The Daily

On the daily it gets tiresome. I have strong fingers and I'm hanging in there, baby.

A couple years ago I gave myself a bad haircut and went to see a long awaited popular military hero movie. In the men's room after the show, I met an irascible old man who grumbled that the actors in the movie didn't do shit compared to what he did in 'Nam. I took him out and bought him some drinks at the PF Chang's next door. He had come down the hill from Palos Verdes to condescend to the public. He informed me that when he was young he was a statewide track champion. He went to the war and became a helicopter door gunner. His bullets would spray but he didn't pray. "At least 100 kills" he said with a kind of practiced, gruff sangfroid. One day his chopper crashed and it broke his spine. He was told he'd never walk again. He walked like an old man for the rest of his life. He built a chemical company and lives in a multi-million dollar home with his wife. She let him out of the house, where he rarely goes. He still runs the company from home. He has beat everyone.

As I recall the story it reminds me of how Jordan Peterson says that disagreeable people make for good apex predators in the game of life. This man was certainly a case in point. He reminds me slightly of another man who was the one who loaned the computer that changed my life to the highschool I attended in the 70s. I called him to thank him one day, and he still grumbled about how OSHA set him up. He too ran a chemical company. The most successful men I know, with few exceptions, don't want to be happy. They want to win. They are only happy that they're not losers.  Life's a pile of shit that you must climb and stay rooted on top. These old climbers are kings of the hill and they'll tell you about it. They're not bragging to you, they're warning you.

Right about now is the 50th anniversary of the success of the Saturn V. Apollo 8 was the big deal, so says the YouTube documentaries I've been watching. The old cats who ran this subsystem and that for 4-6 years had precise stories to tell, in vivid memories. They had pride of accomplishment none of the Irascibles had. The Irascibles were dominators. The engineers of the Space Program were collaborators under the gun. They sacrificed for the inspirational ends announced by President Kennedy. For the Irascibles winning was the goal - it didn't matter what the ends were, just beat the guy in front of you and call next. Need I say it today we have an irascible President?

I am wavering between Stoicism and Epicureanism. I want to be on the porch, but I want my porch to be garden-like. I don't want to live in court with the inevitable jesters, catty queens and perverse, jowly plotters. Nor do I want to be forever trying to make the world incrementally less shitty than it always remains. I don't want to retell horror stories or about that one touchdown pass I caught for the Peewee Cowboys. Is this no country for old men? Should I be thinking of Canada?

I don't want to be busy without collaborators, but nobody wants to work the work I want to work. I'm faced with the problem of what to do when you're satisfied to let the world be the pile of shit that it is, and no I'm not interested in playing King of the Hill. I'm not trying to burn it down either. I'm allowing the random steps of pigeons lull me into short trances as I occasionally flick a bit of Wonder Bread their way, causing a Merovingian cause. I'm cursing in French. No, I'm interpreting the excitement of the shitkickers like Madden. But it's the same field. I know the dimensions. What to care about? What to care about? When everything disappoints you, you put on a new shirt and see how it makes you feel. You celebrate the moments you feel capable of celebration and party for your right to party. I think I am becoming decadent. I'm not interested in being a rescue ranger. Nobody wants to go to the moon and I cannot go there alone. Nothing is so interesting as the moon - its sheer impossibility is its appeal.

So is the sheer impossibility of cleaning up the shitpile, and yet I am drawn to it. My history is pointing out directions and watching people whine that's hard. Do they realize it's a shitpile? In fact the air does get fresher on the way up, when you are surrounded by people who can climb as mightily as you and the view up is more enticing than the view down. My references are only contemporary, not so classic as might interest the cool kids with the work discipline. I understand that, as the Isleys said, "My patience comes and goes, but my living has got to go on. And if you think it's easy that's only 'cause you ain't me, and I ain't you. There's a hell of a difference between the two." Everybody's pain hurts the same. But there are some burdens not worth bearing, so you succeed in order to shuffle them off to someone else. To do so with grace is the essence of nobility, although that's not something I often talk about these days. These days people pray for civility, but they shout to get their way. They have no idea about any power of nobility. Maybe that is my attraction. Yes, I still want to be noble, but I am satisfied being no-bull. I am not anti-social, I am anti-bullshit. Horseshit I can deal with. I plop a few turds myself from time to time. But I work, as this essay is work, not to have my whole life being bullshit. Am I a knight? I always wanted to be when I was a boy. I was a loved boy so why would I not? I was a boy watching rocketships go to orbit and beyond.

Did I want to escape the shitpile? No. Just my own backyard. It was only 7 miles to Beverly Hills. The stoic builds rocketships because it is a logical thing to do, and there is virtuous inspirational work to do with brilliant engineers who are similarly motivated. On the off chance you get to escape the surly bonds, there is glory. Moreover there is purpose and the satisfaction of doing good work. But the epicurean knows the name of the Maitre D at Spago. They will be around to entertain the astronauts and give them the unexpected party. Already I know which I prefer. I prefer the Porsche with the roll cage over the Porsche with the convertible soft top. Sometimes painting flowers, or playing Debussy on the piano is all I wished I need ever do.

I wonder if my studied indifference and avoidance of mankind's folly will corrupt my bearing. If I think myself no fool, am I a fool for saying so? Will the wise see right through my attempts to be wise? Was the Rabbi joking when he intimated that there was a secret handshake? Ahh. Pity me, I still seek the noble arena after all these years. Well, I suppose that's slightly better than the Fountain of Youth. But perhaps not better than the Holy Grail. I still seek a unity of pen and sword. I haven't yet worn down to walking like an old man. Nothing has broken my spine. I'm still working on the daily. I don't even really have time to be writing this, but I needed to take a pause.

I have ten computers in my house that belong to me. I threw out two last week.  Three and a half of mine are dead. There are three others. I have 23 more terabytes than I ever dreamed, not counting the dozen more or so I am leasing in somebody else's cloud. Maybe I can make them do something. I'm becoming more all about me. I've been Daddy and Hubby for 25 years. I will never not be what people have known me best for being whether or not I still care about that thing. My computers are full of the memories I have consigned to them and I do fear losing them all, but I don't sit here and look back into my time machines. I engage the enemy. I walk among the walking dead. I bring a small knife and offers of drinks at the bar. I don't want to tell the world anything. I want to listen to the sounds of them trundling up the hill and I want to harmonize with their weary work songs in that minor key. I am at peace with the world and at war with myself. When I cast myself out of my own house to watch the rocket launch or the Porsche race or the redwood forest or the morning chapel or the jazz kissa, I am engaging sacraments and proving myself worthy. This is a hope, but not a dream. The dreamer knows nothing of his dreams, but he who has hope knows what realization of hope entails. My dreams are energetically explosive. I wouldn't want to see them happen.

Once upon a time I wanted to be the KFSC, the Kung Fu Santa Claus delivering unexpected boons and kicks to the groin. Walking the streets and supplying one man's justice. Today I don't want to tell the world anything. I'm happy to listen and feed its pigeons. I'm know what I'm going to do. I'm going to love life and reflect that. I know how to be virtuous and that was my young man's drive. I'm going to remain the wry stoic and combat epistemologist because I'm as verbal as Verbal and I don't back down from a debate. I'm not bragging to you, I'm warning you. I don't start fights and I never let you know if my yield is permanent. So maybe I'm not such a noble knight after all. I am an asshole; I should introduce myself like 007. Asshole, polite erudite Asshole. Stoli rocks. I haven't decided how many rocks I need on my midsection. I'm going to drive the big yellow obnoxious offroad vehicle, and the ridiculously sexy sports car, and maybe a motorcycle again. I'm going to measure my scotch. I'm going to retain all the pride that is possible in my blood relatives and make them deserve it.

At the ass end of this life of mind of mine, I will enjoy the Earl Grey when it's the last bloody thing I can possibly do. Until the porcelain drops from my palsied hand.