Everybody says we need rain. I don’t need rain. I live on a leaky boat. I don’t care about other people’s needs. I’m the only one that matters. I wished hard for more drought this year and we get the wettest month in 18 years. This is how the Higher Power regards my needs. Maybe I’ll wish for Nuclear War. That way we’ll get world Peace.

But no Justice….

Post Christmas Gloom

Fucking Rain.

Check out this weather map.

Looks like a dinosaur is eating California.

Good.

A gloomy Tuesday after Christmas. It’s eleven a.m.. I could be sitting aboard Scruffy doing this. I’m sitting instead at my office. The Strawberry Starbucks. I’m wasting my time. I’ve got nothing to do with my time but productive stuff. Like finding a Job. Maybe do some NETWORKING. Because though I’m pushing seventy I can still get around. LIFE grants me options…still.

But I’m sitting here, ignoring them….

A dinosaur is eating California.

I’m a dinosaur.

Once upon a time I was full of youth and promise. I mean I was allotted more than my share of promise. I looked good. I’m not bragging. Here’s me in Boot Camp:

The guy I’m sitting with here is a New Yorker. I don’t remember his name. It’s been fifty years. I didn’t keep track of anybody in Boot Camp. But this guy. I remember him well. He sounded like a New Yorker. He looks like a New Yorker. A Mob Guy. Mineo, I think. No, not Mineo. Anyway, we worked together in the Battalion Commander’s office. Typing Rifle reports, pouring the Chief’s coffee…shouting HOW HIGH, SIR when he screamed JUMP.

I’m Eighteen in this picture. A fresh faced kid. Healthy. Full of energy. Bright. They tested our intellect in Boot Camp. Don’t ask me why. We weren’t expected to think. Only follow orders. But they tested us and I came out pretty high. That’s why I say I was bright. I’m not bragging. I’m just saying.

Too bright for my own good. I know that much. But it’s the same with my appearance. I didn’t appreciate the gift Fate tossed me. I never thought of it as a gift. I don’t own a single picture of myself. Okay, I think I can dig up one picture of myself but that’s it.

Kim sends me a picture of myself from time to time. From the old days when we were both hanging out in Santa Cruz. Like most women, she keeps pictures. At first glance, I never recognize the picture of myself she sends me. I’m thinking, who is this? It a photo of a young dude who looks TERRIFIC. Like one of the handsome young punks in the movies. I’m not bragging. I had nothing to do with how I looked in those days. I didn’t wear make-up. I just looked that way. I didn’t give a damn. I certainly didn’t appreciate it. Until it was too late.

Now I’m an Old Fart.

You know what? I’m a lot more comfortable as an Old Fart.

A crusty Old Fart fits my personality. I never had a pretty boy personality. At eighteen I was a Old Fart.

Here’s a picture Kim sent me of herself back when we were running around together:

She certainly looks good, wouldn’t you say?

We were all so young and beautiful.

Well, fuck it….time for a coffee refill.

I don’t want to end this post on a melancholy note. Getting old is a drag but maybe there’s an upside.

I’m trying to think.

Meanwhile a dinosaur is eating California. The rain is coming down in fierce showers. Like God lashing us. There’s nothing to do but take it. And take it. Until you’re old and beat to hell…and dead.

I’m trying to end this on a positive note.

Okay…here’s my best shot at a positive note:

I’m gonna go home. Back to old Scruffy. I’m gonna go home and whip up a lousy-weather dinner. A big batch of barbequed beans with chunks of leftover ham (the ham we had for Christmas). I’m gonna spice it up with some habanero sauce…and maybe add a little fresh garlic. I’m gonna slice up some fresh bread and make grilled cheese sandwiches. I’m gonna open a bottle of Zin–the good shit Joan gifted me–and I’m gonna have myself a feast.

An Old Fart Feast.

How’s that for a positive note?