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Felicitous

All emotional pain and joy is the same

Snow covered bicycle in NYC

For everyone that shared my letter to Vice President Joe Biden, thank you. I’m hoping that it will find its way to him somehow. And if you’ve not shared it, please consider doing so?

Alison finished her radiation and chemotherapy this week. The standard route is six weeks but ours was only three because the surgeon took out so much of the tumor.

Doctor: In some ways, her collapsing was felicitous. Because the surgeon did a beautiful job cleaning up the tumor. And we can also reduce the number of treatments.

I agree. If nothing else, not sure Alison would have been able to finish a full six weeks of chemo and radiation. The toll of just three weeks – both mentally and physically – is shocking. The last day of radiation and chemo was…difficult. And now, we wait.

Waiting is always its own special hell. Because we form expectations of what might happen: too high an expectation and you’re dashed when reality falls short; too low, and you spend more time in anxiety and distress than necessary.

My whole life, I’ve always wondered the meaning of Hope being the last thing to escape Pandora’s Box.

Was Hope last out of the box because it’s the one bulwark against all of the evil of the world? Or was Hope last because is it the worst of the worst?

Because all emotional pain and joy happens in that gap between what you hope and what you actually get.

  • If you expect to make $20,000 a year and you make $100,000, that $80,000 gap is joy.
  • If you expect to make $100,000 a year and you make $20,000, that $80,000 gap is pain.

For us, we remain hopeful. And we wait to find out what is felicitous and what is not.

Her: (waking) What do we have to do today?
Me: Rest.

\’

Location: with our son
Mood: hoping
Music: Hold on, I feel like you could shine

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A letter to Joe Biden

Two questions for the Vice-President

Alison McCarthy

A boy walks across the beach, throwing starfish back into the sea.

Old man: What are you doing?
Boy: (flings a starfish into the sea) Saving starfish from drying up on the beach.
Old man: (laughing) What’s the point? There are millions of starfish dying on beaches. Throwing one back won’t matter.
Boy: (picks up another starfish)

————-

Dear Mr. Vice President;

My wife and I were deeply touched and saddened when we heard of your son’s passing, because we often remarked how unfair your life had already been. How you’ve managed your grief so well, I cannot fathom.

I write to ask that you help spare my family the grief and anguish that your family had to bear both those times.

My wife, Alison, and I have struggled for years to have a family. We suffered several losses in the past few years. That alone would be enough to break someone but my wife persevered. You would like her because, like you, she does not quit.

We were finally blessed with our son in November of 2015. But on November 8th, just five days later, she had a seizure and was rushed to the hospital. After a biopsy, we found out she had an incurable, aggressive brain cancer. I believe it was the same brain cancer that took Beau from you: A glioblastoma (GBM).

Since that day, I’ve done nothing but research the disease and help my wife. And in that time, in less than a month and a half, she’s had a total of three brain surgeries.

As you know, glioblastoma has an almost 100% death rate with a near 100% recurrence rate. Yet after over 50 years of research, little has changed: median survival is only an abysmal 14.6 months – in the past 15 years, there’s been almost no progress in survival rate.

Brain tumors are the leading cause of cancer-related deaths in children under 14, and the second leading cause of cancer-related deaths in children under 20.

14,000 Americans are stricken with it each year, each with names and families. Names like Brittany Maynard, Lauren Hill, Theodore Kennedy, Beau Biden, and Alison McCarthy. Families like yours and mine.

We learned we had this insidious disease the same month you attended the GBM AGILE Reception. There, Dr. Anna Barker said the problem is clear – outdated FDA rules that were never meant to deal with aggressive terminal illnesses:

“Randomized clinical trials [the current standard clinical trials] are 70 years old…what other technology doesn’t change in 70 years? … Meanwhile, cancer biology is moving at light speed and potential treatments have to wait in the queue.”1

Thousands are dying each year while these outdated rules stand in the way of potentially life-saving research and everyone knows it, because we treat brain cancer like an infectious disease. We think that there should be one cure (eg, penicillin) for one disease (eg, strep throat).

But GBM is not strep throat. It is closest to AIDS, when it first arrived, in that it is terminal and terminal very quickly. And time is a luxury GBM patients do not have.

Here’s what an FDA trial requires, of which every step is an excruciating hurdle for a GBM patient:

Phase 1 – Examines the safety of a product in a very small group of healthy volunteers or patients to determine appropriate dose ranges. (20-80 patients)

But: A patient with a GBM is, by definition, not healthy. My wife is not eligible for any clinical trial right now because she is not healthy enough for one.

Phase 2 – Evaluates the safety and efficacy of the product at a pre-determined dose in comparison to the standard care treatment (100-300 patients)

But: This means half the patients don’t have access to a drug that might help them and, for someone with a one-year life span, if that dose is wrong, there is no second chance to get it right – because that’s not the purpose of a clinical trials.

Phase 3 – Tests the product in double-blind comparison to the standard care treatment with a large and diverse population to determine efficacy and usage guidelines (1000-3000 patients)

But: Because GBM is rare, these patients are not to be found. Moreover, double-blind means that half the patients, again, are on placebos.

This is why in the past 15 years, there have only been four advancements in GBM therapy: Optune (2015), Avastin (2009), Temodar (2005), and Gliadel wafers (2002).

The outcome is so consistently dire, we cannot afford to deal with each treatment option via FDA rules, which have a real-world cost of over 2.5 billion US dollars per trial.

The cost, coupled with the requirements, make it easy to see why only four advancements happened in the past 14 years.

People think – in fact our doctor thinks – that the Hippocratic Oath says, “First do no harm.” This is false.

In fact, the Hippocratic Oath does not say that. It does, however, say “I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures which are required.”

Similarly, researchers are held the standard of the Declaration of Helsinki which expressly states that “concern for the interests of the subject must always prevail over the interests of science and society.”

Here is my first question: Can we honestly say that the FDA regulations in place now for GBM aren’t in violation of those oaths?

The rules are not there to save patients, but to aid science. A laudable goal, but one directly in conflict to these sworn oaths.

This is precisely why Larry Kramer wrote in the NY Times about AIDS decades ago, stating that “Double-blind (placebo) studies were not designed for terminal illnesses in mind. … It’s genocide by neglect.

My second question is equally simple: If there is credible evidence that a treatment may improve both progression free survival and/or overall survival, and GBM has an almost 100% death rate with a near 100% recurrence rate, why would we not afford a patient every bit of chance possible?

For example, Valcyte is a medication for HIV use but has been shown to have some effect on GBM. However, “it is not standard practice to prescribe medications that have not been vetted through appropriately designed phase II trials.” This, despite the fact that the drug is well-tolerated and has minimal risk.2

Similar to HIV treatment, gonorrhea, combination therapies are the only hope for a cancer as deadly and insidious as glioblastomas.

Yet FDA rules are designed for monotherapies – again, treating this terminal illness like a mere infectious disease.

Dr. Emil Freireich, one of the three doctors that promulgated combination therapy to cure leukemia, is on record saying, “Would the things we did in 1960 be possible today? The answer is unequivocally capital N, capital O, no. … Reforming regulation is the most important thing we can do.”

– https://vimeo.com/119006145 at 1:04:13

ACT-UP transformed AIDS from a death sentence to a chronic condition through by-passing the FDA and creating a drug cocktail, a combination therapy of current drugs to deal with a terminal disease.

To this date, there has never been an FDA randomized Phase 3 trial for the AIDS cocktail. This is totally due to political will.

“If AIDS patients demanded direct access to drugs and treatments, should cancer patients with terminal illnesses not also make similar demands?”

The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer, pg 310

Everything we knew and read of Beau Biden confirms your statement that he was the finest man you have ever known.

My wife has been heartbroken, not because she has to go through this, but because my son and I have to go through it. For this and countless other reasons, she’s the finest human being I have ever known.

Your grandchildren deserved every chance – however minute – to grow old with their father, to remain on top of the mountain. My son is only some 70 days old as of this writing. He deserves to know his mother, just like every child deserves to know his or her parent.

We must hold doctors and clinicians to their oaths and put patients first, not science and rules. Instead of these onerous rules, doctors and their patients should, together, be allowed to simply weigh the benefits against the risks.

I ask for GBM patients what the AIDS activists demanded for their loved ones, when faced with a terminal illness, as delineated more thoroughly here:

  1. Shorten the drug approval process.
  2. Eliminate double-blind placebo trials – this is the height of cruelty.
  3. Include people from all affected populations at all stages of GBM in clinical trials – currently there is a clear distinction between “new” and “recurrent” patients.
    • Why on earth is that? Beau and Alison should have had access to everything the moment they found out they had a GBM.
  4. Medicaid and private health insurance must be made to pay for experimental therapies. This is critical with the passage of the ACA.
  5. Doctors must inform patients of any and all clinical trials that a patient may be eligible for.
    • Currently, patients must learn that clinical trials even exist on their own. Then they must research to see if they are eligible for them, also independently.
  6. The FDA must support a goal of keeping patients – that is keeping people – alive, rather than furthering science.

Curing cancer – especially this cancer – is not a moonshot because we’re lacking the knowledge, sir, it’s a moonshot because we’re lacking the political will to change regulation.

Please help me save my wife, Mr. Vice-President, and all those waiting for a cure for this horrible cancer. We don’t have much time.

Please #SaveAlison.

Logan Lo

————-

Boy: (shrugging and flinging the starfish into the sea) It matters to this one.

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Location: home with my family
Mood: determined
Music: Together we could break this trap

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You fight for that 1%

I don’t accept it

Logan and Alison in Bermuda

Her: (crying)
Me: (awaking anxiously) Are you alright?
Her: I thought I died.

The night terrors have slowed down but haven’t stopped. But for better or worse they’re happening at home because Alison came home this week.

She’d been in the hospital for over a month. When she went in, the kid was just over 32 days old. He’s now more than twice that age and over twice as big.

When she first got home, she couldn’t look at him. Not long, anyway. She’d start to cry. Because he reminds her of what she’s missed out on. What she’s lost.

In some ways, that perfectly encapsulates what’s happened in the last two months.

The women that gave birth to him is not the woman here now. The woman that gave birth to him was a normal weight, with long blond hair, and an easy laugh. She was doing pregnancy work-out videos in the weeks leading to delivery.

Now, she’s only 100 pounds. Bald. With a foot-long scar encircling her head and another six-inch scar going from the top of her head to the base of her neck. She rarely smiles, let alone laughs.

And she sits in a wheelchair. She has little use of her left side. She’s a shadow of the person she was.

But I hope. I hope there’s some way she can be that person again. I believe she can be that person again.

In my gym, we get yelled at a lot. It’s not a place for the soft.

And we each get yelled at for specific things. For example, I get yelled at for accepting what’s called a “pass.”

Coach: Don’t accept it, don’t accept that pass!
Me: He was 99% passed!
Coach: (angrily) That means 1% not passed! 99 is not 100! You fight for that 1%. You don’t give up until it’s done. You’re not done at 99%! (kicks me)

And so it is here.

I don’t accept it: The prognosis. The statistics. This life. I refuse to accept any of it. Not for her, not for me.

Whatever the percentage we have, I refuse to accept it. We’ll fight until it’s done, whenever that may come.

Me: You didn’t. You’re still here. And you’re gonna be keep being here as long as you keep fighting, ok?
Her: OK.
Me: Go back to sleep. I’ll be here the whole time.

12510411_10153743014581877_1751352215977495639_n
My gym is holding a fundraiser for Alison – this is the fourth or fifth one.

I’m so grateful that I have them supporting us. I’d have gone full raving without them.

DONATE

Location: Home. There’s no place like it.
Mood: f__ this thing
Music: But I have the skill, yeah I have the will

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Tsunamis and tidal waves

The island we call home

A hospital room looking at the East River

Her: (waking) How’s everything back at home?

Perhaps the worst feeling I had during this whole damnable thing is the look of fear in my wife’s eyes. It was chilling.

We had started chemo and radiation last month but only had two treatments when she had to be rushed to the hospital because of how the tumor reacted to them.

If cancer is a tidal wave, brain cancer is a tsunami.

This week, she started both radiation and chemotherapy again and – at least so far – she’s been able to tolerate it. Unfortunately, constant new fears continually rise and pound us like tidal waves.

But those tidal waves are my responsibility to buttress. She has to shoulder enough.

  • Her insurance won’t cover several large expenses, so that means a full eight-hour day trying to navigate Obamacare, her insurance company, and credit card company.
  • Our son’s insurance was inexplicably cancelled so that meant another three-hour phone call to Obamacare and his insurance company
  • Our radiator cracked in the middle of the night, which is both extremely rare, and extremely dangerous. That meant a sleepless freezing night trying to get it fixed.
  • Constant medical mixups at her hospital where dosages and timing for medications are screwed up.
  • Other close family members suddenly dealing with their own medical issues.

Each one of these would be a disaster in-and-of themselves and it seems like I’ll never find footing.

Still, troubles are easier when others are willing to dive in and help.

  • The insurance issue was a missed email that meant having to choose between my son’s insurance or my wife’s insurance. Of course I had to choose my wife. But then I called a pediatrician friend of mine who told me not to worry, she would make sure he’s ok.
  • My neighbor Vic knows how to fix things like radiators. He came right over at 9PM, bought materials the next day, and fixed the issue.
  • The nurses at Alison’s hospital immediately stepped in and said they would monitor her medicine to make sure these screwups would stop happening.
  • Other family members stepped in to help out with these new medical emergencies.

Years ago, when my buddy Mike died, wrote about John Dunn’s poem, No Man is an Island. No woman is either.

The strength of one’s social support is a factor both in quality-of-life and survivability in cancer patients.

That we have so many other people willing to dive in to help us with these crashing waves makes me think that we can make it to shore. Maybe it’s only driftwood, but when there’s nothing else, driftwood has to be enough.

Me: Just fine.

\’

Location: home for now, dealing with tidal waves
Mood: fighting the depression
Music: if we are wise We know that there’s always tomorrow
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It’s difficult to live in a grey world

…so here’s some color

Art from Indian Landing elementary school

Everything in my life is grey – the weather, the food, the smells, everything.

But, from time-to-time, there are spots of color and I didn’t want to end my year, or yours, in the grey. So here’s a list of them:

  • Alison’s completely conscious and remembering more now. She still forgets a lot, but I remind her.
  • She just started intensive PT/OT and she’s moved her left hand and leg again. It’s not much, but it’s something.
  • I’m sleeping on a cot now, instead of the floor, so that’s a plus.
  • Friends and strangers keep asking how they can help and offering us food, places to stay in the UES, and babysitting. And they mean it.
  • Some children from Indian Landing elementary school sent us some drawings to cheer us up.
  • One of her cousins as well as several of her friends have sent us a ton of food. Including chili. Chili makes everything better.
  • Neighbors have constantly been checking in on us, including in our building and even next door.

And finally, the donations. Feel a bit like George Bailey at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life.

  • Both Alison and I have had relatives, friends, complete strangers, exes, and neighbors – both long-lost and current – donate.
  • The number of LJ and blog readers that have donated is also pretty jaw-dropping. I’ve always felt these relationships mattered and this really bore it out. My friend Joceyln just wrote about us in her blog, from the other side of the world.
  • My fencing instructor – and HIS instructor, as well – and our students past and present, and those of related schools, have donated.
  • My gym – Radical MMA – has had no less than three fundraisers, and too many individual members of my gym have donated, including the owner and his wife.

There are just too many people to thank but we will try, as the days and weeks get better, we will try. I promise.

My long-time readers know that I’ve always had a dim view of humanity.

I stand corrected. The fact that all of you set my wife apart means that I’m wrong.

That means more to me than you could possibly imagine.

And your kindness may legitimately help us save her because a recent study said that those that live a life of gratitude make better decisions.

I believe it because the fact of the matter is that I’ve been crippled by grief, unable to do much beyond function.

But I am so humbly grateful that so many people care about my person that we’re seeing color again. Not a lot, but enough. Enough to keep trying. Enough for a bit of hope.

Thank you, everyone.

Her: I had a good day today, I think.
Me: If you had a good day, then I had a good day.

 

Location: At the end of 2015, the best and worst year of our lives
Mood: grateful
Music: I set you apart. Tell me your secrets

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I’m all by myself

Four words and 50 stories

Weill Cornell Christmas Lobby 2015

There’s little sadder than being the only person in a hospital on Christmas.

———-

Me: (picking up phone, anxious) Alison?
Her: (panicked) Where are you!? Where am I!?

Of all the Adam Sandler/Drew Barrymore films, the one I’ve enjoyed most is 50 First Dates.

In it, Barrymore’s character can’t retain recent memories and only remembers things in her distant past, and Sandler’s character has to repeatedly “meet” her again and again. In the end, he records a video – on VHS cassette no less – to remind her of everything the two of them had gone through together.

So let me tell you about our first Christmas as a family…

I woke up and made a cuppa joe before I was going to make my way to the hospital. But then my phone rings and I look down to see it’s Alison. It’s the first time she’s called me in months since this happened so I anxiously answered.

She didn’t remember anything happened and was terrified. Minutes later, I’m in a taxi, rushing across town. She calls again.

Her: (scared) Where are you?
Me: I’m in a car, I’ll be there in 10 minutes.
Her: Hurry. Please. (pause, quieter) I’m all by myself.

In life, there are words that chill you to your core. “Your wife has cancer” were four such words. “I’m all by myself” were four others.

So I said to her what I’ve always thought are the four sweetest words in the English language: I’m on my way.

The cab stopped at a red before the hospital, so I flew out the door and ran up the stairs to her room, still on the phone.

Me: (panting) I’m on the second floor, I’ll be right there…

When I arrived, she turned to me with the same panicked look in her eyes that she had a month ago, when I told her the four words the doctor said to me. Telling her then was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Then I realized I had to do it all over again.

So I steadied myself, gulped down some air, and sat down next to her bed.

Me: Honey…

And I saw the look again. Could go a lifetime, never see that look again, and it’d still be too soon.

Dunno how doctors regularly give bad news. Where do they find the strength to tell someone that that their lives are in grave jeopardy on the regular? Do they drink every night at their desk?

Me: …he said you might not wake up. But you did. Then he said you might be permanently damaged…
Her: (horrified)
Me: …but you’re not. And then another doctor said he had to open you again and said you might not come back, but you did. This cancer has been wanting to kill you but you just won’t let it.

Somewhere along the line, the alarms that were going off because of her rapid heartbeat, stopped ringing. And she started breathing normally again. Her voice became stronger.

Her: I can’t believe this is my life.
Me: (sighing) This woman once said, You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding. It’s a ___ hand, but you’ve been playing the hell out of them. We’re all so proud of you.

Then I took her phone and explained everything a third time – this time via a recording on her phone. And I titled it: WATCH ME!

Told her that if she woke up again and didn’t know where she was, she could watch that and wait for me. Because I would always be on my way.

Her: (quietly) I want to get going and beat this.
Me: That’s my girl. (nodding) That’s my tough girl…

Screen Shot 2015-12-25

\’

Location: A different room in the same hospital, looking at the same river
Mood: humbled
Music: Don’t stop, no, I’ll never give up

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Companionship

Someone to sit and eat with

The word companion comes from late Latin, with com meaning with and panis meaning bread.

Essentially, a companion is someone with whom you do these daily mundane things, like sitting down and eating.

When my wife first got sick, I slept on the floor next to her hospital bed for a week. Said I did it because I didn’t want her to be alone, which was true. But equally true was that I didn’t want to be alone either.

Nurse: You can’t sleep here.
Me: (lying down) Let’s find out.

I’m sorry for the lack of updates – especially to those that have so generously donated.

On December 10th, Alison was unresponsive so we rushed her to the hospital. There, the doctors had to remove part of her skull to save her life. They said she might not survive the night. I fell to my knees.

But she survived. Then she had another surgery just a week later. That’s three brain surgeries in a month, just days after giving birth.

To say that my wife is crazy tough is like saying that New York City is a small town. She’s made of steel.

Unfortunately, she’s been in the hospital since the 10th and will be for quite a while. I’m there most days; other days, other relatives are with her.

This is not how we imagined our first Christmas and New Year’s as a family.

Still, I go to the hospital and have bread with her when she’s able. When she’s not, I just sit there. And we dream of home.

She would do the same for me, because she’s my companion and I’m her’s.

Me: (arriving, breathless) Hey, beautiful.
Her: Hey.

Location: The same hospital room, still looking at the same river
Mood: still heartbroken
Music: Somedays I’m built of metal, I can’t be broken. But not when I’m with you

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The sun always shines on TV

The love of my life is sick

Screen Shot 2015-12-16 at 2.41.04 PM
When I was a kid, the hottest music video was a song called Take On Me. In it, a comic book character comes to life to be with a woman he loves. It ends with them happily together.

Unfortunately, there’s a follow-up video that few people heard of called The Sun Always Shines on TV, where you learn the rest of the story – he cannot stay and they don’t end up happily ever after.

I once said that all stories end sad; every relationship that matters will always end in tears. That’s the nature of the world. But I think the unexpected tragedies are the hardest. That’s when life knocks you to your knees and you can’t stand up again.

My wife is sick. And on top of the sickness, we have all the bonuses that come with the sickness – the fear, the uncertainty, the loss of control, etc.

Yet I hold out hope that somehow, this isn’t all of our story. That we can find a happy sequel to this news. And in the end, I want what everyone wants when they love someone – for them to stay.

Please stay with us. Please stay with me.

Location: A hospital room, looking at the river
Mood: heartbroken
Music: there’s got to be some way to keep my troubles distant

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Gone Fishing

Thanks

Me in DC

I started this blog all those years ago to just have an outlet for writing and as a place to put all these thoughts I have rattling around my head.

Turning 42 last week means that I have about 12,410 days left here and there are things I want to do and write about before those days run out. Which means less time for this here blog.

There’s just not enough time.

So this is my last regular entry here. There might be others, I’m not sure, right now, though, this is my last one.

But I want to leave you with something silly that you probably never thought about:

You can see you nose, you just choose not to see it.

You see it now, don’t you? And you will for several minutes before it disappears again. And throughout this day, you’ll notice it, forget it once again, notice it, forget it, until you forget it completely.

That is how most things are in our lives.

Things that are so a part of our lives that we don’t see them any more. The people, the experiences. We make them disappear. I walked by a beautiful waterfall every single day for years in college and never noticed it.

I live in the heart of Manhattan but rarely notice it.

Sometimes it’s a good thing. The major impetus for this blog was a bad breakup that has completely disappeared from my mind until I wrote this.

So I leave you with this thought: You see a million things every single day – literally, not figuratively – but you only notice one or two. This is by design.

I realized writing this blog, that it helped me separate signal from noise; to choose what I deemed noteworthy and what was not. Syd helped.

We all get to choose what matters to us, what we allow to affect us.

This blog was about all the things I’ve noticed about my little slice of the world and I wanted you to see them too. Because I thought they were worthy of note. Even thought it was mostly about nuthin.

Anywho, I wanted to say, Thanks for reading – for listening – to alla this nuthin.

There’s a line from You’ve Got Mail that goes, all this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings.

Likewise.

I’ll still be around on Facebook, Twitter from time-to-time, and Instagram regularly if I can swing it.

Harold’s not with me anymore so it’s just the wife and me.

And we’ve gone fish’n…

 

Location: away, but still here
Mood: nostalgic
Music: heartbroken cause I can’t see further than my own nose at this moment

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Logan’s 42; I’m (not) a New Soul

Hoping I could learn a bit bout what is true and fake

Edison Lightbulbs in NYC

Him: Happy birthday!
Me: Thanks! I can’t believe I’m 8 years from 50.
Him: Nice way to think about it.

I’m 42.

As I say it out loud, and it sounds so strange to me. Don’t feel 42. I’m told that I don’t look (particularly) 42. And yet I am.

There was a time where I was the “new guy” or “the kid.” Those days are long gone.

On April 17, 1973, I was a new soul. Couldn’t do anything on my own, and didn’t know a thing. All I wanted to do was eat and sleep. Which is little changed from now.

But as I slowly started figuring stuff out, stopped being a new soul became an old one.

Have you heard about this odd thing happening where adults are returning to “preschool” to re-live some of their earliest memories?

While I think it’s silly, I get it.

After a certain age, people try to re-live parts of their childhood that remind them what it was like when everything was new.

It’s why I am always reading something, because my childhood was spent studying, so learning something new is the closest thing I have to having that feeling of being a kid again.

It’s part of the reason why I take wrasslin and fencing classes and take things apart all the time – there’s always something new and cool to learn.

Besides, learning new stuff has the added benefit of always having cocktail conversation at the ready:

Me: …the liquor comes from the island of Curaçao; when Spanish sailors went there, they planted sweet Valencia oranges but the soil there transformed them in to these tiny bitter oranges.
Him: Why do you know know that?
Me: I have no idea.

Probably going to take it easy today; go to the gym and roll around like a kid with some friends and then top it off with some rum.

No longer a new soul but I’ll try not to be an old an cynical one for as long as possible.

Location: my apartment
Mood: thoughtful
Music: Finding myself making every possible mistake

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