When people ask me how much formal education I’ve had, I usually say, “Not enough to hurt me.”

On April 11, 1968 I boarded an old Pan Am jet at Cam Rahn air base, headed for Fort Lewis, Washington, to trade in my jungle fatigues for a steak dinner, a new uniform and a flight home to Boston after a year in Vietnam.

I had an excitement headache for three days.

At SeaTac airport, my pain turned to shock when a group of college students lined up to yell “baby killers, murderers and war criminals” at us as we boarded our planes for our final leg on our much anticipated journey home.

I am reminded of that day as I see young college students today with just enough intelligence to be dangerous, wreaking havoc all over the country today.

Blocking traffic, destroying works of art and being a danger to society.

College should be called institutions of lower learning.

Rinse and spit.

For the past month I have been putting MCT oil in my morning coffee for increased energy and mental alertness.

It also kills my appetite.

Also, I’ve been taking a shot of olive oil before bed and upon arising in the morning and have such a pleasant sense of well being all day.

It’s heavy, so I wash it down with a little apple cider vinegar and water.

Moves things along, if you catch my drift. 🙂

I’ve also been putting castor oil on my feet to cure a tailor’s bunion that I have been suffering with for more than a year and I am amazed at how well it’s working.

I also put some on my eyelids to help me sleep. Crazy, I know but it works.

It softens skin, heals wounds and supposedly grows hair. (I wish)

These oils have so many benefits it’s impossible to list them all here.

Give’ em a Google and get your mind blown.

Well, off to the bathroom. 🙂

First, they scammed you on skin cancer when the sun is good for you.

Now, they’re scamming you again on cholesterol to sell you a lifetime medication.

This entire narrative of cholesterol being the villain in heart disease was built on a lie.

What doctors fail to tell you is that the sugar industry bribed scientists to shift the blame for heart disease from sugar to cholesterol.

This has been revealed by internal documents that have surfaced.

The result? A massive push for statins, now taken by 35% of Americans over 40, with devastating consequences.

Studies now show that after five years of daily use, the average person gains only three to four extra days of life—just a few days for a lifetime of potential harm.

Even more alarming, 20% of statin users suffer serious injuries like muscle deterioration, liver damage, and nerve dysfunction.

Statins are well known for having a high percentage of patients discontinue the drugs due to side effects.

Two separate studies have found nearly half of people stop taking statins within a year.

The evidence is clear: statins are not the life-saving drugs we’ve been told they are.

Our brains have plastic in them from environmental toxins •zero nutrition education •American children get the same amount of sunlight as a maximum security inmate •zero education on sleep

We sleep 20% less than we did 100 years ago.

That ain’t good.

More to come in the future.

You love your job, you love the people you work with, you love the total atmosphere.

Busy kitchen, packed dining rooms, huge banquets and crazy hustle and bustle.

It ticks all your boxes, gives you a reason for living and warms the soul.

All of that vanishes when they decide to put a wedge between you and all you love.

The party’s over.

I got terminated yesterday by a convenience hire that has no idea how to communicate with anyone over 16 years old.

Who is so lacking in verbal skills that he has to commit his every thought to an e-mail list.

Who barely ever leaves his office and who is so visibly awkward you wonder how he got through his interview.

My alarms went off at his introductory meeting that was so juvenile and condescending I almost walked out.

With no one above him in attendance, he proceeded with his “I’m the boss now” belly flop.

Mr. Shiny Pants has already gone through the roster with veiled threats, written warnings and hasty terminations.

The guy who probably gets bossed around by his wife all day finally gets a place to vent.

He will be replacing his staff with people he feels comfortable with: gullible teenagers and anyone who fears for their job.

At this point, there’s nothing you can do but wait until his total incompetence shines through and the company is forced to come to its senses.

Meanwhile, the wedge is in place and everyone will have to suffer…. except me.

In my family of twelve, when one got sick, we all got sick. We were splayed all over the living and dining rooms so my mother could keep a worried eye on each of us.

We were told to pass the dishpan when a little brother or sister would start heaving.

There were tissues and empty glasses everywhere.

When it became more than even my saintly mother could handle, she called good old Dr. Mc Sweeney.

He was a huge man with a great big voice and hands the size of trash can lids.

His kindness and empathy filled our house.

He would pick us up individually, sick or not,  let us hear our own heartbeats through his stethoscope and give us a lollipop.

He would calm my mother’s frazzled nerves by telling her it was just a bug and that all we needed was more rest, lots of orange soda and we’d be up and around in a few days.

For years we equated being sick with getting special treatment.

God bless Dr. Mc Sweeney.

Doctor visits are a thing of the past.

Doctors have to toe the company line and follow tight protocols.

Most likely provided by pharmaceutical companies.

These days, after a long drive and an even longer wait, the doc barely looks at you and the clock starts running as soon as they enter the room.

They don’t ask you any personal questions and they bury their face in their iPad and start going down the long list of general questions.

Each question, answered in the affirmative, has a next step or a prescription attached to it.

Couldn’t anyone do that?

I told you all that to say this: Medicine is a business. They don’t have time for small talk and they don’t want to hear your life story.

Sadly, we take our health and fitness for granted. We only start paying attention when we start exhibiting symptoms .

Time to take responsibility.

The healthcare system would prefer you sick. Actually, the sicker the better.

They can drain your finances, ruin your credit and possibly misdiagnose you.

And you won’t get a lollipop.

They’ve never had to cook, clean, shop, do laundry, pay their own bills and make a bed.

They don’t know how to turn on a stove, and they think the purplish blue spots on a loaf of bread are blueberries. 🙂

If you think your previous career was hard, welcome to the junk yard.

You spent your whole life on the corporate treadmill and never even glanced at the manual for your human movement system.

This is where “Enlightened Rogue Fitness” comes in.

In 90 days not only will you get in the best shape of your life, you will get an education on the care and feeding of “Numero Uno.”

You will become “antifragile” which is a lot more than just resilient.

You will grow from every failure.

It’s a comprehensive program that deals with total lifestyle and not just dropping a few pounds.

No more fad diets where we lose valuable muscle and vital nutrients.

We cut through the misinformation which is rampant in the fitness industry.

You will learn which supplements to take and why. No B.S.

You will understand the need for resistance training and the incredible benefits of protein.

You will understand that diets don’t work, but permanent positive lifestyle changes do.

As Bette Davis once said “Aging ain’t for sissies.”

So lace up, it’s time to rumble.

It’s a jungle out there.

I was not looking forward to this period of my life.

I expected I would be sidelined by all the usual curses of aging: bad health, a failing body, loneliness and a feeling of being useless to society.

In fact, I will remember this period as my most productive, rewarding and magical.

“Youth is wasted on the young” was my mother’s favorite saying.

When we are young we have all this energy, enthusiasm and health.

Everything is brand new and it all works. Yippee!

But we have no life experience and we flail around in confusion.

If we knew then what we know, how dangerous we would be.

Plans are just dreams if you can’t execute on them.

Through the years we amass tremendous knowledge and experience as our bodies start to betray us.

Year after year, we slowly cede control of our bodies over to the medical system.

The doctors say. “Well, you are getting older” as they break out the prescription pad that will tether you to them forever.

As I near eighty, I am enjoying this adventure to the fullest.

I feel there are no barriers.

I am older, wiser and more savvy than ever.

I am in top physical condition and I embrace the challenges that life doles out.

I have life experiences that turn into books and that makes me valuable …and dangerous.

I feel the world still needs me. That I can still make a difference. That to me, is exhilarating.

I train and feed my body to meet the rigors of life.

All my parts work perfectly because I exercise them.

A healthy body and a seasoned mind will always prevail.

Life is short. Enjoy every bit of it.

Get off the bench and get back in the game.

The world needs you more than ever.

Here we go again. That lonesome, misunderstood and bewildered feeling is back.

I have always said that when you are so far ahead of the pack, you may as well be behind. Because nobody’s listening.

When you have ideas that are outside the norm, get ready for isolation.

When you have tried and true approaches to getting the one thing a starving organization desperately needs, ATTENTION, you’re thinking they will embrace your company saving solution.

And you would be wrong. For the moment. If history is any indicator.

I pitched my creative ideas to the big guy yesterday in the men’s room of all places.

The desperately needed messaging coming out of his team is third grade level at best, and downright laughable at worst.

I thought the timing was right, I was wrong.

The response was underwhelming. The only thing missing was the crickets.

You could see in his eyes that he wanted to be anywhere but where he was at that moment.

Standing in front of me..

I was waiting for the long “Anyway” they usually interject mid sentence when they’ve had enough.

I’ve been here before. Many times.

It’s part of the process and I understand it.

They thought I was bat shit crazy before I created my own position in Dupont and Bristol Myers Squibb as an E-Strategist and video producer.

They told me to get back on my meds and fade into the crowd.

“Don’t push your luck, Bobby”

So this is the isolation part. This is where they tell you to go back to work and do what you’ve always done because you’re making people nervous.

You’re pointing out glaring communication failures and that’s the not the “going along to get along” attitude they’re looking for in their stale little organization.

Nobody wants to get uncomfortable. Not until the wolf comes knocking at their door.

And they reach out in desperation.

Until then, I will remain alone again, naturally. 🙂

Ah, the middle ages. I’m not talking about medieval times, I’m talking about the ages of 40 through 60 when your middle starts to age.

I am way past that.

All that excess fat and flabby stomach muscle is giving you “chest ‘n drawers” syndrome, where your chest starts sliding into your drawers.

An expanding waistline is sometimes considered a price of getting older. For women, this can be especially true as body fat tends to shift to the abdomen after menopause.

That extra belly fat does more than just make it hard to zip up a favorite pair of jeans, though. Research shows that belly fat carries serious health risks. But the threats posed by belly fat can be lowered.

We need to be mindful of what we’re putting in our mouths and keep track of how much we’re moving.

All this nonsense about our metabolisms slowing down with age is hurting us because our metabolism doesn’t slow down…we do.

I’m one of the first baby boomers, and I will challenge any teenager to try and keep up with this 77 year old guy with a 33 inch waist. 🙂

I won’t go into all the gory and unhealthy details of carrying around an unsightly “Dunlop” but you should know that you can do something about it and enjoy the years you’ve worked so hard for.

And let’s not forget that we can still look good in all the the latest fashions.

Come out of the dark ages.

Come to the light. 🙂

On this night I had more chemicals in me than any human should.

I had just mistakenly snorted heroin, which I thought was cocaine, and I was, as usual, thoroughly intoxicated to boot.

I was at the end of a fifteen year drunk and I was only 32.

This gig, at “The Club” in Cambridge was a disaster because I couldn’t remember the lyrics to songs i had sung hundreds of times before.

I don’t have any recollection of what was said by my disappointed band mates, or remember leaving the building.

I never found out who slipped me the smack.

I woke up in a seedy motel on Route One in Saugus with someone I don’t remember being introduced to.

On the nightstand was the empty film case I used to keep my speed in, and a drained Southern Comfort bottle.

I could only open one eye at a time, so I couldn’t tell who I was in bed with.

When I stood up to use the bathroom, the girl whose name I still don’t know, gasped and told me I was turning blue.

I was.

She dropped me off at my mother’s house because I didn’t remember where I left my car.

She kept telling me I had to go to the hospital.

When my poor mother saw me, she broke down in the kitchen.

I didn’t go to the hospital, my sister called AA and they said for me to wait up on the corner.

This was Sunday, May 20, 1979. The first day of the rest of my life.

That night I ended up at an AA Meeting in Medford with Arthur Keenen, the guy who took the call from AA to come and get me.

God Bless you, Arthur, wherever you are in Heaven.

I was given a choice of Mount Pleasant rehab where I would be in a Librium induced haze for a week until the physical effects of the drugs and alcohol wore off or “sweat it out like a man” as Arthur suggested.

Against my better wishes, I went home to sweat it out. Ugh!

I thought I was having a heart attack from all the drugs in my body.

I spent that night on the floor next to my mother’s bed, trying to stop shaking.

I hallucinated and vomited all through the night.

Then, after weeks of sleepless, sweaty nights and recurring nightmares, the sun started to peek out from behind the clouds.

Life became interesting again as I regained my health and my enthusiasm.

I got incredible opportunities and took full advantage of them. I did incredible things with my new lease on life

I always remember and respect this date because it was the day I started living. Again.

I am one grateful guy these days.  🙂

I remember where I was when Cardiolite was approved by the FDA in December, 1990.

It was a voicemail from Sue Nemetz while I was having lunch with a customer, and she said the Cardiolite approval would be the biggest thing in nuclear cardiology.

And it was.

To kick this puppy off, Ken Kasses announced that the next National Sales Meeting would be held at the Hyatt Regency on the island of Kona, Hawaii.

They spared no expense. It was incredible. The towels were so fluffy, I could hardly close my suitcase. 🙂

Back then, sales skits were in vogue, and they were both feared and loathed by salespeople.

If you didn’t know what you were talking about, it would sure as shit show up on that sound stage for everyone to see.

Surely, a career limiting move for someone like me.

Districts had to team up to perform challenging sales scenarios on stage at sales meetings.

Cringeworthy is a perfect description of this mostly embarrassing ritual.

Kona would turn to be different, as we will see.

Even though we hadn’t been selling Cardiolite yet, we were charged with presenting skits that would help us overcome initial reluctance to switching from Thallium 201.

The Western District, of which yours truly was a member, chose “Cardiolite On Trial.”

This was during the Clarence Thomas senate approval hearings.

All districts were assigned to large suites in the morning, and were expected to hit the stage with a skit that afternoon.

I wish I had a recording of what went on that room.

I took the team to a new level of raunch, and tears flowed freely down everyone’s face.

When we realized we wanted to fly home still employed, we decided to tone it down. A lot.

When me, Steve Epstein, Rick Graham, Mike Komosinsky, Gwenn Hays, George Glatcz and Mike Levesque, previewed our (toned down) presentation for the only sane person in the room, Debbie Elliot, she said without a scintilla of reluctance “You can’t do this. Are you crazy?”

But…it was too late.

We took the stage at 2:00 pm still buzzing from all that Kona coffee and the rest is history.

I was dressed as a judge and directed most of the dialogue. Any lines I forgot, I improvised. This has always gotten me into trouble.

The jokes went out like depth charges. The sequence was: Line, silence, gasp, roaring laughter. Line, silence, gasp, roaring laughter.

We were on a massive sound stage and were blinded by klieg lights, but we could hear the rolling thunder in the audience.

The loudest laughter came from our very high pitched president, Mr. Ken Kasses himself. Of all people.

The last line I remember saying would attest to how long Cardiolite would stay in the heart after injection, when I asked the audience, “Have you ever had a gamma camera go down on you?”

I thought Kenny Boy would never recover.

In spite of all that laughter, I remember leaving the stage with a feeling of impending doom.

Bob Sullivan looked like a stage mother on the verge of a nervous breakdown as Debbie Elliot was shaking her head in condolence.

Then George Jones solemnly took the stage and gave us a lecture on values and company conduct.

It seems some bible thumper from Georgia crawled all over George’s sense of decency.

And they didn’t come more decent than George.

He gave it to us good.

At this point, I am almost passing blood in the audience.

Now I’m worried about how I’m going to get home. I went back to my spacious room and crawled under my spacious bed and waited for the phone to ring.

There would be no consoling me. Me and my big mouth.

That night there was a huge luau on the beach with a band and food and torches and everyone wearing flowered shirts.

I was reluctant to go because I was considered the instigator behind that whole mess on the sound stage.

But I amped up my courage and after a few failed attempts, left the room.

As I was walking down on the beach crowded with hundreds of happy Duponters, crowds were parting like the Red Sea in avoidance.

Friends looked away for job security. Now I knew I had troubles.

I knew I was in sales because George was only placating Sully, and he told me so on March 12, 1990 as he symbolically washed his hands at my interview in his Billerica office.

George didn’t know how a chef, a musician and a comedian could sell a radiopharmaceutical.

Either did I.

Just as I was turning to go back to my room to await my fate, Peter Card, who is not know for his loquaciousness, sidled up to me and said out of the side of his mouth, “That was the funniest fucking thing I have ever seen.”

It was then that I decided to accept responsibility for my transgressions, and still do to this day.

And thanks to my lack of taste and judgement, there was never another skit performed on any Dupont sound stage of any kind, ever again.

You’re welcome.

Somehow, you got the memo. Whether it was frustration, rejection, or doctors orders, you got with the program and started your journey to fitness and health.

Over the years you watched your body change and your outlook brighten. You no longer jumped out of bed, you sprang.

You taught yourself how to eat properly and avoid the diet du jours that are commonplace today.

You started to handle situations differently because of your new found confidence.

With confidence comes grace.

There’s no more tightness at the belt buckle and your clothes are snug in the right places.

You actually like to socialize now and get dressed up again. Whodathunk?

You got used to compliments and learned how to handle them.

You noticed you have expired antacids in your medicine cabinets and there are no orange bottles anywhere in the house.

You embrace rigorous work now because it feels good to you.

You’ve grown accustomed to seeing perfect blood pressure, glucose levels and getting that handshake from the doc.

You grew into an entirely different person and he’s smiling back at you in the mirror.

Yes, you are a brand new you, because your alter ego, Clark Kent……is dead. 🙂

I am a 76 year old fitness professional and a dual licensed insurance agent. I live in a retirement community in Sun City, Arizona.

For the past six years I have been preaching about the dangers of crossing over into retirement physically unprepared.

As I have often stated “Ageing ain’t for sissies”, because this is when all the bad habits we failed to ditch in our early years come home to roost.

The years you worked so hard for will now be spent in hospital beds, wheel chairs, doctor’s offices, or stuck in a tiny, smelly and lonely back room of a nursing home where you’re at the mercy of a casual, indifferent and forgetful, minimum wage staff.

Gruesome enough for ya?

I talk about the guilt associated with burdening your loved ones because you can’t pull your own weight, participate in family gatherings, or even mow your own lawn.

Now let’s talk money. How do you feel about going broke from crushing medical expenses?

Like, financially wiped out. Cancer will do it. Heart disease will do it.

Once you go on Medicare you might think you’re mismanaged body will be totally covered by the government.

Medicare is a broad program of health insurance designed to assist the nation’s elderly to meet hospital, medical, and other health costs. Medicare is available to most individuals 65 years of age and older.

But there are huge gaps.

Some of the items and services Medicare doesn’t cover include:
• Long-Term Care. …
• Most dental care.
• Eye exams (for prescription glasses)
• Dentures.
• Cosmetic surgery.
• Massage therapy.
• Routine physical exams.
• Hearing aids and exams for fitting them.

You can purchase extra coverage like Medicare Advantage to hedge your bet, but they still don’t cover everything.

And they cost money.

Bottom line
With the average price of a three-day hospital stay hovering around $30,000, Medicare can be a massive help to many people dealing with medical issues.

While the program can help you with hospital stays, treatment, and general routine care, there are many things that it doesn’t cover, and you have to be ready to fill in those holes with your hard earned savings for unexpected costs.

The down and dirty: If you smoke, stop now. If you are sedentary, get moving. If you drink too much, get help. If you are overweight, start trimming down.

Unexpected illnesses, especially those from neglect will wipe you out financially and drive you into poverty in a heart beat.

Start training your body today. It’s never too late. I got religion at 70.

Teach yourself to eat right and exercise. Drop that extra weight.

I say, live like you’re gonna die tomorrow, train like you’re gonna live forever.

Take some time to educate yourself on how your body works.

Otherwise, you might not be able to afford these wonderful years.

On July 23, 1963, I was surrendered to the Mass. Division of Youth Services by the dishonorable Judge Joseph M. De Marco.

Dishonorable, because he squeezed a $250 dollar bribe from my mother to keep my brother from rightfully going away…again.

It took three years to pay that Household Finance bill off.

I was already on probation for breaking into parking meters and owed the commissioner of lights and wires $300.00.

I knew I would go away at some point, because I could never pay that money back.

What I ultimately went away for, was accepting a ride in a 1955 Chevy Impala that was stolen by my next door neighbor, Johnny Silva, a rat of notorious distinction.

When Johnny was finally caught with the car, he negotiated the ultimate prize to the Somerville Police…an O’Hearn. Oh, they drooled with delight to get one of us.

They arrested me coming out of my house. While they were locking me up, they told me Johnny spilled the beans on me about stealing the car.

I laughed because I knew that was total bullshit. Even at 16, I had been arrested so many times, I knew how the game was played.

At the police station, they told me they had Johnny downstairs and they would bring him up to confront me if they had to.

I called their bluff and sure enough, they brought that sniveling weasel in, cuffed up with his head hanging down.

I was shocked when he said, “C’mon Bobby, tell them the truth, you stole that car.”

They had to pull me off him. It was no use, they had their prize. He walked, and I went away.

By this time, the family dynamic was such, that when a court summons came, my mother would put it on my father’s chest just before he was to get up for work.

On the very day of the proceeding. Not good.

They could go years without talking. It was Irish Alzheimer’s, they forgot everything but the grudge.

I would usually show up at the court house just in time, to avoid a needles trip to the hospital.

Of course, this tactic only served to further enrage this extremely violent man.

When I showed up late for the sentencing, my father caught me between the first and second floor of the Somerville Court house.

For once, I could have used a cop.

He dispatched me with his usual, brutal efficiency, only this time he used the conveniently located radiator to show his displeasure… with my head.

When I finally managed to hobble into the packed court room, everyone in attendance gasped.

I looked like I was hit by a bus and dragged for miles.

When the judge was comfortable that it wasn’t police brutality, he finally sentenced me.

I was a juvenile, so all sentences were indefinite.

I was handcuffed and brought to a holding cell the size of a water closet.

While I was licking my wounds and tending to my injuries, my peripheral vision picked up a fist coming through the bars towards my left eye, I quickly moved my head to discover it was him…..again.

Seems Dad wasn’t through with me.  But he wouldn’t get another chance…..that day.

He would have to wait a whole year. When he almost took my head off with a door knob he had concealed in his fist.

I spent the next few months in maximum security while the state gathered a home report to add to the sentencing guidelines the Mass Parole Board would use.

When I was formally sentenced, I was told I would be assigned as a “mess boy” at the State Police Barracks in Middleboro, Massachusetts.

I was thrilled. I had heard good things about these barracks gigs. I heard the food was great and they even paid you $50.00 a month. But you worked. Did you ever.

You cooked, cleaned, shined shoes, washed police cruisers and mowed the lawn. You washed the kitchen floors with ammonia twice a day.

You waited on troopers while they ate and cleaned up after them when they were done.

I could have been sentenced to Bridgewater Maximum Security, or Shirley Industrial School for Boys. No, thanks.

On October 4, 1963, my parole officer, Robert Fitzgerald, picked me up, took me to Robert Hall’s to get a white shirt, a tie and a sports coat. Then we headed off to Middleboro.

Once there, I was presented to Captain George Luciano, an impeccably groomed and well spoken professional.

He was bigger than life. He could have been in the movies.

This was the happiest day of my life…I thought.

My joy would soon be obliterated, because little did I know, someone was laying in wait for me.

His name was Trooper Marvin Pratt. He looked Scandinavian with a blonde crew cut, rosy cheeks and a soft, harmless looking face.

We would have labelled him a “fink” on the street.

My sleeping quarters were on the top floor of the barracks. It was a wide open space and empty. Probably meant for storage.

It had a bathroom and a locker to put my belongings in. It was sparse but clean, and to me, a whole lot better than home.

On my second night, while laying in bed after an exhausting day, I heard the door creak open and I saw a trooper in a t-shirt and those funny riding pants they all wear with his suspenders dangling at his sides.

The trooper’s off duty sleeping quarters were right below me.

As he walked toward me, he was eating a bowl of Cole slaw and had a magazine under his arm.

He casually sat down at the edge of the bed, introduced himself and flipped the magazine onto my chest.

It was pornography the likes we never saw back in those days.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Within seconds, his hand went up under the sheets and my heart began to break.

Oh no, I thought, here we go again. I was always getting approached at that time in my life by priests, teachers, softball coaches and Larry Mortell’s perverted uncle Bud.

I begged him to stop and told him I was very uncomfortable. He just waved me off and told me “all men do this.”

He described it as a man’s rite of passage.

I got away that night, but the chase was on. He would be relentless.

One bad word from him and I would immediately end up back where I came from for another re-sentencing.

And at least another year added on.

He did everything to get me. One time, in frustration, I broke down crying. It infuriated him and he would storm off.

Now I had a weapon…tears. My tears were like garlic to a vampire. After that, I could cry on cue.

Didn’t stop him. He would stick his finger up my ass while I was cooking or washing dishes. He had no fear or trepidation.

Toward the end of my sentence, I was allowed to go home once a week to look for a job, so I would have something to go to.

They wouldn’t release me with out a job.

In my time there, I saw President Kennedy go out, and the Beatles come in.

On a day off, as I walking toward my house in Somerville, I saw him sitting on my front porch with my mother. There was no level he wouldn’t sink to.

She was thrilled that I was doing so well, even the cops liked me.  She thought. If she only knew.

You can’t tell your mother stuff like that. It would have broken her heart.

Then, on my way back to Middleboro on Tuesday nights, if he was on duty, he would lay in wait on Route 44, and officially pull my Trailways bus over.

He would stomp to the back of the bus where I usually sat, pull me out of my seat, handcuff my hands behind my back and take me off the bus.

Then he would put me in the cruiser, still handcuffed, and drive 120 mph while grabbing my crotch and telling me no one would ever believe me.

He did that half a dozen times and no one ever reported it. I will never get over that.

By the time of my release date, he was my frustrated sworn enemy and made no bones about it.

On that release day, without me knowing, he asked the desk sergeant if he could drive me to Middleboro Center to catch my final Trailways bus ride home.

We didn’t speak all the way into town. We got there just as the bus was ready to leave. After my stuff was stowed in the belly of the bus, he followed me on.

With a booming voice he said “And don’t ever come back. If I ever see your ass anywhere in the vicinity you’ll go back to jail where you belong.”

I was stared at all the way back to Park Square.

Years later, when I was working on the dock for Dupont in Billerica, I had a conversation with a “spare” driver who retired from the Mass. State Police due to a back injury.

There were about a dozen of us in the break room when I asked if he knew Marvin Pratt.

His whole demeanor suddenly changed and he asked me why I wanted to know.

When I told him, he told me Marvin went to prison for abducting a 9 year old boy and was abusing him at a motel in the area.

He told me his own guys at the the State Police surrounded the motel and took him at gun point.

Marvin was gone forever. He had a wife and three children.

I called Mass. Public Safety in 2008 inquiring about him but they wouldn’t release any information.

That was almost 60 years ago and I still have dreams about him.

And Marvin, if you are still alive and reading this in your prison cell……fuck you!

I was telling someone recently how much I was enjoying producing my podcast “The Enlightened Rogue” and mentioned it was almost like free therapy.

When that person asked me if I ever had therapy, I remembered an occasion in 1994.

At that time, I was in sales for four years and I let my guard down. What an understatement.

I let one of those Scottsdale barracudas move in with me. I must admit, I was alone all the time and the road was getting to me.

She was a looker and I took the bait. That lasted exactly 87 days. More about her later.

Long story short, she moved out while I was at a meeting in Las Vegas. I told her to get out and not be there when I got home. She was pure evil.

Not only was she not there, as was most of my furniture, she even took the dishes.

When I pulled into my drive way, my neighbor ran up to my car and told me he thought I had moved because of the moving van. Moving van?

This woman came with nothing and left with everything. Never to be seen or heard from again.

Now I am not a guy who gets easily depressed, but this got me. I couldn’t function. I couldn’t even get out of the bed I had to replace in a hurry,

Someone told me that Dupont provides counseling for field based employees.

I called and they set up an appointment for me with a local therapist. What a great benefit, I thought.

My first appointment was in Phoenix. The office was upstairs from a Border’s book store.

My therapist was a short, chubby, wildly animated red haired lady who looked like she could use a few sessions herself.

She told me my company would pay for the session, but there would be a 35 dollar co-pay.

Fine with me, but I didn’t know she was one of those “inner child” therapists.

As most people know, I had a wild upbringing. Leslie Greenfield, who worked in HR and who I used to date, called it tragic.

Only a few minutes in, this little lady starts talking to me like I’m a baby.

She starts calling me “Little Bobby.”

I’m getting the creeps.

I’m thinking to myself “what a ridiculous looking woman.” Wild hair, too much make-up and perfume that smelled like RAID insect spray.

Not only that, she’s twitching and making squeaking noises while I’m attempting lighten my existential load.

I’m thinking Dupont must have got her at a bargain when she blurts out, “Let’s stop here, I’m going to get little Bobby a doll.”

A doll?

At this point I’m stunned, but I ain’t no fool, and as soon as she is out of sight, I go for the door.

I am down the stairs and in my car in seconds.

Twenty minutes of that and whatever brought me there has completely vanished. Like me.

A few months later, I’m at that same mall having lunch with a radiologist from Good Samaritan hospital.

As we’re leaving the restaurant, he tells me he wants to pick up a book at Border’s.

I’m browsing the books while waiting for my doc, when I hear, “You! It’s you! You owe me money. I remember you. Where’s my co-pay?”

Oh no, I’m not having this. I can’t let her embarrass me in from of a customer and I act like I don’t know what’s she’s talking about.

She looks completely disoriented and disheveled. Which would work in my favor in a few minutes.

I’m like, get away from me lady.

This drives her even more shall I say, batshit? I quickly head for the door while she’s still screaming about her 35 dollars.

At this point she’s drawing a crowd and she’s acting like a drunk who got kicked out of happy hour.

Now we’re out on the sidewalk and there’a cop taking this all in.

I quickly tell him an abbreviated version and he starts laughing. Whew! My stand up experience always saves my bacon.

He tells her to take it upstairs and I get out of there in a hurry.

I complained to Dupont human resources and they told me not to worry about it, they would take care of it. Which they did.

So in the future, if I need therapy, I will get it on my podcast.

Be sure to tune in. 🙂

My name is Bob O’Hearn aka The Enlightened Rogue

And I want to share my story and what has worked for me to get into the best shape of my life starting at 70.

I’m am an entrepreneur, a content creator and a compulsive communicator. I have been sharing my forward thinking ideas and solutions in social media for decades.

I developed most of my online skills in big pharma sales and marketing while acting as a territory manager in the field.

I developed and managed web sites and newsletters for nuclear cardiology customers of Dupont and Bristol Myers Squibb.

I was soon promoted and brought in-house to run my own multimedia department.

I am an idea generator. I write books, music, articles and blogs. I have been posting “The Enlightened Rogue Blog” for ten years as well as Enlightened Rogue Fitness.

I script, produce, edit and deliver professional corporate video to train, communicate and enlighten.

I am an accomplished writer, video producer, editor and graphic designer.

I studied music at the Berklee College of Music for guitar and piano and also at the Chef’s Training Institute to be a professional chef. I spent 25 years in busy kitchens.

I have taken the stage at Catch A Rising Star and Stitches comedy clubs. Fearless or foolish, you be the judge.

I am also a passionate health and fitness writer, certified in personal training, weight loss, nutrition, and senior fitness. I train most of my my clients online.

My fitness journey has been remarkable in that six years ago I was severely overweight and addicted to prescription meds and alcohol. I had to go into a VA rehab to shake my demons.

I call the process from “Detox to Reeboks.” I am currently writing that book.

All of which I share with my clients to help them to reach their goals.

In the spring of 1980, I had barely a year of sobriety under my belt. And I wasn’t happy about it.

I was still in my band, Skidder Munrow, working in a restaurant, and trying to chase the babes around.

None of these activities were appealing to me sober. The guys in the band were still using, and the gig profits went up everybody’s nose but mine.

Work sucked when I had to do it sober, and it seemed I didn’t have the same nerve with the ladies without my bottle of balls.

So I slipped. Big time.

There was a big party on a Saturday night and I was determined to be the life of it.

I drank a half a bottle of Jack Daniels before leaving the house and continued into the night with, as Jack Kennedy would say, “great vigor and aggression.”

That evening was shithouse crazy. All through the night I was rethinking my new life with my old friends, drugs and alcohol.

Oh, happy days are here again…..I thought.

The next morning I felt like I had contracted malaria. I was sick all over. I was shaking and puking while trying to stand up straight. And I dare not fart.

I had to go to work, so I had no choice. I had to have some “hair of the dog.”

I grabbed the half empty Jack Daniels bottle from under the sink and it was “over the lips and across the gums, look out belly here it comes.”

It burned so good. I immediately felt my composure start to come back. Then that old evil grin came over my face.

Then I vomited, lit a cigarette and headed out the door for work. Just like old times.

The ten hour day in a hot, noisy kitchen was a feverish nightmare. I couldn’t stop shaking. I was terrified to pick up a knife. What’s this all about?

Luckily, I discovered an unopened quart of Seagrams V.O. the band left in my trunk, and when I felt I was getting sick, I would step outside for some “Dog.”.

That happened every fifteen minutes.

How I got through the day, I will never know.

That night, after a nightcap or two, I passed out. In less than an hour, I shook myself awake. I thought I was having a stroke.

I got violently ill, and in front of my bathroom mirror that night, I vowed I would never go through that again.

That next night there was an all men’s AA meeting at a church in Woburn center.

It was a smoke filled auditorium that wreaked of body odor and heart break. The stories they told were terrifying.

Drunks only go to AA after they’ve lost everything.

These were 200 of the toughest, meanest, and orneriest men I have ever been around. Everyone was there but the warden.

They were convicts, construction workers and miserable losers. And they did not suffer fools. At all.

Physically, I was barely hanging on. I stopped drinking, but my nerves were so shot, I was laughing and crying uncontrollably for seemingly no reason.

I could have gone to detox but I was determined to tough this one out.

Just as the meeting was ending, I raised my hand to speak. Big mistake.

I decided to tell my tale of woe to the group and how quickly alcohol can take hold of you after you slip.

Well, I know how to dress up a story, and the way I described my downfall, the group started laughing. Oh, I love this, I’m thinking.

So I continue to regale these guys with all the ups and downs of my big slip. Which were actually a comedy of errors.

Now I have a couple hundred natural born killers rolling on the floor. I could hear gasping and choking through the gales of laughter.

At the end, the whole room broke out into applause. I couldn’t believe it.

As the meeting was getting ready to close with the Lord’s Prayer, this little old man raises his hand.

He stands up with his tattered scally cap in his hand and says, “Shame on you. What the hell is wrong with you people?”

Then he proceeds to take the whole room down for encouraging a moron like me.

“He could have been dead or killed somebody while driving, and there you are applauding him.”

“That goddam fool will go out and do it again just to make you laugh. Shame on you all.”

I was mortified. The room went dead. My face was burning. I could have slipped through a crack in my chair.

As we were all filing out in silence, a hand touched my shoulder and a voice said, “Hey, kid, that’s still the funniest fuckin’ story I ever heard.”

But It was too late, the voice of reason was still echoing in my ears.

Thank God .

Remember what life was like when you were fifteen? Remember all the silly hang ups? The childish rivalries? All your real or imagined imperfections? Being ostracized in school?

In my day we had Elvis, Rickie Nelson, Fabian, followed by Paul McCartney and Jim Morrison. Who could compete with that?

Oh, the adolescent angst we suffered through.

But young people today have it even worse. They are blowing up to twice our size and are twice as inactive.

They have phones and computers, video games and fast food that is so calorie dense you could fatten up a cow for slaughter in days.

I recently worked a quinceañera at the country club.

A quinceañera is the celebration of a girl’s 15th birthday, marking her passage from girlhood to womanhood.

There were about 150 attendees and of course, there were many fifteen year old girls there.

These girls were extremely overweight trying to squeeze into the latest fashions.

The anxiety in that room was palpable.

These young ladies were wearing, (or trying to wear,) a type of sarong wrap around dress that opened in the front. (What do I know, I’m a guy.)

This was painful to watch. They did not look comfortable.

I was wondering which dress would explode first.

Very few attendees were normal weight. The woman who threw the  quinceañera for her daughter was so big, it looked like she was fitted at the Navy yard.

Today we have fat activists and fat liberationists telling these young people that they should love their size, and be happy shopping in the Junior Moose Department

I study people and at one point in the festivities a slender, lithesome young lady sashayed her way by a bevy of these heavies and if looks could kill.

Life is tough enough at that age and these poor things have a long, hard road ahead of them.

Seriously, something needs to be done.

Less food, more exercise, more information.

My opinion.

In 1990, I went into sales totally unarmed. I had ten years of sobriety under my belt and an “eked by” G.E.D.

I knew nothing about sales, marketing, or business in general. Not enough to hurt me, anyway. 🙂

My lack of business knowledge made me get outside the box forever.

The plan was to last long enough in this position before I was exposed as an incompetent, to be able to use it on my resume for a less challenging position maybe selling Amway.

Little did I know I would come to be a sales leader in my burgeoning territories of Arizona, New Mexico and Las Vegas.

Through grit and street savvy, I made a name for myself that I’m still proud of today.

In sales, sometimes you have to provide more than products and service.

You have to provide things that nobody else is thinking about.

You have to get inside. You have to be listening with a musician’s ear.

When I was selling nuclear medicine for Dupont, and me not being a Rhodes Scholar, I had to really be on my game.

For instance, if I had a meeting with a physician and they told me to wait in their office, that man or woman was gonna get thoroughly investigated.

I would scour the walls looking for clues about what they might be up to, and anything we might have in common. Anything to make that connection.

Like anything. If the kid was a football star, or he had a particular passion, or an award he might have received.

I did not suck at small talk because I could always lift the tone with humor. Carefully.

It was nights, weekends, holidays and nasty weather. The post office had nothing on me.

I had to bail rowdy customers out of jail on more than one occasion. I was also there when the baby arrived and the boyfriend was nowhere to be found.

If a tech got kicked out of the house, he headed straight for mine. That’s just the way it worked.

I was purely a relationship guy, and seeing I didn’t have much technical expertise to put on the table, this was how I ran.

I built a bond you couldn’t break.

In the mid-nineties, the main competition for our Cardiolite imaging product was launching, and by some ridiculous miscalculation, the reimbursement for their drug was at least three times what customers were getting for Cardiolite.

The way the government works, that particular boo-boo had to be in place for a year. Money talks, right?

Now selling a product based just on reimbursement is not totally illegal but you should be selling based on the merits of the product. You could get your hand slapped.

So we were keeping our eye out.

Then, one Saturday morning at a Society of Nuclear Medicine meeting held at Mayo Clinic, a product specialist from Amersham takes the stage in a garish yellow dress and did the unthinkable. She thought she was shitting sherbert.

She was rubbing that miscalculated reimbursement money in everyone’s face. She had her face in the trough and she wasn’t pulling her head up for anyone.

Unfortunately for her, I just got into video and I had a small camera with me. (This was before smartphones)

I got everything. I even made her repeat things. (She didn’t know who I was)

Everybody in the room got a huge kick out of watching this dipshit hang herself.

Back at Dupont, I am a national hero. The company lawyer told me I was doing the Lord’s work.

So they confront the head of legal for Amersham and they apprise him of my handiwork. They even play some of the audio over the speaker phone.

That, set him back apace.

In defense, the other lawyer starts weighing in on me and my specious business tactics. Gulp!

He says, “Well, if you think that’s unfair, who brings food over to a cardiologist’s house and cooks dinner for the family?

Who’s does that? Seriously? That’s not unfair? My rep is just doing her job.

Who teaches customer’s kids how to play guitar? Really, who does that? What does that have to do with nuclear medicine?

Who goes away for the weekend with ten female techs? Unheard of, who does that?

Who goes to the courthouse when a tech is getting a divorce? We don’t do that. Who can compete with that?

Who takes customers to AA meetings? You ever hear of such a thing?

Seriously, who does that?”

Well, I have to plead guilty as charged. I was using the skills I learned banging around the mean streets of Boston back in the day.

Sometimes people make decisions on more than just a package insert.

I thought about all the things he said as I was spending my bonus.

Epilogue: When Cardiolite first launched there was a bailment on it. Because the product was so hearty, you could pull hundreds of doses out of one vial that was supposed be limited to six. The bailment, if they signed it, would have them agree to just the six doses.

That went over like a fart in a space suit. Nobody wanted to sign. New Mexico was laughing us out of their labs.

So I visit the radiopharmacy in Albuquerque with my boss, Bob Sullivan. Things got tense in a heartbeat. I didn’t know what he was going to say and I was bracing. He says to Paul Gotti, if you don’t sign the bailment you don’t get him, pointing to me.

They signed. (My face is still red over that one.)