Weeds In The Garden

Tom Long, Chris Bakunas (fka Long), Kathy Long & her daughter Brittany Martin

My family isn't close, not all of us 

I've read about families that faced tragedy or misfortune

Banding together, sharing their strength with one another

That's not us though, we are not of that ilk

Tragedy and misfortune pushed us apart

It really is quite a shame

We have very little in common, my brothers and sisters and I

We don't like the same music or read the same books

If pressed, I guess I could come up with a few commonalities

None of us liked growing up poor

But as a consequence, we're all fairly thrifty

Several of us have traveled extensively

I think that must be a delayed reaction

To feeling trapped in that abysmal pit of a neighborhood we got stuck in

After Dad left Mom for the second of his four wives

Or was it five? I can never seem to get that straight

His Dad, my paternal Grandfather Arthur, he had three wives

And his Dad, Great-Grandfather William, he had three as well.

My paternal Grandmother Agnes, she was the rebel, only married the once
That I know of
Grandfather's mother, Great-Grandmother Martha, she had three husbands  

Those spouse counts are all subject to revision - up

Mom's side of the family, they all stuck it out with each other

Maybe they didn't like the idea of having to break in someone new

Still, the paternal family tree looks like a kelp forest

being ripped apart by the currents

I've been married twice myself

The first time for almost 23 months

The second time, well, that was never much of a marriage

Not only did I not ever live with the woman

I never even lived in the same state with her

Yeah, that's a story right there

So, my family, we're not close, not like I think families should be

It really is quite a shame

Might be a good thing though, with all the half-siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles

Postage for Christmas cards alone would probably bankrupt me

The Conversation Turned

Chris Bakunas & Rick Thibodeau hoist a few in 2009

She nodded her head as I spoke feigning interest in my opinion of a movie
Twisting her hair with an index finger
The shirt she wore looked like silk but I'm sure it was polyester
She told me she named her cat Schrodinger

With a sardonic grin she explained how she found him in a box and thought it was fitting
And lamented about her friends not getting the joke
I asked if those friends waxed poetic about quantum mechanics
Her blank stare told me I shouldn't have spoke

The ritual had become routine, it was such a bore
There was only so much we could possibly have to say
Tomorrow seemed so far away

She asked Joey for another drink as I stared out at the skating rink
Curious if I could still handle being on the ice
I noticed a snag in her nylons and wondered what she got them caught on
As she played with an electronic device

It had been a long day, really, an excruciatingly  long day
But I yearned more for conversation than I did for sleep
I couldn't be alone with my thoughts right then
And I didn't want to bother my friends
I didn't want to be a bother to my friends

So I retained my seat at the bar and listened to her talk about an ugly scar
A boyfriend gave her as a parting gift
And like her I nodded my head as I listened to what she said 
I stared at her lips as my mind began to drift

The ritual had become routine, it was such a bore
There was only so much we could possibly have to say
Tomorrow seemed so far away

Those Days, Edited*

Scott Foreman, Rob Tidmore, Mike Meyers, Chris Long (nka Bakunas), Terry (nka Tellis) Capell

Everyone had ambition

Though no-one took the time to listen

We all thought we had a million years and ten

Hair thinned and fell out
shaky confidence turned to doubt
Suddenly it became work to meet up with friends

Addictions, marriages, mortgages, disparages
Miles away lapsed into months then years apart
Somebody we all knew or possibly was a relation to
Would tell of victory's, defeats, and broken hearts

Have you heard such and such do you keep in touch
Thought you'd know about the kids, jail, divorce
Maybe you'd go fishing and would start reminiscing
Tell yourself it's time to go directly to the source

Writing a check on Thursday you remembered it's a birthday
And you can't believe it's been that long a time
You don't feel that age and then look in a mirror
To try to gauge
Whether it's the light that's causing all those lines

It would be good next vacation
To stop with the procrastination
Pay a visit to the old neighborhood

What if they lost the house to the recession
Or worse, to the ex-spouse
You wonder if they would think you understood

You heard about some hardship but regarded it as gossip
Would it have hurt to have offered assistance
Remembering them tough as leather
Riding out the worst of weather

You think you had to maintain your distance
From those windows that open upon all the 
Changes you've undergone
Wind and rain blow in and stir up the room

Like a pathetic vitriolic offer of water to a shaking alcoholic
The last thing you need is to try to exhume
A life that has passed even if it seemed 
To be gone too fast
Every train eventually reaches its final destination






*This was edited on 01/04/2014. I was never happy with the original. The original was, it was just, I don't know...cumbersome. I didn't edit much - added two words, omitted two words, and broke up the stanza structure.

Whimper

I have experienced the worst minds of my generation worshipped by a media-mad, entertainment starved hysterical populace,
plopping themselves in front of the LCD flatscreens until dawn looking for an easy twist,
lunkheaded stieners itching for the newest imaginary confection from the dumpster of the machinery of glamorwood,
whose prostrations and abashments and glassy-eyed adulations and just thrown up musings in the extraordinary staleness of pointless stats rolling across the screens of T.V.'s prostituting drivel, who trust their hopes to affirmations under the Yew and saw Aegean Brummel's flirting with plastered fools consummated,
who moshed with suburbanites wearing rectangular blue ties harboring Anarchist and Bolshevik tendencies gleaned from the Ivory Academics
who were embraced by the scholars for Jay-Z & pornographic Eminem raps on the bathroom walls of the priory,
who soured to glittering grooms in underwear, using their parents money like waste paper and blistering their ears to the Melvins and Nirvana in the hall
who gut-busted in the seaside bars rerunning the lyrics through bongloads of marijuana for lack of worse,
who sat tired in chiffon robes or shrank cashmere sweaters in overheated dryers, delighted, or perhaps played deuces with a girl for a fixed-gear bike
with trees, with shrubs, with pruning shears, shovel and rake and mossrock walls,
imitations of Howard Stern's Stuttering John and feral in the wilds of Chicago & Philadelphia, cluttering all the meaningless words of Clement Greenberg,
Passionate solitudes of hills, recorded using free parabolic microphones, Peggy Guggenheim pulling out all the stops, miserable in an Edinburgh of three hundred closing pubs and shrinking towards oblivion, rum and gin and vodka libations in the crummy Arby's Bronco's glasses of plastic, caustic paintings and rude pen tight of line,
who cheered Tebow to goalposts for the playoff ride from 1-4 start to holy Broncos in backwards still among the remaining twelve and chastised by arguing phone-ins troubled and alarmed at the bull-rushed and bettered Steel of Pittsburgh all eleven in the second fight of Jan,
who flew all night in Superman tights of polyester fitted out and stitched to the strapping beefcake buffoon in Four-Color Comics, leering at the gates of Gamorrah bending over to help out a harlequin,
who stalked laboriously sluty ol' whores of Fiddlesticks bar to Ecks to Sharks to the Golden Door, a cast medallion for plastic surgical enhancements turning frowns of silicon into frozen grins of silly putty on empty slates over a polymer goon,
backpacking beseeching harping shouting trivia and minutiae and candy coats and needle pricks and lots of cartwheels and hearts and souls, toll bridges ignored on canyon hikes of several days and nights with flabby thighs, chafed on the material denim of the adornment,
when banished into now and then meanderings losing a tail of ambitious patrolling postmen with advanced gout hell,
surfing Internet websites and chat room ass-kissings and usernames of 9gagers over and under-rating the reposter’s best funniest ruses, how wasted attempt after attempt was mistaken for a rocketing thought balloon as too good, and warped, leveling the beaten Turks, Frodo bit his toes to nibs on bigscreens bigscreens bigscreens racking up millions in dough fortune for some charms of transatlantic flight ,
who tripped Asimov for Clarke when his manic empathy ran rock a rollah in between the stereos indescribably delicious on the street like Manasseh's,
who phoned it in from the retreat in Mexico ducking illusionary cromagnon demons who rode illusionary cromagnon demons, who brought the only bag of worm gummies sugared in diabetic-crazed agony,
who slumped in blue jeans with the Lithuanians of Colorado on the imperfect ol' weary misguided staggering midtown train,
who lunged haphazardly and lumbering through Aerobics lessons of pop or rock or hip-hop, and flipped off the bastard blatantly to crush all thoughts about amiable and friendly, a talented cast, but still not inspired theatrical,
whose underwear was thrown voluntarily to Pixies showing bare behind breathing with not a covering of pantaloons and the legs and ass of pretty screen queens in frozen Minneapolis, who was weird on the Fest Circuit gyrating their hips in beads and skirts with long passionate lies meshing into dirty scorn listing out unreadable pamphlets,
who soured on Cinco de Mayo and the charms protecting the narcissistic tortured boys of Discordance,
who debuted Supersymmetry theories at Harvard Yard posed by Sakita and Gervais while the stirrings of Miyazawa worried no one, and worried everyone, and the Student Body doubles also worried,
who quoted from Byron in full 4-dimensional reduced and non-massive selectivity the shittery of other manifolds,
who fit deadbolts to the pierced ears of protesters in squattercamps for habitually non-working beatniks that own what Mommy and Daddy and Grandpa bequeathed them,
who toweled off their wet cats in the stairwell and turned dragsters in the road weaving curves into g-strings,
who sent the missives to Jung in the hopes for the Divine psychoanalysis, and beamed with pride,
who drew and were drawn by the hated expressionist, the smudgers, careless of archaic and curmudgeon art,
who stalled on the highways in the Ramblers in Chevrolets and the Fords of putrid purples and chartreuse scarlet that seeped fluids onto wide roads up this way,
who chatted seamlessly on Omegle but couldn't start with a call anytime to a patriot in a Persian Rug Store when the bloated & sated gourmand came to pig out with a spoon,
who tossed their cookies to the four blue shades of blue the one with shades of the aquamarine pallor the one with shades like water out near the west and the one with shades that dries to light and last but not least the shade of French Cerulean the international pigment blend of the synthetics metallic,
who copied everything and anything with a crayon of charcoal a pencil a pen of colored inks a conte and finished off the canvas, and quickly lined up some more and frowned at the dog and blended frantically all the contrast with a wedge of rolled paper towel and some eraser that just glanced the surface,
who stiffened the quills of a thousand brushes washing in the suds and soap, and were dried out in the sunbeam but softened to repaint the swirls of the soda can, foregoing details like clarity and composition in the haste,
who conked out snoring all through the movie on Mary's living room sofa, R.T., noted buddy of these bosoms, craftsman and Artist of Diego—jive like a turkey with his immeasurable plays on words in connect the dots & paper crosswords, swapmeets’ bargain rows, on Flattop in Alaska or with great finessable honor in contact bridge strategically bidding advantages & positioning favorably placed tricks of Ace, & Queen maybe a King,
who partied out in little squirrel's dormitories, were covered in screens, spoke of a stiff Cosmopolitan, and packed their things up out of engagements held-over with thankless Tories and humours of Meth Junkies inside jokes & stampeded to unusual opportunities,
who waited all night with their noses frozen to the flagpole socks warming toes as an actor in a West End play opens to a standing-room only crowd and delirium,
who played out boorish melodramas in the apparent belief ranks of the Huguenots under the religion blurred spotlight of the goon & their breathen should be cowed with laughter in derision,
who date the last few of the Emerson's and delighted the court at the Taj Mahal of the counties of Jefferson,
who swept up the remainders of the strumpets with their pushbras full of tissues and rap music,
who dealt in aces bringing in the full house that Eric "the Kid" Stoner needed, and lost up to big Howard a straight diamonds with the jack,
who crashed on the carpeted floor of Hillary covered with cat hair even in the semicircular tray of sweet sugars with a strange chocolate and lemony ,
who dribbled all night looking and leaping down court incessantly with the Vitella yelling I'm open I can make the basket,
who looked ready reliable full-bodied fleet foot boyish & pimply desiring of the bonita Monraz Senorita,
who plugged along in their sweatpants yearning for the day,
who picked their coins up off the street in cans their dollars in large bottles outside of Vons, & fishing poles held in their hands sunny days in the summer days,
who washed their clothes with coca-cola repeatedly successfully, getting out grime and oil found in carnival rides and midway strides where they slaved as they were growing old and tired,
who were born to live in their brother's flannel shirts handed down jeans tho' spurts of growth vexed & taxed-up matter of the iron-on patches of felt & the noticeably too-short high-waters of advanced age & the miserable rags of corduroy making silence impossible, or worse yet dungarees from the disabled vets thrifts of Lomita & Spring Valley,
who climbed up the Devils Cliff this sorta happened and always played in caves and ravines into the dusky canyons of Deep Dale with pollywogs & garter snakes, no one even giving a care,
who hung out of coveralls in disrepair, still stout like those fat German fellows, lumpy in the fatty Posterior, crept on tiptoes, dried milk all over their feet, cried for Amy Winehouse's harassed crash into phony discords of melodramatic tragic 1980s Brit pop startled and frisky and grew up leaning into the big government tit, stones in their nostrils and the waste of colossal tax boondoggles,
who stared down the barrels of the past yearning to teach Brother’s vision-donkeypin tale-crowded house or Liverpool brass incantation,
who dove haphazardly twenty four meters to seek out if I had a fish on or you had a fish on or he had a fish on to fish out Mac Murray,
who heel-toed it to Lakewood, who lived in Lakewood, who knocked 'em back in Lakewood & played in the rain, who walked all over Lakewood & bar-be-cued & grilled in Lakewood and finally sent away to pick out the Truth, & now Lakewood is poorer for losing Jackson's,
who sell what should be freebies in dope-filled ratholes straying from some Other’s affection and slightly tanned breasts, until the bowl college January bet share for some attention,
who stashed borrowed wind chimes in cells texting for irascible ner'-do-wells with amber beads and the thorn of piety in their socks who swapped street ludes to Marketroid,
who reverted to puberty to justify a video, or Rocky Balboa to tender Mister T or Silverware to brass or whispered specific to the stacked waitress at Baker St or Jose O'Shea's or Westwood or the Dairy Queen or El Tapitios,
who remanded that gritty neo sound to that lay it down clown & were right with their regularity & their bands & a hanging party,
who spew remembered mantras at STP concerts on Red Rocks and frequently embeded the shelves in the hallowed halls of the greenhouse with Useless Heads and pushpin tweaks of bromide, reciting Teenage Lobotomy,
and who were driven inside the corrugated box of insulted 'Mats fans professedly psychopharmocology devotional polarity singsong & fantasia,
who in luminous goldcrest unconcerned with the alcoholic Doctor hardly able, residing chiefly in La Junta,
rerunning years of truly bad television for ad revenue of booze, and beers and tacos, to the invincible handyman dudes of the world of the shantytowns of the Waste,
Plimsoul's straight out of Bernardino’s and Temecula’s fractured hills, thriving with the buzzles of the Hickmen, roosted and rostered in the bright light latitude-beach driven-dunes of Diego, strived for a wife with dark hair, ecstasies burned like scones in ovens too long,
with neighbors finally #^$@%, and the first iconoclastic kook laid out on the surrealistic pillow, and the Maserati clocked at 4mph. and the past glorified dammed at the well on the sly and the most famished son wolfs down to the last piece the meager order of churros, a fellow twinkle toes tapping on a wild strangers bedpost, and if it seems a little arid, nothing but a helpful little bit of lubrication—
ah, Laurel, where you were not shaved I am not shaved, but now you’re fully into the alopecia all of the time—
and what thereabouts can truly stop happy feet shod with the wooden clog of the Scandinavian of the Nordic of the blonde fantastic a voracious valkyrie with the affordable plans,
who looked and mapped insubstantiate traps in Newsweek & Playboy through metaphysical locks, and bounced the stylus of the gods betwixt 42 illustrated pages and darned the argyle socks and sown the row and word of confusion bitter pumping with sensation of father weakened limited man to orchestrate an alter-ego and masquerade of some meta-human role and shout fore! so clueless and classless and reeking of buffoons, dejected but embracing with the warmth of countless fireflies the ribbon of truth in his bald and bareass head,
the Sailor Jerry rum and art snobs in Taos, forelorn, sit pouting downbeat with maybe a little too much intensity to appreciate breath,
and violet abomination in the underground homes of Glasgow in the wellworn candle of the barra and rung the cymbal of Tami’s sharpened wit for lack unto of wooly wooly googly googly pepperoni forever alone guy what shoveled his pieties down to the last teardrop
with the resolute heat of the frozen banana covered in chocolate only to gell to a mush on the dashboard that day.
No
What cashiers of Costco and King Soopers rang up the manna and gave up their grains and libation?
Tick Tock! Fortitude! Strength! Beauty! Politicians and buttondown collars! Waters streaming under the highways! Toys bobbing in bathtubs! Hang ten surfing in the oceans!
Artemis! Artemis! Golden hair of Artemis! Artemis the huntress! Virginal Artemis! Artemis the eternal goddess of wilderness!
Artemis the indescribable mythos! Artemis the Grecian created veneration and object of worships! Artemis whose origins are in Paximadia! Artemis the wild protector of childbirth! Artemis the twin sister of Apollo!
Artemis whose aim is true in archery! Artemis whose bow is borrowed from Lipara! Artemis whose arrows are tipped golden! Artemis whose brother is of truth and prophecy! Artemis whose home is a smoldering ruin!
Artemis between whose thighs is hung the greenest mistletoe! Artemis whose eyebrows creep along her forehead like endless caterpillars! Artemis whose features lean and crooked like a log! Artemis who's really stacked and nobody can deny those mammaries!
Artemis whose salad is olive oil and lettuce! Artemis whose goal is authenticity and poise! Artemis whose prosperity is the currency of fluency! Artemis whose date is a clod of sexstarved androgen! Artemis whose fame is the Mystery!
Artemis in whom I fit lovely! Artemis in whom I dream Claudia's! Comfy in Artemis! Telstar in Artemis! Lackland and Holloman in Artemis!
Artemis who exited by Spenard & Lois! Artemis in rooms Freudian conspiciously drinking a Shot, whiskey! Artemis who enlightened me of foolish supernatural error! Artemis whom I embrace! Sleep well with Artemis! Smoke streaming out of the rye!
Artemis! Artemis! Cloned body parts! invincible cowards! Skyline libraries! bonita grandes! harmonic convergencies! Special K rations! Thibodeau birdhouses! The gun cocks! mustache combs!
They bared their racks lifting shirts for plastic! Pendants, beads, curios, fun! forcing the minions into Heaving wenches elastics and is anywhere but here with us!
Vixens! Mormons! Autographs! fables! reveries! floating down the Irrigation canal!
approximations! illustrations! Guinness! the whale taletail of sexual underpinings!
Democrats! sideways to a mirror! Rip on Republicans! both claim to be change! Lies! Libertarians! Greens! To ears and eyes extreme and opposite sides! Sighs! Dew Drops! Fad veneration! drown in the clocks that Chime!
Teal bluey water in the Mediterranean! We swam like eel! the mild cries! the holy yells! He'd surf that swell! Skeptics demanding to see proof! to pulchritude! fading! riding mowers! Shown to the power! trip to the beat!
I heard the best voices of my generation sounding ageless, soaring harmonies barked,
lifting themselves through the arpeggio streets at noon looking for a snappy six
Level-headed Rockers yearning for the modern ethereal association
from the sparking magneto in the urgency of life

Meandering Paragraphs of Adventurous Prose

There once was a very little Blue whale. Very little is, of course, a relative term, as Blue whales generally weigh about 150 tons, and this one still came in at around 40 tons.

Which may not seem very little to you or I, but it did to this particular Blue whale. This Blue whale, who went by the name "Morty", always felt a little intimidated around other Blue whales, even Blue whales that were Pygmy Blue whales made Morty feel small.

Morty was not very happy when he felt intimidated, so he took to staying away from other whales. He even stayed away from Beluga whales that he was nearly three times the size of, simply because they would always ask him why he wasn't hanging out with the other Blue whales.

This self-imposed isolation from his fellow whales made Morty a very lonely and bitter whale. Most of the other denizens of the deep who were not whales would tend to give Morty a wide berth as his size, though small for a Blue whale, intimidated most other aquatic life quite a bit.

One afternoon, as Morty was casually straining seawater through his baleen for a nutritious lunch of krill, a Fin whale swam past humming a joyful tune. Morty stopped dining for a moment and watched as the Fin whale did a few flips and turns as it swam through the murky green ocean, and wondered to himself what could possibly be making that Fin whale so happy.

Morty had been lonely and bitter a long time, but suddenly he decided right then and there to call out to the Fin whale and ask if it wouldn't mind sharing the secret of its happiness.

With a series of short oots and beoows, Morty managed to catch the attention of the Fin whale, and it turned and headed back towards Morty.

"Hello," said the Fin whale to Morty, "What's up?"

"Oh, erh, uhm, Hi", said Morty, a bit nervously. "I just noticed you swimming by humming quite a happy tune and I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind sharing with me the secret of your happiness?"

"Well", replied the Fin whale, "It's really no secret. It is, in fact, something well known to one and all - though I think maybe it's a little under appreciated."

Morty looked at the Fin whale curiously and said, "Whatever can you mean?"

'Under appreciated, as in not everybody is able to appreciate it. Look, what's your name kid? I'll ask you a few questions and see if you are able to appreciate it."

"Uhm, my name is Morty. What's yours?"

"Elias. Pleasure to meet you Morty. Now, tell me something Morty, have you ever held a grudge?"

"A grudge? What do you mean? Have I ever been mad at someone?"

"No Morty, not just mad at someone - hey, we all get mad at someone. I mean held a grudge, as in, you got angry at someone or something and stayed that way, no matter what, just stewed and simmered in your anger as if it made you stronger or better than whatever you were angry at. There may still be someone or something you're angry at now, in fact."

"Hmmm..." Morty pondered. "You know Elias, that is an awfully personal question."

"True Morty, true, but you asked me what the secret of my happiness was and if you want to know, you're going to have to answer some questions."

"Uhm, okay, I do want to know, so yeah, I'll tell you. I have held a grudge, and still do. Against my parents, for not being bigger so that I would have been born a bigger whale."

'Seriously? A grudge against your parents for not being bigger? Do you think not being bigger was a deliberate action on their part? That's a pretty odd way of looking at things Morty, I gotta be honest with you."

"Well, it's true, if they had been bigger, I would have been bigger."

"Alrighty, that's an interesting take on the good fortune to be born healthy and intelligent. Tell me Morty, did you have a lot of friends growing up?'

'No, not really. I mean, I knew other whales from school and such, but I never had any real friends. I always thought the other whales felt like they were better than me. I hated just about every whale I grew up with. I decided I didn't need other whales around me for nothing, no how."

"Okay, okay, no need to get testy. What do you do for fun Morty? Have any hobbies? Play any sports? Like to play Checkers?"

"Well not really...I never even tried to play with any of the whales I grew up with, as I always felt too small. My Mom and Pop always wanted me to join the Whale Scouts, but I hated the thought of being around so many whales bigger than me. You know, these question aren't making any sense at all. What's the point of them?"

"Right. I'm beginning to sense you may not appreciate what it takes to be happy Morty, I don't think it will help you to know it at all."

"What do you mean? You haven't even told me anything yet, how can I know if I can appreciate it if you won't tell me what it is?"

"Oh, but I have Morty, I have. Indirectly, true, but I did tell you. I asked you about your family and friends, and if you know how to forgive."

"Look Elias, I know I have to forgive Mom and Pop for not being bigger, and I have, really, I have. But forgiving friends I've never had? How can that be done?"

"No Morty, I'm not referring to forgiving your family and friends...I'm referring to forgiving yourself."

"Myself? Forgiving myself for what?"

"For allowing yourself to grow into a lonely and bitter whale Morty. Think about it. No other whale made you feel this way, you chose to feel this way. It's all a matter of choice Morty, all of it. If you truly want to be happy, then answer me one last question."

"Okay, sure, one last question. Go ahead."

"Do you think it's possible for you to choose to be happy Morty?"

Morty stared at Elias for a short while, a million thoughts tumbling though his mind. Over and over he repeated the question: "Can I choose to be happy? Can I?"

After a few moments he spoke up. "I think I can Elias, but tell me, how does one chose to be happy? What is the actual process?"

"It's fairly simple Morty. Just appreciate what you have - you're a smart, capable whale with parents who no doubt love you. You have the ability to speak and you called out to me, so I must assume you can make friends. So forgive yourself for allowing yourself to feel that you were less than other whales because of your physical limitations, and get out there and become part of life. You may not be as big as most Blue whales, but you can go big Morty - you just have to choose."

Morty let this sink in for a few minutes. "I may not be big, but I can go big. I like that. It makes sense! I'm going to go big!"

With that thought in mind, Morty suddenly turned and started to swim furiously. "Hey!" Shouted Elias after him, "Where are you going?!"

"Back to my old swimming grounds Elias, I have to see my parents. They may not have been big whales, but they really are great whales, and I've got a lot of catching up to do!"

Elias the Fin whale smiled as Morty disappeared from view. He did a little flip and started humming again as he swam in the big beautiful ocean. He thought of Morty and hoped he was humming too, the happy tune of a happy whale.

Scaling the Walls to Escape the Barbarians

I'm preparing for my retirement. It won't be for another twenty years or so, but I figure I should get started on it now. Truth be told, I started planning for my retirement when I was in my teens, but now I'm going to transition from the "What I'd like to do" to the "What I'm going to do" phase.

What I'm going to do when I retire is primarily hang out with my friends. Why? Because I like my friends. I like people in general, but I really like my friends. That's why they're my friends (Oooh what an intellect, eh?)

I enjoy the friendships of a wide variety of people, old and young, near and far. I'm lucky that way. Some of my friends are like me in that we share the same sense of adventure, the same taste in literature, appreciation for technology, etc.

Then there are those people I consider friends who I have almost nothing in common with - we are on opposite sides of the political spectrum, have none of the same CD's in our music collections, think each other dresses funny, etc.

And there are those with whom I'm right smack dab in the middle - like the same films, hate each others choices in television shows. Share the same fiscally conservative values, can't understand what the other is thinking in terms of morality.

All of those people are very important to me. All of them add to my life immeasurably. Their opinions, beliefs, lifestyles, hobbies, indiscretions, etc., all give me pause for reflection, celebration, observation, pause...what have you.

Some of my friends I see almost every single day, some I see only once a week or once a month. Some I see once a year or even less often than that. However, the amount of time I spend with friends is not an actual indicator of how much I like being with them - it's generally just an indication of geography - how close they live to me and I to them. There are several of my friends that I do not get to see nearly often enough, and there are some I see often, but would still love to spend even more time with.

That's because I like them. I have been very fortunate in life in that I have met a wide variety of interesting people who have decided that I'm fit for their friendship. It's really the best part of my life.

So what does having friends of all stripes that I like to hang out with have to do with planning my retirement? Well, I've decided that what is going to be important for me to be able to enjoy my friends in my retirement is a home with a fairly large area for entertaining - I have a nice deck right now, but I think I'll need to expand it, add some built-in seats. I have two small entertaining areas in the house, but I think I want to remodel the home to combine those two areas into one great room, with plenty of seats and a nice built in bar.

Yeah, that's what I want to do. So that's what I'm going to do. It'll probably take the entire twenty years or so that I have until retirement to do it.

Everybody Want's To Be A Winner

                       

The first week of February 2011 was brutal here in Colorado - only 6 of the first 60 hours were over zero degrees.


Ugly cold, that's what that is. Just ugly.


And now it's 62 degrees. Sun blazing. One week later. Amazing.


I was told at the end of January that I was getting a raise, retroactive to last July 10th, but I have yet to see it. It's a pretty decent raise too, one that will help me pay down a few more bills, if not pay off a few completely.


Getting 100% debt free is still my top priority. There is just nothing more important than that. Not a new car, not new clothes, not a vacation, not a relationship - nothing. I want to be 100% debt free as quickly as possible.


Which, realistically, will probably be about 3 years or so. Could be a little quicker, but I owe a lot on the house, and even with double payments that's a huge mountain to climb.


Can you imagine owning your house? I mean having the deed in hand, or at least in a safe deposit box.


I'm drooling at the very thought.


Better clean that up, expecting company.