I never was one for calculating, or guesstimating, quality-of-life indices. I concede that my own is on the downside of late; however, this does not excuse me from the labors of the day.
Archive for Ventually
This little soapbox of mine has now been open for twenty-one years. By the standards of blogdom, this is, if not an eternity, certainly an eon or two. And there are worse things I can do besides celebrate.
I may never defeat the monster known as insomnia. But at least the playing field is a bit more level than it used to be.
(The title, should you care, comes from a 1951 single by Patti Page, in which she sings four parts through the miracle of overdubbing. We had a copy of this when I was very, very small.)
Despite my ongoing despair, it may be that at some level, I have actually refused to accept the possibility that I will never walk again unassisted. How do I know this? It came to me in a dream.
Some thoughts on the life and times of Charles Edward Anderson Berry (1926-2017), the man who caught Maybellene at the top of the hill, and much, much more.
He’s looking to buy houses in this neck of the woods, and he’s trying to keep his overhead as low as possible, which probably isn’t a bad idea.
As I discovered on a routine trip to the drug store, it’s a card I simply don’t play very well.
“Hey, wise man! You coming in?
“Oh, hell no. What kind of fool do you think I am?”
Spare me those euphemisms like “differently-abled.” I’m well on my way to becoming a full-fledged cripple, and I can’t say I’m enjoying the trip.
I mean, it’s not like I had a topic for Vent #1000.
Of course, if you really want to ask me something, there’s always ask.fm.
On the best day I’ve had lately, I was seriously incapacitated. That day, you may be certain, was not a winter’s day.
Life on the funny farm, except that (1) it wasn’t actually a farm and (2) it wasn’t all that damn funny, really. An actual slice of my actual life.
If you can’t fold a fitted sheet, you’re probably normal.
If you can’t fold a flat sheet, you’re probably me. Poor you.
To hear some people tell it, it’s the end of the world as they know it. We should be so lucky.
What happens — or, perhaps, what doesn’t happen — when the entirety of your love life proves to be virtual.
Del Shannon, at least, had an excuse:
Me, I’m just somewhere near the end of my rope. God forbid, though, that anyone should discover that I have a rope to be near the end of.
And come to think of it, Del had problems of his own.
In case you were thinking that nothing on God’s green earth is working for me these days, I’m here to tell you that it ain’t necessarily so.
Until such time as I don’t, I have to assume that I’ll keep getting older; at least, that’s the one lesson I’ve learned from history, which puts me one up on rather a lot of people these days.
All our days are numbered, and I suspect my own number is decidedly limited, in which case I want certain things on the record.
Yeah, I know, all the TV coverage dealt with who’s winning. Me, I wanted to know who’s losing, and I don’t mind telling you why.
Yours truly is voting absentee this year, and on the off-chance that you actually care, I’m letting you know what sort of thinking went into my selections. It is not, I hasten to add, always sensible.
Remember when I was a detail-oriented worker, perhaps not the fastest, but guaranteed to get to the end of the project with as few problems as possible?
Were I to make a list of all the things I imagined doing in a lifetime, helping to build a toilet in the Philippines would probably be somewhere near the bottom. And yet it’s happening just the same.
And as time wears on and the sucking continues, I contend that I am perfectly justified in wanting to leave.
Warning: one is female, and a non-human female at that; and one exists only because Elvis said so.
I can stand two of them, maybe. The other five, I want nothing to do with.
There is, I suppose, something to be said for knowing that I won’t leave some poor woman a widow; but I don’t think I’m the one to say it.
Maybe it would be simpler if I just retired and got it over with. Or maybe it wouldn’t.