The Good Old Days Are Looking Better -- Though Far From Perfect

When I was a kid presidents tried to advance Civil Right

The world should be a much better place to live in today than it is. In so many ways it's worse than I was a kid. Climate change is the best example. In days of yore you’d get blizzards, heat waves, hurricanes and occasionally an abnormally warm spell in winter and a cold one in summer. Back then it was news. Something different. Now we’re living with so many weather anomalies that they’ve become the norm. Especially the blistering heat of summer all across the globe (not so much here in the Bay Area — thankfully). It’s getting worse too. People are worried about the threat to the planet. The planet will be fine, it’s the people on the planet who are fucked. Indeed, people are dying because of the extreme weather — in large numbers. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be spending summers where it’s broiling hot all day everyday. Even London has had eighty degree weather most days for the past couple of months. That’s frickin’ crazy. 

Another thing we didn’t have to deal with when I was growing up was having a total moron as the leader of the free world. We had presidents who lied, cheated, ignored the needs of the people and started wars but nothing as bad as what Trumpy has been doing. No one who shattered the political norms. Presidents didn’t used to call reporters stupid or horrible people or accuse them of fabricating “fake news.” Nor did presidents shamelessly self-promote and weren’t so blatantly corrupt. They didn’t call into question the integrity of our elections. When I was a kid we were trying to guarantee civil rights not take them away. The lies weren’t so plentiful or obvious. The loyal opposition was shown respect. Even Nixon wouldn’t have dreamed of calling the people across the aisle, “dumbocrats.” The rich have been getting much, much, much richer these days while the social safety net for the less fortunate is being shredded. The imbalance in our country’s wealth distribution is ridiculous.

There were still small businesses when I was a kid. Mom & Pop grocery stores were ubiquitous. In fact there were all kinds of independent businesses. We had places that weren’t part of a multi-national chain where you could get a burger. You might even know the guy that ran the place. There was Johnny’s down the street and we knew who Johnny was. 

I don’t know if things were better because we had milkmen, but they weren’t worse for them.

People didn’t stare at their phones all the time nor for that matter leave the house with their phones — not that they could. Kids used to go outside an use their imaginations to play games or organize ball games and they didn’t have “play dates.” We roamed the streets and did fine. You didn’t have a phone to look at but you could pick up a stick and make a game with it. People were a couple of million times less paranoid.

True, we didn’t have all the safety features with cars, bikes, playgrounds and toys so today’s kids are safer. But they’re also more pampered and made the center of attention from birth. Children aren’t integrated into families in the same way, they are the center of the universe for their parents. 

(It just occurred to me that when I was a kid if someone wore a bicycle helmet they’d be teased mercilessly.)

We didn’t have streaming services or cable so if you wanted to see a movie you had to wait until it was on TV where it was butchered by commercials and sometimes edited (censored). If you wanted to hear a song and didn’t have the record then you had to wait for it to be played on the radio. 

There were no computers for googling so if you needed the answer to something you bugged your parents, or a teacher or you looked in an encyclopedia if you had one or went to the library. You had to be resourceful. 

People had record players, sometimes stereos. Not everyone had color TVs, I didn’t until my senior year of high school back when we had six channels on TV and I think that sixth had just been added.

There were a lot fewer sports events on TV. But I liked sports from that era a lot better. It was before there were a millions teams in each sport (although the fact that there were only six ice hockey teams was ridiculous). There weren’t dozens of rounds of playoffs in pro sports. College football had conferences that were regional and practically-sized. There were no stupid playoffs for a national championship. Bowl games were still a big deal. College basketball didn’t have half the schools in the post season tournament. There were no “wildcards” making the playoffs. Best of all a stupid kid like me could afford to go to a game. A family could have season tickets for an NFL team without taking out a second mortgage.

Concerts were also affordable back then. For ten bucks you could see the biggest names in rock n’ roll. No one was getting away with selling tickets for thousands of dollars.

We still had movie theaters. Lots of them and I’m not talking about heartless cineplexes but actual theaters. Ticket prices were not just reasonable but cheap.

But back then gay people had to remain very much in the closet and could be arrested and jailed for the act of love. There was nothing approaching Pride Month or a Pride Parade. Women were still way, way behind men in terms of equal pay and just generally being treated like something other than sex objects. It still ain’t great today but it’s far better. Progress for African-Americans and other people of color was being made. Today there are forces trying to reverse those advances.

One of the biggest differences between then and now was that there was a much greater sense of hope. Like I said, progress was being made and there was the belief that improvements in society and politics were going to be permanent and added to. Today there is one helluva lot more cynicism and one can see why. The powerful have become more powerful and infinitely more heartless. Pushing them out of the way seems a mammoth task. Global warming is draining people physically and emotionally. It feels like a big defeat — likely because it is.

I still hold out hope because not doing so seems such a final loss and violates the best of the human spirit. Gotta keep the faith, baby.

A Potpourri Featuring: Complaints About Excessive Words, Depression, Administrators and Over-Hyped Blockbusters

The Love That Remains

Dear other people: If you ever say something which confuses me I promise to tell you that I don’t know what you mean. Therefore, you no longer have to insert: “ya know what I mean?” into our conversations. Thank you. By the way, while I have your attention, please omit “ya know” from any chats we have. Also the vast majority of the times that you say “sort of” it is completely unnecessary. Why not dispense with it. Also, as a time saver, please say: “right now” as opposed to “at this point in time.” (I have no idea who came up with “at this point in time” but it needs to leave the vernacular). One more thing, let’s be careful with the use of “particular.” Can anyone explain to me the difference between “this particular house” and “this house”? I thought not. I thought it worth pointing out in this particular blog post — excuse me, I mean, this blog post.

Can I tell you something really nasty about depression. I can? Thanks! It tells you to be wary of happiness, it actually suggests that feeling good is not all it’s cracked up to be and more than that it’s not something you should experience. Depression tries to convince you that your natural state is one of sadness. Then when you are feeling good you’ll often sense it lurking there telling you it’s coming back. The worst part of that is that you know it’s right. What a bastard it is.

Administrators and bosses. I’ve concluded it’s unnatural for humans to be in a supervisory position over other people. My evidence is how bad people are at it. I first started working fifty-seven years ago. Do you realize how many bosses I’ve had? I’m not going to count. The sad thing is I could easily count how many bosses I’ve had who were really good at managing people. The number who were competent isn’t a whole lot more. The number who sucked in one way or another is legion. It’s amazing how often people you work for will tell you bald-faced lies. Not little white ones, not innocent ones, but ones that directly contradict known facts and they negatively impact you. There’s bending the truth then there’s breaking it into little pieces. They will lie to your face, they will lie in emails, letters, smoke signals, any form of communication known to humankind. Mostly they lie to protect their own asses which is the priority of administrators. My bosses have always had bosses that they’ve been answerable to. Their priority is to please those higher ups, you can fuck all the way off. Many administrators are spineless worms. To get to their exalted middle management position they have their backbones removed. They’d no sooner stand up to their superiors than fight a hurricane. They have absolutely no loyalty to you, the hard working drone who makes them look good. Another characteristic of administrators is incompetence. Many of them suck at their jobs while they’re trying to tell you yours. Their inability to make two and two add up to four directly effects you — not that they gave two shits. Having been in education for nearly forty years I’m speaking mostly of school administrators. And I’m speaking of both public schools and the international language schools owned by corporations. Talk about depression, there’s one big fat cause.

The Odyssey is bloody well everywhere. I can’t remember a film that has been so hyped, so analyzed, so thorough dissected. The New York Times has had something about it everyday since before it hit theaters. It’s dominating the culture in a way that is bizarre. Our culture loves the next big thing and when that thing is especially BIG and when it’s universally praised and makes tons of money, well, brother, you’re not going to hear the end of it. It’s a shame that so many terrific films go way, way, way under the radar and barely get a mention while one damn movie dominates the discourse. Of course the question is: did you Mr. Blogger, see it? Yes I did. Last Monday the missus and I joined the hordes. Here’s my experience: It was the scene where Odysseus and his men are trapped in a cave with a giant cyclops. There was a medium shot of the cyclops sitting looking at his captives when I wondered: “What the hell am I doing watching this movie? This is not my thing.” I love films like Winter Light, L’Eclisse and the Last Picture Show. It reminded me of when someone convinced me to see Iron Man in 2008, what a stupid waste of time that was. However The Odyssey was not a stupid, waste of time. It kept me engaged for the entire eleven hour running time and I was impressed by certain aspects of it. That is until the big fight scene at the end. Every blockbuster fight scene cliche was in it which is to say it was badly overdone. No, seeing The Odyssey was not a waste of time. But I’ll tell you what,  I saw a new Icelandic film called The Love That Remains (2025) Pálmason, via the Criterion Channel the other night. That was a great film worthy of at least ten percent of the hype being given Nolan’s epic. As if….

The Big Apple in Film: Ten Terrific Films That Capture Different Times and Parts of New York

Manhattan

Regular readers of this blog (I’m looking at you Goliath McGillicuddy of Comptche, California) may recall that one month ago on this day I wrote a post highlighting ten great films set in Los Angeles. In said post I noted that New York has had far more excellent films as its setting. In fact I’d suggest that there are more good films set in New York than in all other American cities combined (prove me wrong). Here I offer some proof. I have not set out to merely list my ten favorite pictures set in the Big Apple. Instead I’ve come up with different types of films set in different parts of New York at different times. As you will note, there’s not a stinker in the bunch. As further evidence of how many excellent films have been set in the city that never sleeps, I conclude by listing another seventeen movies worth considering. Please enjoy. 

Manhattan (1979) Allen. The most beautiful iteration of New York on film. The opening shots — in glorious black and white —- will make you fall in love with the city. The rest of the movie will enrich that love. A lot of the indoor shots, like of Zabars and the Natural History Museum and Elaine’s further add to the film’s stylistic and visual appeal.

Taxi Driver (1976) Scorsese. This is the gritty (why not say, ugly?) side of New York in its not so fabulous seventies as in the 1970’s. It’s stark, it’s real and the rainswept streets at night are somehow mesmerizing. 

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013) Coens. Early Sixties New York, much of it in Greenwich Village at the time of the beats, folk music and the emergence of a man named Bob Dylan. It evokes guitars cigarette smoke, and times that were a changing.

Do the Right Thing (1989) Lee. Hot Summer Harlem. It’s one of those films that practically make you sweat just watching it. One of its biggest pluses is seeing a not-often-depicted part of New York, specifically where people of color live.

The Age of Innocence (1993) Scorsese. Again Martin Scorsese helps us explore this amazing city though in this case we’re time traveling to the 1880s seeing New York Edith Wharton style. This is a not fully developed New York but a fascinating one featuring the old money rich and their luxurious abodes.

Sweet Smell of Success (1956) Mackendrick. New York in the 1950s and mostly at night. Night clubs, bars, offices and the streets feature. Men in suits, women in dresses, everyone smoking and drinking cocktails, catching cabs, lying and scheming. The scenery is class, the people, not so much.

My Man Godfrey (1936) La Cava. Depression era New York replete with Hoovervilles and the plush homes of the wealthy. It’s mostly a classy New York with sophisticated banter but the “home” of the forgotten men is not to be forgotten.

Radio Days (1987) Allen. New York during the second world war with the radio always in the background. Middle class homes, nightclubs, gorgeous movie theaters, amusement parks, radio shows, this is a film rich in its period. So much so that it’s hard to believe it wasn’t filmed in the forties.

The Naked City (1948 Dassin. Not a great film but a very good one and excellent as a police procedural. The pursuit of the suspects takes audiences all over late forties NY and in a vivid black and white. Shot on location documentary style. It’s a great way to visit New York in a specific time in the past.

Saturday Night Fever (1977) Badham. Another look at New York in the Seventies but this time it’s mostly Brooklyn and it’s with a disco beat. Saturday Night Fever is a darker film than most people realize and does little to glamorize its world, except perhaps for the discotheque where one can experience night fever.

Others to consider: Annie Hall, Dog Day Afternoon, Requiem for a Dream, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Landlord, The Producers, Birdman, Three Days of the Condor, Mean Streets, The King of Comedy, The Thin Man, The Apartment, Goodfellas, Serpico, The French Connection, Uncut Gems and Midnight Cowboy.

Hail The Hard Day's Choice -- I Look at Three Films I've Recently Watched Though I Don't Review Them

Sophie's Choice

From Friday night to Saturday night I watched three films. They are very different pictures that I had very different reactions to. It turns out that I have something to say about all three of them. None of them are so much reviews not even that much about the films. But I do have some interesting thoughts — if I do say so myself. So let’s find out what’s on my mind.

Sophie’s Choice (1982) Pakula. I’d just finished reading William Styron’s novel upon which the movie is based. This is a tough act to follow. Styron’s novel is one of the greatest in the American canon. True, there is no single agreed upon canon but if there were it would have to be in it. You’re asking for disappointment when you go from a great novel to a movie adaptation. Very few cinematic versions live up to the book. Grapes of Wrath did. A Clockwork Orange did. No Country for Old Men also did. But the list of failures is long. I’ve also been down this road with Sophie’s Choice before having read the book a couple of decades before then watching the movie. So I should have seen this coming. The film clocks in at two-and-a-half hours and still leaves out crucial scenes. The novel allows us to inhabit these characters in a way no film could. It creates the world’s that Sophie lived in and fleshes out characters in a way impossible for a film. As a stand-alone I suppose the movie is okay, but it’s difficult to appreciate if you’ve just read the book. I will say that Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline are perfect as Sophie and Nathan and Streep’s Best Actress Oscar is well-deserved. As long as there are movies being made they will be adapting them from popular books. It gives a movie instant name recognition.I am not of the belief that movies have to be “just like” the book. These are adaptations and books are much more layered, richer and detailed than a movie can accomplish. Pakula and company did a nice enough job with the film (maybe it would have been better as a mini-series) and I’ll wager people who never read the book (really you should) like it well enough. Having immersed myself in Styron’s masterpiece the movie was always going to be a disappointment.

Hail the Conquering Hero (1944) P. Sturges. Feeling depressed, I decided to watch Hail the Conquering Hero. After this latest viewing I've moved it into my top 100 favorite films. It's brilliant. Among his other gifts Preston Sturges was a master at highlighting supporting players as exemplified here. Franklin Pangborn, Raymond Walburn and William Demarest were never better. Pangborn tended to have tiny parts in films (lots of them) but he gets a lot of screen time here and steals scenes. Demarest, as in Miracle of Morgan's Creek, gets a meaty role and makes the most of it. Among its other gifts, this film really captures the feeling of small town America in the war years. I also appreciate that Woodrow (Eddie Bracken) never wavers in wanting the truth to be known. Ella Raines as the love interest and Freddie Steele as her other fiancee, play everything straight and could be considered somewhat bland. However I found them to be a perfect complement to the rest of the cast. I also always like Al Bridge who here played the laconic political boss. The film is funny, poignant and always makes me feel warm. It's also interesting that I'm somehow very far to the left politically and yet I can imagine people on the other end of the political spectrum responding just as I do to the film which is quite an achievement given it’s gentle skewering of small town politics. The ending is especially revealing. The emotional payoff isn't that Woodrow "gets away with it." It's that he tells the truth despite knowing it may cost him everything. Integrity is the film's highest value, and integrity is something people across the political spectrum generally admire, even if they disagree about almost everything else.

A Hard Day's Night Movie ticket

A Hard Day’s Night (1964). I’ve been watching The Beatles’ first film since its Bay Area premiere in August of 1964 when I was a lad of ten (years not months). That’s sixty-two years that I’ve spent with it. The only I’ve been with as long is The Great Escape. I love them both. I love them because they’re great films and I love them because they were there for me when I was a kid and when I was a teen and a young adult and a middle-aged man and now as a doddering old man (Say! Who said I was doddering? Why I oughta sock ‘em one). Watching AHDN last night I mentally traveled back in time (so far that’s the only way you can do it) to when I first saw the movie. I was a month shy of entering the sixth grade. LBJ was president and he was still completing the end of Kennedy’s first term. Vietnam was not a place most people were talking about. Civil Rights legislation was being passed and signed (The White House was for it in those days). The first Super Bowl was years away. The World Series was still being played under the sun. England had yet to win a World Cup and most everyone I knew still had a black and white TV set. The Free Speech Movement on the Cal campus was two months from fruition. The Beatles had changed my life just six months prior with their first appearance on US television — specifically the Ed Sullivan Show. I was making my first attempts at growing my hair out and meeting stiff opposition from my otherwise wonderful father. I was on the verge of developing an interest in the fairer sex, though actually approaching a female with romantic intent was years away. I remember how excited I was to see AHDN. My best friend, Mark Norman, and I had gotten advanced tickets which were large cardboard cut-outs of the Beatles. For some reason I recall that before the movie some slightly older girls sitting a few rows in front of us called us “imps.” I don’t recall why, though knowing us we were probably being obnoxious young boys. It remains the only time in my life that I’ve been called an “imp.” It would be an understatement to say that The Beatles were transformative forces in my life. They were defining. The music alone was enough but adding their style, their charisma, the exposure to something exciting in what had heretofore been for me a somnambulant culture made them forever part of who I am. I’m ever grateful.

Meeting the Beatles, A World of Intoxicating Sensations (A Short Story)

Cordelia and I weren’t sure what to make of a musical phenomenon called The Beatles that our classmates were all atwitter about. Her exposure to music had been through Mr. McKenzie’s classical music collection while I’d been subjected to my parents’ love of bland male crooners who I believed existed to make people somnolent and bored. Peggy and Jim both collected rock and roll .45s which inspired me to do little more than tap my toes. I’d also been exposed to jazz, which I found too frenetic, and folk music which I thought too preachy. The absence of music in my life felt troubling as if I was missing something essential. Maybe The Beatles could fill the void.  Cordelia and I promised one another we’d watch the group's American television debut on February ninth. My family always watched the Ed Sullivan Show, so I didn’t have to engage in negotiations over TV rights as I sometimes did on those rare occasions when there was something I wanted to watch. 

There was talk at dinner about the English rock and rollers. “I want to see what the big deal is. I’ve liked it when I’ve heard them on the radio,” Peggy said. 

“I hear they make a real racket,” Jim added sourly.

“I imagine they’re a passing fad,” mother said as if that were the definitive word on the subject.

When The Beatles were introduced my mother immediately complained about the girls in the audience screaming. “How are they going to hear them sing if they keep screaming? What’s the point?” Jim burst into laughter at the first close of the group. “Look at that hair, they look like monkeys.” I wanted to scream at everyone to shut up but the room grew quiet anyway.

I was mesmerized. I’d never heard anything like The Beatles. Music had never moved me. Rhythm. Percussion. Those fascinating voices. They were interesting, coordinated and made me want to get up and move. I wasn’t listening to music, I was feeling it. It was lifting my — oh-look-what-I-found — soul, and consciousness, to a place I hadn’t known.

Transcendent.

But as if to snap me instantly back into reality, my mother was typically dismissive. “Just a lot of noise, if you ask me. A noisy passing fad. Don’t you think so, dear?” She asked my father.

Dad was loathe to contradict my mother on anything, particularly matters about which he held no strong opinions. “That’s for sure, hon,” he nodded after taking a swig of cognac.

Jim tossed in his unwanted two cents: “Pfft, give me the Everly Brothers or Bobby Vinton any day of the week. At least you can understand what they’re saying.”

“I think they’re kinna cute,” Peggy interjected, “I like their music.”

“Ahh, you’re crazy.” Jim said.

“What about you, David? Did you, my level-headed younger son, like them?” My mother asked.

All I wanted in the world was to hear more and re-live the reverie of their first set. I most definitely didn’t want to share my thoughts with Mom, so hoped it would suffice if I merely said, “yeah, I did.

“You would!” Jim said plunking me on the head with a pillow. He then announced he was going to study for a chemistry test. When he left the room, I felt like leaping for joy.

I sat transfixed during The Beatles’ second set. I’d fallen in love twice within a few months. First with Cordelia, now with The Beatles discovering the magic of two things I’d previously only had a passing familiarity with: girls and music.

When the show ended Peggy announced that she was a fan.

“And you, David, are you a fan as well?” Mother asked.

“Yup,” was the extent of my response as I headed for my bedroom.

“Well, I don’t understand it.”

You wouldn’t, I thought. 

The next day school dragged interminably. All I could think about was The Beatles and seeing Cordelia after school. I worried that perhaps someway, somehow she wouldn’t share my feelings toward these magical musicians. If she didn’t like them, would that do irreparable damage to our relationship?

The school day’s final bell sent me into the fastest sprint I’d ever run. I made the two blocks to Grove Street in less than a minute. Instead of stopping at home first, I continued my mad dash to McKenzie’s, only slowing down when I got within a block, to avoid arriving out of breath. Cordelia’s school got out fifteen minutes earlier than mine so she’d only just arrived. She was still deconstructing her school day with Mr. McKenzie when I walked into the bookstore.

“Goodness, me, did you leave early today?” Mr. McKenzie asked.

“Hi, Mr. McKenzie, hello Cordelia. No, I didn’t stop at home first.”

I joined my friends behind the counter. After a bit of idle chatter Cordelia led me upstairs. She poured us each a glass of apple juice.

“Well? What did you think?” I asked nervously.

“If you mean about The Beatles, I thought they were fantastic!”

Overcome with joy and relief I spontaneously hugged Cordelia.

“You’re wonderful!” I exclaimed.

We immediately went to a downtown record store where we each bought The Beatles’ first album.

Within an hour we were back at Cordelia’s house listening to Meet the Beatles. 

While listening the second time, Cordelia suggested we dance.

“But I’ve never danced before, I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy, silly, the music will tell your body what to do.”

This made no sense to me but, obligingly, I stood.

“Close your eyes and feel the music,” Cordelia suggested.

My hips started swaying, then my arms moved in rhythm to the music. First tentatively then freely, I moved my legs. I opened my eyes. Cordelia’s movements were similar to mine. She smiled at me.

I’d stopped thinking, and was reacting, my body movements in tune with the songs. Finally Cordelia took my hands.

“Let’s try to mix what we’re doing with traditional dancing.”

“I’ve never done any traditional dancing.”

“It’s not going to matter.”

She was right.

The parallel dancing had been great fun, but dancing in coordination with another person — especially Cordelia — created another world of intoxicating sensations. 

I felt free, uninhibited and at a total remove from any cares or concerns. But I also felt as one with another person. More than hand-holding, more than sitting together, more even than our first tentative kisses, dancing with Cordelia, especially to this entrancing music, made me feel connected to her.

We melded together and ascended to the heavens. When we finally separated I had the momentary sensation that half my body had been removed. But more than that I was overcome with the sense that I was well and truly in love. It was excruciating to leave her that day. I walked home still intoxicated by her smell, her looks, her touch and the sound of her voice. I was also buoyed by a new aural sensation: the sound of the Beatles. They’d elevated our love, animating it, giving it tempo and cadence.

I glided into the house unconcerned by Peggy’s surliness, Jim’s arrogance and the great distance that existed between my parents and I.

A Cult Meets at My Gym -- A True Story (No Foolin')

The cult was there again today. They’re at the gym every time I go there. 

There is an Asian man of about fifty years. He’s fit but not muscular. (You don’t have to have bulging muscles to be strong or tough). He’s a regular looking chap, handsome for his age but no one who would stick out in a crowd. 

With him are a group of woman. Sometimes just two, often three, usually four. The man talks and they listen. And let me tell you something, they’re interested. As a veteran teacher I know what a person looks like when they are pretending to be listening and what a person looks like when they really are interested in what a speaker is saying. These women’s eyes are glued to him. They’re leaning forward. There are no yawns. There are also no questions, comments or interruptions of any kind. He holds the floor the entire time.

One of the women appears to be in her late teens, maybe early twenties, another looks closer to forty, the other two look to be anywhere from their mid twenties to mid thirties. I don’t know if this is relevant but three of the four are very attractive. 

The first couple of times I saw them I assumed he was giving them instructions or advice on exercise. But they don’t exercise. They always take  over one of the gym’s five mats that are designated for stretching. But sometimes, like today, he’s at a weight station sitting. No weights are added to the bar, he holds on to it. Either way the women are huddled around, listening.

I’ve walked right by them a few times and have noted that the cult leader sometimes speaks English and sometimes Mandarin. I’ve never picked up more than a word or two so have no idea what he’s going on about.

I’ve seen them in one place for the entire hour and a quarter of my workout. But usually at some point the party breaks up. That means the guru leaves. However the women stick around. With two exceptions I’ve never seen them do anything but stretch and they do little of that. They’re usually sitting on a mat, chatting, looking at their phones and occasionally stretching. I've seen them occupy a mat in such a way for as much as forty-five minutes.

As I said there have been two exceptions. I saw one of them once on a weight machine lifting a very low weight and today I saw one of them on a treadmill. That’s it. That’s the extent of the exercise I’ve seen any of them do besides stretching and working out their ear muscles to listen to der fuhrer. 

So I’m left to wonder: what the hell is going on? They are there every time I go to the gym. This will likely change next week as I go back to work so I’ll be going to the gym in the afternoon rather than morning on weekdays. I’ll probably still see them on weekends. 

What is he talking about for so long that is of such interest? I’ve no clue. There is something very creepy about how they listen to him for so long so often. And what are they doing in the gym? It’s not as though his talks segue into a workout. Why not meet at some ones house? You could have tea and cookies. If it’s a sex cult you’d definitely want to be at a house. Why a gym?

The frustrating thing is that I’ll never know. I can’t very well go up to the women and ask: “just curious, what’s that bloke talking to you about everyday for so long?”

I’d be half afraid to find out.

Anyway, it always gives me a story to tell the missus when I get back from the gym. She’s loves my cult updates.

Can you blame her?

Waging War With Depression, A Powerful Foe

“Because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.”  ― Sylvia Plath from The Bell Jar

The pain is acute today. Depression has been my steady companion for weeks and is of a particularly punishing variety.

I get occasional respites from it like if I’m watching a compelling World Cup match or a movie that I love. A cup of coffee will take me out of it for a bit as will a trip to the gym. But the depression lays in wait — so damn patient. I’ve mostly been able to write through it, but not always. I haven’t always been able to get to the gym either.

There is no specific cause for this depression nor are there non-specific causes. It just is. I’m achingly sad about everything. That’s a terrible place to be. I have my first grandchild arriving in October. I’m looking forward to that. But in depression it doesn’t make me happy. It’s just a thought.

I have a lot of thoughts that are pleasant. They float around. They are powerless against depression. 

My wife does her best. She’s a remarkable woman. Kind and understanding. She looks after me. I couldn’t ask for more from her. But the depression persists. It’s unrelenting. Cruel.

I’m managing to write this. It’s honest. It hurts. It’s all bad. Oh, oh the pain. The seeming uselessness of my being here, trying anything.

No, suicide is not an option. I have walls between me and it. The first wall is my immediate family. The second is extended family. Another is the coming grandchild. Yet another is friends, my rich inner life, films, books, music, my writing. A lot of walls. So at least that awful step is not a concern.

I have to assume that the depression will eventually lose its grip. Brighter days have to be coming. It’s a real struggle to fight this level of despair and to conjure hope. I want to keep this short and I want to end with a message of hope….I’m not finding it. 

I will add that if you’re reading this and you experience depression try to be proactive. Go for a walk. Hit the gym. Meditate. Reach out to people you trust. See a professional. Watch a favorite movie or TV show. Don’t yield to the temptation to give up. There are people out there who would be happy to help. I’ve been reaching out to people and they’ve all responded. It’s helped make this bearable. Do the next thing in front of you, don’t stop. I know this is all comes under the category of “easier said than done” but it’s what you’ve got.  

Depression wants you to give up. Don’t play its game. Fight back with all you’ve got. That’s what I’ve got to try to do now.

I’ve managed to write this and I’m going to get myself to the gym. It’s the next thing to do.