Certain people no longer read my blog because, they claim, I’m moody. My Posts are dark. Negative. I’m obsessed with destructive impulses. All this is true. It’s not like I’m hiding the fact. I’m The Gloomy Boomer. Shit. The Gloomy Boomer is the name of my Blog.

You want to read positive shit? Go on Facebook. Be happy.

I tried to do that. I went on Facebook in search of happiness. But Facebook made me crazy. Crazy like the woman in this picture.

One hour of scrolling Facebook made me homicidal.

All that happy shit. Cats doing cute shit. Elephants doing goofy happy shit. Flowers blooming like happy shit explosions. Old pictures of selves being beautiful and happy. Tender moments of Selves. Happy Selves. But more important than the diarrhea of happiness…the absence of BAD SHIT. Which is a good thing, I guess. Good for normal people. The Good ones. I confess I like a little Bad Shit. I call it grimness. A little grimness now and then I find stimulating. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for good people. I try to be good. I’ve tried and tried and tried to be good. All in vain. I’ll tell you how good I’ve tried to be. I wrote a letter to this guy:

That’s right. The Reverend Billy Graham. America’s pastor. I reached out to him. Not at one of his sermons. I wrote him a letter. I even kept my copy of the letter. Here’s a synopsis:

Dear Reverend Billy Graham, I’m writing to you because you are an expert on Goodness. I could have just as easily written to Mother Theresa or Nelson Mandela or one of many other experts on Goodness. I’m writing to you because I feel I know you. My Mother made us watch you on television when we were impressionable kids. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply we were forced to watch you. Big Time Wrestling was on the other channel. And, I think, Bonanza was on the third channel. But Mom insisted we watch you. So we did. I wont say I was overwhelmed by your sermon. But I will admit I was impressed. You even had me there for a while. Especially the part where you asked those who wished to be “saved” to come down to the pulpit. Man! You had people leaping from their seats. All these years later and I’m thinking how different my life may have been if only I was in that audience when you gave the crowd the call. What do you think? Forgive me for asking. I know what you think. You’d say, Son, you need to open your heart to Jesus. I’m all for it. Could, you, like, direct me to a local Pastor who won’t gouge me to death with tithes, etcetera? I would really appreciate any help you may offer…

Yours truly, The Gloomy One

I didn’t need to wait long for a reply.

The day after I mailed the letter Billy Graham died.

It wasn’t like my letter killed him.

He was ninety nine years old. He was a real old Dude. It was natural that he should die. And die at any moment.

Still, I was struck by the fact that he didn’t make it to 100. He almost made it. He was almost there. Another six months or so and he would’ve made it to the Big Hunskie.

But I had to go and write him that letter.

Bad Shit Weather

I’ve had my share of bad shit lately, compliments of Mother Nature.

Big Blow was supposed to be a week ago Wednesday. I thought wednesday was the Big Wednesday. Hardly. Sunday 5 February was bigger.

I’m talking bad. The winds. Winds are worse than rain. 80 mile an hour winds on my dock. Sustained winds. Tore Scruffy’s tarps off. Not all the way off. About half-way. Got back Monday morning from Joan my Republican Girlfriend’s pad to find Scruffy’s tarps blown half-way off. Another day of winds and they would’ve been gone.

I reattached the tarps and everything’s good again.

Bird’s back at his perch. Others to follow. Peepers been perching on the old lady’s abandoned boat. He drinks fresh water from the pool formed on the canvas roof.

Good for Peeper.

Bird’s gotta have a little nest…when he’s not peep screaming at me for crackers.

I’m walking to my car

Tuesday morning after Sunday’s Big Blow. It’s around 8 a.m. and I’m walking to my car. I park my car off the Marina Lot. Mainly to give the impression I’m not living on Scruffy. Of course nobody cares. Mainly Raul, my harbormaster, does not care. He lets me slide on the liveaboard fee because I pass him free booze. Or not. He lets me pass because he likes me. For some reason I can’t figure I have this quality of eliciting goodwill in people. I don’t even try. People just naturally like me. This odd quality made me a good salesman. I’d compliment the clients and they’d warm to me.

Strange, but true.

Anyway, I’m walking the back alley from my marina to the street off Bridgeway Blvd. where I park my car. Along the way I’m snapping photos.

Back alley. Entrance to the Boat yard.

Old Ferry Boat on the hard. Been there for years. Somebody owns it and doesn’t know what to do with it. So it sits.

Abandoned office building. Been there for years and years. Trashed. This back alley is like the main street of a ghost town. Except all the Ghosts are alive and well. Here’s the Arques marina where I used to park my car until the security guy chased me off. He was nice about it. He just said, “sorry, but you can’t park here.”

Arques Marina. Dumpy as hell. You can catch scruffy’s flying bridge looming beyond the ballooned boat. Scruffy is right across the channel from Arques marina.

So I’m snapping photos for my blog, okay?

I’m strolling down this dirt road that’s part of the Richardson’s Bay trail, snapping photos, minding my own business, when this guy confronts me:

He’s on his way to work. He manages the Boatyard across the channel from Scruffy. I see him now and again, dragging Hispanics along the dock, yelling at them. He likes to take charge of shit.

Anyway, he stops short of me. Stands there, looking me over. I keep walking.

“Hold up there,” he says. “What are you doing?”

He’s staring at my phone.

“I asked you a question,” he says.

I look him over.

“Excuse me. You writing a fucking book? What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m taking pictures.”

“You got a smart mouth, man.”

“Listen, Prick. Get away from me. And while you’re at it, go fuck yourself.”

I’m watching him move off. He can go back to bossing around his Mexicans. They’ll take it. They need the money.

I could’ve been nice. I really could’ve. Some days are harder than others.

This afternoon at the office

Rain’s gone for now. I’m relaxing here at the office. Blogging you guys.

More rain tomorrow, maybe a downpour or two. For now, we’re dry. Weather. com says no rain beyond Wednesday. Not for at least a week. Then, more rain. Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain… I’m thinking, get past this Winter and that’ll be good.

Is this any way to think?

Maybe I need a service dog.

A little doggy will raise my spirits.

I could maybe bring him in here, like this lady does. Bring him in here to the office. Have him sit here beside my table. A service dog. Do I need a mental problem to justify a service dog? How about just being Gloomy?

Barista just brought me a free sample!

The Barista brought me–me of all people–the free booze sample dude–he brought me a free sample. I accepted the free sample. Like you do with the Eucharist…

I feel blessed.

I feel like going on Facebook and scrolling around. Find some happy shit.

Boost the Gloomer’s spirits.

Happy shit!

I’m feeling better already.

Here’s a happy song!