Discipline

My idea of discipline is eating one peanut butter sandwich for lunch instead of three. Having one whiskey in the evening instead of four. If I can eat less than 3000 calories a day, I’m disciplined. If I can hold my daily potato chip consumption to half a bag, I’m disciplined. If I write a page a week, I’m disciplined. In other words, I have no discipline whatsoever—never have, never will. Yet I have this dream of living a life in which my foibles, my weaknesses, my perfect inability to control my impulses, give way to a new man: A Man Principled in the Art of Denial. A man so self-regulating that he can go a week on a slice of Velveeta and a Perrier. A man who shuns the carnal in favor of protracted sessions with the Koran, ignores the pangs of alcoholism for a cold glass of jus d'orange. A man who favors a gloveless ascent of the Eiger to eating a quart of Ben and Jerry’s during the two-hour finale of The Bachelorette. This is the man I seek to be: the man for whom self-denial is a way of life and self-discipline the road to salvation. I'll get started on this new program any day now. As soon as I get a little discipline.

Tiny brain case

Of course, there is in this world a vast creative human intelligence that cannot be underestimated. Cynicism is always the order of the day in human affairs, but beyond its overwhelming pessimism a pure intelligence burns: the primordial fire. The fire of consciousness imagines the best and worst, the entire universe embryonically seething within this tiny brain case, endlessly conjuring.

Well, kids, Chuck's back

Yes, it's been many moons since you all had your Chuckfix, but it's time to get the ball rolling again. I've had an epiphany of sorts--at the ripe young age of 64 (yep, I climb aboard the Medicare train next month--if there still is Medicare--the oink-oink Republicans may have wrapped it up tight and shipped it off to Bolivia by then). Epiphany: a sudden revelation or insight. It pops out of the blue and cracks your head open egg-like, shakes up your juices, your long-held beliefs, grinds down your rude protuberances, pricks your prides and prods your prejudices. In a few well documented cases your epi-fanny leads you to greener pastures, to near-Nirvanic ecstasies, to whiter sheets and perfumed pillow cases. Anyway, my epi-fanny was that I wasn't gettin' no younger, time's a wastin and I just might kick the proverbial bucket any day now, what with all my bad habits like drinking, eating, reading too much fiction and being a captive of the New York Times. Then too I been watching American Idol and Big Losers all winter and the more I watch, the fatter I get. I got on the scale at the doc's office the other day and when I saw my weight I about broke out into sniffles. The had to give me lydocaine intravenously and winch me off the floor into a meat wagon. As I collapsed on the deck my doctor decided to check my prostate, but he couldn't find it. "Your ass is too damn big," he said. "It's like searching for a nickle in a dough ball." And he's a friend of mine. So you can see why I want to get a few projects underway before I buy the ranch, as it were.

So here are some of my plans:
1. I'm going to build a funny little house up in the Maine woods near the lakes and mountains and ski slopes for all to enjoy. This funny little house will sit right on the site of the extant and notorious Nest Among the Hills. Hopefully people will visit from miles around to touch and be touched by the natural world. I'll post the design asap.

2. I'm going down to Cuba to see if I can set up a language program for American students. I want them kids to mix with them Cubans and vice versa and come up all smiles after 50 years of political bullshittin between two obstinate political philosophies. Smile, love, embrace, exchange body fluids. This is my dream. Bring together the white skins and the black skins, Make lovely brown skins, Throw in a bunch of indigenous folks for good measure. Make the bronze skins. It's called the Cuba Connection. You can read about it right here. And even more here. Take your time; it ain't gonna happen overnight. Just know that I'm working on it and I will be asking for your assistance and monetary support at some not too distant future date. Feel free to refuse. It'll happen anyway.

3. I am opening a small carpentry business to supply composting devices to the world. Composting is the next green wave for mankind and we'll soon learn that recycling our egg shells and banana skins is the key to a self-sustaining life on earth, a valuable contribution each and every human soul can make to our posterity. My compost boxes are made of fully bio-degradable materials and as they reach the end of their useful life, can be recycled and composted themselves. Here's a picture of my three models--the 24-inch Minch, for the small kitchen garden; the 28-inch George, for the backyard veggie plot, and the 5-stacker 32x32 Grandon for the orchard, the Pecan patch, or--yes, you equine entrepreneurs--for the horse barn. Write to me for more info and photos. I will also include my famous composting instructionals: The Simpson System: Composting for Peace, Hope and Aristophanes, in full color, with magnificent illustrations: charlesrsimpson@gmail.com

4. I am outfitting my newly rebuilt 2002 Toyota Tacoma for extended travel to all parts of the contiguous universe. Toyota completely rebuilt my truck after it was determined that the frame had turned to cheese and another salt-strewn winter would render it gutter bound forever. So the kind folks at Toyota spent 11,000 bucks to restore my ride to its original cherry condition. I am the envy of the pedestrian hordes now, but with gas tickling 5 bucks, I'm a little reluctant to drive to the Yucatan; in fact, I'm a little reluctant to drive to the corner. But I have it fully outfitted with two cases of skittles, a map, Kristofferson's greatest hits CD, and a large jar of 1 mg lorazepams for those lonely nights in the Mojave when sleep don't come easy.

5. I'm writing a novel, perhaps the great American one, in invisible ink. In fact I'm writing it with tap water. This of course means it will be forever unreadable, even by yours truly. 500-plus pages of artistic genius, deep human insights, a plot that shakes your snake, and a metaphysical theme rivaling Leviticus. I'm writing it with my right hand so as to fuel my deliberative powers, thereby making each page a unique and breathtaking experience unto itself. There has never been a book like this one, and there will never be another. Need it, read it, heed it, bleed it. In better bookstores soon. Sorry, can't tell you the name. It's invisible.

6. I'm rekindling my lost love of photography. As many of you who followed my meteoric photographic career will attest, my images had the capacity to move souls. I heard you moan in anguish when I put my camera down and took up puppeteering last year. Well, I'm here to tell you that I'm back shooting the light with a vengeance. Just lookie here:

So let it not be said that I am not pursuing my passion with a passion, which is what all us Medicare Boom Booms are supposed to be doing as we suck up what's left of social security, hoard our gigantic pension funds, and await the crack of the back and the slash of the lash. Mazel tov.