I am actually an older parent and here are the signs

Do my kids need anything?
Me, on a good day, I feel like this…

So some people say you are only as old as you feel. If that’s true, I am very old.

Others say you are only as old as you want to be. They say age is a matter of perception.

I perceive cancer surgery scars, gallbladder surgery scars, and tail bone spine surgery scars as some of my battle scars of aging.

Anyway so there are a few signs you may be an older parent of young kids, based on my experience, here are the top six (I’m too tired to think of ten):

1. You have a whole bunch of prescription bottles in your medicine cabinet for various issues, physical and psychological….check

2. Servers in restaurants address your children starting with “Its so nice your gramma and grampa are taking you out today so they can spoil you….you want ice cream for dessert?”

3. It hurts to get out of bed. Physically, bones crack, tendons stretch, and dread encompasses all your thoughts about this new 16 hour day ahead, beginning with “I dont wanna brush my teeth!” and ending with “I dont wanna take a bath” or “I dont wanna go to bed!” and filled with “can I….can I…Why can’t I…..How come you never…..”

4. You hate them sometimes when they are brats, feeding off your exhaustion. You want to just tell them to fend for themselves. You want to eat the last bit of chocolate ice cream in front of them and tell them “Too bad…I am hungry. Eat your vegetables.”

5. Friends ask you why you waited so long to have kids.

6. You ask yourself why you waited so long to have kids.

Well I have lower back pain and I found out why!!!

....on my back, knees first (ouch)
….he gets ready to jump on my back, knees first (ouch)….while I lie on the floor watching “Frozen” (again).

So observe the little boy in the photo, and note his posture…..Now…imagine that jumping on your back REPEATEDLY over a period of 4 and a half years while you are watching “family” movies (ie cartoons)…his knees jab right into my lower back.

See, he means no harm, so I merely absorb the pain, and ask him to stop doing it or he’ll have a timeout. His fear of that lasts only for the evening, as he is back in business jumping all over the place by the very next evening.

Anyway, now that I am no longer addicted to opiates, I am forced to deal with this back pain in my lower back, right hip and right leg…I cant even stand or walk longer than fifteen minutes….

So I guess I have a protruding disc, at L5-L6, and its smashed up against my sciatic nerve. Cortisone didnt help, so I’ll be getting a surgery for it.

If I end up crippled, I am blaming him. And he’ll have to sit around and watch MY movies!


Biofeedback infrared photo reveals I am possessed by an outside entity!!

Who is that trying to get inside me?
Who is that trying to get inside me?



So I am recovering from gallbladder surgery and went to my person who does massage therapy and biofeedback readings off my body.

I hadn’t told her about the gallbladder surgery yet. This point is important because –
– as soon as she hooked me up to the equipment she went:


and then asked me this question:

“Where have you been lately?”

and then I asked:

then she said:
“Cuz it looks like there is an angry entity that has entered your body…”

I said:
“I was at the hospital in the ER then I went to surgery for emergency gallbladder removal. I had stones and stuff.”

She said:
“That makes sense. Sometimes in the ER, when someone dies, especially in a trauma, they are lost and try to regain entrance into another persons body. This spirit is angry, that’s why he is RED.”

Then she showed me the above image….


A peek into my future….30 years from now with my son in a grocery store

when I am older I will be in a custom made steampunk wheelchair like this one.
when I am older I will be in a custom made steampunk wheelchair like this one

Regarding the above pictured steampunk wheelchair….My future-My son Jackson will have to build a back support for it – I have bought it off the streets for $7,789 USD – “Take it or leave it old man” they said to me….
So 39 year old Jackson is wheeling me through the hardwood floor aisles of a local grocery store.
I am in a non battery powered wheelchair cuz I can’t afford it after the medicare, medicaid and social security cuts my country put into effect a few years back, and instead of saving for retirement income, I paid for college for my two boys Jack and Dylan (You’re welcome, I think sometimes when they don’t call me from their computer phone implant devices).
I am 80 years old and incontinent.
It is the year 2041……
In my little cheap used wheelchair, with the wheels that squeak and twist around randomly, occasionally forcing Jack to back me up, and then push me forward again to get me unstuck, just like I used to with those Rainbow Foods grocery carts that they were too cheap to replace.
“They need WD-40, Jack.” I say as he shuffles me back and forth.
“Right, dad.” he says, kind of blowing me off cuz at my age, what value could I possibly add to any conversation?
I am wearing a blue and white hand knit shawl, Jackson and Dylan gave it to me for Christmas, and it has the word “SUPERDAD” on it, but because I am so old and frail, the folds in the blanket only reveal the letters forming the word “SAD” across my chest, a chest that has sagged like pudding in a balloon, reaching for the floor.
We are in the produce section, and I am very cold.
Jack is wiping off the drool from my chin, something I can’t control ever since I went on the liver rejuvenation medication I bought in the back alley of a Chinese neighborhood in East St Paul where I live in an apartment with my wife. The street price for this illegal med is fairly high, but I think the guy gives me a break because my wife does free palm reading for him and he buys into that kind of stuff.
“Can we buy tomatoes?” I ask, as he wheels me past them (to my right – I try to turn to the right with my head to signal my desire for them but it hurts too much).
“Why?” he asks.
“I like how they taste now.” I say. “They actually taste like tomatoes.”
“Thats cuz they’re local, dad.” he says.
He stops my chair, and goes over to grab a bunch, putting them into his cloth bag he brought with to the store.
“Its a good thing they are only fifteen dollars a pound” he says.
“I remember when they were only three…” I say, but my weak voice trails off.
“Well, this isn’t twenty-twelve, dad, and we ain’t going back to your golden age of consumerism.” he scolds me.
Suddenly one of my implant lights on my forehead starts flashing and beeping, the red one, and Jackson stops the wheelchair and leans down in front of me. He checks his phone implant device by tapping the side of his head twice, then seems to be reading something that is in front of him, I guess something displayed in front of his eyes but invisible to me – from an app he has created and named ‘OLD DAD‘, then looks up at me.
“Dad, relax…” he says. “You’re gonna bust that Mexican pig valve. It’s from the black market. You can’t afford another one.”
I look at him; he gets blurry to me sometimes cuz I cant afford glasses and the milky white substance growing over my eyeballs is thicker on some days.
“Okay.” I say, weakly, and look down to the floor. The beeping stops and the red light stops flashing.
Later, he wheels me out to his car, picks me up out of the chair and throws me like a sack of potatoes into the front seat of his little miniature canoe shaped vehicle. He has been lifting weights but that’s okay since I don’t weigh much anymore.
‘Ouch’ I think but do not say, for fear he will get mad at me and then not call me for a while.
“Seven hundred dollars, dad.” he says.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back.” I say, a tear rolling down my cheek.
“It’s okay, dad. You don’t have to.” he says, followed by him blurting out “BEATLES…..ABBEY ROAD……SIDE TWO.”
The music in the car begins with Here Comes The Sun…..
And I remember I have been a good dad, cuz nobody plays the Beatles anymore…not even on XM radio……..only my son….when I am riding with him.
I think he loves me after all.
And the little blue light implant on my forehead lights up…flashing silently.
Life is good.

I’m up all night for some reason and then I start to think about my 8 year old son Jack

So I’m up all night I guess, now, and my brain floats all over the place, thinking about work, the mortgage, the sub prime loan market, and my 8 year old son Jack.

He’s sleeping just fine, and there’s nothing wrong with him.

I just wonder when he’ll cross that line from where there are memories of when things weren’t complicated and into the time when life started to hurt.

I think of a time when all was good in the world. I was about Jacks age. I remember a particular Sunday night, watching the “Wonderful World of Disney” on tv.

They were doing a special feature of the movie 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea starring James Mason as Captain Nemo and Kirk Douglas as some gay sailor guy. I don’t know if he was gay, but he was dressed very Village People. Not that there is anything wrong with it. It just looks –well – gay.

The guys have just got done battling some rubber sea creature. The sailors fighting it in the fake sea water managed to keep their balance in the middle of a howling windstorm on top of a wet submarine (Nautilus) which I believe to be made out of wood. All this saltwater splashing around in their faces and nobody so much as blinks. You don’t have to blink in a movie studio water tank.

I ask my mom if I can have some more pretzels from the blue box of Mr. Salty brand. She gives allocates a few my way, keeping close guard over the box and the bowl of M&M peanuts she has next to her on the couch.

I am in the bean bag chair.

Things were good that night.

I want for Jack to not feel any of the pain I have felt. I want for him to have a guard or a shell up to fight off any of it.

I just don’t want it to be too thick.

I see a lot of me in him. He’s terminally shy, and when people might think he’s being rude, I know he’s just hiding into his own shadow.

That’s how I was..that’s how it was for me.

And when I got older, I started drinking homemade wine because of the buzz I felt doing it, and how it made the pain I felt temporarily go away.

My dad made wine when I was a pre-teenager. He made it out of grapefruit and oranges.

After several weeks he strained the fermented liquids into wine jugs, and the rest is history. Looking back at it now, I’m sure the stuff tasted pretty bad, but I remember my first taste of it.

He had taught me how to siphon the wine out of the mixing pail and into the wine jugs. I then used that advice to siphon just a little bit (About a cup worth) into a Dixie cup.

That first time, I did it when my dad was at work and when my mom was taking a nap.

It was the middle of the afternoon. It used to snow more back then, or so that’s how I remember it anyway. So I was at home on a “snow day” when the schools were closed. I was down in the basement. I downed the whole cup of the wine in a couple of swigs, kind of shaking off the aftertaste and shuddering as it ran down my throat on its way to my bloodstream.

I waited a few seconds, and I felt my stomach flip a little bit, almost like I was ready to upchuck what I had just tasted.I got a quick cold sweat, I felt my arms, face and chest get all wet with cold sweat.

It passed. I took a deep breath.

Then I did it again.

No cold sweat the second time around, but I did get the shudder and the tingling in the back of my head.

I put the siphon hose back behind the jug where I found it, put the cork back into the jug, and inspected the jug. It didn’t look like there was any of the wine missing. For a moment I wondered if my dad would be able to tell.

The family dog Taffy was lying near where the jug was -under the stairs in the basement, and was judging me. Well, maybe not judging me. But she was looking at me like a dog with human emotions, as if she would tell my mom later about what I was doing.

I looked at her and met her judging eyes, and whispered “Don’t you even think about telling mom”

She seemed to sense I was threatening her, and even though I was convinced she didn’t speak English, she kind of felt like she was going to be in trouble over something. She lowered her head, as if dodging a slap, and I knew I got my message across. I had sent my first message. And it had been received.

As I walked away, I turned one last time and gave her a sneer so she knew I meant it, and while she had raised her head back up to watch me walk away, she lowered it again acknowledging I wasn’t pissing around with her. I would kick the hell out of that dog if she told anything to my mom about this.

Then I realized that in fact she was a dog, and couldn’t speak English after all. In fact she couldn’t speak any human languages.

As I began walking up the stairs, the thought of our dog Taffy telling my mom about me sneaking the wine cracked me up and I stopped, held onto the railing, and started giggling for a few minutes.

I turned around and went to under the stairs, kneeling down and looking at Taffy, who, seeing my smile, started hanging her tongue out, panting, wagging her tail (Never again would a female do that when seeing me-animal or human).

“You’re not-“ I started before laughing, “You’re not going to say anything, right?” I asked, laughing.

Taffy started whining, in a kind of happy, needy way. That made me laugh even harder.

“Please, Taffy, please don’t tell mamma” I said, as Taffy came up and started popping her nose into my crotch. It made me laugh even harder.

I lost my balance and fell on the stairs. Taffy started barking. I put a finger up to my lips again, and shushed her.

Taffy wagged harder and started to bark. I shushed her with my finger up against my pursed lips. She got even happier, her tail banging on to the cement floor while she lyed there, admiring me. I started laughing.

“No, don’t” I said to her, almost crying I was laughing so hard. “Please stop…”

Over the next thirty or so years I would, among other things, vomit on myself in public, vomit on a sidewalk, blackout and lose my car, get mugged, show up at work with liquor on my breath from the night before, and call in sick many, many times.

I will never forget my first buzz. And I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.

I hope Jack doesn’t go there.

Part Two: My mom who had ALS and I watched In Search Of UFO’s narrated by Leonard Nimoy, the alien (Spock)

Bigfoot was ending. Then a new In Search Of was beginning. This One was In Search Of UFO’s.

“What else is on?” Mom asked. They didn’t have cable. Her other choices were golf, basketball, and a public television pledge drive.

“Lets watch more bullshit.” She said, taking a swig of Seven Up.

So, onto the UFO’s.

My mom asks me to get her some more pretzels. I offer to bring her the whole box (Mr Salty – blue box) she says with her weak arms its too hard to pull them out of the box and insulated bag lining. Just grab a handful and dump them on the tray, she says. I comply and when I get back and sit down in the light brown chair next to her hospital bed, the urine bag I am now used to, just a little bit, hanging over the side, I notice it is greater than halfway full, and I know my mom doesn’t want to have me drain it and reinsert the catheter.

“Mom, how much pop have you drank?” I ask.

“Why?” she asks.

Then she looks down toward me, her bed is high up relative to the chair.

She glances at the urine bag.

“Oh” she says. “Get me some saltines.”

I comply again and grab a whole wrapped line of saltines for her, the single squares packaged in a long line of about twenty, rip it open, and place the bag next to the pretzels.

The show is starting. In Search Of UFOs.

Mom?” I ask, wondering if I can grab a couple of pretzels off her tray.
She shushes me with her finger on her mouth. “Lets watch stupid farmers get kidnapped by aliens.” She says.

Nimoy is again narrating the opening sequence. The show opens showing the woods, and trees, from aerial vews.

“Is this Bigfoot again?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” She says. “Shhhh!”

The narrator begins by saying something like “They come in the dead of night….in fields or farms or the middle of a forest.”

“Why wouldn’t aliens just land in Washington DC to establish contact?” my mom asks rhetorically, I figure.

“Maybe they don’t want to be noticed, yet.”

“It makes us look stupid, when they kidnap these stupid backwoods people, and tell them they have a cure for ALS – or cancer, or whatever.”

Point taken. She is right.

“Maybe they are waiting around for the right time.” I say.

“Well, if they are trying to take over the world, they probably think we’re stupid, if all they are kidnapping is these stupid people.”

After the opening credits, where they show still photos of the loch ness photo (blurry), Bigfoot still frame from the film (blurry, grainy) Emelia Earhardt, Stonehedge and those Easter Island statues, Nimoy comes on to open the episode.

“Isn’t he an alien?” my mom asks.

“He’s a Vulcan.” I say.

“There’s the proof.” She says. “He looks like an alien, even without his makeup.”

I laugh.

“I saw him in a Western – Gunsmoke or Death Velley. He looked like an alien gunslinger.”

I smile. She shushes me again.

Nimoy speaks perfectly logical, as expected, and talks about all the saucerlike vehicles photographed – again grainy and blurry.

The most compelling part of the episode though was the part where some guy in Wyoming was abducted by aliens. He loved the woods and hunting, and in one October in 1974, he was hunting and a little after 4 o clock this giant guy wearing a white robe showed up – although he too was a blurry figure. This guy, the hunter, blacked out, and when he came to he realized some time had elapsed. I love the reenactments. They show this guy waking up in the woods and looking around. They show his friends finding him and placing him into one of their pickups. He was incoherent. I’ve seen that behavior in Northwestern Wisconsin during hunting season. It’s called being drunk.

Anyway, this guy couldn’t recognize his wife, and he was disoriented for a long period of time. Instead of calling a doctor, he calls a UFO institute.

“Bullshit.” My mom says.

“Why?” I ask.

“He doesn’t go to a hospital for further treatment for an aneurism, or a stroke. His first thoughts are to call a UFO Institute. Maybe that’s what happened to me, I don’t have ALS. I’ve been kidnapped by aliens. I went to the Mayo Clinic instead.”

The UFO Institute sends a shrink to evaluate the people, who are obviously traumatized after being kidnapped by aliens, as I would be.
The shrink puts this hunter guy under hypnosis. The reason being, says the shrink, when aliens kidnap people to study them, they then tell the people they won’t remember anything after this, and then they throw magic alien dust to make the people forget their experience. The shrink says it not only with a straight face, but as if he has this confirmed through some particular research of his own on some alien race. ‘What else would explain these abductees not remembering?” he asks rhetorically.

“Maybe it didn’t happen” my mom answers, rhetorically. “Bullshit.” She says as she takes a couple pretzels and chomps them down.

Under hypnosis the guy starts remembering. A blurry tall guy that looks human, dressed in a white robe, speaking in English, evidently, motions the hunter guy to come with him into his spaceship, which is, of course, a saucer like vehicle. There’s no door to the spaceship. They don’t explain it, but it sounds like he gets beamed into the ship. Remember, the show Star Trek had already aired by then, so its not like it would be far fetched to believe there was such a thing as being beamed up. After all, Nimoy WAS narrating.

The shrink is skeptical. The truth here, the Doctors name is actually Sprinkle. Doctor Sprinkle. That’s a bad sign when the shrink of the UFO Institute thinks you might be lying. This is the guy who put out the magic alien fairy dust memory lost theory. But he confirms through some test that the guy is actually telling the truth.

“Bullshit” my mom says. She starts laughing, and that makes me laugh.

What does that have to do with my middle aged life?

Because I am unclear of the supernatural, I think a lot of nuts are out there keeping a lot of mythology of these things alive. I also think there are sincere people who might have seen or experienced something, so I don’t know. My mom was facing death right in the eye, and when we’d watch these shows I noticed she wanted to believe, as they say in X Files, she wanted to think that miracles were possible, that Aliens found the cure for her disease and would share it with someone who maybe wasn’t some hick out in the woods mixing his Vicodin with a twelve pack.

She grew more disenchanted the more we’d watch that show or shows like it on Sunday afternoons. Pretty soon to her, all the shows were just bullshit, and as she entered her “acceptance” stage of her own death, before ping ponging back to her “anger” stage again, she realized they were nothing more than what they always were – an extension of the Enquirer magazine at the checkouts of all the grocery stores she shopped at.

The Enquirer was her candy, and she always bought one when she went shopping.

She also bought candy, her favorite being M&M’s.