Tag: Me Myself I

Personal stuff

Front Line Analogy

Old Age

I like to think of Life as a journey to the WWI frontline trenches, said trenches being old age, where death is almost certain if you stay there long enough.  (Feel free to spin this out in your imagination.)

I was drawn to the analogy when reading about Bruce Willis being given birthday best wishes by his ex-wife Demi Moore.  Willis is suffering from aphasia , and has just turned 69.

I’m 69.

And here’s why I’m thinking of old age as being like being in the trenches.

There are so many ways to die, at any age, but if one dies at a young age it’s more a result of either a random tragedy (brain cancer at 39, or a heart attack at 18, and so on) or else the equivalent of playing Russian roulette, say by smoking a pack of unfiltered Camels every day, riding a motorcycle without a helmet or living in the South Side projects of Chicago.  (The WWI equivalent would be dying in a car accident while driving to the station or losing your head by sticking it out of the moving train’s window, i.e. going before your time.)

But once you’re in the frontline trenches — that being old age — there are any number of ways that can snuff out Life’s Little Candle, because the Boche are throwing all sorts of shit at you:  shelling, poison gas and snipers being the equivalent of kidney disease, aortic aneurism, stroke, heart attack, diverticulitis and so on.  You get the picture.

I have been extraordinarily lucky so far, in that pretty much all my ailments have been recoverable either by my own body’s healing function or else by medication.  (That said medication becomes more necessary is borne out by the fact that pills once taken for a day or two are now a permanent fixture and the morning routine involves something like a saunter along the Rx shelves at CVS.)  And my physical condition has actually improved recently in that I’ve shed a lot of weight — granted, through said medication, but whatever — and I’m reasonably spry as a result.

But there’s no fucking cure for aphasia, Alzheimer’s, Lou Gehrig’s disease or any of the brain ailments which end one’s life horribly.  And sure, you can get those at any time during your life — but once you reach the Golden Years, those illnesses become more and more likely, and the Golden Years become more like the Golden Shower Years, where Life pisses on you from all directions.  (And I’m not even talking about extraneous squirts of urine like the IRS or Bidenflation, don’t get me started.)

What the hell.  So far, so good.  I’m in decent health for my age, the doctor tells me, and would be in better shape if I just quit eating all that shit that’s bad for me but which gives me such pleasure that I refuse to quit.

Screw that.  If there’s some Boche sniper out there loading up a bullet with my name on it, I might as well eat that piece of lovely, fatty boerewors, right?

And now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my Breakfast Gin.  Cheers.

Never Not Ever No Way

Drive Time

Commenting on this post about my car issues, Longtime Reader Fred Z. asks:

“Have you considered a small motorbike for short trips and simple errands? Cheap to buy, cheap on gas, cheap to maintain.”

And easy to fall from, be struck by another car with, and a host of other dangers.  As the meme goes:

I’ve never ridden a motorcycle, was last on one (my uncle’s) at age 10 and never again since.  Ain’t gonna happen.

I’d drive an EV before a bike, but only if it looks like this:

Bright, high-visibility yellow.  No doors so I can jump out easily if the fershlugginer thing catches fire.

Kinda like riding a bike, except with four wheels.  I am aware of the irony, thank you.

Does that answer the question?

Catastrophe Update

Bad News

Several kind and thoughtful people have contacted me to ask how things are going with my unforeseen catastrophe news.  Here’s the update.

Your kind and generous help has enabled me to get the following done:

  • the Tiguan’s back brakes replaced (the rear suspension turned out to be okay) and a hitherto-unnoticed oil leak fixed (while getting the oil changed)
  • the clothes dryer needed the bearings to be re-lubed, and another small electrical issue was taken care of, for well under replacement cost
  • the Fiat’s new tires have been ordered and paid for, installation to happen early next week
  • I’ve been able to make a small dent in the ObamaCare tax penalty, but there is still a way to go, so if I could make just a teeny appeal…

When the last has been taken care of, New Wife is going to become a U.S. citizen (yes!) and I’m going to renew my own U.S. passport… sheesh, becoming and remaining a U.S. citizen is spendy, so with y’all’s indulgence, that’s where the remainder (if any) will be spent.  Fortunately (or unfortunately), my prospects of actually using my passport to travel anywhere are minuscule to non-existent so the renewal can wait.

In the meantime, however, please allow me to thank everyone who has been so unbelievably generous in helping me out of this simultaneous catastrophe situation.  You have been wonderful, and as I so often say, I have the best Readers of any website on the Internet.

And finally, to Reader Matt G., who added this little note to his contribution:

“Excellence In Blogging Lifetime Achievement Award”

…my most embarrassed thanks.

Not In The Target Market

Jewellery

Longtime Readers will know that I am not averse to wearing a decent watch on my wrist, but there is one type I have to shun altogether:

…and it has nothing to do with the watches’ brands or even style — although I don’t much care for the “chunky” look anyway.

You see, I have hairy arms:


(those aren’t my arms, as my hair is light-brown blonde, but
the thickness is about the same).

So metal watch-straps are a form of refined torture, as they snag and pull out the hairs pretty much continuously.

Not that I care, because I prefer the look of a decent leather strap anyway.

And you can forget shaving my arms too… sheesh, imagine going through that every week just to wear a watch…

Simultaneous Catastrophes — Update

Bad News

The response to the hard-luck story below has been wonderful.  I was able to make the appointment for Tiggy’s repairs and the dryer issue will likewise be resolved this week.  Depending on the car repair bill, I should be able to get Sputum her new treads as well, and I may even get a “new” (replacement) laptop later this week.
I hate to push my luck, but there’s still the matter of the IRS/ObamaCare fiasco…

I have the best Readers on the Internet.

At any given time, things break, we fix them / get them fixed and get on with life.

However, we should always be cognizant of that old bastard Murphy, the corollary to whose Law states that if things can go wrong, they will always go wrong in the order which will provide the greatest damage or catastrophe.  Or, in the sub-corollary, that all will occur more or less at the same time.

Wanna hear mine?

In the past seven days:

  • The Tiguan’s rear suspension and brakes need replacing (at only 135,000 miles, go figure).
  • When New Wife went to get the Fiat’s tires pumped during the recent cold weather, the tire guy said that her car won’t pass the next inspection because of tread wear (after 30,000 miles, go figure again).
  • Our tumble dryer has ceased to both tumble and dry — “What about the warranty?” you ask;  why, the 5-year warranty expired a year ago because the appliance is over six years old.  As such, repairs will cost more than simple replacement.
  • Speaking of old things: my 6-year-old laptop’s chassis has given up the ghost completely — I can’t close it without causing irreparable damage, and it’s being held together with Ye Olde Ductte Taype (pics on request).
  • Still on the laptop:  the power cord has become loosened to the point where I have to use the above to keep it in place, and even then if I move too suddenly, the connection ends and Ye Olde Batterye takes over, for about an hour before it too goes bye-bye.
  • Uncle Shylock has decided that some of  my 2013 deductions were not acceptable, and I have to repay some ungodly (for me) amount.
  • So does New Wife, who upon becoming salaried as opposed to hourly, decided to enroll in the company medical plan — but whoopsie! that incurs an ObamaCare penalty (don’t ask me for the details;  my tax preparer explained it to me, as much as one can politely explain getting bent over a desk by the Gummint, and the penalty actually dwarfs my tax deduction repayment).

Ordinarily, I could handle all the above individually:  schedule payments to the IRS over the next year, for instance;  and all the others could be put on the credit card.  But doing the latter en masse  would make the monthly repayments unaffordable.  And thanks to Bidenflation (of which I may have made some mention in the past), our monthly expenses are already at the nostrils-occasionally-underwater stage.

I have already sold everything that is saleable in my house.  That includes most of my gun collection, and the few pieces that remain I need (for obvious reasons) and aren’t worth that much anyway.

Whenever someone helpfully suggests that I get a job, I point out that this blog is my job.  It’s the only one I can do, given my advanced age and health condition, and the only way I can help myself is to depend on the kindness of others as they regard the worth of my writing on this website.

For the most obvious of reasons, I can’t open up an OnlyFans account like this tart did.  Most distressingly, the market for the model in the pic below would be embarrassingly small.


…even though I’ve lost quite a bit of weight since then.  And I think I’ve punished my tiny pool of Lady Readers enough anyway.

You all know what to do.  My sooper-seekrit mailing address for Going Paper is:

6009 W. Parker Rd, Ste 149-141, Plano TX 75093

…and then there is Venmo (no PayPal, sorry) or Zelle via [email protected]

Anything you can send will be hugely appreciated, because quite frankly, this is the only way out for me if nothing else comes to the fore (e.g. a lottery win, and you know the odds against that).

Thank you all in advance,