A lot of things have happened
Since the last time we spoke
Some of them are funny
Some of ’em ain’t no joke
And I trust you will forgive me
If I lay it on the line
I always thought you were a friend of mine

"My Thanksgiving"
Don Henley

Two days after I got back from Portillo a Mercedes cut me off.

Oh, I wasn’t in my Saab, I was on the sidewalk, and in California pedestrians have the right of way, indubitably!

And standing there, contemplating the entitlement of this Brentwood housewife, I thought of the e-mail I got from a woman I don’t know calling me a pig.  And from there, I remembered how Al Perlman referred to my father’s Mercedes-Benz in the same fashion.  A decade before he saw the light and purchased his own automobile from Stuttgart.

Around the turn of the century, Al Perlman keeled over and died outside an elevator in a hotel in New York City.  My father predeceased him.  Their petty jealousies, their camaraderie, they’re history, the only people who remember are those who knew them.

And after the car passed, on this early September day, when the light was suddenly not as intense as it had been before I’d gone to Chile, I realized that in the not too distant future I wasn’t going to be here either.

Speaking of people no longer with us, my friend Ronnie Gashin succumbed to colitis.  But when his whole life was in front of him, in the late sixties, at Woody’s Cracker Barrel ski shop in South Londonderry, Vermont, my dad imparted some of his philosophy.  Saying that since he’d turned fifty, he no longer worried what anybody else thought.

Ronnie didn’t tell me this story until years later, when fifty seemed ancient.

But I’m over fifty now.  Should I care that some woman whom I’ve never met believes that by usage of the vernacular I’m a pig?

I don’t think so.

We all need something to look forward to, to keep us putting one foot in front of the other, to keep us going.  For me that was Portillo.  Doctor appointments, items that needed to be repaired, they were all delayed until after my trip.  But now my trip is over.

I expected it to be a ski vacation.  I wasn’t prepared for a life-changing experience.

Every day I live in the intellectual world, one of information and analysis.  Whereas skiing is a sensual activity.  It’s something you feel, not something you think about.  And it made me wonder.  Did I have the balance wrong?  With the time remaining, my sunset years, what do I want to do?

I get a choice.  I no longer need to worry what about my father’s plans for me, he’s gone.  And, my mother won’t be here forever.  I’m entitled to steer, but too often, I give up the wheel.

Portillo is a flattened society.  Although it costs a good amount to get there, once you arrive, everybody’s equal.  There’s only one hotel, one dining room.  No table is better than another.  There’s just one class of people.  And with no trappings to fall back upon, to hide behind, people open up.  All they’ve got to individualize themselves is their personalities.

I go to a meeting and some guy who’s looking to upgrade his life tells me about his new project, as I steal a glance at my watch and wonder how long I have to listen until I can leave.

Katie Couric is hyped as the icon of news even though her reporting skills are almost nonexistent.

It’s a land of haves and have nots.  I don’t want to play the game.  Yet you have to if you want.  And I want.

I want to not worry about the bills.  I want to have flexibility, to take off skiing when it dumps, and not be bankrupted by an unfortunate turn of events.

I want recognition.  I want everybody who’s ever given me shit to take me seriously.  I want all those trying to win through intimidation to be worried about what I say.  I want the tables turned, I want the playing field leveled.  As retribution for a lifetime of being fucked with.

In an unjust society, I want justice.

But in a country where the President lies and the corporations write the rules is justice a possibility?  Is one man powerless against the game?  Is the game even what it’s about?

Part of me wants to retreat, take a left turn.  Enjoy the good life.

But I haven’t earned the good life.

But at some point my life will be over, and what difference will it make.

So I keep writing.  The lousy salesman who just figures if I do something good enough, results will appear.  Even though there’s no plan.  But I never believed in plans.  As evidenced by my lack of offspring.  I figured you had forever.  I now realize you don’t.

Sometimes I feel like I’m on the pulse.

Other times I believe I’ve got no idea, like after the 2004 election.

Reward comes from being a member of the group.  But, like George Carlin, I’m suspicious of groups.  They end up wearing funny hats and making somebody the scapegoat.  And like I’ve said above, I’ve gotten enough shit in my life, I’ve got sympathy for the downtrodden.

I’ve got to go to the east coast in a couple of weeks to celebrate my mother’s eightieth birthday.  Thereafter, it’s off to Manchester, to attend Tony Wilson’s In The City.

Then it’s December and it’s Aspen.  And Vail.

I know I’ll get reoriented, back in the groove.  We’ve got no other choice.  But I’ve gotten a wake-up call.  Nobody has the answers, everybody gets to choose.  It’s a great responsibility.  The sands of time do run out.  What have I made of my life, what do I want to do with the time remaining.