WHAT I KNOW

What do I know?  Not much.  I'm told, though, that by knowing that I don't know much I already know more than the average person who thinks he knows much but doesn't really.  I'm also told that the world's body of knowledge is growing so fast that I actually know a smaller percentage of it every day that passes.  This, of course, means that I am growing duller by the moment.  And you are too.

Depressing isn't it?

Well, not really.  Not for me anyway.  What little ego I have left is not particularly wrapped up in how smart I am.  Little Ego, by the way, would be a good name for a rapper.  No, if anything, my ego - defined as self awareness - is content these days to be just, well, content.  And I am that.  Oh sure, I still strive to be smarter.  I read prodigiously, I study Spanish, I listen better than I used to, and I pay attention.  Still, as I have noted, I'm losing ground every day.  Better to be aware, as the Buddhists say, that what is IS, and go with it.  Don't worry, be happy the Dali Lama said in the guise of Jamaican Reggae singer awhile back.  That was during the Dali's pot smoking days for sure, but it still holds true if you ask me.  It might even hold true if you don't ask me, but I can't be certain.  As I said, I'm not that smart.

One thing I've learned that might be true is that there is a difference between Ego and Self Esteem.  Ego, I'm told, is the driving force for everything one does, good, bad, or indifferent.  Self Esteem, on the other hand, is the underlying opinion of those actions.  It is possible, therefore to have a big Ego and low Self Esteem. Ego is the huge facade one displays - I'm bright, I'm successful, I'm great, I'm pretty/handsome, love me, love me love me - while behind the scenes low Self Esteem is saying, "I know the truth." Curious isn't it?  I mean, if this is, in fact, true and it rings so to me.  

(When I say, "I'm told," what I mean is that it is information that I have acquired from more than one source such as books, magazines, newspapers, television, word-of-mouth, etc.  When the info is just from one person I'll put it in quotes or paraphrase.)

Of course a lot of what one "knows" is really just acquired opinion from the information available.  That being said I am now going to tell you straight out what I know.

NFL replacement refs suck. 

 

 

INSOMNIA'S CURE?

I feel like writing this morning, although, about what I'm not sure.

I did have an idea as I drifted off to dreamland last night, a land full of bizarre reactions to bizarre situations, that made me proud in that I was able to implement the idea successfully. Here's what happened:

There were moments throughout my life, as I suppose there were for everybody who has lived long enough to reflect, that I don't particularly want to revisit in my thoughts; embarrassing moments of distressing stupidity, clumsiness, insensitivity, wrong actions, etc.  And yet, on those night when sleep eludes me, it is those moments that pop up with the clarity of a technicolor, 3D, surround sound movie to replay in the theater of my mind.  WTF!  I can't change them now.  I don't have a time machine. Is there a purpose for these thoughts beyond  reminders of, and additional punishment for, my past misdeeds?  Well anyway, I lay there rehashing the moment when I verbally lashed out at a friend for - now I can't even recall what- and lost that friend as a friend and it occurred to me that I didn't have to have these thoughts; that I was the master of my thoughts and not the other way around.  The idea I then had was to move off from the thoughts and view them from afar so that I could write about, journal-ize them, if you will, and that is exactly what I did.  I began to mentally write about the incident from an objective journalistic perspective and I wasn't at all deep into the story before I found myself shooting jumpers from the top of the key off passes from my sons and swishing every one!  I was in dreamland for sure then, because in reality I was only good for about seven out of ten.  Okay six.  

I'm not sure this is a permanent cure for my occasional bouts of insomnia, but I hope so.  As I have noted before, a good night's sleep is worth its weight in gold.  How much a good night's sleep weighs is another question. One I'll have to sleep on.

 

THE RETURN OF THE ABOMINABLE DR. P.

It's barely dawn, the grey sky is still hedging its bet, my stomach is debating my choice of coffee as a wake up call, and I'm not sure about this or any other thing.  Maybe I should go back to bed.  Trouble is, if I could sleep I wouldn't have left my miracle foam dream inducer in the first place.  It's conscience, I think, that's nagged and dragged me to an upright position. 

You see, I've been meaning to write a blog about the Abominable Dr. P since my encounter with the Demented Dermatologist this past Thursday, but I've been distracted by the usual litany of life's vital endeavors which include everything but sitting down and writing.  You know what I mean, there is football to watch, there are books to read, and staring off into space to do.  Like I said, vital things.  The problem, as I see it, is that I don't really have anything new to say about Dr. P that I haven't already said in the long ago and, of course, as Norman Mailer was quick to point out, repitition is the death of creativity. He pointed that out on several occasions.  

What I have, though, in lieu of words, is a couple of pictures to document my face to face with the Mad Medico. Okay it wasn't really a face to face. It was more of a face to scalpel and face to electric cauterizing gizmo but, trust me, the doctor was in attendance.  I could see him through my watery, squinted gaze, silhouted against the we-have-ways-of making-you-talk intense light he was shinning on me so as not to miss any opportunity to slice off another bit of my own self.  As you can see from the photos (If I can get them attached) nary an opportunity went a-begging.

If this session with the Abominable Dude looks a might rash to you, fear not.  Four days post trauma I have no bandages and only small scabs to show for my venturing into the doctor's lair.  What happened was that I had a few "spots" that warranted more than the usual freeze offs.  The Dermo Doc, low on liquid nitro anyway, figured, what the hell, I'll just go ahead and slash and burn them all off. I agreed to the plan not realizing that a painful needle full of pain killer - what's the point of that? - would be required at each and every spot.  

Ah well.  All's well that ends well, someone said whose end was, well, well. My hide is good to go for another three months or so, and I got these cool photos to show for it.  What with pictures being worth a thousand words, think of all the time I've saved for more of those vital things... like...you know... a nap comes to mind.

ANOTHER FRIDAY NIGHT

When I say I find the Cincinatti Bengals' uniforms psychologically disturbing,  Woowoo Charly says I'm neurotic, which is a given, but really, does that change the impact of seriously ugly-assed football unis? 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

What follows is a blog written from notes I made while slightly in-my-cups, which, I suppose, is comparable to being slightly pregnant. 

A tradition which I am loathe to give up, okay not so much loathe as reluctant although loathe is the word I used in my notes, is Friday Night, an event that occurs for me now just post Friday lunch.  Age does have its limitations after all.  It, Friday Night, remains a celebratory time about whose origins I wrote in another blog about a million blogs ago; something to do with my humble working class upbringing and other drivel along those lines.  Those Friday Nights were often spent trying to create moments worthy of country/country songs - you really don't hear much western anymore - but never quite living up to them as in truth I wasn't country in either reality or spirit.  I mean why would anyone want to get that drunk and lose his girlfriend, wife, best friend and job?  

But I digress and one should never be caught digressing in public.

My Friday night celebrations here in the immediate past which is defined as the one I still remember because I take notes, can be described thusly:  (I am aware that THIS thusly is just one way to describe it and there are surely others, but I only have time for the one.)

I take wine, beer or cocktail glass in hand - fuel is required - along with my iPod player out to our carport.  Said carport is a two car enclosure and we, Woowoo and I, having but one, find there is abundant space for the table and chairs that usually reside on our nearby patio during the non-rainy season which is defined as some other Friday.

What happens next is that I crank up the tunes, most often but not always, from my "Favorites" list and fire up a dirt cheap, but still smoke-able Panamanian made cigar.  The end of the work week is here, pay no mind to my not having done any, and I am celebrating that and being alive and well in this miraculous place called Boquete, Panama.  I am not unaware or lacking in gratitude for the beauty that surrounds me.  I sip my cocktail, scotch this week, and I puff on my Churchill while watching my pups, Raffi and Matti at play, whistling them back from time to time when they wander from my sight.

There comes then an inevitable moment when the music grabs me and compels me to my feet for a dance along.  I have no reticence about doing so as 'Tuesday with Morrie"'s Morrie, Jesus, Buddha, and  John Travolta - there's a reference that's worrisome - say it is the correct thing to do.  Travolta, a Scientologist, even hints that it may be the only way to get on his planet and receive 76 MGM virgin chorus girls as a reward.  Something like that anyway. 

So I do it.  I dance.  I dance around the carport and out into the drive beyond.  I dance to up-tempo tunes and down-tempo melody driven ballads.  Matters not, I dance and have a grand time of it.  Make no mistake I am under the influence of alcohol which is not to say I am influenced by "demon rum" as the religious right might suggest, to do things I would not otherwise do, but rather, I am nudged by the booze to cast of my lethargy and get my booty off the chair and moving about to the music.  It is in fact, an encouragement I can't resist.  And then comes the disturbing part.  Aren't there always one of those?  

Although I have no fear of being seen in this alcohol fueled celebration, I am not after all a dancing geek, and even if I was, who really cares besides the MGM chorus girls waiting for me to join their conga line on Planet Neverhappen, I find that my skills have diminished.  That's right, my skills, not my "skill set." Even though I had learned years ago to unlock my hips and thereby allow the rest of my body to respond to the music, I now find that my feet, my traitorous feet, no longer want to do anything that requires quick-stepping.  The Bastards!  Nevertheless, I'll say it again, nevertheless, because as I have noted before, nevertheless means alwaysthe more and I am in favor of that, I carry on carrying on, abeit half-timing to the music more often than not.

I can see Volcan Baru and more beauty than most people can imagine from my carport.  Combine that miracle with music and I'm thinking you would dance too.  Wouldn't you? 
     

CONVENTIONS

I suppose I should say something about the Repub-lycan and Democratic Conventions because everybody else is doing so and who am I to not put my two cents in?  Alas, what can I say that hasn't already been said?

How about this?  The first syllable of the word conventions is con.  Doesn't that tell us enough about what was going on?  If you add the next part of the word you get convent which is where, I think, the liars in both Parties should be sent to learn some humility, get their forked tongues straightened out, and their asses kicked on a regular basis by mean nuns.  (Some of the Lycans, no doubt, will get off on that last part.  The end of the word is ions and if I had paid more attention in Science Class I might have something clever to say about that as well, but, again alas, I didn't, so I can't.  You math/science people will have to do it for me.  Here's a couple of blank lines for you to fill in and showcase your wit:


I try to have an open mind, which is easier for me than most people because there is a lot of unused space up there, but I was pretty certain, okay ninety-nine percent certain, that nothing being said was going to change my mind vis a vis who I was going to vote for. The remaining one percent I left open for sudden death or either candidate saying, "This is crazy! Why would anybody want this job?" and then dropping out.  The "vis a vis" I threw in because it suddenly came to me and I figured if I used it, it might make me sound smarter even though I am not certain I used it properly.  I didn't take Latin in school - that is Latin isn't it? - but if I had, the results might have been the same as my Science Class experience.

Therefore - I say that "therefore" as if anyone still has a thread of what I was heretofore saying - I watched both conventions for their entertainment value.  The Lycans offered very little along those lines apart from Clint Eastwood who was occasionally funny, but in the long run an embarrassment to all we old folk. Romney, the main attraction, was a complete snoozer.  The Dems, however, brought their A-game.  Everyone seemed to have their parts well rehearsed and the biggies, B. Clinton and B. Obama, delivered dandy performances.  Michelle Obama and Elizabeth Warren both fall into the "A Star is Born" category.  Still, as entertainment goes - and I say this humbly and not meaning to offend or imply that these were not important events - I would rather see a movie.