Harleys, Cars, Girls & Guitars

That Part of Life Might Be Over

I googled "Old People Sex" and the search engine returned porn pics of naked old people screwing in various configurations. This was not what I had in mind. But it reminded me of Rule 34... I was looking for a pic like this one:

The media and FB friends keep telling me that seniors should just go ahead and enjoy themselves. Screw away!

If only it were that easy.

For old widows and widowers, the major problem is finding a partner. Yeah, I could be dating online. Tried that. There are plenty of women out there who want to go on a date and enjoy a free meal. I'm living on a retired senior budget. Really can't afford to do that any more.

The real libido killer is physical disability. 

After the age of 60, the body really starts disintegrating. One of my favorite jokes to tell my girlfriend is:

"Don't tell me which parts aren't working. Which parts still work?"

I work out a couple of hours per day. Yoga, bicycling, weight lifting and some occasional basketball and softball workouts. I'm still falling apart and overweight. I've got a nasty bald spot on the crown of my head. My face is being slowly burned away by rosacea.

You can say that this shouldn't matter much. It does. The visual part of sex is important and that part is no longer particularly edifying. Best to turn out the lights and screw in the dark.

Especially in the aftermath of three surgeries that have disabled me for the past few months, I'm wondering... is that part of my life over? Has sex ended for me?

I'm not feeling sorry for myself (well... maybe a little). In fact, I'm wondering if the end of sex might be a good thing for me. Obsessing over sex, trying to find sex... that's been going on for six and a half decades. Maybe it's time to focus that energy on something else.

On occasion, I think I might try to find a young whore and simply pay for it from time to time. My budget is a little thin for that. I've always had a sex partner, so I've never been in the position of having to look for a whore. I don't even know how to do that.

As with most things in life, I doubt that I'll have an epiphany that answers my dilemma. I'll just struggle through and deal with what happens on a day to day basis.

The cartoon above certainly has one thing right. Peeing and pooping takes up more of my time and my attention with each passing day. The exhaust systems are the first systems to start breaking down as we age, for obvious reasons. Cancer seems to attack the urinary and intestinal systems first in most people.

Oh, well... We have to find meaning in different things in each stage of our lives. Might be time for me to find that in something other than sex.

I Support the Police Sign Near Woodstock

This sign, spotted on Route 28 just before the turnoff to Woodstock, is a little defiant. My far left community is deep in cop hatred and apology for black gangsterism. I'm surprised one of the local lefties hasn't defaced it.

I also support the police. They're our thugs. It takes thugs to fight thugs, and I know this from experience.

I moved from San Francisco to New York City in the late 70s. Much to my dismay, I found myself and my family living in Brooklyn in the midst of the crack epidemic. At the time, I was a conventional leftist, true to my college indoctrination.

Black gangs controlled the streets in Brooklyn in those days. Two successive mayors allied themselves with the gangs. This was the result of the same sort of leftist agitation against police in the 60s that you're reading and hearing today... that police are pigs and racists who deliberately shoot and hassle poor innocent black people.

Dumb hippie that I was, I actually believed that crap.

Brooklyn cured me of that. My family was constantly harassed and threatened by black racists. Chased down the street quite often in broad daylight.

The cops had abandoned the streets to the gangs because the political leaders of the city had abandoned them. So, the black gangs owned the streets. When I complained to the cops after one assault on my family, one of them told me:

"There isn't anything we can do about it. You've got to be crazy to live here. If you're going to live here, you'd better start packing. The only thing we're going to do is pick up your body."

The great leftist dream had come true! Those "colonial oppressors," the despicable cops, had been driven from the black neighborhoods and blacks could "take care of their own" as black radicals like to say. The result was chaos, an epidemic of violence, burglary and murder, and streets that were unsafe for my wife and kids to walk down at high noon. 

I had knives and guns pulled on me as I walked home late at night from the subway. Hard to say how I escaped being murdered. Thugs followed me down the street cursing and threatening me.

The final straw... my wife was damned near kidnapped at high noon on a busy street corner in our neighborhood. A group of black thugs tried to push her into a van. The cops, usually nowhere to be found, happened on the scene and everybody ran.

I got my family out of Brooklyn ASAP to save our lives.

Mayor Giuliani was elected by New Yorkers who were fed up with black gang control of the streets. He defied the liberal wisdom of several decades and resumed enforcing the law in black communities. The bad guys were thrown in jail en masse. The gangs were broken. Peace returned to the streets of New York City almost overnight.

So, I stopped buying all the leftist horse shit. Yes, blacks can be, and quite often are, vicious racists. Cops are the good guys. Well, at least they're on our side against black gangs.

I didn't care much how the cops took back control of the streets. If they fudged a little to get a murderous gangster off the corner, good for them!

Yes, I support the cops, too.

Electoral Fatigue

This presidential election has been exhausting. Damn thing has been going on for two years. As I long ago stated, I'll vote for Trump. That's about it. I'm not a campaigner. Here's my long, tedious essay explaining why I'm voting for The Donald. Not much has changed since I wrote that bit.

The furor on social media over the election wore me out a few weeks ago. Maybe being sick had something to do with that. 

Truth is, I'm feeling pretty jolly. No cancer! Yay! I'm going to live a little while longer.  But, I'm not entirely likely to live through the next president's term. If he/she goes to two terms, my chances are dim indeed. 

Bloodlust crept into the electoral process this year. Everybody's itching for a fight, and lots of people are ready to bust heads and shoot people. What in the fuck do I need with that shit?

I'm just an old Mr. Mom grandpa. It's no longer my business to fix the world. Maybe my grandkids can do that. 

I'm trying to focus nowadays on what's really important and relevant to me. Politics is pretty far down the list. No matter who's president, I've got a good (if not that long) life ahead of me. I'm going to be teaching and playing with my grandkids and bundling them off to school in the morning. 

I'll be moving into my new in-law apartment with my daughter, son-in-law and grandkids within a few months. Might wait until I sell the house in Woodstock. Might not.

My remaining time is short. Gotta focus on the important things. I'm looking forward to getting un-Woodstuck.

A Goofy Doodle

Getting back into all my various routines as I recover from surgery. I knocked out this goofy looking doodle a couple of days ago. Felt tip pen.

Back to playing music, too. I'll have some new things to post, soon!

Everybody Liked the Meatballs!

That's what I told my girlfriend this morning. Over the weekend, she taught me her meatballs with tomato sauce recipe. I'm learning to cook some basic dishes that my grandkids will eat.

My last act in life is playing Mr. Mom to my three grandkids. Not complaining. They're a lot of fun. They're also full of a lot of hugs. My toddler granddaughter is three. The twins are one. Boy and girl.

My girlfriend is giving me Mr. Mom lessons. Tips on housekeeping. Good snacks for the grandkids. That kind of stuff.

Took a drive-by of my new home over the weekend, too. Lots of land... almost 7 acres on top a mountain. I'll put in a vegetable garden and also do some landscape gardening. The house could be quite a showplace.

I remind myself frequently that I don't need to clinch my jaw any more. Hadn't realized that I had been doing that. In the early days of my retirement, I noticed that I was clinching my jaw.

"You don't have to do that anymore," I told myself.

My life was a wild adventure played out mostly in Chicago, San Francisco and New York City. I was on edge all the time. No matter what I did, I had to do it the most difficult way possible. Especially with women.

So, I was always fighting with the world and struggling to hold myself together. And, always clinching my jaw.

That is not an easy habit to stop. I'm consciously trying, but the habit keeps popping up.

Everything has changed. I no longer need to fight anything. No longer have to look over my shoulder. No longer even have to worry about money. (I'm fixed for life at the level of a college student with a decent part time job.) 

Once I sell my house, I won't even have any bills. No car or house payment. I'll pay into the general house fund with my daughter and son-in-law. Pay for my own cable and internet. 

When I get drawn into a political fight on Facebook or some weblog, I remind myself at some point that political controversy has become irrelevant to me. Hell, I'll be lucky just to live through the next presidency.

I'm focused on the grandkids. They're fascinating people already. I am privileged to spend a lot of time with them. I'm involved in their most formative years. Cooking and cleaning for them, and taking care of a yard so that they are free to play without worry... these are the things that concern me now.

My girlfriend is a very happy Filipino. That's the first thing that people notice about her. The reason for her happiness is obvious... she lives solely to serve other people. She's as deeply Christian as a woman can be. She's a fantastic cook and homemaker. She loves to do the things that so many other people consider chores.

The kids did like the meatballs. The twins dug in, mostly into the hamburger. They tried a few slurps of sauce from a spoon. My toddler girl haggled over dessert before she finally gave in and ate meatballs, sauce and pasta.

Getting Un-Woodstuck

Got the OK from the doctor to resume my normal physical regimen. Good thing! I was going nuts sitting on my ass after 3 surgeries in two months. The good news is... no cancer! The other big news is that I'll be departing Woodstock, although the date for that is not yet set. I'll be getting un-Woodstuck.

"Woodstuck" is a term the locals have always used to describe somebody who moved to town, excited by living in the most famous small town in the world, only to become stuck with no way to get out. 

I got Woodstuck over 40 years ago. Immigrated to the burg to immerse myself in the music scene, and to put my kids in safe schools. Got stuck. Long after there's any reason to be here, I'm still here. 

Not moving very far away. Less than 20 miles, on the periphery of Kingston, but still out in the country and atop a mountain. A shorter mountain.

I will, however, be moving to an entirely different universe. I'll be living in an ordinary small town with no claim to fame, populated by people with a lot more sense and much smaller egos. No flocks of tourists.

The reason? I'm going in with my daughter and son-in-law to buy a house. They need all the help I can give them to care for my three grandkids, and I'm retired and happy to play the role of Mr. Mom. So, we'll be building an in-law unit in the basement of the new house for me. I'll be selling my house in Woodstock.

I've never lived in the town of Woodstock. That's too damned crazy. Town is full of rental houses for the transients, and shops and amenities for the tourists. The transients are artists, usually musicians or painters. An entertaining but addled bunch trying to continue to live the hippie dream.

No, I've always lived in isolation in the forest in the mountains to the west of Woodstock. That area belongs spiritually to Woodstock, isolated from the melodrama and mental illness. Every crazy artist and burned out far leftist must live for a while in Woodstock.

Another reason for the move is that I need somebody to look after me. I'm headed toward 70. No serious health problems, but living in isolation out in the mountains will soon be too much for me to handle. And, if I fall down or have a serious health problem, I will need to have somebody nearby to help me. 

While I'm still completely independent, capable and mobile, I am old.

I'll be Woodstuck until my house sells. Might be a year or two. Or might happen in a hurry.

I'm ready. God has blessed the final chapter of my life... He has given me these beautiful and fascinating grandkids and He's given me a big role in rearing them.

I'll be commuting to my babysitting gig until the house sells. Then, Crazy Grandpa will move into the basement apartment. Happy days ahead, indeed.

We All Fall Down

Three surgeries in the past two months! Two months of enforced physical inactivity, opiate pain medications and not even being able to babysit my grandkids. I'm seeing the surgeon on Thursday, and if he gives me the OK, I will be able to resume my normal physical regimen of bicycling, yoga and weight lifting.

Kids fall down all the time. My grandkids, ages 1 through 3, are still learning how to control their bodies. The one year old twins fall down every 30 seconds or so. The three year old is starting to get her act together.

The worst part of my two month long struggle with health is that I haven't been able to get down on the floor with my grandkids to play and rough house.

Every aspect of my life is at a standstill because of the physical inactivity. Can't wait to get started again.

We all fall down.

Kids take it all in stride. If you don't get up when you fall and try again, you'll never learn how to walk. My grandkids fall down, scrape their knees, cry and show the boo-boo to grandpa. I kiss it and we start all over again.

I've been through this picking myself up and putting myself back together so many times. I no longer get depressed or angry about it. It just seems to be the reality of life. People get sick and die. Economic disasters strike from time to time. Completely unexpected problems overwhelm us.

My midwestern upbringing and Catholic indoctrination taught me stoicism. In rural Illinois in my day (the 50s and 60s), nobody wanted to listen to your whining, your excuses or humor your bitch. My family's background is hard ass Irish and German peasantry. I was taught from childhood that nobody was going to help me and that, if I wanted anything, I had better get it for myself.

This is quite a sensible philosophy.

I know how to put myself back together. I'll start out slowly with the physical exercise so that I don't hurt myself... the first consideration for an old fart. I'll get back down on the floor to play and rough house with the grandkids. Today, I got started playing music and drawing. (Even those things went by the wayside, since the opiates put me to sleep for most of the day.)

The biggest smackdown of my life was, of course, Myrna's death. Took me years to want to go on with life. It's still a struggle without her. 12 years ago, the money was flowing in from two big paychecks and we were thinking we were on the verge of retiring to travel the world in luxury.

Everything changed in a few moments.

Then the grandkids came along. I'm not ashamed to say that they gave me a reason to enjoy life and to be positive and enthusiastic again. Caring for them has become my full time job in retirement, and I'm happy with that. In a few months, I'll be moving into an in-law apartment in a new house I'm buying with my daughter and son-in-law so that I can be full time Mr. Mom to my grandkids. Goodbye, Woodstock! (A good thing. It's time to become un-Woodstuck!)

That will come to an end to, but experience has prepared me for that. I already know that the day is not so far away when my grandkids will have other things to do than hang out with grandpa.

Liftport... The Real Stairway to Heaven

Propelling tons of material into earth orbit or beyond is extremely expensive and very hard on the environment. Getting a single pound into low earth orbit can cost $10,000! Rockets are very expensive and dirty. Solution? A space elevator!

Something about this concept caught my fancy.

Liftport, the company behind this tech, is not as cranky as you might think. The concept is workable. Current holdup... materials tech. The string from earth to that great counterweight in outer space must be made of a single crystal of carbon fiber that is incredibly strong.

Back when this concept was first floated in science fiction, Arthur C. Clarke called this material "unobtanium."

But, carbon fiber tech is advancing rapidly. One day, unobtainium will probably be obtainable.

I am thinking all sorts of nonsense as I enter my second week of enforced rest after surgery. Next week, the surgeon will tell me whether I can resume bicycling, yoga, weight lifting and my other little physical fitness regimens.

I've even had to take a couple of weeks off from babysitting my grandkids. I can't pick them up. Doctor has forbidden picking up heavy things... and grandkids are kinda big now.

So, lots of hydrocodone and lots of sleep. 

Political controversy is just too damned hard. I have to clench my teeth and hold in my gut for that stuff.

I am free now to imagine.

I wonder what kind of world my grandchildren will live in. 

Result... No Cancer!

What a relief! My surgeon removed my appendix and a small part of my cecum in a laparoscopic surgery on Tuesday. And the verdict is... no cancer! Below, a video of a laparoscopic appendectomy.

The first surgeon I consulted before this operation, an (Asian) Indian, had wanted to do a laparoscopic procedure on my appendix, then open an incision to check my bowels. My GP vetoed that and sent me to a Chinese surgeon, who did both procedures laparoscopically.

Non-invasive surgery means less trauma to tissue, quicker healing and less pain.

Potentially struggling with cancer troubled me for a couple of months. The emotional weight of that worry has lifted. Three days after the surgery, I'm almost pain free.

My doctors advised me to sit and do nothing for a couple of weeks. No exercise, except perhaps for walking. 

I'm facing a 3 to 4 week recovery, then I'll be able to care for my grandkids again. Doctors especially advised me against lifting heavy things during my recovery. My one year old grandkids already weigh about 30 pounds apiece.

And, my one year old grandson loves to use grandpa's belly as a trampoline.

Thanks to commenters for your support through this tough period.

Surgery Prep Day

One of the reasons I decided to drive cross country to Chicago last week... I'm facing serious surgery. I wanted to indulge myself with a little adventure. Might be the last time in my life that I'm physically capable.

I made it to 66 in very good health, so I'm lucky. 

Today will be purge day. I'll be downing a solution of MiraLAX and water until I poop out my guts. Can't eat. Can't drink coffee. I'm restricted to clear liquids.

I learned from experience when Myrna was in the hospital that surgeons are far too impressed with their skills and tend to always predict positive results, so I'm skeptical of my own surgeon. What can I do? I don't have the knowledge to really evaluate his diagnosis. I've been through three doctors, all of whom disagree to some extent about possible treatment.

Oncologists tend to be much more blunt than surgeons, but I'm not yet at the stage of needing an oncologist. When Myrna was dying from cancer, we shopped around for an oncologist who was willing to treat her. The first was a woman who told us bluntly that Myrna would die in a few months and that the best we could do was to make her comfortable.

In desperation, we worked our way through several oncologists until we found one who promised to cure her, at least temporarily. That only led to what the surgeon described as "butchery." I had to pull the plug. The oncologist, who had been charging the insurance company $750 for each visit to Myrna's room, was furious.

Am I afraid? Worried?

Yes. I'd like to live long enough to see my grandkids reach adulthood. I don't know if I want to live with a colostomy bag, if it comes to that. My mother is almost 90. I just visited her in Illinois. She wishes that her doctor would recommend the colostomy bag no matter whether she has cancer. She's fed up with old age induced incontinence.

Yesterday at Mass, my priest anointed my hands and forehead and prayed for my recovery. I don't know whether that helps.

I retired four years ago, even though I could have continued working, to focus on doing the things I enjoy and to contemplate my mortality and my relationship with God. I've enjoyed this long period of rest and reflection, and I'd like for it to continue.

Only six weeks ago, I went through two surgeries for kidney stones. So, I know the drill. No much drama, really. You go to sleep and then you wake up, and somebody tells you the results. That's about it.

Both the diagnosis and outcome of my physical problems are unknown. CAT scans taken during my hospitalization for kidney stones revealed some abnormality in my appendix. All three doctors I've consulted disagree on what that abnormality might be. Everything from a cyst to a tumor. 

So, my surgery could just be an appendectomy, or it could be major resection of the bowel. Won't know what happened until I wake up.