Well, we don't rightly know but he will tomorrow. Yah, Halloween is his birthday.
He never seemed to really get off on that too much but, whoa, what a fantastic day for a birthday. Every year is a party, no matter what. Even if you don't show up, they will do it anyway and you can watch it on TV.
For yesterday, I did not know what to say. The birthday reminder came up and I knew the day comes anyway but that was just a calendar reminder like I need to change tires or something. Silence seemed the best observance and remains so.
The time is solemn but that doesn't strike as a good observation overall. The object isn't to compartmentalize it but rather get a grip on something not understandable.
It's probably not so solemn for Doc as sixty-four is the year of the song from The Beatles. Sixty-five is, holy shit ... fucking Medicare.
Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me
Will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?
Read more: Beatles - When I'm Sixty-four Lyrics | MetroLyrics
It's not a matter of getting old as there's ample evidence my corpus is somewhat busted but rather there's the betrayal of it. Sure, you can have Medicare ... but you can't afford the copays. The first betrayal was with military and discovering for real that everything the government says is bullshit. This one is of the same order in which there was already not enough income to live on it and they reduced that to give me a Medicare insurance card.
There's nothing wrong with Medicare, so long as you can afford it. I can't.
So, we're sending Doc some happy birthday wishes but we don't think 'happy' really means all that much. Cat and I spoke of it yesterday and this was emotional stuff because no-one wants that kind of discussion but it's still necessary.
From that I made it clear I'm not living in fear of death. Every day I wake up is a gift even when my circumstance sucks. I still believe I haven't played my best but if I keep working then I will. I'm not at all waiting for death and I am definitely living life as much as my abilities permit.
Happy? For me, I'm happy to be breathing, albeit not very well. I'm not exaggerating my circumstance in any way and it's likely worse than you imagine, assuming you imagine it, for a number of reasons. Happy doesn't mean anything in that context but it means a lot for what you will do to break out of it. For me it's obvious. If I'm playing is good, if I am not ... well.
Doc loves cars and I mean really loves cars to the point of making them so over-powered they're practically not legal anywhere but a drag strip. Unless I miss my guess, he still thinks of the ultimate kick-ass trash car he can build.
Note: the origin of 'trash car' is not clear to me and the definition isn't so clear either but the general program seems to find some vintage car and clean it up with a pretty restoration on the body ... but ... trick the living hell out of its performance. These were called 'sleeper' cars at one time. Maybe some kid wants to race you out of a light because he thinks you're some old goober in a waxed-up Sunday garage car and you say, oh sure. And then leave him in the dust with the kid having no idea of what just happened. Va-rooooomm....
Happiness is not practice but rather happiness is the fact that you can.
(Ed: is this about his birthday or yours?)
Both. Mine is the following on (cough) All Saint's Day.
(Ed: bullllllshit!)
Fo' real, matey.
He never seemed to really get off on that too much but, whoa, what a fantastic day for a birthday. Every year is a party, no matter what. Even if you don't show up, they will do it anyway and you can watch it on TV.
For yesterday, I did not know what to say. The birthday reminder came up and I knew the day comes anyway but that was just a calendar reminder like I need to change tires or something. Silence seemed the best observance and remains so.
The time is solemn but that doesn't strike as a good observation overall. The object isn't to compartmentalize it but rather get a grip on something not understandable.
It's probably not so solemn for Doc as sixty-four is the year of the song from The Beatles. Sixty-five is, holy shit ... fucking Medicare.
Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me
Will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?
Read more: Beatles - When I'm Sixty-four Lyrics | MetroLyrics
It's not a matter of getting old as there's ample evidence my corpus is somewhat busted but rather there's the betrayal of it. Sure, you can have Medicare ... but you can't afford the copays. The first betrayal was with military and discovering for real that everything the government says is bullshit. This one is of the same order in which there was already not enough income to live on it and they reduced that to give me a Medicare insurance card.
There's nothing wrong with Medicare, so long as you can afford it. I can't.
So, we're sending Doc some happy birthday wishes but we don't think 'happy' really means all that much. Cat and I spoke of it yesterday and this was emotional stuff because no-one wants that kind of discussion but it's still necessary.
From that I made it clear I'm not living in fear of death. Every day I wake up is a gift even when my circumstance sucks. I still believe I haven't played my best but if I keep working then I will. I'm not at all waiting for death and I am definitely living life as much as my abilities permit.
Happy? For me, I'm happy to be breathing, albeit not very well. I'm not exaggerating my circumstance in any way and it's likely worse than you imagine, assuming you imagine it, for a number of reasons. Happy doesn't mean anything in that context but it means a lot for what you will do to break out of it. For me it's obvious. If I'm playing is good, if I am not ... well.
Doc loves cars and I mean really loves cars to the point of making them so over-powered they're practically not legal anywhere but a drag strip. Unless I miss my guess, he still thinks of the ultimate kick-ass trash car he can build.
Note: the origin of 'trash car' is not clear to me and the definition isn't so clear either but the general program seems to find some vintage car and clean it up with a pretty restoration on the body ... but ... trick the living hell out of its performance. These were called 'sleeper' cars at one time. Maybe some kid wants to race you out of a light because he thinks you're some old goober in a waxed-up Sunday garage car and you say, oh sure. And then leave him in the dust with the kid having no idea of what just happened. Va-rooooomm....
Happiness is not practice but rather happiness is the fact that you can.
(Ed: is this about his birthday or yours?)
Both. Mine is the following on (cough) All Saint's Day.
(Ed: bullllllshit!)
Fo' real, matey.
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