Saturn is 237,000 miles old, and while I know it's going to cost me to get it inspected, it's still cheaper than buying a new one.  I don't want a new one.


My poor old house that I rent is 90+ years old; the landlady did say that it would be better to raze it eventually, and put another on it.  I was surprised by that, because Alice and I, among others have considered it.


I do love that piece of land, and I would like it, but...with ownership comes responsibility.


Taxes.  Codes Enforcement Officers.  Township Regulations.


Not worth it.


I would rather rent, and know that being a good renter means not just to pay the rent, but to not destroy the house.  I admit, I've not been great to the old spot, but at least I'm not knocking holes in the walls and stealing from the landlord's garage, like a previous tenant is alleged to have done.


David Jacobs-Strain, "Kokomo Blues."  Local guy, really good musician.


I don't go to bars, I don't drink anymore.  I no longer smoke...holy shit, $10 a pack in New York State!  If that doesn't make you quit, I dunno what will!


I do have a membership in a health club, and that has been a good influence.  That plus the people around me.  After one year, I can see benefits.  I am healthier than I have been in almost 20 years.  It's a good thing.


I suppose I am one of the consumer generation, and I do wish I was not so much.  Then again, at this point, I've needed to live quieter, and more simply.


It's not an easy life, but we have to live it.  One has to shed the need to do things, 24/7.  We have to go here, go there, do this, do that, keep up with the Joneses, etc.


Sometimes, it's hard to even just survive, and I know all about it.  You have nothing at times, and you feel the frustration, the anger, the hatred of all who have what you do not.


We're seeing that anger now in politics.  I see people vote against their better interests and judgement, because it makes them feel good for one moment to stick it to someone else.


But what if that hurts you?  Two years later, you'll be screaming bloody murder about THAT.  And you still think it's someone else's fault!


I don't blame anyone for the place I'm in.  It's not about blame.  I don't blame me, or anyone.  I made my calls, and I don't regret it.


If there will be a big step, I will consider it, and take it if I feel it's right.


This is very hard to deal with, when you are considering the drug matter. Zoloft.


Katherine Sharp is the author of a book I'm reading, "Coming of Age on Zoloft."  It's her story, plus that of others.


Worth reading.  It is not an indictment on the drug industry, but it points a finger at it.


Since the 50's we've been drugging ourselves, or letting others do it.  We are a drugged-out generation of feel-good people, and yet we still feel like shit a lot of the time.


Zoloft is like many of these drugs; therapeutically they are satisfactory in the short term.  They help.  But they are NOT meant for life.


I have been on the Big Z 12 years.  I was led to believe it was okay; I was led to believe I'd need it all my life.


WRONG.


I don't fucking need it.  I am amazed that the most creative and productive period of my life occurred during this time.


I realize how hard it is in withdrawal.  My stress, anxiety, and fury return without warning.


I trashed the Vibe Room a couple weeks ago in a fit of rage.  Childish, stupid, immature...yes, but it made me feel better.


I nearly turned into a Road Rage incident in Boston Monday night when I could not find my way from Cambridge to Medford.  W/O the drugs, I get scattered, and I get lost sometimes.  Not good.


I have to learn to step back on my own.  It is very hard.  But I have to do it.


"Fire Woman," the Cult.  Nice.


I'm doing my best, folks.  Hard as hell sometimes, but sometimes it works.


Today, I feel fine.  Tomorrow, who the fuck knows?


My life is one long strange trip, but so isn't yours.


I'm gonna figure out the next step.  If I have to leave PA, which I admittedly want to apart from one chance at a brass ring, so I do.  


Where I go, will be where I'm meant to go.  Back home?  A new land?


Either way, it's gonna be fun, because you have to have fun.  I'm having it right now, telling you all this crazy shit that's going on.


Enjoy your fourth.  The park on a diagonal line from my back lawn is gonna host fireworks tonight.  I just have to go outside.  That will be fun.


Peace.