Why I Do It

I get asked why I play these little charity gigs for Nursing Homes and Rehab Centers and now, I have opened up communication with Dayton Children’s Hospital to see if I can please a few kids this Christmas.

All you have to do is walk into SycamoreSpring Nursing Home.

The first thing you notice is the place is immaculate, and the small front fireplace area is warm and inviting.

If you’re lucky, you will be greeted by Courtney, a blonde bundle of energy who can’t help you enough.

The Activities Director is a dynamo named Stanford Coleman.

He is literally non-stop.

Now let’s talk about my peeps, the patients at SycamoreSpring.

Now in my experience there, the patients seem to be more infirmed and generally less active. Our audience was composed of all wheelchaired people and not all of them were responsive and alert, but don’t talk that mess around my new friend Felicia; she’ll tell you straight up “You don’t want none of this!”

She asked me to guess her age, and since momma didn’t raise no cornpone, I said thirty. Even though, if I used all my powers of observation, and detected all the clues, I would have guessed AT THE MOST seventy.

Before she disclosed to me, she opened her mouth to assure me she still had every one of her teeth (they were beautiful). Then she showed me her ears, free from any hearing aids, and finally, she pointed to her eyes, assuring me she never needed glasses and she can see just fine.

Truly blessed.

She told me a joke that turned me crimson, and I delighted in this woman and I sharing a salacious laugh.

Ninety years young and still kicking ass.

Now, I’m not gonna get all morbid or anything on you, but if you break it down, using whichever matrix or algorithm you choose, I most likely have about twelve years’ worth of sand in the hourglass.

My father lived to be 84. He was a strong as a bull and even at age 84, you could not find any extra skin to pinch on his well-muscled back.

My mom passed away at age 53 from pancreatic cancer.

Split the difference and I should die this month. (God, if you’re listening, I’m not asking to join you early; just stick to your plan).

Now if you lose up to three years of your longevity for undergoing major surgery, how about eighteen major surgeries, including a leg amputation, shoulder reconstruction, severed Achilles tendon, and installing eight stents to keep the blood flowing in my body after a major heart attack that almost sent Maddogg to the next sphere?

Also my Dad never ate a hundred hits of LSD, a hundred Quaaludes, nor did he smoke weed like I have, for fifty-two years and counting. He did not take his drinking to the raging alcoholic stage, a place where I dwelled for forty years. So again, by this matrix, I died when I was six.

I guess the moral of the story is to shut the fuck up, quit complaining, and enjoy every precious second of your existence, whether you are nine or like my girl Felicia, ninety.

Stay well.

Published by maddogg09

I am an unmotivated genius with an extreme love for anything that moves the emotional needles of our lives.

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