I went to a Men's Retreat this weekend. I attended a couple of retreats a year in The Old City and found them to be surprisingly helpful. I'm not too good at joining in or joining groups, preferring to stalk the darkness at the periphery of the campfire to singing round-robin campfire songs. I went to this retreat a couple of years ago and didn't really care for the dynamic but decided to give it another try as I'm pulling every lever and pushing every button in an attempt to process The Lost Year.
Alas, my instincts were correct and I didn't really care for the dynamic again. It seemed to be more like a Fellowship camping trip than a spiritual retreat. There were lots of meetings and lots of bullshit sessions but not much else. I'd say that fellowship was the theme, not spiritual growth. Despite a ridiculously beautiful setting on a bluff overlooking the ocean I didn't see a single person taking advantage of the solitude to write or meditate or quietly stroll the grounds. There was often the sound of loud talking and laughter, people bellowing into cell phones, that kind of stuff. It wasn't unusual for me to have to be chased out to one the more remote benches if I wanted a little peace and quiet. The guys sharing the room next to mine would come in after the evening session and play videos on their computer - action videos at a high volume. I actually had to put in foam earplugs to read at the end of the day although, in their defense, they didn't go too late with the movies. I know I could have gone over and said something and that they would undoubtedly have taken it well but I felt like the outlier and not in the mainstream of the retreat intent. It would have felt like going over to someone's house for a Super Bowl party and asking them to put on the basketball game.
My original retreats were in a town with a heavy religious influence, something that often annoyed me and served as a target for my snarky observations. I'll say this - religious people often have a history of quiet reflection and some sense of deep-seated faith. I ran into people by themselves all the time at the Old City retreats - when there were small groups of people the conversations were quiet, reserved.
There were a lot of guys at this retreat and most of them seemed to be enjoying themselves - it wasn't a bad retreat, just one that doesn't really interest me. Which begs the question as to why I went again. Perhaps I'm not as smart as I think that I am.
Monday, October 31, 2016
Sunday, October 30, 2016
30 - 40 - 50 - 60
Thirty hit me hard. I got sober; I got clean; I quit smoking; I got in shape; I got serious with SuperK.
Forty hit me hard, too. I didn't like the kind of work I was doing so I got busy and started interviewing for all the different kinds of jobs that sounded good and fun and fulfilling to me, that promised more joy or satisfaction than what I was doing, and I took some classes at the university level. You know what I found? That I had it pretty good - the new careers required evening or weekend hours or promised less money - a lot less money - or more schooling - a lot more schooling - or threatened me with relocation. I was glad I interviewed even though it went nowhere. I had to know.
Fifty leveled me. Fifty was the "holy shit personal body things are starting to hurt or break or quit working" revelation. Moreover, I found that I wasn't able to stretch or exercise my way through the aches and pains like in the past. Gutting it out turned into injuring something. And even the shit that didn't hurt wasn't working that well anymore. I began to get a real sense of my own mortality, that I don't inhabit a perpetual motion machine. That the machine I do inhabit is going to break, that it's going to give out eventually. As unbelievable as this sounds I didn't see it coming.
So here comes sixty. I guess when you see a handful of people who came before you disappear into the gloaming you sense that there really is an end game and shit is going to end.
I mean the average life expectancy of a male in The States is 78 years although to be fair if you make it to 65 then you have a good chance of hanging in there a good while longer. I would imagine that all the drunks dying early drags down the average. Then again that's no guarantee that the quality of life is going to be great.
I don't want to sound morbid. I'm not thinking of death at all and I'm surely not worried about it. And while these numbers ending in zeroes are just numbers and not anymore significant than the on immediately preceding it or the one that immediately follows, they are markers of sorts and I think I laugh them off completely at my own peril.
Forty hit me hard, too. I didn't like the kind of work I was doing so I got busy and started interviewing for all the different kinds of jobs that sounded good and fun and fulfilling to me, that promised more joy or satisfaction than what I was doing, and I took some classes at the university level. You know what I found? That I had it pretty good - the new careers required evening or weekend hours or promised less money - a lot less money - or more schooling - a lot more schooling - or threatened me with relocation. I was glad I interviewed even though it went nowhere. I had to know.
Fifty leveled me. Fifty was the "holy shit personal body things are starting to hurt or break or quit working" revelation. Moreover, I found that I wasn't able to stretch or exercise my way through the aches and pains like in the past. Gutting it out turned into injuring something. And even the shit that didn't hurt wasn't working that well anymore. I began to get a real sense of my own mortality, that I don't inhabit a perpetual motion machine. That the machine I do inhabit is going to break, that it's going to give out eventually. As unbelievable as this sounds I didn't see it coming.
So here comes sixty. I guess when you see a handful of people who came before you disappear into the gloaming you sense that there really is an end game and shit is going to end.
I mean the average life expectancy of a male in The States is 78 years although to be fair if you make it to 65 then you have a good chance of hanging in there a good while longer. I would imagine that all the drunks dying early drags down the average. Then again that's no guarantee that the quality of life is going to be great.
I don't want to sound morbid. I'm not thinking of death at all and I'm surely not worried about it. And while these numbers ending in zeroes are just numbers and not anymore significant than the on immediately preceding it or the one that immediately follows, they are markers of sorts and I think I laugh them off completely at my own peril.
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Never Bring a Knife to a Gunfight
Compete: To seek or strive for the same thing, position, or reward for which another is striving.
More musings on the payment schedule for my bounced check . . .
Never bring a knife to a gunfight. The question is this: who is holding the knife here? I don't feel like I've got a gun on me.
I'm sure I'm going to repeat myself but here's the SuperK Playing A Game story again. When we were first married my wife - who enjoys playing games - was always badgering me to play a game with her, any game, she didn't care. I protested and I protested, aware that a game for me was a contest to win, not a leisure activity. Finally, I relented and we picked up some harmless board game. I won the first several games - not because I'm smarter or more talented at games than she is but because I was dialed in to the activity while she was chatting and talking and looking around. Just enjoying the game and the company. Then she started to get the better of me in one of the rounds. Seeing almost certain defeat I went into my Bloody Last Stand mode - you know, delaying the defeat as long as possible in the hope that I could pull out a miraculous, Hail Mary finish and walk away with an improbable win. I'm like one of those suicidal guerrilla organizations that's so entrenched in the jungle that only total annihilation can convince them that the jig is up.
The look on her face when she realized that I was draining every possible ounce of pleasure out of her victory as I possibly could. It wasn't personal at all - it was victory or it was defeat.
Anyway, do I pay $2.07 or do I pay $30? Massachusetts Dud has suggested that I pay the full amount less one penny. I'm seriously considering this technique.
More musings on the payment schedule for my bounced check . . .
Never bring a knife to a gunfight. The question is this: who is holding the knife here? I don't feel like I've got a gun on me.
I'm sure I'm going to repeat myself but here's the SuperK Playing A Game story again. When we were first married my wife - who enjoys playing games - was always badgering me to play a game with her, any game, she didn't care. I protested and I protested, aware that a game for me was a contest to win, not a leisure activity. Finally, I relented and we picked up some harmless board game. I won the first several games - not because I'm smarter or more talented at games than she is but because I was dialed in to the activity while she was chatting and talking and looking around. Just enjoying the game and the company. Then she started to get the better of me in one of the rounds. Seeing almost certain defeat I went into my Bloody Last Stand mode - you know, delaying the defeat as long as possible in the hope that I could pull out a miraculous, Hail Mary finish and walk away with an improbable win. I'm like one of those suicidal guerrilla organizations that's so entrenched in the jungle that only total annihilation can convince them that the jig is up.
The look on her face when she realized that I was draining every possible ounce of pleasure out of her victory as I possibly could. It wasn't personal at all - it was victory or it was defeat.
Anyway, do I pay $2.07 or do I pay $30? Massachusetts Dud has suggested that I pay the full amount less one penny. I'm seriously considering this technique.
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Ghost in the Machine
Here's the update on the people who wouldn't remove a 100% surcharge penalty thing on a bill that my father owed . . .
The facts:
The bill is legitimate.
I stupidly bounced a check in an honest attempt to discharge this debt.
There is probably something in the 47 page standard legal boilerplate that my father agreed to when he arrived at the emergency room unconscious that permits the pricks administering the bill to tack on 100% surcharges.
I called the pricks administering the bill - explained that my father had died, I was sorry about the bounced check but that things were a little unsettled, I'd be happy to pay the bill, would you remove the 100% surcharge.
The pricks declined to remove the surcharge which is their right.
As you can see the facts are lined up against me. Is it fair? Is it kind? Or understanding?
No, no, and no.
Here is my game plan. I will pay the surcharge . . . probably. I will send in small, odd, random amounts each month by check. I think I'll start with $2.09. I may go as high as $4.17 but probably not. I'll choose the amount to send in each month at a time of my choosing. I like a dollar amount and then a zero and then another number. Like: $3.01 or $1.01.
I realize that this will cost me far more in postage and envelope cost than if I just paid the amount but I want to make it absolutely as painful for these pricks as possible. I want to fuck with their system. I want someone to have to open the envelope and process the check. I can't imagine that they are able to process a check for less than $2.09. I want it to cost them like $100 to collect this debt.
As you can see I have a ways to go.
The facts:
The bill is legitimate.
I stupidly bounced a check in an honest attempt to discharge this debt.
There is probably something in the 47 page standard legal boilerplate that my father agreed to when he arrived at the emergency room unconscious that permits the pricks administering the bill to tack on 100% surcharges.
I called the pricks administering the bill - explained that my father had died, I was sorry about the bounced check but that things were a little unsettled, I'd be happy to pay the bill, would you remove the 100% surcharge.
The pricks declined to remove the surcharge which is their right.
As you can see the facts are lined up against me. Is it fair? Is it kind? Or understanding?
No, no, and no.
Here is my game plan. I will pay the surcharge . . . probably. I will send in small, odd, random amounts each month by check. I think I'll start with $2.09. I may go as high as $4.17 but probably not. I'll choose the amount to send in each month at a time of my choosing. I like a dollar amount and then a zero and then another number. Like: $3.01 or $1.01.
I realize that this will cost me far more in postage and envelope cost than if I just paid the amount but I want to make it absolutely as painful for these pricks as possible. I want to fuck with their system. I want someone to have to open the envelope and process the check. I can't imagine that they are able to process a check for less than $2.09. I want it to cost them like $100 to collect this debt.
As you can see I have a ways to go.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Good Grief
Grief: Pain of m ind arising from misfortune, significant personal loss, misconduct of oneself or others, etc. (Ed Note: I'm not sure that it's fair to add an etc to an definition. This is where we're defining something - tell me what the etc is).
I've joined a Grief Support Group. And I've started to page through a book about how to effectively deal with grief that SuperK's sponsor - a great reader of all things written - passed along to me.
I'm still up in the air with the group. I'm not much of a joiner-upper when it comes to stuff like this which probably explains why it took 18 months of meeting attendance before I actually figured out I had to quit drinking if I wanted to stay sober. And I'm not much of a believer in things I can't quantify, logically explain, or scientifically prove so this psychological investigation into emotions doesn't come to me naturally. Still, I'm going and I'm committed to continuing to go despite my sense that it's total fucking bullshit. SuperK is surprised that I'm sticking with it.
"You never want to try anything new," she pointed out, adding "Outside of traveling," defusing my one good argument. While this isn't completely accurate it's accurate enough to piss me off a little.
The book is even more problematic because it's been penned by a couple of people who founded something called the Grief Recovery Institute. I'm going to speculate that they're going to have a LOT to say about grief. I'm guessing that if they just say "eh, give it a couple of months, you'll get over it" they probably wouldn't sell too many books. But that doesn't mean that there isn't some good stuff in there.
The one theory I've found helpful so far is understanding that there are a lot of different kinds of grief besides mourning a loved one - retirement, moving, losing a pet, suffering an injury or serious illness, hearing that an ex-spouse is getting remarried. I've found that some people who profess great grief make me mutter "oh, brother" and others make me wonder how they can get out of bed in the morning. And the old adage of Time Takes Time comes up here, too, a reminder that grief is not linear. It doesn't have a time frame that one can strictly adhere to.
I also see that grief is expressed in different ways by different people. The reactions run the gamut from depression to anxiety to extended weeping. It's all good - none of it is right and none of it is wrong as long as you're talking and trying to process what's going on. Pretending that you're OK when something bad has happened is not OK.
"There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments, and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance—that principle is contempt prior to investigation." Herbert Spencer
I've joined a Grief Support Group. And I've started to page through a book about how to effectively deal with grief that SuperK's sponsor - a great reader of all things written - passed along to me.
I'm still up in the air with the group. I'm not much of a joiner-upper when it comes to stuff like this which probably explains why it took 18 months of meeting attendance before I actually figured out I had to quit drinking if I wanted to stay sober. And I'm not much of a believer in things I can't quantify, logically explain, or scientifically prove so this psychological investigation into emotions doesn't come to me naturally. Still, I'm going and I'm committed to continuing to go despite my sense that it's total fucking bullshit. SuperK is surprised that I'm sticking with it.
"You never want to try anything new," she pointed out, adding "Outside of traveling," defusing my one good argument. While this isn't completely accurate it's accurate enough to piss me off a little.
The book is even more problematic because it's been penned by a couple of people who founded something called the Grief Recovery Institute. I'm going to speculate that they're going to have a LOT to say about grief. I'm guessing that if they just say "eh, give it a couple of months, you'll get over it" they probably wouldn't sell too many books. But that doesn't mean that there isn't some good stuff in there.
The one theory I've found helpful so far is understanding that there are a lot of different kinds of grief besides mourning a loved one - retirement, moving, losing a pet, suffering an injury or serious illness, hearing that an ex-spouse is getting remarried. I've found that some people who profess great grief make me mutter "oh, brother" and others make me wonder how they can get out of bed in the morning. And the old adage of Time Takes Time comes up here, too, a reminder that grief is not linear. It doesn't have a time frame that one can strictly adhere to.
I also see that grief is expressed in different ways by different people. The reactions run the gamut from depression to anxiety to extended weeping. It's all good - none of it is right and none of it is wrong as long as you're talking and trying to process what's going on. Pretending that you're OK when something bad has happened is not OK.
"There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments, and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance—that principle is contempt prior to investigation." Herbert Spencer
Friday, October 21, 2016
Look Out For The Locomotive
There's a saying in The Fellowship warning about the danger of the first drink - it proceeds along the lines of "it's not the caboose that kills you." It's very popular to blame a long night of drinking for the fact that most of your front teeth have mysteriously vanished when the problem is that at some point you've decided that a drink - just one drink - would be a good idea. It's not the last drink that gets you.
Something for me in the last few months was the Last Straw. I feel like I've been standing in the ocean and I've been hit by several big waves. While they're all the same size there have been a lot of them. Still, it's the last wave that swept me out to sea.
There's another story about a guy whose cat really pisses him off first thing in the morning. Admirably, he refrains from booting the cat through some distant goal posts but the irritation stays with him, building over the course of the day as more minor instances take on an out-sized importance. Eventually he does something really stupid.
"Should have kicked the cat," his wife says.
Don't let stuff build up.
Something for me in the last few months was the Last Straw. I feel like I've been standing in the ocean and I've been hit by several big waves. While they're all the same size there have been a lot of them. Still, it's the last wave that swept me out to sea.
There's another story about a guy whose cat really pisses him off first thing in the morning. Admirably, he refrains from booting the cat through some distant goal posts but the irritation stays with him, building over the course of the day as more minor instances take on an out-sized importance. Eventually he does something really stupid.
"Should have kicked the cat," his wife says.
Don't let stuff build up.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
The Big C
In some ways I simply want to know what's what. I don't care if it's good news or if it's bad news as long as I know what the news is. I believe it was W Churchill who said that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself - one of the wisest things I've ever heard. Unless of course there's a big bear running right at me at which point the bear would be the cause of the fear and not the fear itself. Being the fear. Or something.
Let's say my thumb hurts. Quickly I come to the conclusion that I have thumb cancer. The best thing for me to do is to go to my thumb cancer specialist for testing and an accurate diagnosis. We're on a first name basis as thumb cancer is one of my more popular cancers.
"Give it to me straight, doc," I say. "Is it the Big C of the thumb?"
Sometimes it is. But that's OK. I just want to know. I can deal with about anything as long as I have the facts. It's that weird, imprecise, free-floating angst that eats up guts.
Let's say my thumb hurts. Quickly I come to the conclusion that I have thumb cancer. The best thing for me to do is to go to my thumb cancer specialist for testing and an accurate diagnosis. We're on a first name basis as thumb cancer is one of my more popular cancers.
"Give it to me straight, doc," I say. "Is it the Big C of the thumb?"
Sometimes it is. But that's OK. I just want to know. I can deal with about anything as long as I have the facts. It's that weird, imprecise, free-floating angst that eats up guts.
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