I hope Disney ends him

I live here in Florida, and I'm not being hyperbolic when I point out that Ron DeSantis is a fucking nazi, and I hope Disney sues him and his apparatchiks into oblivion. 

Nothing to see here.  

"In what marks a significant upheaval to the former Reedy Creek Improvement District, over thirty employees have resigned from the Central Florida Tourism Oversight District, the governing entity responsible for Walt Disney World. This mass exodus includes almost half of its senior leadership and follows Florida Governor Ron DeSantis' controversial takeover of the district, raising serious concerns about operational stability and political influence."

Can we all now please stop pretending that the GOP is even remotely interested in governing?  They aren't, and haven't been for at least 60 years. 

These Etsy Listings Don't Write Themselves, Y'lnow

Making stuff is fun! Listing stuff? Not so much.

Have I mentioned that I hate writing Etsy listings? Boring as fuck Tedious, to say the least. The platform itself is easy enough to use, but let’s face it: once I’ve closed a strand and put a clasp on it, I’m done with it. 

The last thing I want to do is cost out whatever I paid for the beads and set an asking price, take a billion pics, write some compelling copy around why this is THE MOST FABULOUS PIECE OF BLING SINCE CLEOPATRA MADE HER ENTRANCE INTO ROME!!!!, describe the length, the material, the postage rate, etc, etc, etc. Etsy makes it as easy as possible, but it’s still a righteous pain in the ass a chore.

Islamic Era "evil eye" beads ~1000 yrs old

Anyway, I have these gorgeous Islamic era blue glass “evil eye” beads (~1200 years old.) Almost all of the blue Islamics can be traced back to the excavation in Djenne, Mali, a major ancient trade route. There they found thousands and thousands of ancient trade beads that had been buried there beneath the Saharan desert for centuries. (I’ll note, a very small one of these beads, with no evil eye marking, is included in the necklace I just finished.) 

The blue Islamics can vary widely in price, anywhere from $5-10 for a small unmarked bead, up to $100 or more (per bead) for larger ones with clear “evil eye” inclusions. The “eyes” on these beads are sometimes painted, and finding painted eyes is exciting because with beads this old, any paint is usually long worn off or covered with the patina of age. More often the “eyes” are inclusions of white glass to the surface of the blue. These beads are over 1200 years old, as noted, from the Islamic era — which is why I call them blue Islamics. 

Managing my inventory kinda sucks, too.

I’ve been holding on to these beauties for awhile, but they’re getting antsy. They want to be in daylight again. They want to be seen. And really, don’t we all?  

Anyway, the shop is a bit of a mess because I've been busy with other things, but we're open for business. I have a lot of new pieces finished (Roman glass, anyone?) and I'll be adding more listings every day.

Please tell me there's a website for this

 

Okay, who did this:

 

So Pence isn't running anymore... pic.twitter.com/PMQp1YHnqt

— Tarquin 🇺🇦 (@Tarquin_Helmet) October 28, 2023

Maybe I'm Just Going In Circles

So, I’m two months into this retirement thing and wondering why I didn’t do this sooner. This is particularly true, given the sorry state of affairs at the former gig. 

Kinda like...

Look, I won’t bore everyone with another in-depth analysis of all the things that were wrong there — we’ve all had shitty jobs before, so I’ll just say that dump was one of the worst professional experiences I’ve ever had in my 40+ years of “profession-ing.”  

That agency was a dumpster fire, doused in gasoline, and dropped into a volcano. I haven’t missed it, or them, one bit. Please note: It’s highly unusual for me to burn my professional bridges. I’m still on good terms with most of my formers, but that particular place can go fuck itself into oblivion. 

Let’s never speak of it again. 

*    *    *

I’m supposed to be writing a book, lulz. Today I’m going with my (ex…? my former…?) my (still, sorta?) “life partner” to Lake Worth Beach to check on the condo he’s renting out. He’s renting it furnished, so he has some small tables and wall art he picked up at thrift stores that he wants to offload. It’s easier with two people, and it’s a beautiful day. I’ll probably get a free lunch out of it somewhere.

It’s strange to remember that I had a history with Lake Worth, long before they renamed it "Lake Worth Beach," long before I'd even moved here twelve years ago.  

I had actually lived here briefly in the summer of 1980, when I fled Michigan (the first time) right after graduating from high school. I knew at that point that I wasn’t ready for college, and also that I wasn’t going to be able to live at home anymore. That summer was my first aborted attempt to flee a situation at home that had become intolerable to everyone. The job I’d gotten didn’t pan out though, and by the end of that summer I was back in Michigan, and back in my parents house. None of us were thrilled with the arrangement, but it would be another full year before I would move to DC, find work, and escape for good.

Lake Worth

It was my intent to never see my family again. I was, happily, wrong about that. I couldn’t have known then that some 40 years later I would be in Florida again, and that this time they would all eventually follow me here. Mom and dad moved here at my urging in 2017; my nephew Zach followed a few years later, after a messy divorce from his first wife. We were a family again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and we were patching things up from the past, we were figuring out how to do this “family” thing better. 

And then Covid happened, and my parents died and I went into rehab, and my 35 year relationship crumbled, and the fucking relentless job nightmare spiraled out of control and, and, and. I’m not overstating it when I say the last three years have been a fucking nightmare. 

Now, two months into retirement, I’m sitting on the smoldering heap of what was my former life and trying to make sense of it all. And I'm back in Lake Worth. Maybe I'm just going in circles.   

But here’s the thing: I’m ready for whatever comes next. I’m ready if

nothing comes next. If I never accomplish another thing in this life, if this is as good as it gets? Okay then. I’ll take it. I’ll finish by quietly stringing beads and writing a shitty blog no one reads. It’s enough to just be left alone for awhile. Like, for the next 30 years.

*    *    *

I'm never gonna finish stringing up all this Roman glass. It's pretty, but my god what was I thinking!? I must have 30 pounds of it sitting on my workbench. I'm reopening the Etsy shop this week, may need to start with a blowout sale. 

Roman glass with Baltic amber
prayer beads

But I'm happy with how they're coming out. I wore one yesterday, a "product field test" to make sure it's balanced, comfortable to wear, that it looks right. 

I'm ready for a break from the Roman glass, though. I have several hanks of raw and cut gemstones that also need to move, so I'll probably be stringing beads until my fingers bleed.  

  

GOP is the party of cowards

 Fucking cowards.

“One of the biggest revelations to me in my conversations with Romney was just how important the threat of political violence was to the psychology of elected Republicans today,” said Coppins, who recalled Romney telling him “story after story about Republican members of Congress, Republican senators, who at various points wanted to vote for impeachment—vote to convict Trump or vote to impeach Trump—and decided not to, not because they thought he was innocent, but because they were afraid for their family’s safety. “They were afraid of what Trump supporters might do to them or to their families.” That “raises a really uncomfortable question,” Coppins said, which is “how long can the American project last if elected officials from one of the major parties are making their political decisions based on fear of physical violence from their constituents?”

They Doth Protest Too Much

Wondering how long it'll be before this little shit gets dragged out of a public toilet for his "wide stance."  

Can I request these dentures with retractable poison-fangs...?

 

Aspirational flossing

Yay me, I got an A+ from my dentist this morning. It's actually pretty easy now that most of my teeth are gone. I’ve been living on soup and mashed potatoes since the Great Denture Disaster of last Wednesday.

I'm weak and emaciated. Shut up all of you. 

Anyway, it turns out the broken temporary didn’t do any permanent damage, and the good news is that the last post is finally setting (I know, sorry, TMI) — but it really is great news, because it means I can have the permanent denture, sorry, apparently we now call it a prosthetic bolted into my head fairly soon. 

Despite the setbacks with the final post, I have not regretted taking this plunge one bit. The team working on me are top notch and I have nothing but good things to say about them. It’s been fairly life changing for me. If your teeth have been a lifelong struggle and you're sick of it, you might want to consider taking this step. It has been a godsend to me. 

Some people reach a certain point in life and decide to get a face lift. Some people get new boobs. What’d I get? I got new fangs, baby.  

Post any questions in comments, I'll answer. 

Feeling Zenfully Badass

Walking out of tai chi, I always feel a bit like David Caradine in those Kung Fu reruns. I loved that show as a kid, it was one of the factors that drove me to start taekwondo in the 8th grade. Him and Billy Jack. I loved those guys, the way they kicked ass in a state of complete serenity and stillness. 

They weren't like the bullies at school They were calm, they were the still waters that ran deep. Calm, cool, and zenfully badass.  

Ommmmmmmmmmm, pow, backspin, kick, boom! Like dancing, except now nobody had the balls to tease you about it.  

I went on to get my black belt, and by my sophomore year in high school I was competing in some of the regional tournaments. There were a few trophies. And then, just like that, I walked away from it. 

See, I was never really in it for the sport. I'm not a sporty a guy, generally speaking, never have been. No, I went into martial arts because I was small for my age and I got pushed around a bit. I stayed with taekwondo long enough to feel confident that I wasn't going to pushed around anymore. I got the belt as a way of saying to the bullies, "Bring it, pal. Ain't afraid of you."

And I wasn't. 

Anyway, by the time I might have been interested in giving it another go, the joints weren't up for it. I started thinking about tai chi about then, and it's only now I'm finally doing it. 

(I probably shouldn't revisit this salacious bit of trivia, but <shrug-emoji> oops. Yes, I was crushed and disillusioned, but it made me realize that Kwai Chang Caine was more complicated than he let on.)

Point being, that it was these portrayals that made me realize I could fight back, even if I wasn't like the other boys.  

Am I A Narcissist? - part 4,267

 

Look, we can't all be narcissists okay? It takes the fun out of it. 

Fine, so I happen to be writing this dumb blog about... well, me. Doesn't make me a fucking narssy is all I'm sayin.   

These beads could kill someone.

 I've been stringing up the Roman Glass. I'm liking how the collection is coming together, and I'll have the Etsy shop back up and running again soon. 

I really love the look of these longer tubes, but some of these edges are gonna draw blood if we aren't careful. 

I might have to light-touch the Dremel to a couple of these.  The last thing I need is one of my buyers to bleed out the first time they wear my stuff. 

What can I say? I should probably issue warning labels and learners' permits. My jewelry isn't for the timid. 

I'm okay, you're okay? That can't be right.

It turns out I rather like drifting through my days. I have enough places to be that I don’t feel isolated, and while there’s some structure and routine built into it, I don’t feel like a slave to the calendar. 

There are no hard deadlines, no deliverables pending, no one else’s job hanging in the balance. The universe is not depending on my participation. The world continues to spin without me, and I find this comforting. It will be okay if all I do today is my tai chi and my beads and some writing. It’s okay if the only thing I do today is putter around the house and ponder my dinner options. It’s okay if I want a nap. 

Maybe it’s retirement, or maybe therapy is finally paying off and I’m actually making progress on this whole “recovery” thing, or maybe I’m just older and wiser. Whatever the case, it turns out that I am suddenly, inexplicably, somehow okay. More than okay, things are going exceptionally well. I’m not stressed. I’m not pacing the house at 3AM with panic attacks. I’m not having cravings for booze. I’m not pissed off all the time. There are moments when I’m actually happy. 

For the first time in a long time -- maybe ever -- I feel okay. Better than that: I feel good. I feel stable. There must be some mistake. No deep regrets for my life choices? No existential dread? This can’t possibly be right. Can it? 

 

I will write this damn book if it kills us all.

 It occurred to me this morning that the real reason I’m writing His Dumb Blog is simply as an exercise in writing every day. Finding something interesting or meaningful or entertaining to say, and writing it for public consumption. 

Most of it is drivel, and thankfully almost no one reads it (but hey, thanks of reading!) It’s okay. I’m really just trying to find a way in to the real story, trying to find the right voice, trying to train the brain muscle not just to write every day (I’ve always done that) but to write for actual readers. 

I will write this book. It's okay if no one reads it.

 

 

I'm a great squatter.

 

This morning I’m heading off to tai chi, and for once I’m not even dreading it. This is progress. It isn’t that the moves are difficult (some of them are) or that I’m physically exhausted by it (sometimes I am) — no, those aren’t the things that compel me to sit in my car for 10 minutes rallying the courage to go in. It’s the fact that all of them have known each other for years, they have a vibe, a clique, a thing. They’re friendly enough, but they’re a tightly knit group and I’m still the new guy. Still under probation. 

All of this is in my head, of course. They've been nothing but gracious, helpful, friendly. Social anxiety sucks, y’all. Why am I like this? 

One cool thing happened last week. There’s this balance exercise where you place your nose against a wall, and also your hands outstretched and touching the wall, your knees and toes. Then you slowly lower in a squat, keeping all the touchpoints with the wall as you go. It’s not easy.

 Anyway, everyone took a turn and as the new guy I figured I’d at least be entertaining in my attempts. But an odd thing happened, I started the exercise and suddenly the room went quiet and then someone whistled and someone else said, “Wow!” and I realized I was almost in a full squat and was still touching the wall. 

Apparently I’m a savant at this one thing. Okay, fine, it’s not much but it’s something!

  

The Word of The Day is "Dysthymic"

Do you know what "Dysthymic" is? Dysthymia, for those of you too lazy to click through (not judging), is basically persistent low-level depression: 

"Dysthymic disorder is a smoldering mood disturbance characterized by a long duration (at least two years in adults) as well as transient periods of normal mood. The disorder is fairly common in the US general population (3–6%) as well as in primary care (7%) and mental health settings (up to one-third of psychiatric outpatients)."

That's me, baby: Smoldering! 

Look, I'm no psychiatrist,   and also not a doctor, nor any kind of trained therapist, nor health worker of any kind and am not qualified to make any diagnoses of anyone, including and most significantly to myself    but this hasn't stopped me from determining with complete and utter certainty that I, myself, am "dysthymic." 

There, you see? It's not so bad. There's a name for it. It's a thing, a whatchamacallit, a diagnosis. Dr. Dumbblog has spoken, no second opinion needed. 

Dysthymic, in my case, is meeting a friend for lunch on a perfectly lovely day at a charming little cafe, and then sitting outside in my car for ten minutes rearranging my RBF into it's "Happy to see you" template. 

(Mini-Rant: I'm not sure why I bother with this, since no one actually uses their face anymore. Happy? Sad? Surprised? In this age of Botox and Ozempic it can be hard to tell the difference. Faces these days don't so much change expression, as they do shape.) 

Anyway, there are theories about the causes and treatments and signs of, etcetera and etcetera, but tbh I've never thought of myself as "depressed." Just a tad more... cynical realistic than the rest of y'all. Doesn't mean I'm depressed. 

 Of course not, says Dr. Dumbblog. 

Look, maybe it's this crazy world we live in, but I have fewer urges to leave my house these days. Is that agoraphobia? Paranaia? Or simple pragmatism? 

Yes, yes and yes, concurs Dr. Dumbblog. 

Is it my attachment disorder that makes me ghost people, or my social anxiety? Is it my ADHD that prevents me from taking an active interest in other peoples lives, or simple narcissism?  

Maybe it's time to just admit that I've been through some things these last three years and I feel bruised and I really just want to find my safe space and write it all down and rest for awhile. 

Anyway, it was actually great seeing my friend and we had a perfectly lovely lunch. 

It's Just Lunch.

It’s taken a bit of time, but I’ve gradually begun accepting the fact that A) I’m unemployed; B) This is somehow okay; C) It’s permanent. I’m not “on vacation.” The phone is not going to start ringing. There are no emails to answer, no urgent fires to put out. No one is depending on me to keep the machinery running. 

It’s glorious, don’t get me wrong. But it still feels vaguely illicit, like skipping class. I can still hear my sophomore English teacher from high school when I was loitering in the halls: “Mr. Dumbblog, isn’t there someplace you should be right now…?” 

Well… no, actually. There isn’t anywhere I should be at the moment, and I'm not sure what that says. It feels wrong.  

It’s why I decided to get past my issues with AA and start going to in-person meetings again (and, in a move not like me at all, signed up for their potluck picnic next Saturday.) It’s why I started Tai Chi. It’s why I suddenly signed up for piano lessons.

Look, I’m a life-long workin stiff, I’ve always had a place to go, a thing to do, people to annoy. My jobs have always filled that need, which I suppose is why it feels odd to now invent reasons to go out, to (for example) make a social destination of “lunch.” Lunch with others was always an extension of a staff meeting that went long. It feels oddly deliberate, even pushy, inviting someone to lunch for… what? Social reasons? 

It seems so… needy. 

* * *

It’s fair to say that Covid taught me many things — how murderously fucking idiotic our political discourse has become, for one thing — but it also taught me something else: That I need people. 

Until Covid, I had never needed people. I saw more than enough people in the course of a normal day, and when the announcement came that everyone was being sent home indefinitely, there was none happier than me. 

The prospect of not having to press the flesh, so to speak, came as a huge relief to me. No longer would I have to endure listening to a boring recap of your weekend. Nevermore would I need to smell your lunch cooking in the communal microwave. I was free from all of that, free of the commuting and traffic, free of the hustle and bustle. 

Free of you. 

But a funny thing happened on the way to quarantine; after about the third or fourth month, as people started to realize this shit wasn’t funny anymore, right about when both of my parents died from it, and as my relationship began to crumble and the job was going down the crapper and the walls of my former life began to cave in around me -- it was right about then I realized something: 

I need people. God damn me, but for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I need you people. Maybe not all of you, there isn't room. But you, you and you? We should stay in touch. 

* * *

This afternoon I’m having lunch with a relatively new friend. I can think of no more compelling reason to meet her for lunch than the joy of having lunch on a lovely afternoon, and because she thought to ask me. 

And also because, goddammit I can. My days are free at the moment. Who knows? Maybe we'll cut class and go to a matinee.      

  

Tending my garden as the world burns

Is anyone in charge anymore? Every morning I peruse the news and am left wondering how our species manages to cling to this planet for one more day.  War in Gaza. War in Ukraine. War everywhere it seems, including here at home. 

That several lawmakers, their spouses and their families have now received death threats from Gym Jordan's goons should come as no surprise. The GOP has no platform to speak of, other than "destroy anyone who doesn't look like me." Intimidation and threats are the only tool they have left, and they've known it for a long time. 

And they aren't just idle threats. This has gotten relatively little attention, but does anyone really think this was some random drive-by shooting? Of course not. He was a judge. This was a hit, a revenge killing. 

I'm sure we can work this out.

And why not? This very behavior is being modeled by the top echelons of the GOP without consequence. Apparently this is how things get done now: Not by elections, not by votes, not through norms and traditions and yes, laws aimed at assuring a peaceful transfer of power, but through intimidation and threats of violence that seem increasingly credible. 

It's a jungle out there, is all I'm sayin. By time I finish reading the Internets, I'm afraid to leave my house. 

*    *    *

All of which has me wondering: Is it okay to simply tend my own garden as the world burns? In a world gone increasingly mad, is it okay hunker down in my gated community with its manicured lawns, it's clubhouse and its pool, with its illusions of safety? 

My concrete bunker is covered in ivy! 

Is it enough to simply go about my business, intending harm to none? Do I have to carry the burden of man's inhumanity to man?  Am I shallow for just wanting to sit here and string my beads and go to my AA meeting and practice my tai chi? Is it okay if I just heal for awhile?

Or is "feeling safe," however naive that is, simply the last bastion of white privilege? These gates at my village, these pretty walls around my garden -- how solid are they, really? 

*    *    *

I decided to excavate my closet yesterday. It's one of those projects one plans to get to "someday," at some magical point when "I have some time." Through a strange confluence of events, that moment has now arrived. 

This space isn't a closet so much as an archeoligical dig. There are things in there that haven't seen the light of day for centuries. The last time I tried this I found a Sony Walkman from ~1988 with a long forgotten Wilson Phillips CD in it. 

Good god, I was listening to Wilson Phillips? Look, times were tough, I did a lot of things I'm not proud of. 

Kinda like...