“Are any of the tickets for a person 60 or older?”

The words made their way from the lips of the lady behind the ticket counter into my slightly hard-of-hearing ears.

I hesitated to answer.

Of course, I knew the answer, but I think I was shocked at being asked.

After a few seconds, I said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. Two of us are.”

And voila, my first senior discount transaction was complete.

It happened at a Showcase Cinema in Seekonk, Massachusetts, for the movie Dumb Money (which I highly recommend).

For me, it was the first time being asked publicly about my age — it was a bit trippy – and so, for a few seconds, I was a little foggy on how to respond – because, in that instance, I was forced to reconcile that regardless of how I feel or how I envision myself, in the objective eyes of others, I’m old.

I don’t see a senior discount when I look at myself in the mirror.

I don’t hear senior discount when I pump up the volume of my 90’s gunge playlist and dance around the kitchen to Nirvana and Everclear.

I guess that’s why I hesitated when asked the question.

Now I’m wondering – with my first senior discount under my belt, will I start to feel my age? 

Will I begin to understand the feeling pulsing through my veins when Smells Like Teen Spirit blasts through my headphones is a hoax – a mindfuck?

Is asking about senior discounts just around the corner for me?

God, I hope not.

But one thing is certain: aging is like the Borg; resistance is futile.

Working From Home and the Reflexive “Fuck You!” From a Sixty-Year-Old Man

So, I have noticed this about myself lately.

I’ll randomly blurt out “fuck you” throughout the day, at nothing in particular.

Like a hiccup, my “fuck yous” arrive without warning.

Most of the time, they happen when I’m alone, but not always, as my wife can attest.

I might be walking from the kitchen to the living room when BAM! – a sharp and sincerely felt “fuck you” burst from my lips.

Sometimes the “fuck yous” happen when driving alone in my car.

These car “fuck yous” aren’t preceded by a driver cutting me off or failing to use a turn signal (e.g., the standard “fuck you” driving scenarios). No, instead, it’s just me driving in peace and quiet when out of nowhere comes a terse and curt “fuck you!”

I’m not afflicted by a sudden onset of Tourette Syndrome, but something’s definitely going on with me. So, I’ve been trying to self-diagnose.

The first step in diagnosing Random Fuck You Syndrome (it’s what I’m calling this) is identifying life changes that might be contributing factors.

 Change 1: Being Alone

One thing that’s changed for me is the number of hours I spend alone.

I’ve worked from home for more than 20 years — but recently, working from home has transitioned to working from home alone.

For most of my career, there’s always been another human in the house (for at least part of my workday). But this past year, our younger son moved out, and my wife, who leaves for work at 4:15 in the morning, goes to her mom’s house after work to visit and help with chores.

We have a dog who keeps me company throughout the day, but she’s deaf and, consequently, quiet as a mouse.

So, the number of hours I spend alone during the workday has increased significantly. For long periods, it’s just me, my laptop, the refrigerator’s hum, and my deaf dog snoring.

Being alone is not the sole cause of Randon Fuck You Syndrome, but I think it contributes to it.

Change 2: My TV and Phone 

When you work from home alone, your smartphone and television become closer companions to you than they used to be.

I turn my TV on shortly after waking up and listen to the news while going about my morning routine of putting on a pot of coffee, feeding, petting, and talking to my dog (yes, I know she can’t hear me), making the bed, and emptying the dishwasher.

When I’m not absorbing content from work, I’m absorbing it from my smartphone and television. Throughout the day, I’m receiving input constantly – All that input gets stacked in the recesses of my mind, where it sits for hours, without interruption from healthy interactions and conversations with other human beings.

Change 3: Our Turbulent World and the Nature of Content

When the world is a mess, as ours is, having access to information is a double-edged sword. You stay informed, but you worry – a lot.

We have constant access to information about the war in Ukraine, the rise of fascism at home, the climate crisis, inflation, and the looming influence of AI, all contribute to an overwhelming feeling of uncertainty and anxiety.

On top of the pile of the undeniable mess sits a fairly new development (in terms of consequence): the demise of critical thinking and American’s willingness to relinquish their mental and intellectual autonomy to fantastical conspiracy theories and a known crook whose vision for America rests on retribution, revenge, and fascist-ideologies.

I can’t tell you how many interviews I’ve seen recently of Qanon followers who believe JFK is still alive, JFK junior faked his own death, and Donald Trump is a Christ-like figure divinely sent to save America from a cannibalistic cabal of elites.

Donald Trump, (a man credibly charged with stealing top-secret documents, directing a collaborative effort to overturn a free and fair election (and strong-arming state officials to do the same) said, “Don’t believe what you see or hear, believe what I tell you.” And millions of Americans are doing just that.

I stew at the knowledge that these people get a seat at the table and have a say in selecting the next president – that their vote counts the same as the vote from rational individuals who use critical thinking to guide their decisions.

This is a significant change, not just for me (a guy working at home alone), but for our country.

Change 4: Work Burnout 

At sixty, what’s required of me at work and where I am philosophically have diverged irreconcilably.

I feel it in my bones and gut every morning I wake up.

There’s a nagging sense of entitlement that at this phase of life, I’ve earned the right to slow down, take my foot off the gas, and smell the roses.

I romanticize about a job that doesn’t follow me home every night. A job that ends when the day ends and doesn’t occupy my mind ceaselessly.

When I look at my workstation, I stress out about the amount of work I have to complete – work that no longer interests me – and the mental energy required to barely push through it.

That agitates the shit out of me.

So, these four changes – an increase in the amount of time being alone, unfettered access to information, the shit-state of our world and America’s growing population of unthinking Trump supporters, and job burnout – are contributing factors to the “Fuck Yous!” building inside my head and Random Fuck You Syndrome (RFYS).

At this phase of life, I have both no fucks to give, yet I’m full of “fuck yous” – it’s a strange dichotomy. 

As I see it, the cure is retirement (a year or two off) and voting the current Trump culture into oblivion.

After that, I’ll regain control of my “fuck yous.” Until then, Random Fuck Yous will reign.

Clowns at the Shit-Show

Today’s GOP

creates farce out of folly

under the sway

of the Orange Svengali


Awake to the woke

in love with sedition

blind to the broke

with no sense of contrition

a party of grievance

feckless and loud

swearing allegiance

to the vain and the proud


Gaetz in the Doorway

he covets that gavel

winking at young girls

as Kevin unravels


A chamber of stooges

a congress of cowards

Mitt-less and witless

like Moe and Shemp Howard


No mouths were gaping

at Beetlejuice Bimbo

hand jobs and vaping

through a national window

Gym Jordan’s a fool

like we’ve never seen

until we lay eyes

on one Majorie Greene

Then there’s the likes

of Tuberville Tommy

fucks with Core

like a one-man tsunami

In today’s GOP

there’s never too far

they’re crossing the line

to lower the bar

A Quantity of Quality

It’s been nearly six years (October 2, 2017) since Tom Petty died.

A few months before his passing, my son and I drove from Rhode Island to Philadelphia to catch Tom and the Heartbreakers on the final leg of their 40th Anniversary Tour.

On our way down to the show, we listened to every Heartbreakers album in sequence, amazed at the quantity of quality the band produced over their 40 years.

When Tom made his way to the microphone that night in front of a packed Wells Fargo arena — he seemed a little unsteady. His voice was thin and shaky when he addressed the audience, and I wondered if time had finally caught up to the rock icon.

That show was my sixth Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers concert. Like the previous five, I walked out of the arena blissfully. At 66 years old and on a fractured hip, Tom Petty remained true to his craft and the spirit of rock and roll. He and the band were brilliant.

For over 40 years, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers never cheated their audience with half-hearted performances or sub-par albums. They loved what they did, which showed in the studio and on stage.

That show in 2017 has me reminiscing on how and when I got hooked on the Heartbreakers.

The first Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers song I heard was Refuge in 1979 as a junior in high school. That song jolted with me the instant I heard it. My reaction to it bordered on chemical, and for three minutes and twenty-two seconds, I felt true clarity, like the music physically pushed shit aside in my head – so it was just me and the song.

I’m not sure why that song resonated so powerfully. Perhaps it was the convergence of Petty’s aggressive-edged delivery frenetically stirred by the tumult of adolescence and teenage angst.

I don’t know “the why,” but I remember “the when” like it happened yesterday.

I’m not sure how it began for my son. Maybe it was musical osmosis from exposure to A LOT OF Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers at an early age.

Perhaps my son connected with a specific song or album during adolescence and got hooked like I did.

Or maybe he saw Tom Petty as a musical bridge to span the sometimes-fractious waters between a father and son.

The most intriguing thing about this trip down memory lane is how Tom Petty evolved as an artist and the impact that had on me as a fan.

As much as I loved Refugee as a teenager, listening to that song as an adult was mainly a way of reconnecting with my youth. Sometimes, “reconnecting” is the extent of our relationship with an artist or song.

A more substantive relationship develops when the artist evolves – because that presents an opportunity to connect with them on a deeper level.

As Tom Petty matured, he became a master songwriter. His songs tapped into the complexities of human relationships with sparse and simple language. That’s what kept me tethered to him as an artist.

The way I connect with songs like Wildflowers and Square One is totally different than the nostalgic way I connect with Refugee or Here Comes My Girl – because I evolved as well (thankfully).

Tom’s evolution as an artist allowed his fans to grow with him — and most of us did.

And that’s why the relationship is impactful to so many people.

Twenty-Fourth and Broad

painting by Rex Wilder

I visit the coffee shop on Twenty-Fourth and Broad to listen to lovers’ quarrels.

Their words float above clanging utensils on flatware before making their way to my table, where I savor them more than my favorite dark roast.

My husband and I would come here every Sunday morning after making love under the skylight of our dusty third-floor apartment.

He’s gone now. He disappeared in the ring of an early morning phone call from a police officer at St. Luke’s Hospital three years ago this week.

Time Misspent in Wonderland

Time misspent in wonderland

she sips on broken dreams

In weeds of woe and circumstance

life leaking from her seams


Time misspent in wonderland

in what-might-have-been galore

with a distant grin, she stirs her gin

cross-legged on the floor


Photos spread haphazardly

she slips into her past

she bathes in milky memories

and prays that it will last


Time misspent in Wonderland

tears running down her face

when now comes knocking at her door

to occupy her space


“What’cha doing mama?”

words lilting and refrained

that pierce the walls of wonderland

to bring her home again

All in on LinkedIn

Does anyone else feel a wave of inadequacy when scrolling through their LinkedIn feed? 

For me, it’s the professional equivalent of dragging my flabby ass into a Maxx Fitness Gym full of fitness junkies and muscle heads.

Are these people for real? Doesn’t anybody just work a crappy job to pay their bills anymore? 

When did we become our jobs? 

Are there really this many passionate professionals who love what they do – or are most of us just playing the game?

For me, it’s difficult not to feel like a fraud when I post about work because I am not my job. 

My job is a taxing and challenging endeavor to endure. I work hard at it to keep a roof over my head and food on my table and grow my savings so that eventually I can get the fuck out.

LinkedIn is an advertising agency for the self – where we all try and keep up with the Joneses and match the energy of everyone that’s on the platform saying how proud they are to be part of a company or industry or technology and what a positive experience working for company x has been and how they can’t wait for the next exciting chapter in their career.

When you’re in the gym next to a guy like this, you immediately throw an extra 25-pound plate on the bar because you don’t want to look and feel like a failure.

It’s fucking exhausting. 

I can’t wait to retire.

Penny in a Pan

If I had a dime for every “Penny in a pan” abortion survivor story, I’d have ten cents.

That said, how long before Penny in a Pan becomes the next Joe the Plumber presidential campaign sideshow?

How long before other farfetched family folklore and fables seep into the lexicon of Republican presidential candidates? 

How long before we listen to Tim Scott on a debate stage relay an incredible Debby in a dumpster or Terry in the trash abortion survivor story?

How long before hundreds of “abortion survivors” pop up across America in a weird parade of zygote zombies and pro-life Presidential hopefuls?

What’s the “over-under” of these scenarios?

Just asking.

Meanwhile, political leaders (especially Republicans) refuse to confront genuine problems or propose solutions to issues affecting people, like the high cost of healthcare, housing, and education, the changing climate, gun violence, sky-rocketing anxiety and depression in children and young adults.

There’s such a deficit of decency in public service today. 

Public service, where public servants look to make a difference in the lives of others, is on life support in America.

Public service today is a bunch of self-serving politicians constantly pushing cultural hot-button issues and fostering petty grievances to catapult themselves into positions of power, wealth, and authority. 

Meanwhile, our world and our sense of safety erodes and crumbles around us.

Booking Prisoner P01135809

No matter the strength of the evidence in the multiple indictments in which this man is named, he is assumed innocent until proven guilty. 

So, let’s put aside the four criminal cases and 91 felony counts he faces and instead look at some of his actions as President.

As President, this man:

  • Knowingly lied to the public about the dangers of the COVID-19 virus.
  • Regularly praised anti-democratic and authoritarian leaders around the world.
  • Equated the moral character of neo-Nazis with the people protesting neo-Nazis.
  • Welcomed interference from foreign governments into American elections.
  • Refused to accept the results of a free and fair election even after sixty court cases, and his own attorney general stated the claims of election fraud were bullshit.
  • Sat idly in the Oval Office for nearly 3 hours as his supporters attacked the capital building and assaulted police officers.

Even if you believe this man is innocent of the 91 felony charges, he is demonstrably guilty of being a shitty human being.

I’m unsure why millions of Americans refuse to look at this man’s lack of ethics and morality and continue to support him, but my gut says it’s human behavior.

Admitting Trump is a shitty human means admitting you knowingly voted for a shitty human, which reflects poorly on you. So, to avoid the embarrassment of your vote and inability to judge a person’s character, you turn a blind eye to all that orange shittieness and hop on the “What About Hunter Biden” bandwagon.

A president or presidential candidate’s lack of character threatens the republic only when voters are unable or unwilling to judge that character.

Until Republicans discover their character and admit politics blinded them to Trump’s lack of morality and that they were conned, America will continue to teeter on the abyss.

Seventeen Summers

For me

if you believe in averages

Seventeen Summers

is all that remains


Less Summers than

fingers and toes


With sixty Summers

in the rear view

the road in front of you

feels a lot shorter,

your hearing begins to fade

but your breathing

becomes more audible

and you can’t shake free

from the loose and crinkly

skin on your neck


When you say out loud

“Seventeen Summers”

the finite nature of it

settles in

and Ms. Mortality

with her toothy grin

and dead eyes

waves at you

from the shore


With only

Seventeen Summers left

dilly-dallying

feels like a crime

and reminiscing

seems irresponsible


I should be wringing

every ounce of life

out of every minute

of every day

of my Seventeen Summers

because

the last thing you want to feel

in your Seventeenth Autumn

is regret