Tag: social commentary

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Kintsugi: The tenacity of the broken

Daderot, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Nothing gold seems to stay

Read yesterday that scientists discovered that a humpback whale named Moon that they’ve been tracking for a decade had broken her spine.

For 10 years, they followed her from Canada to Hawaii – 3,000 miles – something she had to do for food and to teach her calf how to do the same.

Sometime recently, a ship hit her and broke her spine, dooming her.

There’s no question she’ll die, it’s just how long she’ll survive in excruciating pain.

But she longs to live. So, she swam the same path she always swam – except upside down and in pain and a broken tail.

She swam 3,000 miles doing the breaststroke.

Look how broken she is, yet I find her beautiful, nonetheless. I’ve always found people and things that struggle and scuffle against their fate, beautiful.

She’s going to die and I wonder if she knows.

I’ve long said that females seem stronger than males in many regards.

The stories I’ve read about Moon aren’t clear if she made this last trip with her calf or not but I wouldn’t be surprised.

As I said before – and quoting Agatha Christie – A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity. It dares all things, and crushes down, remorselessly, all that stands in its path.

It dares all things.

Including swimming upside-down for 3,000 miles with a broken back and tail.

Have you ever heard of kintsugi?

It the Japanese art of repairing broken things with melted gold.

Essentially things like pottery bowls are put back together with melted gold and the result is something beautiful despite its scars.

I always thought Alison was so beautiful, despite all she’d gone through.

There’s something beautiful about tenacity, especially when it’s driven by love.

Me: They thought I was 35.
Him: Were they white? It doesn’t count unless they were Asian.
Me: (laughing) All three were Asian.

I feel myself retreating into my head again. But, I’m remembering things, so I’m not alone.

For better or worse.

My therapist thinks I’ve been making great strides in putting this mess that is my head back together again but I’m not sure.

The rage is better – all the hours at the gym seem to help with that – but I look at my face and don’t recognize myself a lot. And I’m tired.

Three different people from my gym thought I was 35 when I’m really pushing 50. Actually, one guy thought a woman there was the oldest person in the room when I was actually 17 years older than her.

But I wonder what I’d look like without all the trauma from 2014 to, well, today.

I feel those years aged me more than pretty much anything.

This is one of the few good pics I have of me from 2014, with PerfectCircles, at my fave dive bar.

I’m 41 in it but I usually got that I was in my 20s.

And this one is when I actually turned 41.

Me with Abe

This is me with my buddy a few weeks later:
Logan Lo and a buddy on the Staten Island ferry

I’m flattered that people think I look so young but that vain, shallow part of me – which, granted, is pretty sizable – wonders how much younger I woulda looked like without all that fucking shit we went through.

Which, of course, is hopelessly stupid and banal considering all that I’ve lost.

But it’s just bonus pain to my grief.

I feel that if Alison were still alive, she’d think that I look great, despite the grey and the scars, both visible and invisible.

Love is blind, after all.

I wonder if I’ll ever meet anyone that thinks I’m great the way she did.

Or am I just so obviously and irreparably broken inside and out, without her or anything else gold to mend me?

It’s an old saying but it weighs at me, that nothing gold seems to stay.

And we’re all on our doomed journeys, some shorter and more tragic than others.

I suppose that, like Moon, there’s not much to do but keep going until the end.

Her: What’s going on?
Me: Well, pour me a drink, darling, and I’ll tell you. But you won’t enjoy the story.
Her: How does it end?
Me: (shrugging) Like most true stories, love: In tears.

Location: earlier today, watching the boy sing Jingle Bells and wishing everything was different
Mood: complex
Music: I’m broken but, I’m ready to feel better. Glue me back together? (Spotify)
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Ur famous bruh

Massive Imposter Syndrome

 

About two Fridays ago, the short below had about 92,000 views, which was pretty good already.

The very next day, that number somehow jumped to 1.5 million. Two days later it was three million on Sunday and four million on Monday. It’s now our best performing video with 6.1 million views.

And we have zero idea why.

The internet’s a strange place.

Him: Well, your face is covered in that one.
Me: Thanks, Pac.

Speaking of Pac and the internet being a strange place, he went out to Seattle for a business meeting and was chatting with a higher up there when my name got brought up.

But just my first name.

Evidently, there’re not a lotta Logans in New York City.

It turns out that she was going through her own tragedy a while back and, through Googling, came across my blog. She and her sister kept up with me and Alison while Alison was sick.

She told Pac that it gave her some comfort.

To say that made my day is like saying that the sun is hot.

Years ago, I met Ray Liotta and I told him I was looking forward to seeing Killing Them Softly. He seemed really pleased that I knew about it.

Read somewhere that actors get tired of talking about the films that they’re famous for – in his case, Goodfellas – but are happier talking about their latest project.

In this sample size of one, I’d say that’s true.

I bring this up because, as cool as Scenic Fights is – and it’s hella cool – it’s never what I wanted to be known for.

The fact I could fight was something I kept to myself for 30 years. It was just my own personal little joy.

I only did Scenic Fights as a favour to one of the producers and, while I’m glad I did, I do miss the anonymity of being just a grey man from time-to-time.

I’d have been happy to have died an old man keeping that a secret, amongst all my other secrets.

Having said that, I’ve always wanted to be known as a good writer. Unlike fighting or cooking or the law anything else, it’s the one thing where I don’t feel massive impostor syndrome.

I feel I can actually write well, and my hope is always that I can connect with someone through time and space through these squiggly lines.

Pac went further though.

He told me that a group of people overheard the conversation and asked about me.

Before Pac could respond, the woman – whom I never met – turned and told them the story of how Alison and I met, got married, and how she got sick, and ultimately, how she died.

Pac was surprised that she knew so much about me without having known me.

Him: (laughing) Crazy, complete strangers from the other side of the country know you. Man, your ego must be HUGE right now.
Me: It’s always huge but…it’s more than that. Alison’s biggest fear was that she’d be forgotten. The fact that people remember her and think fondly of her, even after all these years, means the world to me.
Him: Well, your blog did that. And she’s definitely not going to be forgotten by you or anyone else that’s read it.
Me: Well then, it’s worth every moment I put into it then. She deserves to be remembered. Even though, I’d like to forget things.

I’m remembering things. This is both good and bad.

I’ll tell you about it, when I sort it all out.

Location: home, chatting with a friend about the people we loved
Mood: flattered
Music: Lets build a big little life. All we need is each other (Spotify)
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PSA: The Typical Colonoscopy Procedure

My colonoscopy procedure

After I taught the class, rushed back home where my sitter was watching the kid.

Me: Papa’s gonna be in the back doing…stuff.
Him: Can I watch?
Her: (laughing) I don’t think your dad wants you to see.
Him: To be fair, I don’t want *anyone* to see – or hear – what’s about to happen.

What I had to do was drink TWO liters of a pretty gross laxative – I opted for the “lemon flavoring,” I can only imagine how gross it is without it – which I had to consume a cup at a time every ten minutes starting at 9:30.

Now, I was supposed to have done this at 6:30PM, because my procedure was scheduled for 10:30AM the following day.

But, like I said, I already agreed to teach the class, so 9:30 was the earliest I could get things going.

Having said that, after the third cup, things happened pretty quickly, and it took a solid two hours for things to slow down.

That’s not the worst of it, though. You’re supposed to get up five hours before your procedure to do it yet again.

Yup, FOUR liters of laxative for this bright-eyed boy in eight hours.

Had to start at 5AM so I wouldn’t have an accident dropping off the kid in the AM. So, from 5AM to 7AM, it was yet more grossness.

Now, I probably coulda skipped the second round because of my intermittent fasting. See, the last time I had solid food was Sunday night at 6:30PM while my procedure was set for 10:30AM on Tuesday.

Got the kid to school ok, then went home to basically chill for an hour before I made my way to the place, which was on the Upper East Side, near the where the Counselor and the Blue Jean Eyed girl lived.

From the time I walked in the door to the time I left, was almost exactly 50 minutes. Legit.

        • I walked in at 10:28.
        • I was on the table at 10:42.
        • They started doing stuff at 10:46.
        • They finished at 10:53.
        • I was conscious at 10:58.
        • I was up by 11:05.
        • I was out the door by 11:18.

Honestly, the smoothest procedure I’d ever been part of.

Although you probably couldn’t tell with this shot the nurse took of me after I came to.

Not my most flattering shot. But it pretty accurately represents how I felt at that moment.

And, because of alla Alison’s hell, my dad’s, and my own clumsiness, I’ve been part of more procedures than anyone in their right mind would wanna be part of.

Walking out the door, I felt ok enough to just take the train back.

My brother just happened to be in town that day and offered to pick me up, but I declined.

Gotta tell you, there was something oddly and sadly fitting about going home alone after this procedure and thinking of how Alison went to get me the first time around.

Been in my head a lot lately causea the holidays but it’s not been all bad.

Before Alison and my dad got sick, I just happened to be doing a lotta reading into stoicism and the idea of amor fati, or loving fate.

It’s essentially accepting one’s fate.

I’ve been fighting everyone’s fate – including my own – for so long now that I’m tired and am ready to just slow-drown in my life.

Emphasis on slow…

Him: Are you ok, papa?
Me: OK’s a relative term, kid.
Him: Thank you for coming home and not dying.
Me: (fuck) I’ll always come home to you, kid. Dontcha ever worry about that. I’ll drag myself home to you if I have to, always.
Him: Promise?
Me: Pinky-swear. Always.

Location: home, with a tumbler of rum
Mood: def not sober
Music: boy, I believe in us (Spotify)
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Books that made me, me

Some more fiction

Rarely read fiction anymore. I used to read fiction voraciously but I’ve so little time these days that it’s been years since I read something with a plot and characters.

Read the entirety of John Grisham’s novels from 1990-1999. That’s the last time I remember reading fiction, although I’m sure I did in the 2000s – I just don’t remember.

It’s a shame because this fella named Charlie “Tremendous” Jones once said, You will be the same person in five years as you are today except for the people you meet and the books you read.

There’s a lotta truth to that.

Think that I’m the person I am today because of the books I read when I was a kid. After all, my summers were spent in the library.

A handful of books spring to mind immediately when I think of books that profoundly affected me.

Some, I already wrote about at length including:

  • The Godfather (sophmore year, college)
  • The Count of Monte Cristo (high school)
  • Les Miserables (high school)
  • The Little House series (grammar school)
    • Honestly, I read these books because I was always hungry and they had the most vivid descriptions of food. I still remember the description of the kids cooking pig’s tail and making maple candy. This is probably at least part of the reason I’m a fatty-fat-fat.
  • The Great Brain series (grammar school)
    • This one taught me the value of hustle, something that I took to heart immediately after reading the book and literally never stopped.
  • A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (high school)
    • I keep thinking about the saloon owner and his relationship with his wife for reasons that are mine alone, but I digress.

Lately, I find myself remembering books I read in late grammar school and junior high school, just because I want the kid to read them, someday.

On that note, I recently spoke at his school. But that’s an entry for another time.

Two books that really fucked with my head growing up were:

Tuck Everlasting
This is about a little girl that met a boy about her age, but he’s really 104 years old. He’s immortal and she wants to be immortal like him, but he tells her it’s a curse. The ending really messed me up but it made me realize for the first time that I would die someday.

And it was the first book where the boy and girl didn’t have a happy ending.

I think it was the start of me wanting to do something important because I knew my time here was limited.

It also meant that I never wanted to live forever.

In light of all that’s happened in my life, I think that all the more lately. I feel I’m just waiting around to die, already.

Bridge to Terabithia
Now, this messed me up because I’d never read about a main character dying before. The heroes always lived and won. This was the first book where that wasn’t the case and it made me realize that the good guys lose as much as win.

If these two books didn’t help, in some small way, prepare me for the last few fucked up years of my life, I dunno what did.

Speaking of bridges, since I have you, maybe you can help me find two books from grammar school that I just cannot remember the author nor title of because I was a little kid.

The first book was about a young boy in Manhattan that would sneak out and climb one of the bridges (the Manhattan Bridge?) in the middle of the night and just sit and think.

I used to sneak out of my house and just on random corners to think, because of this book.

When I first moved to Manhattan (Times Square) as a young adult, people would always wanna go out to parties or bars and meet people.

Me? I’d sit at the corner of W 46th Street and 6th Avenue and chat up whoever was there around midnight.

When I moved here, I used to sit on my stoop and make small talk with whomever.

Did I ever tell you that I met the doctor at a phone booth in Columbia and the German Girl at my local dive bar?

So much of my life has been chance encounters. Including Alison.

Don’t think I ever told that the girl in this entry was her.

She was my ship in the night.

Ah, fuck me.

Sorry.

Anywho, the second book was about a group of kids that found a key which turned out to fit into a hole in a stone wall. Inside the wall (the key was really a hook that hooked onto a box) was essentially a time capsule.

That book is probably part of why I write this blog.

Because I think that, maybe long after I’m gone, someone will find this and it’ll be a time capsule of some rando’s life in the early 2000s.

Gotta make sure someone pays the internet hosting bills, I guess.

Location: 5PM tonight, chatting with a buddy about the people we love, dying, on W 77th
Mood: thoughtful
Music: we should go get lost in the big wide world (Spotify)
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Thanks for the Joy, Cammie!

Hot damn, that’s damn hot

Can’t tell you the number of times people question why I even have this blog.

Heck, *I* question why I even have this blog and wonder on the regular if I should just pack it up.

In fact, the Counselor stopped talking to me for a bit after she found out about it. She could have been the only one that told me; who knows how many women stopped talking to me because of this blog and not because of my dreadful personality?

Now, I honestly tried once before, but then Alison got sick and I felt that if I didn’t write, I’d go starkers.

Some would argue that I did anyway, but that’s neither here nor there.

Suppose, this is as much my own therapy as it is my keeping track of the comings and goings of my life.

Every once in a while, though, I’m reminded that I connect with people that I might never have connected with ever, through this thing.

One person I met years ago when this was on LiveJournal was a girl that called herself WebCammie.

She was a young law student when we first (virtually) met, while I’d been practicing for a decade or so.

Now, the world hit eight billion people just five days ago.

Meaning, there are eight billion randos in the world – and I’m one of them. Yet, this one rando (Cammie) felt that this here rando (me) was special enough to keep track of. Even after all this time.

If that’s not flattering and kind, man, I dunno what is.

Here’s the kicker, though – she wrote me a pithy line the other day:

I work for FB so if you need help getting your account back, let me know. My email is…

Turns out, she’s an associate General Counsel at Facebook.

That’s…a pretty big deal.

So, I hit her up and FOUR HOURS LATER, my permanently deleted Facebook/Instagram/Whatsapp accounts all came back.

Goddamn, it’s nice knowing people in the world with this much juice.

Is it hot in here or is it just me?

Because, hot damn, that’s damn hot.

Me: Hey, if FB needs an extremely lazy, semi-alcoholic, somewhat maudlin, but very charming IP lawyer, let me know?
WebCammie: (laughing) We just laid off 11,000 users but are you seriously looking?
Me: (laughing as well) No, I’m just a full-time dad now.

So, when people ask me who I write my blog for, I always tell them that it’s a roundabout way for me to find people in my tribe.

Those that see the world (kinda) how I see it. As a complex tragedy fulla joy.

On the one hand, I spend my life bearing the endless fucking tragedies for the promise of some goddamn joy.

On the other hand, I try to give a little joy to others if I can, knowing that they’re living in a tragedy too.

And I think I’m not the only one.

Mr. Rogers famously said, Look for the helpers. I take that very much to heart.

The people that helped me when Alison was sick, the people that picked me up when I was on my knees after she and my dad died? These are all the kinda people I wanna know and I want my kid to know.

Because Alison lived her life trying to help people find joy in the tragedy that is our lives and I try to do the same, if only to just to meet people like her and Cammie.

And be grateful for the rando acts of kindness towards other randos.

Cause, honestly, what greater joy is there than to bring joy to others? I couldn’t tell you because I don’t think there is one.

So, thanks, Cammie, for the help and the joy.

The world’s a shitty place but people like you make it just a little less so. I’m grateful that you took time outta your insanely busy day to help this rando.

Thanks for existing.

Your fan,

Logan

PS – Surely, you can use an assistant. I make great ok passable coffee.

Him: Look at all the fog! It’s so cool!
Me: It is.
Him: What’s fog, papa?
Me: Well, essentially, water molecules condense – that means gathers – around little bits of fine parti…you know what? It doesn’t matter. Let’s stand for a bit and look at it together, ok?
Him: OK, papa! Look at the lights!
Me: (laughing) It’s pretty. Our little city’s pretty sometimes, yeah?
Him: (nodding) Yeah…

Location: earlier today, my gym at a private party
Mood: tired, but joyous
Music: How’d you always know when I’m down? I feel joy, when you call me (Spotify)
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Old lions

Parenting’s hard

Before I went out with RE Mike, I picked up the kid from school and he wasn’t his usual indefatigably happy self because of his black eye.

Him: Some of the kids were making fun of me. (sadly) They called me hamburger face. I didn’t like that. I asked them to stop but they didn’t. (sighs)
Me: You can’t control what other kids do or say, but you can control how you react to these things. Do you know their names?
Him: No.
Me: People that you don’t know that are mean shouldn’t matter to you. Don’t care so much about people and things that don’t matter. Now, go play.
Her: (woman overhearing my conversation after he ran off) That was really good advice.
Me: Thanks. Parenting’s hard, isn’t it?
Her (nodding) So hard.

If you don’t have a kid, it’s difficult to explain how much it wears on a parent to have a sad kid; and this kid is rarely sad.

But when he is, I’m bummed all day.

While I was out with RE Mike, I mentioned the fact that I studied weapons fighting for just about as long as we’ve known each other.

He was totally shocked because I never once mentioned it.

It’s funny, people think that because I have a blog, my life’s an open book. In many ways, it is. But I also keep a lotta secrets.

There’s so much of my life I’ve not told you and I don’t think you’d believe if I told you anywho.

After all, some secrets are (quite) good and some are (quite) bad, but all are special things.

The next morning, he texted me the following – the link is to Scenic Fights:

Anywho, after I picked the boy up late from RE Mike’s pad, we took the long walk to the west side to grab the train home.

Him: I’m scared.
Me: Why?
Him: It’s so dark and people are so loud.
Me: It’s fine, you’re with me and I won’t let anything or anyone hurt you.
Him: You’re not scared?
Me: Everyone’s scared sometimes. But I’m not right now. Because these people are all like sheep, or – at most – like wolves, and papa’s neither.
Him: What are you then?
Me: (laughing) Uncle Pac thinks papa’s an old lion. That sounds about right. And lions – even old ones – aren’t afraid of sheep or wolves.

Although, to be fair, I’m like a weird old lion…

Location: West 77th and Columbus on a conference call trying to sound cavalier
Mood: parental
Music: devil’s on my shoulder stirring up trouble (Spotify)
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Precisely the opposite

Weapons are force multipliers

For those of you that have been reading this blog for a while, you may have noticed a recurring theme, which is, What does it mean to be human?

It seems like a silly question but we’re all essentially imperfect; physically, mentally, and emotionally, we’re all lacking in something that makes us fully realized human beings.

On that note, I had an interesting exchange with a young visitor at the gym the other day.

Him: I never knew that there was such a thing like knife and stick fighting, I just thought people picked these things up and used them.
Me: All fighting is skill-based. Some require more skill than others. The argument against weapons fighting is that it’s unnatural, because we’re not always armed, and I think that’s precisely the opposite of reality.
Him: What do you mean?
Me: It’s empty-hand fighting that’s unnatural; the nature of being human is that we use tools.

Imagine you’re alone in your home and you hear a noise in your living room. Do you just saunter out to check things out or do you grab a bat, stick, or lamp first?

Or, google any uprising and lemme know how many unarmed people you see? Or any mob action, including the January 6th riot – how many people are completely unarmed?

The nature of human violence is that we want something – anything – in our hands, in times of stress. Because we all instinctively know that weapons are force multipliers.

Fighting someone without any type of weapon is unnatural, precisely the opposite of what most people think.

And that’s why I think everyone should have some weapons training.

Here’s the kicker: If you’re unarmed, you don’t get to decide if you’re in a weapons fight or not. Only the armed person gets to decide that.

On a somewhat related point, we had to cancel the children’s classes at our gym because the kid’s coach we were using got an offer we couldn’t match.

So, I signed up the boy to the local gym around me.

I’m probably a bit biased but…man, he’s so damn cute, I can’t stand it.

This is in addition to alla his other afterschool activities like swimming. He’s the lime green blur in the photo below.

Trying to get into the new rhythm of the school year. One unexpectedly sad thing I realized was that every year for the past three years is that I’m the only emergency contact for him.

I had someone as a second contact when he was pre-4K but that was a long time ago.

It’s annoying, these little heartaches that randomly crop up.

On a much happier note, while I was there at the gym signing the kid up for his new class, this young man – very excitedly – waved to me:

Him: I’m so sorry, but are you Logan Lo?
Me: (laughing) Yes! Do you watch Scenic Fights?
Him: YES! I’m a subscriber! This is so cool!
Me: For me too!

I’m a solid D-list celebrity at this point, now.

Eh, I’ll take it.

Location: out in the village with RE Mike
Mood: concerned
Music: I can’t do this again, do this again (Spotify)
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Only one me

Getting it right

Years ago, I had a young blonde in my apartment and we ordered some food. We’re actually still FB friends, which I find sweet, but that’s neither here nor there.

In any case, I gave her the only bowl and utensils I had and I used the plastic stuff the food came with.

Her: Wait, you only have one bowl?
Me: (shrugging) I only have one me.

It was because my ex took everything else and I hadn’t yet gotten around to replacing it all yet.

Fast forward some 14 years later and I’m watching Hawkeye with someone else and we get to this scene:

Me: I said almost that exact same thing years ago!
Her: Really? No…
Me: It’s true. And I have receipts. But, I’ll show them to you some other time.

In some ways, that’s why it’s so odd for me to be a single father – I always either had someone in my life as a romantic partner or I was completely alone.

I never, ever – in a million years – imagined I’d be raising a kid all by my lonesome. It’s that whole imposter syndrome thing.

I’ve had some jaw-dropping success in my life as well as some truly shocking failures.

I hope – more than anything – that I get this one thing right, and it’s part of the former.

Editors note: In that entry above (and here), I’d just come back from Baltimore and my ex, whom I lived with, moved out while I was away and took everything – the bed, the utensils, all the plates and cups…AND the shower curtain.

I still remember sitting in my completely empty apartment and wondering if this was the lowest point of my life.

God, I was so young and dumb back then. I had no idea how much more down life could go.

She left me the couch, the TV, the microwave, a spatula, one cup, one plate, and a handful of random takeout items.

Took a video of it and posted it on a site that long since disappeared – and so did all my videos.

Shame, it was a hilarious video. That whole moment, in hindsight, was hilarious.

I had no idea how much more down life could go before rock-bottom.

Man, still can’t believe she didn’t leave me the shower curtain…

I get a lotta flak for this blog and I often toy with the idea of just stopping. That’s part of why I took a week off not that long ago.

On the one hand, I do wonder who, if anyone, read this. But then something like that Hawkeye scene happens and I’m glad I have it.

Or someone writes me something heartfelt and sweet, like Suz did recently, or someone from my gym class surprises me and tells me that she’s a reader.

Her: Logan, your last blog entry was so good. I thought I was going to cry.
Me: Wait, you read my blog?
Her: (shrugging) Yeah. You write so well.
Me: Oh man, thanks. I was just thinking about stopping…
Her: Don’t. It’s honest. It’s so honest. People like the honesty.

So, I continue to put things out into the aether, and hope that someone gets something from it besides just me.

Location: yesterday, downtown, telling a pretty girl to aim for my head
Mood: so busy
Music: I’m getting older with every memory I make (Spotify)
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Cascading consequences

Schadenfreude

Me: You’re not thinking of the cascading consequences.
Her: What are they?
Me: Let’s say you meet someone today. You chat, etc. You meet up in, say, September. Figure like six months of casual dating and you two lock it down, it’s now March 2023. You’re 35 then. You guys date for two years before you decide you’re right for each other, it’s now 2025, and you’re 37. You get engaged for a year, you’re now 38. You want to be a young married couple for a year without kids, making you 39. Then you decide you wants kids and try. Figure the first year isn’t great, and then you get pregnant, you’re now 41 with a kid. That’s even assuming the guy wants a kid in the first place.
Her: Well, now I’m stressed out even more!
Me: Sorry. All I’m saying is that you obviously still love him and he loves you. Just have him join my gym and that COVID weight will come right off. 15 pounds isn’t the end of the world.
Her: You just like him because he’s rich.
Me: See – I think of the cascading consequences. Have him join the gym. Shame he doesn’t have a sister.

Trump’s in alla this legal trouble right now, least of which is because of the FBI raid on his house.

I think most people would say that he’s in a quandary of his own making, and that’s true, but not in the way most people think.

See, he and the other GOPers have always needed a boogeyman to rail against and they picked Hillary and Biden to play that role.

For her part, Hillary was supposed to have mishandled classified information/documents. So, when Trump was president in 2018, he signed into law a bill that made mishandling and keeping classified information a felony.

I suspect he did this to have the chance to actually “lock her up,” without fully thinking of the cascading consequences of his actions, knowing that he was a sloppy and relatively stupid man.

Check that, knowing himself, he didn’t even fully think of the direct consequences of his actions.

Add this action to McCarthy refusing to have GOP members on the Jan6th committee and we see a group of people that barely consider the direct consequences of their actions, let alone the cascading ones.

It’s with more than a little schadenfreude that I sit back and watch alla this unfold.

Couldn’t happen to a more deserving fella.

Location: in front of a portfolio of work. What have I done?
Mood: busy
Music: Relax, relax, relapse, it’s a new day (Spotify)
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Categories
personal

Memorto Mori

Remember that you have to die

One of the three books I feel everyone should read is The Godfather. The movies are great, but the book is worlds better because both the Godfather and Michael are good men in the books but monsters in the films.

Michael essentially agrees to run a mafia family in The Godfather to keep his own (real) family safe. But in The Godfather II film, he seems to forget why he agreed to run the mafia family – something he hated, originally – in the first place and ended up losing his wife and killing both his brother-in-law and his own brother for “the Family.”

He killed his real family for his fake family.

The tragedy of the Godfather films is that Michael forgot why he was there in the first place.

I’m telling you all this because I told someone from my past that I forgot that I loved her, which is why I was so awful to her.

Granted, there was a lotta craziness in my life when I met her, but it’s not very comforting to her or me.

The question she had, though, was obvious: “How is that possible? How do you forget you love someone?”

I ask myself that all the time.

And my answer is just like Michael did with Kay and Fredo. Just like men and women do when they cheat – emotionally or physically – on their spouse.

On normal days, people forget important – crazy important – things all the time. People forget to pick up their kids, forget to show up for some super important meeting, etc.

They forget what they really wanted in the first place, mistaking the noise for signal.

People even forget – all the time – that they’re going to die. That’s why the saying, memorto mori even exists. People forget to make the most of their time because we’re all not here long. But we forget that.

Everybody knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently.

For her, she forgot that I was everything she had hoped her whole life for a date with a guy that she forgot she loved (not me, it’s complicated) who ended up marrying someone else.

And I forgot that I loved her, which, itself, is the most ridiculous thing ever.

Cancer and awful luck notwithstanding, I suppose we all live the lives we earn for ourselves.

Location: learning about officiating weddings in NJ
Mood: resigned
Music: you didn’t notice (Spotify)
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