So, people tell me I need to blog more.
And I'm really getting tired of Facebook, Twitter, and all the other places people carry on about these days because, as anybody born in the 1950s and 1960s can tell you, they certainly aren't any place to be if you were born in the 1950s or 1960s.
But wait . . . a blog is no place for a 50-something, white, anglo-saxon male from Albuquerque/Salt Lake City/San Jose/Seattle/New England/Philadelphia/South Jersey, EITHER. (I'll write more about "where I'm from" another time, if you're interested.)
BUT it's a hell of a better place than Facebook, Twitter and all those other on-line "communities", methinks. It seems less intrusive. After all, if you don't want to subscribe and read you don't have to; you don't have to feel obligated to "Like" me; and I don't have to circulate cute pictures of your cat. Or my dogs. Or my latest cause du jour. Or anything.
I can just ramble on and say how I feel or what I think, 'cause this is my place to vent.
The ultimate catharsis.
And the ultimate vanity.
To paraphrase the immortal Bard: "To write, perchance to dream; ay there's the rub". Which is why I've been so resistant to it from the start.
Blogging (v.): a totally one sided conversation, with no input or inflection from any other source. Truly an ego trip -- nobody to interrupt, contradict, or tell me how wrong or just how screwed up I am.
Unless you want to. But that is only after the fact. And you HAVE to sign up to do that, because I don't want to hear it unless you're at least willing to give me a first name or email address or something. Nothing in life comes for free, except cancer and dirty dishes, and like I said, this is my place.
I've got a lot on mind, and I hope you read some of it, but if you don't . . . I guess neither of us will ever care, will we? Because I won't know you passed me by in your Google search, and you won't know what I've written, either. Isn't the interweb great??
The main thing I have on my mind, and the real reason I've decided to start this "Blog" is my melancholy over the fact that I've lived as long as I have. Which kind of pisses me off. And before you say, "Well, living certainly beats the alternative!" nyuk, nyuk, nyuk ", you witty thing you, let me just say that I'm not so sure about that any more.
Hey, I don't want to die or anything (unless of course I have real bad cancer . . . or have to do the dishes tonight, of course) but let's face it: when you're dead it's pretty much over for you. And the pain, the joy, the love, the hate, the anger, the laughter, the debt, the reward, the questions, and the answers are all pretty much over and resolved. It's over. Finis, Finito. DONE. For you. The one's you leave behind are those that must continue and carry on, and are subject to the never ending drama Americans continue to improvise on a day to day basis for themselves.
Jim Morrison is revered because he said "No one gets out of here alive."
But my dad, god rest his soul, used to refer to death, sweetly, as ". . . the time we must depart this veil of tears." I like that a lot better. And I know he didn't make it up, but he was the one I knew best who said it to us as kids.
Pretty poetic for a Roman Catholic accountant from Oakdale, Mass., with a wife and four ungrateful kids who never really appreciated him very much, wouldn't you say? As a boy, I always hated it when he got poetic. Now he's gone, and I can't tell him how wrong I was.
Actually, I want to do this because I'm just kind of astounded at the total lack of resources available in American society for men and/or women my age to just get together and share how they feel about . . . oh, I don't know . . . love, sex, the iPhone, sex, shoes, sex, adult diapers, sex, getting arthritic, sex, divorce, sex, getting old, and, of course, sex. I see a shrink once a week, have a bunch of friends, but nobody near me right now quite understands how I feel about a lot of things I go through.
And maybe this will help.
I'll try to keep it short and to the point, but I want mostly to speak to people over 45 or 50, men AND women, opinionated and estranged, whatever. I want to make you feel welcome, and not embarrassed, or crazy.
Because, to me, it seems like just last week we were in our powder blue tuxes with frilly shirts on the way to the prom with our date, firing up a bowl, and, today we really have no idea WHAT the hell is going on, and can barely handle all the blood pressure and cholesterol medication we have to take.
So, let's be friends. Or not. But let's, at least . . . "Rock On!"
So...there's my very first blog post.
Nice to meet me.
Chuck
AdultMedSupply.com
No comments:
Post a Comment