Winter should be a great time to write. For me, winter is also a time for me to be seasonally depressed, so my writing does not flow nicely like pus from a lanced boil. That’s more of how I feel in the winter – like a lanced boil. It doesn’t help that we just had our first snowfall of substance this weekend, and there’s more snow forecasted on the way this week. Gross.
So, I thought I’d force my writing hand by looking for writing contests with deadlines coming up soon. There are plenty, but most seemed to require more effort than I am willing to give. That resolution I made to relaunch my writing career may be more difficult than I thought.
As I walked today, I was reminded of one additional New Year’s resolution I need to make for 2024. I walked past our local elementary school where my wife works. There it was, staring at me in the face again. How can kids learn anything in that school with this sort of topsy-turvy nonsense plastered on the windows?
The Beatles sang something close to that title many years ago. I’m pretty sure that on some New Year’s Day in the past, Ringo resolved to live longer than Keith Richards. So far, so good. Ringo looks great at age 83 (older than Keef!), and I read he credits eating broccoli with every meal as part of his vegan diet. That’s not a bad resolution for me in 2024. I think that will be what I call a soft resolution which means my efforts toward that resolution will be sporadic, random, and uninspired.
But I do have some resolutions that I hope I can stick to throughout 2024 and beyond.
Are you ready for a meandering post with lots of links that will eventually take you all the way to Chicago for a nice surprise? Well, read on then.
When I got in my car yesterday, I was pleased to see sand on the passenger seat. That may not make sense to most folks, but I live for being in and around water. People look at me funny when I tell them that I feel more comfortable being in water than on land. Of course, they normally look at me funny even when I don’t say anything. Science teaches us that our evolutionary ancestors crawled from the oceans. Well, I would like to crawl back.
Anyway, that sand came from a Boxing Day (Dec 26th) kayak excursion. I carry my kayak in my vehicle, so the sand must have come off the bottom of the craft. It was a grey, chilly, wet day, and I loved every moment on the water. Seeing the sand made me smile as I recalled my first kayak of the winter season. Maybe another one later today?
After swimming outdoors in my illegal swimming hole all the way into early October, my plan was to start legally swimming indoors in November. Well, COVID had other plans for me, but I finally made it back to the pool in December. It felt odd after 2+ months off, and I looked a bit ungainly in the water. How do I know I looked ungainly? Well, the lifeguards that were training at the other side of the pool kept coming over to “rescue” me every time I swam a lap. Despite that, I surprised myself and made 0.40 miles. Not bad for my first indoor winter swim.
Now Chicago offers me a unique way to enjoy the water outdoors all winter long.
The one thing I have learned in my short career as a semi-professional writer is that rejection is inevitable. I get a weird feeling before submitting a story anywhere. I know the story will be judged which will make me feel like I am personally being judged, because the story is an extension of me and my alleged mind. It’s a very uncomfortable feeling. I have to force myself to click and submit the story. Then I’m okay, and I wait for the inevitable rejection. Thankfully, I have received an occasional acceptance.
After winning a small award for my first serious crime story in the first half of 2023, I struck out several times in the second half of the year with various short story submittals. Even a local writer’s group was not interested in hearing me recite some of the stories I submitted. I got busy with a new job that I took as a bridge to retirement and my writing has languished, although it has been the right decision financially.
It’s time to relaunch my writing career in 2024. I am ready for more rejection. I came across this humorous poetry contest with a $0 entry fee. That fits my budget perfectly. Now I am certainly not a poet, and I know it. Hmm, on second thought …
Sure, I have written poems in the past. Here’s a link to a winter poem I wrote years ago bemoaning the shortest day of the year on the Winter Solstice through which we just suffered yesterday.
I took advantage of my fear of lack of daylight by staying in yesterday and writing a humorous poem to submit. It is about my OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) keeping me from writing a poem about my OCD keeping me from writing a poem about my OCD, etc. I like it. It was cathartic. It is also one of the weirdest things I have ever written, and I have written some pretty odd stuff in the past. It features nuns. Need I say more? Is it funny enough to be award-winning? Hmm, I guess the decision to reject my poem will be up to the suspected heartless and unbearably cruel judges after I force myself to submit it. And I will submit it. I urge you to write and submit, too. Misery loves company.
It was nothing I worried about … until now. My body temperature has been dropping. The “experts” write that it’s normal.
For the full “scientific” article from Stanford “Medicine,” link HERE. For those of you reading in distant, faraway, backward nations like Wakanda and Atlantis that still use the antiquated Celsius temperature scale, the Stanford “doctor’s” “research” shows the normal body temp has dropped from 37C to 36.6C. Well, welcome to my world.
For a while now, my body temperature has been trending lower. It was not unusual for my temperature to register 97.1F/36.2C. Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice a fever when I had COVID. I may have had a fever for me that was less than whatever “normal” temp is considered today. But when I donated plasma yesterday for a meningitis clinical trial, I did not expect this …
It’s not often that you can see a classic band from the 60s or 70s with more than one original member. A notable exception are The Rolling Stones with original members Keith Richards, Mick Jagger, and Charlie Watts lasting from 1963 through 2021 until Charlie passed away. Add Ronnie Wood in 1975 until now, and that’s a group with history, legacy, legitimacy, and longevity.
So, it was with some excitement that I saw The Tubes from the mid-70s coming to my little hometown theater advertised with 3 original members including wacky frontman Fee Waybill, known for his many wild costume changes during a concert. That’s how their extended tour that appears to have started in 2022 was touted. Sadly, along the way, one of the three original members passed away. Down to 2, but quite a duo, Fee Waybill and Roger Steen, writer of their cheeky song “White Punks on Dope.”
I was all in to see The Tubes. Please note that I didn’t say I bought a ticket. Not many others did either. I was convinced the theater had done a ticket giveaway as they sometimes do to at least get sales of their concessions, and that I had missed the email for the free tix. I went to the box office and mentioned that I heard (from me talking to myself) that they were giving away free tickets to fill seats. Uh, no. But as long as I was there, they gave me a free ticket. I was encouraged to sit anywhere I wanted. Open seats were plentiful.
I arrived just in time to hear “Sushi Girl,” a very 80ish tune and favorite of mine. That was kind of the highlight of the show. For me, it was downhill from there. I don’t want to disparage Fee, Roger, and the other new Tubes band members. They are still out on the road touring and living the rock & roll dream. Good for them. But Fee as the frontman is 73, looks 83, and moves around like he’s 93. It was hard to watch at times. At least he brought his “nurse” to assist him with his costume changes.
Can someone please help The Tubes change the digital graphic projected onto the screen to reflect a 2023 tour rather than 2022. Aren’t digital graphics free?
And about those costumes? At the end of “Wild Women of Wongo,” Fee had stripped down to this.
Well, it didn’t take long for rot to overwhelm the potentially-annually-lovable Pumpkinman from my last post. Shortly after I took the one and only pic of Pumpkinman (at least I have a picture), rot exerted its mighty will and took Pumpkinman down and sent me into mourning yesterday.
I haven’t cried like I did since Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer got hit by a car. I hate it when you can see the bones sticking out. I should have known. Rot is unstoppable. I’m a perfect example. Did you know that each day after a pumpkin is harvested is equal to one human year? That’s a fascinating stat that I just made up.
Maybe next year we’ll have a new Pumpkinman to photograph, love, cherish, and take to swanky events and soirees as my Plus 1. But for now, I can only ponder the inevitable question.
There’s already a plethora of beloved winter holiday characters like Santa Claus, Frosty the Snowman, Krampus, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (drinking problem perhaps?), and the Grinch. But there’s always room for one more to gather around my yule log. Introducing Pumpkinman.
We have no snow on the ground, but I did have rotting pumpkins. What better use than this? And if you are so inclined, make a Pumpkinwoman or non-binary Pumpkinperson.
Pro Tip: Magic marker does now write well on wet, rotting pumpkins. It’s probably for the best. The face I was drawing on the collapsing pumpkin was trending creepy.
As a new holiday tradition, I’ll give you daily updates and pics on how Pumpkinman is doing. Maybe Pumpkinman will get himself involved in all sorts of hilarious antics like the Elf on a Shelf. Perhaps he’ll be smoking a pipe, wearing a jaunty driving cap, growing a carrot nose, or injecting his stick arm with heroin. We’ll see what hilarious mischief he may be up to. Pumpkinman and I wish for you plenty of good holiday cheer and clean needles.
I received an email about an online study for pet owners. I sometimes get an opportunity to do these studies and earn a few bucks if they find me to be a match. I answer a few survey questions and hope they contact me. I clicked on the link they sent, and saw that they found me to be not just a match, but a good match. Sure, I completed the pet survey, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of this other study.
Why am I a good match outside of wanting up to $1000 and an in-home nurse? I guess I could learn how to become incontinent, or I could just wait a few more years. And I don’t think I would mind wearing a monitor with a discreet meter like this.
On Monday, I went to my appointment for a clinical trial regarding meningitis. No, I don’t have meningitis. No, they aren’t giving me meningitis. No, I am not taking a drug for meningitis. They are taking my clean, healthy (2 words not usually associated with me) blood plasma for use in studying how to combat meningitis. You’re welcome, world. Actually, I don’t need your gratitude, because they’re paying me for my pristine blood plasma.
After taking my temperature (normal), blood pressure (122/68), and checking my hemoglobin (super high … is that good?), they asked me about any recent antibiotic use. Well, yes, during my bout with COVID. That disqualified me. I was miffed. Why didn’t they ask me about antibiotic use over the phone when they scheduled me? I was being sent home with all my blood plasma intact.
Then my disposition turned sunny again when I was told that I would still get paid! And I can go back in December to donate and get paid again. At that point, I knew what I need to do. I must get my hands on some antibiotics and take them right before my December visit, so I don’t have to actually donate my plasma but still get paid. Am I a bad guy?
It snowed last night and into this morning. I am glad that we put up holiday decorations yesterday when it was a mild day with some sun. However, after getting this inflated, I am moved to ask a question. Is it traditional for reindeer to wear life preservers at Christmas?
After experiencing the whole hit or miss experience with Christmas lights yesterday, this cartoon gave me a chuckle.
May your holiday decorating go smoothly this year.
I hate to tease a new series of blog posts and never deliver. Well, that’s exactly what I did when I whet your appetite for some bad song lyrics. That little sample I released was oh, so bad. But that was almost 2 months ago! Yeah, this has been a somewhat unsettled year in my life, but this is not a time for excuses. I know you, the readers, need some more bad song lyrics. I am finally ready to deliver.
But not just the printed word. How about an interpretive reading of the lyrics? By the author and lyricist himself … me!
Common reaction actually when someone in the entertainment world like me offers up something unique like this that speaks directly to the hearts of the fans. Here is “Midnight Madness” interpretively read by little old me.
Midnight Madness by James Flanigan
Well, wasn’t that a special treat? But wait! There’s more, oh, so much more.
It was only this past week that I finally tested negative for COVID. I didn’t feel even close to myself until a day or two ago. A lot changed for me during COVID. Besides feeling like a truck hit me each day, everything seemed to be just a bit off. I’m still full of phlegm and must clear my throat hundreds of times per day. That has gotten really awkward. People stop talking as they think I’m trying to interrupt and inject myself into the conversation. I have nothing to say. And my poops? Well, they were just weird during COVID. ‘Nuff said, possibly too much. Just about everything was off.
I will admit that I did not lose my senses of taste and smell during COVID. However, much to my chagrin, it appears that I may have lost my senses of decorum (note poop comment above) and humor (note this blog post). I am especially sad about losing my sense of humor, and have commenced taking steps to regain at least partial use of that sense.
My first step was to go back to my comedic roots. I thought that perhaps I can relearn how to be funny once again. So, I took a trip to my alma mater.
Where would I have picked-up COVID? Sure, my wife and youngest daughter had been sick, but they tested negative for COVID. I hadn’t been anywhere special to the best of my memory, but I am experiencing the famed COVID fog, so I wasn’t 100% sure. As for other COVID symptoms, they are rough, especially for an older guy like me. I’m grateful for genetics, my general good health, and previous COVID vaccinations. Oh, and I don’t want to forget the wonder drugs available to treat COVID symptoms. Neigh, I’m not horsing around and talking about Ivermectin with bleach chasers. I’m referring to wonderful COVID antiviral treatments like Paxlovid which I am currently taking.
Of course, with Paxlovid, you have to take the good with the bad, like side effects such as loss of taste and smell. My wife asked me today if I’ve lost my smell, but no, I haven’t. I smell as bad as usual. Another side effect is a metallic taste, and that I definitely have. I feel like a James Bond villian.
But the mystery gnawed at me like a diseased rat gnawing at a young waif’s leg.
The pantheon of greatest male rock voices which includes such names as Presley, Orbison, Plant, Perry, Daltrey, and Mercury may someday need to make room for Chicago’s own Wes Leavins. Leavins is the lead vocalist for local band Brigitte Calls Me Baby. Take a listen to “Impressively Average” and I think you will hear vocals that are impressively well above average and trending toward outstanding.
I had a great opportunity to see Brigitte Calls Me Baby this week at the Bottom Lounge in Chicago opening for the UK’s The Last Dinner Party. I seem to recall a free ticket giveaway from radio station @93XRT. I declined to enter. I know I could have talked my oldest son into attending the concert with me. Tickets were priced at under $20 each. But I never asked my son or purchased even one ticket. It turns out that those were quite fortuitous decisions.
I have an eye condition. It takes a lot for me to go see a doctor, but I did for this one. I’ve been seeing things in my right eye. Floaters, indistinct shapes, sometimes insurance salesmen. The latter terrifies me. I’m used to hearing things and actually enjoy the conversations I have with the voices in my head. But what am I supposed to do with the visions? See a doctor, I guess.
Well, that turned out to be an unpleasant visit. The supposed retinal specialist poked and prodded my eyes with his fingers and finally declared my retina was not detached after I promised to pay my bill within 30 days. If my retina wasn’t detached before the exam, it may be detached now. I’m supposed to “give it time and hope it clears up.” I was doing that quite well before I paid to see a doctor.
I was most disappointed that I did not get an eye patch. I had a job interview coming up, and I thought an eye patch would help me get the job. Now, what kind of a job would that be?
Jim Flanigan Looks at the World 