It sure is dark in here, ain’t it?

I knew the day I was certified as a N.A.S.M. (National Academy of Sports Medicine) fitness professional at the age of 70, I was never going to be a high fiving, back slapping “get that leg up there, honey” personal trainer.

I have other plans.

With more than fifty years of weight training starting in Vietnam, we would bench press truck axles because mortar rockets were unavailable. I started taking my iron pills in earnest when I saw what was happening to my brothers in arms.

I have been in and out of YMCA’s, Bally’s, and LA Fitness centers over the years and I have seen… and heard, it all.

My expertise comes from making every fitness and nutrition mistake under the sun.

I had a right to be wrong.  Right?  🙂

I have been fat, skinny, drunk, sober and everything in between.

I had to be institutionalized to get off alcohol and prescription medications in 2016. (That’s another story.)

I have been divorced, detoxed, financially decimated and disenfranchised.

Nothing succeeds like excess.

Starting your fitness journey can be like sitting in a dark room. Or a minefield. You can’t see anything.

You don’t know where the furniture is, you don’t know the layout, you are afraid to step in any direction and you damn sure don’t want to hurt yourself.

So you sit. Deteriorating.

This is where I can be helpful. You can be the beneficiary of my clumsy and unartful attempts at fitness and nutrition

I think of myself of the guy who knows where the light switches are because I’ve been in the room before.

I’ve stumbled over the furniture, hit my head, stubbed my toe and howled in pain at the darkness.

But my failures can illuminate your journey.

Physical fitness is a head game. You’re not going to succeed if your head’s not in the game.

It takes more than a note on the mirror to make you fetch your sneakers.

it takes more than a prescription to prevent your chest from sliding down into your drawers.

You need to have a why. Why would you want to leave your comfort zone?

Why would you head out on a cold and rainy morning to run, or start banging out push ups on an empty stomach for no payoff?

If you are about retirement age or older, your why is staring back at you every morning in the bathroom mirror.

I can help you with more than exercise routines and what to cram in your pie hole.

I can shed some light on your situation.

I can show you why.

Go Rogue

508-517-6714

They need to fix the legal system in this country when it come to divorce and the abuse of restraining orders. If not, the cheese eaters will always win.

It was one year ago today, almost to the minute, when the disturbance at Wells Fargo in Sun City broke out. Security was called to the banker’s desk I happened to be sitting at because I was being told that I no longer had a checking or savings account at that fine establishment.

I wasn’t taking it well.

They were telling me that someone I was separated from and had taken care of for almost twenty years, thought it best that I learned to do more with less. Much less. Like nothing.

Someone, who in all that time, barely worked, never contributed to the household, went through horses, housekeepers, plastic surgery and expensive cars like underwear and always had her manicured hand out when the coffers were full.

She emptied and closed my only means of survival. My checking and my savings. Because her name was still on the accounts. I had no reserve chute. I became destitute.

It took less than ten minutes to move her belongings in when I gave her the invitation all those years ago.

After our separation, she filed a phony restraining order against me to keep me from asking her to help pay down the our marital debt. All communication stopped.

Until the bank called that day. I had no idea it was coming.

Back at the bank the situation further escalated when I asked where the money was that was in the accounts at the time of deactivation. When the banker looked at me like I just asked a really stupid question, the color of my language changed. And it got salty.

Everyone in the bank went into suspended animation.

I was left to stew in my own juices when the banker excused herself to retrieve someone higher in the Wells Fargo pecking order. But it was a Saturday, and she was on her own.

And I was on my own. Rent was due in a few days, I had a car payment, a cell phone bill, a dog to feed and the IRS was looking for their monthly nut she had reneged on. She never paid a cent.

A few days earlier, my lawyer told me unless I got back on her billing cycle, she could do nothing to help me contest the illegal divorce that my ex committed perjury to obtain.

She started talking to me like I just had a death in the family. She was sorry for my loss, but that was about it.

That was a year ago. If it wasn’t for some incredible people I would be typing this from a VA homeless shelter. But I’m not.

And I’m still talking about it.

The moral of the story is to never screw someone who has no secrets, no shame, no filter and suffers from Irish Alzheimer’s. I forget everything but the grudge.

As Buddy Guy says, “Be Careful With A Fool.”

It will never be over.

Hey, happy belated birthday, you sneaky little thing. I would have got you on the 14th, but I had to pull a double at the car wash trying to pay down the debt on all those bills we ran up to sell the house I split with you that you opted out of. You get all that?

(To all my thousands of subscribers, we used to be married.)

I do hope you’re doing well though, and I hope you didn’t get hit too hard by the feds on that windfall inheritance you received while we were breaking up. How much was that, anyway?

Anyway, sorry I’m late. But today is a significant day also. It’s the last day we ever spoke live. It was March 17, 2017, at 2:00 pm, to be precise, and we were on the phone.

I was telling you I was being crushed by the debt that you were equally responsible for. My name was on those cards but I thought it might be marital debt. Silly me.

I was so desperate, I didn’t think I was going to make rent that month. I asked you for 10 grand, (a drop in your by then, overflowing bucket), and I would forgive the rest. I remember you said, “Don’t think so.” Ouch!

Next thing I know, you went onto my bank account and helped yourself. I never knew you were such a kidder. When I raised a fuss, the police showed up at my doorstep with an “abuse” order and a severe warning.

Boy, you sure know how to keep a guy on his toes. I started packing for Arizona that week. I’m too old and unattractive for prison.  🙂

On October 25, 2017, you texted me birthday wishes and wished me well. Kind a strange turn of events after a restraining order issue. Still don’t know what I did.

On October 11, 2018, while I’m on my morning run, I find out you’ve been even busier, divorcing me by telling the judge you didn’t have any idea where I was. You must have forgot those texts you sent me earlier.

Then you put my correct name and address on the text to warn me you knew where I could be arrested….again. Whoa!

But life is so weird isn’t it? When you emptied out my two bank accounts, then shut them down, you got caught in the IRS mess that followed, now you’re responsible for half. Welcome to the party.

If you had just let me suffer along the way I was, no one would have been the wiser. I was too broke to divorce you. I was also too broke to go bankrupt. I had to sleep with my landlord to get her to overlook my shattered credit report. Which got me banned from her nursing home.

Hey, my break is almost over and I have to get back to washing cars. Say hello to my horse, look after my furniture, and be sure to check the oil on my BMW.

Probably won’t be in touch until the kickoff of my “Retribution Tour.”

Toodles.

I measure the success of my day by  progress. I have a dizzying array of varying interests and if I think of all of them at once I could exhaust myself go back to bed. I’m deeply involved in nutrition and physicality and all the benefits. That knowledge saved my life.

I write. I write every day. If I’m not writing because I have something to say, I write to see if have something to say.

I’m writing two books and I manage my blog, “The Enlightened Rogue.”

I’m working on my web sites, my upcoming podcast, learning new software programs to enhance my video production chops that includes music, motion graphics, graphic design, and thousands of weird little plug-ins.

I’m reading a killer marketing book “Fascinate”  by Sally Hogshead and “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck’. by Michael Manson.

I’m an inch worm. A little every day.

I write music. I devote at least an hour every day to piano and guitar techniques. I practice the piano just before bed so I know I’ll be able to drift off. I create set lists for comedy and music gigs. I create intros and openers for who-knows-what, who-knows-when.

Ya never know.

I’m deeply involved in Youtubing and vlogging now. I upgraded my phone and now I’m seriously back into video. My first love.

I realize after much futility, that the job market has no need for my services at this stage of my life, so I have to do the side hustle to keep me out of VA housing. Where incidentally, dogs are not a good idea.

When I get into bed, the only concern I have, beside falling asleep is how much progress I’ve made. There is so much to do before I lay down for good.

For that, I’m grateful.

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30 Paulina Street

It was twelve people choking on each other’s proximity. On a second floor.

It was cacophony, bedlam, violence and confusion. It was a mix of terror, disappointment and loose stool.

It was calls from the nuns, the library and the truant officer. It was hairy eyeballs from neighbors.

It was losing Ronnie Bohannon’s bike, causing me to lose consciousness at the hands of another human being….my father.

It was having no money.

It was the horror of hearing that extra goose on the gas pedal that would bring my father’s car onto our makeshift driveway at 6:00 pm.

It was waking up…drenched.

It was schoolyard beatings, police collars, paddy wagons, week-long runaways, Catholic school expulsions and a 200 dollar bill for breaking windows in the junior high school behind my house.

It was having to attend that very same school after St. Clements kicked me out.

It was sleeping in junk cars while on the run and waking just before it entered the crusher. After my father got a hold of me, the crusher would have been a better choice.

It was my father trying to beat the shit out me on a hospital bed at the Somerville Hospital because I got hit by a bus the day before Christmas. $80.00. My fault…. all of it.

It was changing the names on all the Christmas gifts before everyone woke up. To this day, Christmas still gives me a pain in the head. (I’m still an early riser.)

Then it was alcohol, more beatings, more arrests, more confusion.

It was the Division of Youth Services for almost a year. It was 10 months of Marvin Pratt, a state cop who thought I was a sexual work perk. I watched Kennedy leave and the Beatles enter.

Then it was the draft of 1966. Head shavings, line-ups, cavity searches, long train rides and wet ponchos. It was more beatings, drills, bayonet lunges, harassment, torture, swamp ass and hookers.

After a month long boat ride, Vietnam. Finally, some relief.

As they say, whatever doesn’t kill you.

My rocky start gave me everything to I need to survive whatever is going on in my life right now.

No question.

For that, I am eternally grateful.

Need to divorce someone without telling them?

Here’s how ya do it. You two separate but you’re on friendly terms. After 15 years of marriage, why not? You two never had a scuffle. Ever. You guys didn’t even touch for the last five years. He generously gives you a lump sum from the home you just sold. You both agree to work out the big chunk of debt later. Isn’t that nice?

After a few months, he starts asking you for some money. To you, this is not a good idea. It has to stop. So, to get him going, you go into the bank account you still have access to to and give him a little reach-around. You charge up a couple of hundred bucks and make yourself scarce.

He takes the bait. Cause he’s broke. He drives up to your house to discuss it with you and you’re not home.

He leaves a copy of his pilfered bank statement in your mail box and leaves. Bang! Right into the trap. If that isn’t grounds for a restraining order nothing is, by golly!

The next morning, the cops are laying for him. They slap paper on him at the station and tell him to shallow breath until court. He can’t physically close his mouth he is so shocked.

They tell him that if he should even bump into her at the supermarket, he’s gone. Brrrr.

In frustration, he leaves for Arizona to find work and get back on his feet. In a few months, on his October birthday, he gets a “Happy Birthday” from you-know-who. He knows he’s still being restrained so he doesn’t bite. (She knew how to reach him)

A year later, our guy is out running early one morning when “guess who?” give him a tickle. She makes some demands that he finds humorous and continues his run. Funny, she knew exactly where he was, didn’t she?

(This is important, so pay attention.)

What our chump doesn’t realize is that “Queenie” has been moving around in the shadows. She files for divorce saying she can’t find the hapless deadbeat. (Google?) He, the bigmouth of social media.

So she changes his address to “parts unknown” to expedite the proceedings.

The judge says, “If we can’t find the guy, let’s just decide in her favor. Bring the truck around, honey.”

He never gets served. He has no idea. She turned him into Jimmy Hoffa.

She tells the judge she can’t find her soon to-be- ex, “so let’s get this party started.” Whomp! Whomp! They close his bank accounts, they shuffle the debt towards him, she keeps his belongings and they slap ANOTHER restraining order on him for good luck.

And there you have it. D-I-V-O-R-C-E. All because she doesn’t know where to find him. Or does she? Hmmmm.

If she actually knew where he was all this time, and told a big fib, that wouldn’t be good.  Would it?

Oh look, she even added his full address to the bottom of her text message.

Oh, that’s not good.  🙂

Honey! What is wrong with you? How can you do this? Have you lost your senses? He was the only one who treated you right. He took care of you. He treated your kids right.

He took you off the street. I remember that dingy little condo. I was so worried about you.

All your life was one big drama with one low-life after another until he came along.

Let’s face it honey, the men you had in your life were no bargains. One of them actually scared me. You were living at poverty level. Your kids had no fathers, you were just stumbling along.

Your sister even offered to adopt them. She meant well but she can be a bit of a bulldog, that one.

He gave you nice cars, vacations, second homes, horses. He also paid for all those cosmetic surgeries only you and I know about.

Remember Rome? Remember Ireland? Remember Brussels? While he was busy working? And you weren’t?

I also know he loved you.

So the marriage ended. Well, that’s unfortunate but he shouldn’t be totally to blame. We both know you were never home. You were either at the barn all day, or down here with me.

He never complained.

Now you’ve decided to let him shoulder all the debt you both built up. Oh, dear.

I didn’t raise you to be like that.

And then all the credit card debt you both accumulated to get the house ready to sell. He gave you half of the proceeds up front. And then you stiff him? Susan, honey, think about that.

I think his credit might be ruined.

What concerns me most right now is the IRS. What if he goes to them and tells them what’s what? I don’t know why he hasn’t already. Doesn’t he have your social security number?

I would be very careful here. Half of that tax debt is yours, you know.

I won’t even go into that phony restraining order. Where did you come up with that? You could have ruined him forever. Frankly, I find that a little disturbing. That could come back to haunt you.

And did you really divorce him without his consent so he would be stuck with all those bills and to make sure he wouldn’t get any of the money I left you? Didn’t you get half of his 401K?

Did you really text him with “Heads up” on the divorce? Oh dear, this is getting distasteful. I’m sorry I brought it up.

You can do what you want, you always do, but I’m not comfortable with your behavior at the moment.

Honey, haven’t I always taught you to do the right thing?

Maybe you should come back to church.

Love, Mom.

I have a very healthy contempt for life. My days are filled with requests for assisted living, memory care and nursing home queries. Some folks are in a race to get stashed before their end of days.

Some know they will have a very long pull and are furiously trying to cram finances together so they can waste away in style.

Some religious types think all that pain and agony is part of the plan. Whose plan? I would love to meet that guy. Is he the one who killed my dog?

It’s a sin to off yourself, we’re told. We’re told we’re signed up for the whole shooting match. It’s good for the soul. Might I add…..bullshit.

I might sound a little wacky but I’m looking over the edge myself, and I have time to think about it when I run in the wee hours. (It’s 3:30 am and I just ran through a cloud of cigarette smoke, so who’s kidding who?)

Do I want to be somebody’s potted plant at $6,000 a month? Hell no! Who do we think we are? I had a rather unhealthy discovery with a client recently, willing to pay 10 to 12 thousand every thirty days to hole up in luxury. For as long as the process took. He was 72.

As we were hanging up, he mentioned he was going to the cemetery to make sure his plot was in a nice, shady spot and being cared for. Is it me? Let’s take up a little more geography for a couple hundred years shall we?

As far as my view goes, I will refer to my mother, who always said, “God helps those who help themselves.” If I get the tap, or the nod, I would like to exercise all of my options.

I thought I’d never eat lunch in this town again. I have the perverse habit of cataloging all of my foibles, missteps and boo-boos. When I look back at my droppings over the years, I see I’ve held nothing back. CLM’s as they say, career limiting moves. It seems I couldn’t help myself. I’m almost my own third person biographer. Whatever that means.

I didn’t think I got any therapeutic value out of disgorging all that tragic information at the time. But I’m starting to think I did. I sense a plot unfolding.

When I read back over some of my reflux, I realize that the mix of senseless chaos, tragedy, ruination and heartbreak is starting to come together like a finely crafted novel.

I better not start believing my own press. Because you know where that will get me. : )

Spam folders can be revealing. I just opened one and found all the promotional e-mails I would have normally received from Apple, Avid, Adobe and Sony from my previous life as a video producer. I thought to myself, “Oof, I’m glad that’s over.” What a crazy way to make a living. Corporate video production is not for the faint of heart, it’s full of unreal expectations, spotty planning and insane deadlines.

You learn to deal with  people who have no real-world experience in this art form. And it is an art form, make no mistake. They don’t teach video psychology in business school. Pleasing an audience is a bumpy road.

But they’re calling the shots. All of them. Way too many chiefs. I used to sit up on the phone into the wee hours with some kid who was trying to impress his boss with a video technique he saw in the Matrix. He could hardly explain it, but you had to deliver it. You learn to endure the word “like” ad nauseam.

At the outset, no one really has a plan. It always starts with a “wouldn’t it be cool?” and sort of unravels from there. The nail-biting, the misunderstandings the sometimes name-calling and blame-affixing follow suit. I once did 19 takes of a marketing rep flinging herself onto a couch in slow motion. Cool…

The tension those days, had me pumping Maalox. I don’t miss it. I developed a late-night phone phobia that is still with me.

Coaxing credibility out of a harried executive is an art form. You form a symbiotic relationship that doesn’t leave the room. I found that experience to be one of the more interesting aspects of the job. I had to say some things that weren’t always welcome by an ego-in-chief. Awkward.

If he does an on-camera belly flop, you know where the blame will go. If you can’t direct, you shouldn’t be in the room. You need the emperor to keep his clothes on.

Over the years, you build up an arsenal of fixes, techniques, approaches and doomsday scenarios that will keep you out of the flames and potentially get you paid on time. You’ll get the soup, if you don’t go nuts.

In the end, I have to say, nothing gives you more of a keen awareness of end-user experience like video production. Especially when it involves sharing knowledge with jaded, distracted and indifferent audiences.

What HR, Sales, Marketing, Manufacturing and Business Development think is a revelation, is nothing but a cure for insomnia to their intended audience. But you are the delivery method. Lipstick + pig = end product.

As in any discipline, business model, or modality, it’s always the end user. You have to anticipate, psyche up and deliver. You have to put yourself in the audience’s shoes to satisfy the greater good. That’s where the focus should always be.

If you have to ask “was it good for you?” … it wasn’t. Being a video producer allowed me to forge undying relationships with a lot of great people. It’s something I’ll always keep with me but….. cut!

“Come back baby, rock and roll never forgets.”

Someone asked me recently, ‘Bobby, how are you going to translate this personal training certification thing?” Good question. I knew going into it that I wasn’t what you would call a “showroom trainer” type. I don’t have a 28 inch waist, a man bun, and I don’t feel like hanging around a gym for 16 hours a day for not much money. That was for sure. What I am, is a 71-year-old man who just happens to be in the best shape of his life. The body never forgets.

And what I’m interested in, is sharing with people in my demographic, that no matter how long you’ve been out of shape, what types of abuse you’ve committed against yourself, the machine you were born with never forgets how to respond to proper care and feeding.

In August of 2016, I tipped the scales at a plump 228 pounds and I had a deadness behind my eyes. In a word, I was cooked. I was finally sick enough, and tired enough, to try and rally my fat ass back to the world of the living.

I laced up my sneakers in an effort to realize just that. I remember one night, looking in my bathroom mirror and thinking “pear”. My upper body resembled a pear. No lines, no muscle and no definition. Sad. How did I get like this? That type of biofeedback has a devastating effect on the psyche.

My main goal with copious amounts of exercise, was to knock myself out all day so I could sleep at night. After everything I had been through, I was begging for mercy. Exercise would be my ticket. It was. And it wasn’t long either, before I started seeing a return on my investment. Sweat equity.

I dove headlong into a Spartan lifestyle, where it was damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

The changes came fast and furious. Exercise is it’s own benefit. My blood pressure plummeted, my resting heart fell to the low 60’s. My complexion got healthier looking and the curse of all men, the waistline, drew itself in. Precious sleep came in abundance.

I was thinking clearer and loaded with gratitude. I decided to do something constructive to reinforce the new gift of me, to me: certification as a fitness professional through the National Academy of Sports Medicine.

I had to rouse many a dormant brain cell in that process. Ouch!

Fast forward one year:  I am living in Arizona 40 pounds lighter in body and loads lighter in spirit. Which brings me to my point. While working out yesterday at my gym, I noticed Kyle, a personal trainer friend of mine giving assessments to a couple of older ladies. Late fifties, early sixties and pretty much out of shape.

When you join LA Fitness, you get a free session in hope that you will sign on for more sessions with that personal trainer. I said hello as I normally do, the four of us had some light banter before I went along my way.

Kyle is 24 and not an ounce of fat on him. Unless you count the bun. 🙂 He told them who I was and that I was a newly certified personal trainer. They called me last night looking to engage my services. Seems they would rather be trained by someone they can more readily identify with.

It’s hard to relate to someone who’s never carried an extra pound. Which is why I wrote this piece. It’s my age group that needs help. I’s my contemporaries that need to understand that all is not lost. That it’s doable. There is hope. And more importantly, you don’t have to travel to Sparta.

So it seems to be working out. (Forgive the pun). By telling my story and making myself available, hopefully, a lot of older folks like me, will benefit. If I translate it properly.

I scare myself. Period. A plan in the morning is folly at night. Since I moved west, every nutty passion I’ve developed over the years seems to be in demand. Sales, marketing, video production, music, stand up, personal training and even cooking.

One phone call can turn my world upside down and inside out. I never learn. Don’t want to.

I am addicted to uncertainty. According to actuarial tables, I have more behind me than I do in front of me, so let’s dispense with the moderation, shall we? It’s too late.

After all the nuttiness of the last year, there is no way I’m gonna straighten up and fly right now.

I realize now that every straight gig I have ever had, though lucrative, bound me up and gagged me. “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” says Thoreau. I call it “Wimpy Living”. I’m too far out the shoot for that.

This is like the Gold Rush. Most business men out here have more creative ideas than a Gambino foot soldier. Nothing is off the table. Gotta love it.

I’ve had many Monte-Christo moments in my Château d’If. It took a year of introspection and reconstruction to right myself again. AA, therapy, self-help, religion, enemas, no thank you.

I regained my health, both mental and physical, and managed to get back up on my now, two strong legs. I’m better than ever, according to me. 🙂

There’s no time for second thoughts. No long term plans. Can’t happen. It’s over. If I ever needed a reason to get over myself, I have it. There will be no “Wimpy Living” from here on out. So let’s kill something… and eat it, shall we?

You thought you got over on me, dincha? You thought I would curl up, dry up, then blow away, dincha? I would refer you to the thinking of Mr. Darwin, his thoughts on natural selection and why I was bred specifically for these types of challenges.

You have to know that anyone who thought a tour in a war torn country was similar to Club Med, had a rigorous upbringing, but you forgot about that, dincha?

You complain to the judge, but he pays you short shrift,
As the money you loaned her, turns into a gift.
You get monthly installments, you’ll never rebound,
You’re financially naked, those zeros are round.
You try to use reason, but that doesn’t work,
The love light is gone, replaced by a smirk.
All’s fair they say, in matters like these,
Cry all you want, while you’re down on your knees.
Then you start thinking, about all of those years,
Who was this person, the sum of your fears?
You thought that her loathing, was kept in reserves,
For everyone else, who got on her nerves.
The things that you valued, have all gone to pawn,
She’s not the same person, the money’s all gone.
You should never relax, cause things can get worse,
You have all the symptoms, of love in reverse.

\

I do a lot of small business marketing in this area. So naturally, word travels. I use video production, web savvy, writing and graphics capabilities to help these local businesses get on the map. It’s been a lot of fun and I haven’t had to endure much “pain by purchase order.” 90 to 120 days is not unusual for some outfits around here. No, thanks.

So this local bigshot gets wind of me and asks if I can come to his office for an interview. Today! I get there at 2:00 o’clock and he’s ready for me. In spades. He has all his employees lined up to meet me and has each one explain their function. In detail. An awful lot of information. I was hoping there wasn’t going to be a test afterwards.

He has five businesses all under the same roof. I can tell most of them are “ego buys”. This guy shoots first and never asks questions later. He went on and on about the potential of his businesses, then started peppering me about my availability. I told him about my plans to move west. He asks me if I can postpone if he makes me an offer. I say yes but I’m hedging my bet. Been down this road before. Could be a test. He asks me what I want for a salary.

I am no virgin, I know the first guy to name a price, loses. I put him off because I want to see what I might be getting into. I’m mostly packed and have already given my land lady my notice. He brings more people into his office. The pressure is on. He’s doing the hard sell about the future of the company, his personal plans, on and on. I change the subject because I think his mating habits might be up next.

At the three hour and ten minute mark, I tell him I have to get back. He follows me all the way out and down to my car with his hand on my shoulder. He asks if I will be available in the morning to take an offer by phone. I reply in the affirmative. He never called. That was last Wednesday, this is Sunday.

At my age, I don’t take shit. I don’t have to. I see this guy all the time around town. Is he retarded? After all that, I’m starting to think so. Maybe he just had a slow afternoon and wanted someone to come over so he can listen to himself talk.

There’s a lot about corporate America I don’t care for. This guy ain’t helping their image with me.

I am not above scandalizing an outfit if they screw me. Nobody does it better. There was a guy named “Robert” who works for a blood collection agency based in Florida, who put me through my paces for three weeks listening to himself talk. What a load of self-possessed bullshit this guy was. (is)

I used to work with him in a Pharma marketing outfit. He went from big pharma to big plasma. I thought he had the fertilizer market cornered back then, but I hoped he might have grown up over the years. Nope.

I bought plane tickets, shipped equipment, hired staff and blocked out a whole week for his annual meeting. The night before I was getting on a plane, he texted me that it was off. Just…off.

You can imagine my laundry lady’s response. He had to be kidding. Nope, he wasn’t. He never even ran it by his boss. The boss called him an idiot and put him on another project. But the fun didn’t stop there. They tried to get out of paying for my “out of pockets.” They started speaking another language. They nickel-dimed me to death. I’m still spitting.

I don’t think a judge would punish me for kicking one of these empty suits right square in the ass. After all, there’s nothing there anyway.

Long board (bored) meetings.
Cluttered, endless, powerpoint.
Monotone speakers who keep saying how excited they are.
Speakers who jingle their change louder than they speak.
Loose chairs that tip all the way back when you nod off.
Clocks that don’t move.
CEO small talk.
Wearing underwear.
Packed agendas – Worse when they warn you up front.
Human resources – Being their sexual harassment poster boy was a lot of work.
Performance reviews – From some guy with shiny pants who couldn’t carry my jock.
That little asshole across from me that understands everything, all the time.
Trade shows – My feet started hurting while I was typing this.
National Sales Meetings – I always wondered what company I was working for on the ride home.
District meetings -They’re too small, no place to hide.
Town Hall Meetings – When you haven’t had a good night’s sleep? Hell!
Company cookouts – You mean I have to eat with them too?
Trumped up awards with endless verbiage. I used to shit confetti for a week.
In-house personnel ride-a longs. They hated being in the trunk.
That psycho-bitch product manager who could rip your manhood off and eat it right in front of you. Die! Die!

I just had a moronic to and fro with a “Friend of Bill” who threw out all the stops to get me to come back for one more AA benediction. I demurred. I am not interested in picking that scab until it gets infected again. A life of instant replays? No thank you.

Last year, when my world was collapsing, I picked up a drink after almost 38 years. I wanted to numb myself while my sink drained. Did it work? Absolutely. As advertised. There are things I still don’t remember. Thankfully.

Was it dangerous? Of course. I was also abusing Xanax and could have stroked out. Did I think I would die? Possibly. Did I give a shit at the time? No.

So this guy is railing at me, quoting chapter and verse of the Big Book. He has a fucking anecdote for everything. You know the type.

He is convinced that unless I bow my head and ask my higher power for help, I will soon be on the road back to perdition. Bullshit, I say.

If my higher power is the only one that can keep me from the devil’s brew, where the hell was he when I picked up a drink in the first place? He must be a Baptist.

AA can be like religion, in that you can’t keep your sobriety unless you give it away. Sounds like Ponzi.

I’m the boss of me. The forces of good and evil have nothing to do with my decisions. Would I do what I did all over again? Maybe. It would be my decision at that time.

If I got a bad diagnosis there’s no telling what I would do, but I’m not going to soil myself in anticipation.

So my clean and sober friend, who lives by the “Chicken Little” philosophy of life, will have to hit the streets in search of another “victim”.

I am in control of this “Enterprise.”

Editor’s note: Any similarities to anyone living, deceased or inebriated, is purely coincidental.

I have this close friend who recently had his marriage fall apart. It was a long term situation where all the assets were thoroughly mixed. He also suffered from an addiction to prescription medications for which he was successfully treated.

But while he was being treated, his wife made some very cozy financial moves.

Didn’t he see this coming? Nope, he was probably loaded.

As for her, someone not having any marketable, redeemable skills or qualities, one could hardly blame her. After all, Sugar Daddy was now out of sugar.

When he got out of the hospital, dazed and confused, he found himself alone and almost penniless. Not only that, there was debt, lots of debt.

His wife, with her new found wealth and property, refused to share responsibility. Leaving the poor, still shaky schmuck to fend for himself.

She wouldn’t even tell him where the financial bodies were buried, so to speak.

Now, he had to face this new situation without the help of his orange bottles. Egad!

Well, my friend has been through a lot in his life and so he figured he would take his licks and keep on ticking. He got his health back, his physicality back and his unflagging spirit. It was time to move on. So he thought.

Then, when he gets the nerve to check his online banking account, he is shocked to find that his estranged wife has been helping herself to his already dwindled down finances. WTF? She has all the money anyway. Overkill?

He is all at once, shocked and outraged and does a few things to send a shot across her bow. Pretty harmless stuff in the scheme of things. My friend likes to save the good stuff for last.

The next day he is served a temporary* restraining order for his petty transgressions. He laughs it off because he knows, she knows, what he knows. The cops tell him what he can’t do but they also tell him what he can do.

(Veterans have this bond. )

I told my friend years ago to be careful but he wouldn’t listen. He was too trusting. A fool, that one. He is now licking his wounds with that evil, sinister grin he is famous for.

But I also told him he would get no pity from me, he should have listened. Next time, (if there is one) he’ll pay attention.

So smarten up and don’t forget to be careful. 🙂

*Ten days.

I’m watching American Greed about two brothers who opened up a string of pain clinics in Broward County, Florida. They hired docs with DEA licenses to rubber stamp pain medicine prescriptions. They were seeing about 500 patients, uh, addicts a week.

They made 40 million dollars in two years and were eventually put in prison. People died as a result of overdoses all over the country. What do you expect?

Of course, the brothers were crooks and went to jail, but the feigned outrage of the families who put all the blame on the brothers is over the top bullshit.

I don’t want to get into a discussion about why humans want to alter their consciousness, the simple fact is, they do. I do. I just use an endogenous drug these days. The endorphin.

We did all kinds of stupid shit when were kids to get high, from nutmeg in hot water, to eating the inside of a Vick’s inhaler. Ugh. Anything.

The escape attempts went on all through our adult lives. Everyone’s looking to escape. Aren’t you?

All the commercials horse whip us into thinking we should be on an empty beach drinking Bacardi. Reality bites! Didn’t you get the memo?

We all love life, but we don’t like it plain. It needs a little something. Then I see these family members screaming bloody murder that these two guys killed their poor brother or sister. GTFOH!

Take two of these and call me in the morning.

When you’ve sat through enough job interviews, especially if you consider yourself a creative, you see a common thread. The wind up, the pitch and the hypotheticals all seem vaguely familiar. Because they are.

Their “by the book” style of trying to gauge your fit in their organization, leaves a lot to be desired. It also leaves a lot of you still on the table.

They are taught to hire against the pre-determined job description and dispense with the ad libs. That part, they have down cold.

At some point in the interview, you come to the realization that the only one who knows your true potential is your mother. Unfortunately, she’s not hiring.

I usually make a huge boo-boo by listing all of my creative experiences. songwriting, video production, singing, playing guitar, piano, cheffing, and stand-up. Sales and marketing I throw in at the end. 🙂

I actually put out an album of safety music. (What were they thinking?) But these folks don’t like coloring outside the lines. They aren’t going to be experiencing any light bulb moments in front of you.

I had dinner with a guy named Peter Card one night about my future. After I kept bringing up all the things I could do, he kept coming back to “Bob, what business are you in? If people don’t know exactly what business your in, they won’t know what to do with you.” He was right, they like plain old vanilla.

I had an interview with a guy two days ago, who almost gave himself a brain hemmorhage right in front of me trying to figure out a way squeeze me in to his organization. There’s always hope, I guess.

There was one guy, Bob Sullivan. He took the bet based on a hunch. It was an uphill battle with the V.P. of Sales, but he saw something in me that I certainly wasn’t aware of.

Not a plain man, that Mr. Sullivan.

When you got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose.

Now, at 71, I got nothin’. Gone. Everything that was in this POD, that represented my life, was either pumped or dumped. Guitars, clothes, equipment, furniture, anything worth money. I fell victim to my own risky lifestyle.

I am now leaner in every sense of the word. I’m also financially lighter and less complicated. But I’m none the worse for wear after all I’ve been through.

And it feels good. I feel good. To think of how much time I spent fretting over property and plunder makes me weary. Today was the last time I will have to make the drive to Nashua to inspect my sole belongings.

Everything I have now will fit into my SUV. I know, because that’s where it is right now. Ready.

I am not out of the woods yet. I am left with a myriad of financial woes which I will have to reconcile. And I will. I have a life full of challenging experiences to draw from. I used to think of them as a burden. I was wrong.

I’ve been in a war. I’ve been on a ward. I’ve been beaten unconscious. I’ve been drunk, sober and everything in between. I’ve been on the killing floor.

I’m broke, been broke before. If I have to do some time, done time before. At least in jail, I will have no problem making rent. I’ve been married too. I won’t do that again.

I’m sure there’s a lesson here, but I don’t do lessons, lessons are for schoolboys.

Life ain’t gonna chastise me into the dirt. I still have a few hands to play. And….I cannot be embarrassed.  🙂

I am on deck and waiting to get up to bat again. Luckily, I have a very short memory and a foolish but creative history. As Buddy Guy says, “Be careful with a fool.”

See you around.

Balls: Two, not four.

As you can imagine, I have no end of second base coaches who like to weigh in on my travails. Like I have cornered the market on failure. I’m failing as hard as I can, but I don’t have it cornered by any means.

These are the guys who, somehow, got to second base and like to stay there. They either whacked a double or they got driven there by another batter. Either way, they’re pat.

Second base is good enough.Trying to steal third, or home, is out of the question. Right here is fine, thank you very much. It’s not third, it’s not home, it’s… just…second.

My problem is, and always has been, if I get to second, I’m already thinking about third or even home. Always. That takes nerve or stupidity. Both of which, I have in abundance.

I’m already looking at third as I’m running my ass off for second. That’s the way I play.

So it goes without saying, I am ripe for a lecture from all the second base denizens in my sphere of influence. They’re not happy and they’re not miserable, they’re just…on second.

They tsk, tsk, me into a stupor with their helpful anecdotes on how they dig their cleats into that two-bagger of mediocrity. It’’s a nice view, they say.

I got thrown out trying to run all the bases on a bunt. I trust my legs. I trust my odds. But for all intents and purposes, the sides retired on me. Too bad. So I’ll hit the showers for now.

You can stay on second where it’s safe if you like, but I can tell you, if I ever get to bat again, I won’t change my strategy. I’ll still be tilting my bat at that Citgo sign.

I’m betting on a home run based on balls… mine.

What a difference a year makes! How the body never forgets. Thank God! I will elaborate on my transformation in the coming months but for right now I just want to steep myself in gratitude for getting this second chance at living and kicking all my dependencies. I was as close to the edge as I ever want to get until my time comes. I will not be so foolish again. Thank you.

I remember Arthur Keenan, bless his soul, pulling me aside at my very first AA Meeting at St Francis’ Church in Medford in 1979. I was jonesing for a drink after coming down off of 8 hits of speed and about two quarts of Southern Comfort. There were these big long, shaky tables set up in an auditorium on that Sunday night.

The meeting had just finished up with the Lord’s Prayer and they were trying to decide what to do with me, because I was obviously in rough shape and really strung out from the night before. I hadn’t slept, obviously, and I was shaking so hard everyone’s paper cups full of coffee kept tipping over on those shaky tables. My nerves were shot and I couldn’t stop crying.

I could be whisked off to Mt. Pleasant or a local hospital for some type of detox. The way they explained it to me was, I could get a shot of librium in the ass and wake up a few days later, with at least the physical components of the drugs and alcohol out of my system (which sounded excellent to me) or I could go home and shake it off the hard way. Which would have a preventative effect should I decide to be so foolish again. (Not a hit with me)

Arthur was the guy who came and got me earlier that day, so I listened to him. He wanted me to go cold. So reluctantly, I did.

On the way home, I told him of my aspirations of being a musician. I was heartbroken, I didn’t think I could follow that path sober. I mean, what would my hero Gregg Allman do? Then he told me something very interesting, he said “Bobby, whatever you want to be in life, good or bad, a bank robber, an embezzler, a hood a hit man, or just a normal dip shit, you will be a better one sober.” Damned if he wasn’t right.

For those of you from the “turneth the other cheeketh” school of thoughteth, this Bud’s not for you. But for those of you who know a gift horse when they see it, read on. When someone breathlessly trespasses, when they willfully with malice aforethought have a go at you and keep on going, it ought to get you going. If not, check your pulse.

A grudge might take years off your life, but what you will have left will be good years, productive years and ultimately satisfying when you smite your foe. I promise you. When the action taken against you is an affront of such ballsy magnitude you can hardly take in oxygen, then we’re talking “Rocky” here.

A good grudge is worth its weight in blood pressure medication. My father got 40 good grudge years out of me and they drove me way, way, beyond my pay grade. Thanks, Dad.

You will need very little sleep. Two hours will feel like a coma. Food. You will chew and chew, then spit it out after grinding all the nutrients out. Your eyes will be open so wide all the time your friends will think you have new contacts.

Hear rate? Forget about it. Stay away from the blood pressure cuff too. You will be running at such a high level, crack addicts will be trying to score from you. Chatter will be incessant, just watch the volume and try not to let your lips move.

Yes, you will be disturbed, but constructively. Once you settle in and realize what has happened to you and how you need to even up, an evil calm will settle over you. This is your moment. This is what you were created for.

I am in the middle of a huge transgression, perpetrated by someone who used to be close to me. Very close. They have no idea what they did to me, and for me. Well, maybe they did.

If something bad were to happen to this person and I became a suspect, I would be the only one laughing in the line-up. I might even take the rap just for bragging rights.

Some days it gets hard to control, so I will work out like a maniac, ride my bike all over the state and mutter to myself. Evil is such a motivating force, don’t you think?

Don’t miss out. Pain is life’s way of letting you know you’re alive.

So live.

Peripheral Antagonism 101

There are lots of motivating factors in the world. A bad diagnosis, financial collapse, rejection, a good old fashion ass whoopin’ and …betrayal. All of the above? The gun’s in the top drawer. 🙂

Whatever pulls you up by your short hairs constitutes motivation.

We can sit around and cry about it, get our heads shrunk or keep playing the tape over and over in our heads and become inert. “How could they do this?” only works for a little while.

But betrayal, betrayal with malice aforethought is the gold standard for back stabbing, up your ass motivation. It just hurts too good.

If you are fortunate enough to have someone close to you twist the knife deep into your ribs, you are on your way to new heights in this world of the passive, bland and humdrum reaction to evil.

Spring will return to your step. You will soon be the boy every man should be.

You will be operating on 10 of your existing 8 cylinders. Your heart rate will quicken along with a sense of “aliveness.” This is why you were born isn’t it?  To get even?

If betrayal doesn’t motivate you, I’m afraid you’re either a Tibetan Monk, or deceased.

Death, where is thy stink?

While living well is the best revenge, getting even is better. Way better. Your eyes will spring open in the morning with delicious thoughts of your victim’s demise. Not death, that’s too quick.

You want to savor their deconstruction. Step by step. Your mouth waters as they turn slowly on the spit. Hand me that baster, please.

Sometimes, when you run out of cheeks to turn, you will have to come around and face your soon-to-be diminished tormentor. With relish.

Fire up the barbie, shall we?

The mind is a terrible thing…

One to three am. Ceiling time. Shakespeare couldn’t put these plots together. Temporary horizontal insanity. The worry bones need rubbing. The topic is irrelevant. It’s the same feeling every time, intensity never varies.

The mind starts crying wolf and you better listen buddy boy, because tonight, tonight, let it be Lowenbrau.

This is way worse than the others, ya know. Better start folding the tent and get into the defensive position. Mercy!

Let’s amp up the gut sensations and the cortisol. Another fire drill shall we? But where’s the fire? We thought this was going to be the big one. We’ve been doing this since the crib. Why should we listen anymore?

“Because, Bob, this is the one. The big one. That last little worry drill was just that, a drill. So let’s hunker down, shall we?”

Remember your mother sitting at the kitchen table at 2:00 am with her hands folded and those worried down eyes? She was racked. Frazzled. Beaten. You didn’t understand. But now you do… all of a sudden.

So what was it last night? The air conditioner. Why? Because it’s been running 24/7 for the last three months in my little shoe box apartment.

I’m afraid it will crap out and the landlady will not replace it because she found out I’m leaving and I will be forced to suffocate…because…because…. ugh, I can’t breathe.

Well that was convincing, wasn’t it? Good job. It never quite gets here does it? At least not in the five alarm fashion you advertised.

But then there’s always the existential threat of “what will become of me?” Oh boy! Can’t wait for tonight.

Not to worry, it’s on the way. 🙂

My ex-boss in Tahiti.

There, I just increased my readership by 31% using that title. It is true though, that when your body is functioning on all cylinders and responds to resistance and cardiovascular training, plus proper care and feeding, you are pumped in more ways than one.

When all yo shit be woiken’ propah, you be styling’.

If you are out of shape physically, if you have a big front porch, a big back porch, or just busting out your building code, you need to be working on it.

When all your muscles are doing what they were made to do, that is, struggling and resisting, not being horizontal on the beach with an umbrella drink, all is well with the world. And when all is well with the world, your wife’s headache goes away.

Arnold admitted in “Pumping Iron” that by having so much muscle, and being so aware of his body, he felt like he was having an orgasm all day. I’m sure he threw in a few hundred dick-ups for good measure. His housekeeper will attest to his virility.

I had a boss back in the day that was 15 years younger than me (that put him at about 40,) who asked me to procure him some Viagra because he wanted to take his wife to Tahiti and he wanted to be up to the challenge.

This stuff was bursting out of the sample closets in all the hospitals and clinics all over my territory, so it was an easy score. But 40? He should have been at his peak instead of standing in a gazebo smoking cigarettes and getting a ride to the cafeteria.

Oh yeah, I made sure I made the Viagra drop during my annual performance review. Got me? Anyway, I had some left over and stashed it under the sink. Never thought to use it.

Then one Sunday night, me and a girlfriend decided to drop some for the first time. 60 Minutes came on and I decided to tape it because I figured we wouldn’t be able to last through the whole program, not knowing what to expect. By ten o’clock, nothing, eleven o’clock, nothing, so we just retired for the evening a bit disappointed.

It was when I got up to use the bathroom at midnight that I knocked that thirty pound lamp off the night stand. Whoa! All of a sudden I’m jousting in the dark with Excalibur and trying not to break a window.

From that moment, sleeping on my stomach was not an option.

I had no feeling. No arousal. No amour, just….thing. Not the sexual healing I had expected.

But of course, I digress. Here’s the point: No matter how old you are, when you get positive feedback from that mirror, (not the scale ) everything changes. Without Viagra. After all, we’re talking blood flow here, right?

You feel like dressing up, buying new clothes, going out, brushing up against people, meeting new faces and yes, even fooling around. Your self confidence gets a boost, people look at you differently and your game face changes. A very sexy feeling. No?

No question, working out is the drug of choice. I hear about this kind of transformation all the time from folks I work with at the gym.

You have to lose it in order to use it. That positive feedback from your mirror will transform you. Like a drug. Like kick starting your lawnmower, you just have to rev her up.

As for my boss  in Tahiti? The Viagra made him 6 inches taller and I got a great review.

Thank you for asking

Running my own business came with a lot of ups and a lot of downs. Xanax being one of them.

It was a few years ago, don’t remember which. It was a snow emergency. It was piling up like mad in front of our sprawling home on Wintergreen Lane, in Partridgeberry.

You couldn’t make out the 300 foot driveway. It was getting dark when I suited up and grabbed my shovel. Fifteen minutes in and I’m working up a glorious sweat. Cold hands, warm heart.

As I’m really getting into it and starting to hope it never stops snowing, I get this feeling that something’s missing. Hungry? Nope. Thirsty? Nope. Have to take a dump? Nope. Holy Shit! My Jones is coming down. That cold, empty, uncomfortable wind freezing up inside my bowels. Xanax. I knew it. I need one under the tongue. Now!

Forgot about that. I had to learn the hard way that I have to get back in my cell when my warden blows that whistle. Exercise intensifies the withdrawal. Unease sets in quickly. Years ago, I didn’t recognize it. Thought I had the flu.

So I rush inside to get my fix as the snow continues its maddening pile-up. I get into my office and rifle through my center desk drawer and grab what I think is the stuff. As I picked it up I felt another sensation that something may not be quite right. Hmmm, seems very light. I pop the cap and….nothing.

I shake it furiously and quickly throw the empty in to the trash. This has to be a mistake. Surely I should have a refill…somewhere. Nada. Nothing so empty as the sound of an unrequited orange bottle. Panic.

Then I remember a miscommunication with my doc a few days earlier. Can’t rouse him. Everyone’s incommunicado today. I sit at my kitchen table contemplating the worst case scenario. The emergency room or a stroke. One is as bad as the other right now. I’m working the phone.

The darkness looks even more ominous. Resignation sets in and I make my way to the door. Here comes four hours of studied indifference at the Nashoba Valley ER.

In my mind I hear my dip shit primary care doc telling me, “I told you to be careful with that stuff.” After I gave her my full history of substance abuse from my band days. 15 years prior. Hey, I took it, even though I knew better, so shame on me.

Now there’s nothing on the streets. In the car, my motion detectors are one solid beep, thinking we’re crashing into something every second. It looks like the chase scene in “The Shining.”

I can barely make out buildings so I overshoot the Emergency Room by three football fields. WTF? I had already left my quickly disappearing car and was running towards a building when I realized my gaffe.

Shit, can’t run all the way back to the car now. Gotta keep running. My heart rate is through the ceiling. I’m thinking I’m gonna cough my heart up into the snow. All I can hear is heart beats. Pounding. This is someplace I have never been before, physically.

I finally make it to the door and all I can smell is cigarette smoke and body odor. Seems every out of shape old codger decided to shovel today and surprise…chest pain. There are six in front of me. By some miracle, they all look at me, take a vote and push me to the head of the line.

Now I’m really shook. How bad do I look? Is this it? I was a frequent flyer there, so I had a bed in a few minutes. Blood Pressure: 210 over 180. That ain’t good. I tell them I’m “Jonesing” on Xanax but they don’t have any on hand. After they run the bill up, they write me a scrip and send me to a pharmacy about 15 miles away. Coulda been 300 miles at that point.

The ride was terrifying. I kept getting these shocks to go along with the steady bleating of my vehicle motion sensors. I could barely stay on the road that I could hardly see. Why didn’t they give me something? Anything?

I finally got my fix but the damage was done. I had to reconcile a serious drug habit that was just supposed to calm me down in tense situations. My whole life was a tense situation.

I would finally break the alprazolam curse but not until I surrendered my belt and shoe laces to a husky hall monitor at the VA hospital a few months later. I kicked Xanax, alcohol and marriage in that order.

The only thing left to kick is myself. It’s all good, though.

I may be out but I’m not down.

Fail Harder! What an illogical witticism. Everybody likes to say it, but no one wants to do it. I can weigh in here, seeing lately I have turned failure into a cottage industry. The old saying, “No balls, no blue chips” comes to mind. Besides finding a million ways not to do things, failure is a necessary evil. But if you can avoid it, by all means do.

A short memory is also helpful.

A year ago, I reached what I thought was my last stop on the Red Line of life. By anyone’s standard, including mine at the time. The gifts I have received from that fiasco are too numerous to mention at the moment but I’ll just leave it at my restored health. I didn’t know how sick and unhappy I was until the pain stopped.

Yes, I fell down but I got up just before the bell. As in Greek mythology, when  Antaeus was thrown to the ground, he grew stronger, as his Mother Earth restored and revitalized him. You can’t get up if you don’t fall down.

I am reminded of a joke I heard when I was a kid, (I think in jokes) about a horny rooster whose resilience is notable. A desperate farmer bought this so-called super rooster for an exorbitant amount of money. So desperate was he. When he brought the rooster home, the rooster screwed everything but the chickens. He did the dog, the cat, the sheep and the goats.

The impatient farmer gave the rooster one more chance to do what he bought him for before he dispatched him. On the day of reckoning, the farmer checked the chicken coop and found the rooster hadn’t been in there, so he gets his gun and goes looking for his bad investment. He looked everywhere to no avail.

Finally, he finds the rooster in a crumpled mess behind a freshly tampered-with bull. The clearly outmatched rooster lay there covered in blood with both his wings broken and his little neck screwed around in the noon day sun as vultures circled above.

The farmer says, “Well, it looks like you finally went too far, you little varmint, now the vultures are coming for you.” The rooster opens one eye and says, “Shhhh, they’re getting closer.”