Uncle Cranky is not a professional therapist, nor does he have a doctorate in ANYTHING. He is a divorced alcoholic felon border-lining on bankruptcy, which means he has the life experience to tell you the truth without bullshitting you.
The following letters originally sent to Dear Abby.
DEAR ABBY: I recently started dating a wonderful man, but there's one problem: On several of our dates he was dressed like he was staying home to watch TV -- wearing dirty pajama-type shorts, ripped T-shirts, stuff I'd barely wear even if I were home sick.
I have gently tried to suggest he wear something else, but he has no concerns about his appearance. Any ideas? -- BAFFLED IN BALTIMORE
Dear "Baffled":
You live in Baltimore. I believe ironed shirts are like fucking kryptonite to guys there who would actually date you. Be happy with what you have, or get the hell out of that horrible city.
Uncle Cranky
DEAR ABBY: Before I met my boyfriend, "Cory," he had a married female friend he'd go out with -- dancing, dinner, movies, etc. He says there was no sex involved, and I believe him. He has asked me to be friends with her and her husband, and I have tried.
However, whenever she's around Cory, they ignore everyone else. She even tried to go on vacation with us! What really upset me was when Cory thought it was OK to ask if "we" could go out with her! It's like she has always been in our relationship.
I have told him they are (and have been) having a non-sexual affair. He's a wonderful man otherwise, and I know he loves me. How can I get her out of our lives? -- FEELING LIKE A THIRD WHEEL
Dear "Third Wheel":
He's banging her. Deal accordingly.
Uncle Cranky
DEAR ABBY: My mother and I had a debate about who should pay for dates. She thinks the man should pay, especially if sex is involved because "you don't want to give it away for free."
I disagree. I say the man should pay for the first, and maybe the second date. After that, they can agree to alternate.
I have been seeing a wonderful guy for about six months. I'm pretty sure I make more money than he does, but even if I didn't, I don't feel the need to be supported. I don't agree the guy should always have to pay. Times have changed since my mother dated. What's the general consensus on the subject these days? -- INDEPENDENT WOMAN IN MARYLAND
Dear "Woman":
Is this really the biggest problem you have right now? Why don't you turn on the news and see the turmoil, pain and death happening around the world and then go fuck yourself. You can pay for your self-copulation if that makes you feel better. It shouldn't.
Uncle Cranky
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
You Know What Sucks?
What you are "supposed to do" is not necessarily the right thing or best thing for you. Everybody is different. That's not what sucks.
It is very easy for me to be told to do something and then immediately react with, "Hey, suck me, I'm going to do it anyway."
Things I'm not supposed to do because "they might or will be bad for me" immediately appeals to me. I think in a lot of cases, the majority is full of shit and my opinions and decisions rule.
Here's "What Sucks": I have proof on file in multiple Counties in Texas that...I should of just did what I was supposed to.
Once again, like everything else, it's a balance. I have to find a balance between what will help me grow and evolve and what will turn me into a fucking brain-dead waste of space. What good is being clean and sober if you're a clean and sober boring zombie prick?
"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." The Serenity Prayer.
I'd rather it say, "God, or whoever...grant me the clarity to figure out how to take the things I cannot change and use it to my advantage so that I am in power of my own life and I don't have to come begging to you or someone else for every little fucking thing. But if it's out of my hands, let me accept that shit and let it go. Otherwise, empower my ass so I don't have to whine in a fucking meeting every day for the rest of my life."
Addicts/alcoholics are powerless, we're told. I, however, think no one is powerless if you have knowledge, will, and determination to get out of your hole. It's unfortunately very easy to just climb back into that hole and lay down for a while longer.
Find a balance. Still working on that.
That was me venting. I think more people struggling with recovery should be honest completely and do the same. Or shit, find your own recovery path.
Yes...I am still going to meetings. And I get something from each one. I'm off to bed now. Gotta hit one of those tomorrow.
"Honesty like this makes me grow a big rubbery one."
It is very easy for me to be told to do something and then immediately react with, "Hey, suck me, I'm going to do it anyway."
Things I'm not supposed to do because "they might or will be bad for me" immediately appeals to me. I think in a lot of cases, the majority is full of shit and my opinions and decisions rule.
Here's "What Sucks": I have proof on file in multiple Counties in Texas that...I should of just did what I was supposed to.
Once again, like everything else, it's a balance. I have to find a balance between what will help me grow and evolve and what will turn me into a fucking brain-dead waste of space. What good is being clean and sober if you're a clean and sober boring zombie prick?
"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." The Serenity Prayer.
I'd rather it say, "God, or whoever...grant me the clarity to figure out how to take the things I cannot change and use it to my advantage so that I am in power of my own life and I don't have to come begging to you or someone else for every little fucking thing. But if it's out of my hands, let me accept that shit and let it go. Otherwise, empower my ass so I don't have to whine in a fucking meeting every day for the rest of my life."
Addicts/alcoholics are powerless, we're told. I, however, think no one is powerless if you have knowledge, will, and determination to get out of your hole. It's unfortunately very easy to just climb back into that hole and lay down for a while longer.
Find a balance. Still working on that.
That was me venting. I think more people struggling with recovery should be honest completely and do the same. Or shit, find your own recovery path.
Yes...I am still going to meetings. And I get something from each one. I'm off to bed now. Gotta hit one of those tomorrow.
"Honesty like this makes me grow a big rubbery one."
Saturday, July 23, 2011
John vs San Antonio Driver, Chapter 1
I rode my bike home after work Wednesday night. I rode down Culebra, which has two lanes, and a lady in her sporty white car got right behind me and started honking. It's late...there's no traffic. She can go around, so I just ignore her.
She pulled up next to me, and I looked over at her. She was on the phone but stopped her conversation to yell at me.
"Get on the sidewalk! Get the fuck out of the way! I could have hit you!"
(I have lights on my bike. You can't miss me.)
She kept going as I silently rode along.
"What do you think you're doing? Jesus!"
I looked at her as she drove next to me and said, "It's not safe to talk on the phone while you're being a cunt."
She drove off.
She pulled up next to me, and I looked over at her. She was on the phone but stopped her conversation to yell at me.
"Get on the sidewalk! Get the fuck out of the way! I could have hit you!"
(I have lights on my bike. You can't miss me.)
She kept going as I silently rode along.
"What do you think you're doing? Jesus!"
I looked at her as she drove next to me and said, "It's not safe to talk on the phone while you're being a cunt."
She drove off.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
I Am Not My Job.
"Getting fired is the best thing that could happen to any of us. That way, we'd quit treading water and do something with our lives." -- Tyler Durden
Even as a veteran comedian, I am apparently not a good fit as a "host" on the Riverwalk in San Antonio. I say "host" because the job is actually "mindless and loud barker". By being fired after a day and a half, what the manager basically meant by not being a good fit for the job is that I did not repeat the designated phrases enough and at top volume, annoyingly drawing attention to myself. Okay, I can live with that.
What I found hard to live with was that this was the first job I was able to find after months of looking. I felt this was going to be the start I needed to get back on my feet, financially speaking. Nope.
Before June 2010, I had never been fired before. Losing this latest job was my third firing in a year. Needless to say, I did not feel very hopeful.
In retrospect, that job would have broken me in about two weeks. I am not a dancing monkey...or, at least, not anymore. I didn't pull back from the bottom to wear a sign that there's a burger special for lunch.
Before I go into my current employment status, I need to go back about 12 years. It almost seems like my views on life and work have been building since then.
1999/2000. I'm working at Apple Computer...education sales. I see three movies within a year with some common themes: "Fight Club", "American Beauty" and "Office Space". I come to the realization that the money I was making at Apple didn't make cubicle life any less shitty. I endured for a few more years (laid off in 2003).
2004. I start working at NCsoft, customer service at a video game company. Cool people, nice atmosphere and not having a drinking policy (seriously) allowed me to enjoy that job for a few years. In the end, though, I felt trapped in my cloth-covered box assisting people I didn't like with meaningless problems. Did I do anything about it? Of course not. I grew accustomed to the lifestyle...the hours...the pay. I mean, come on, I had a drug habit that needed funding.
You can't hit bottom if you're managing to stay afloat. Luckily, I finally got fired and things went to shit. I was left with no unemployment benefits and a felony on my record...enjoy job hunting and competing with teens and college grads, you 30-something burnout!
May, 2011. I came out of a 90-day treatment center in a Zen state, hopeful and upbeat. I had the support of family again and my girl Isla. I was motivated to start a new job. But I knew one thing: I didn't want to work in an office farm again. The felony on my record helped keep me out of these jobs in case I was tempted by the impressively mediocre pay.
Job hunting was brutal. I applied everywhere I could, regardless of what the position was. I tried to doctor my resume or creatively fluff up applications...nothing.
In the aftermath of losing the "host" job, I reflected on my work history. I also focused specifically on "Fight Club", both the book and movie for a little inspiration. I really felt the urge to do some fucking labor...to actually DO SOMETHING for once...not talk on the phone to jackasses while I surfed the 'net. "We wash your clothes, we cook your meals...we watch you while you sleep. Do not fuck with us." I thought, fuck it, let's get into a kitchen. I'll wash some dishes.
Isla said something to me at the same time I made this decision...about how she liked that she and I didn't always do what we were "supposed to". That really stuck with me. I'm supposed to dress up for interviews. I'm supposed to go get a shirt and tie. I should shave. I don't think I will.
I walked into a particular restaurant after seeing a new ad for dishwasher posted the night before on Craigslist. I was there when they opened, and I was the second person interviewed. The chef who interviewed me was as unshaven as me that morning. Criminal background never came up...but what was important was if I could start that same day. Yes, I said. The guy interviewed before me could start the next day. Tough shit, guy. I was in...three-day trial to see how it goes.
Any idiot can wash dishes. Being a "dishwasher" means putting endless plates, pots and pans into racks and running them through the machine fast and efficiently. Scrub quickly, put them up and reuse the racks. Hurry, more is coming. I got the fuck kicked out of me that first night. Nobody in that kitchen thought I would come back.
I came back the second night, mostly out of spite. The manager was almost surprised to see me. I worked as hard as I could and became overwhelmed by Friday night dining. I needed two other people to help me finish everything. However, I learned from those guys the right way to do the damn job (no training, btw). Don't clean the dishes so much before putting them in the machine...this ain't the p.o.s. dishwasher your mom owns, respect the industrial strength dishwashing machine.
The third night (Saturday) was mine. I had a game plan and finished the night without any help. Hooray. My hands and feet ached, I had little cuts on my fingers...my whole body was sore. But I prevailed...and I kept the job.
I've almost been there a month. That calm state I had is back now...the no-job stress is gone. I've got my shift down to a science, and I can even ride my bike a few miles after a shift home without tiring. I'm mentally and physically fit at my job.
When I work, I don't answer to a bitchy customer or an immediate supervisor. The dish pit is mine. I own it. It's me and my thoughts for 5-7 hours. I get to see fruits of my labor every night by end of shift. I'm not feeling my soul die in a cloth-covered box. I feel...free. I get paid shit, but I don't care.
"Free." At the moment, I have the job that I wanted. I get to feel alive and watch people around me zombie-stagger to work. I get to live my little "Fight Club" wannabe life (sans getting punched in the face weekly).
"May I never be complete."
"May I never be content."
I need to remember those...because I don't want to get comfortable or complacent. I don't want to be "married" to the job and just keep doing it until life has to separate me from it. I have to grow...evolve. Come August 1st I'm living with the girl I love and start a new chapter in my...our lives. I want to give her everything and take care of things. Who knows what job I'll take next. I just don't want it to define me...or rob me of will and creativity.
Until then...I get to be all Zen in everyone's little hostile face.
**** Update: See my rebuttal, I Am My Job.
Even as a veteran comedian, I am apparently not a good fit as a "host" on the Riverwalk in San Antonio. I say "host" because the job is actually "mindless and loud barker". By being fired after a day and a half, what the manager basically meant by not being a good fit for the job is that I did not repeat the designated phrases enough and at top volume, annoyingly drawing attention to myself. Okay, I can live with that.
What I found hard to live with was that this was the first job I was able to find after months of looking. I felt this was going to be the start I needed to get back on my feet, financially speaking. Nope.
Before June 2010, I had never been fired before. Losing this latest job was my third firing in a year. Needless to say, I did not feel very hopeful.
In retrospect, that job would have broken me in about two weeks. I am not a dancing monkey...or, at least, not anymore. I didn't pull back from the bottom to wear a sign that there's a burger special for lunch.
Before I go into my current employment status, I need to go back about 12 years. It almost seems like my views on life and work have been building since then.
1999/2000. I'm working at Apple Computer...education sales. I see three movies within a year with some common themes: "Fight Club", "American Beauty" and "Office Space". I come to the realization that the money I was making at Apple didn't make cubicle life any less shitty. I endured for a few more years (laid off in 2003).
2004. I start working at NCsoft, customer service at a video game company. Cool people, nice atmosphere and not having a drinking policy (seriously) allowed me to enjoy that job for a few years. In the end, though, I felt trapped in my cloth-covered box assisting people I didn't like with meaningless problems. Did I do anything about it? Of course not. I grew accustomed to the lifestyle...the hours...the pay. I mean, come on, I had a drug habit that needed funding.
You can't hit bottom if you're managing to stay afloat. Luckily, I finally got fired and things went to shit. I was left with no unemployment benefits and a felony on my record...enjoy job hunting and competing with teens and college grads, you 30-something burnout!
May, 2011. I came out of a 90-day treatment center in a Zen state, hopeful and upbeat. I had the support of family again and my girl Isla. I was motivated to start a new job. But I knew one thing: I didn't want to work in an office farm again. The felony on my record helped keep me out of these jobs in case I was tempted by the impressively mediocre pay.
Job hunting was brutal. I applied everywhere I could, regardless of what the position was. I tried to doctor my resume or creatively fluff up applications...nothing.
In the aftermath of losing the "host" job, I reflected on my work history. I also focused specifically on "Fight Club", both the book and movie for a little inspiration. I really felt the urge to do some fucking labor...to actually DO SOMETHING for once...not talk on the phone to jackasses while I surfed the 'net. "We wash your clothes, we cook your meals...we watch you while you sleep. Do not fuck with us." I thought, fuck it, let's get into a kitchen. I'll wash some dishes.
Isla said something to me at the same time I made this decision...about how she liked that she and I didn't always do what we were "supposed to". That really stuck with me. I'm supposed to dress up for interviews. I'm supposed to go get a shirt and tie. I should shave. I don't think I will.
I walked into a particular restaurant after seeing a new ad for dishwasher posted the night before on Craigslist. I was there when they opened, and I was the second person interviewed. The chef who interviewed me was as unshaven as me that morning. Criminal background never came up...but what was important was if I could start that same day. Yes, I said. The guy interviewed before me could start the next day. Tough shit, guy. I was in...three-day trial to see how it goes.
Any idiot can wash dishes. Being a "dishwasher" means putting endless plates, pots and pans into racks and running them through the machine fast and efficiently. Scrub quickly, put them up and reuse the racks. Hurry, more is coming. I got the fuck kicked out of me that first night. Nobody in that kitchen thought I would come back.
I came back the second night, mostly out of spite. The manager was almost surprised to see me. I worked as hard as I could and became overwhelmed by Friday night dining. I needed two other people to help me finish everything. However, I learned from those guys the right way to do the damn job (no training, btw). Don't clean the dishes so much before putting them in the machine...this ain't the p.o.s. dishwasher your mom owns, respect the industrial strength dishwashing machine.
The third night (Saturday) was mine. I had a game plan and finished the night without any help. Hooray. My hands and feet ached, I had little cuts on my fingers...my whole body was sore. But I prevailed...and I kept the job.
I've almost been there a month. That calm state I had is back now...the no-job stress is gone. I've got my shift down to a science, and I can even ride my bike a few miles after a shift home without tiring. I'm mentally and physically fit at my job.
When I work, I don't answer to a bitchy customer or an immediate supervisor. The dish pit is mine. I own it. It's me and my thoughts for 5-7 hours. I get to see fruits of my labor every night by end of shift. I'm not feeling my soul die in a cloth-covered box. I feel...free. I get paid shit, but I don't care.
"Free." At the moment, I have the job that I wanted. I get to feel alive and watch people around me zombie-stagger to work. I get to live my little "Fight Club" wannabe life (sans getting punched in the face weekly).
"May I never be complete."
"May I never be content."
I need to remember those...because I don't want to get comfortable or complacent. I don't want to be "married" to the job and just keep doing it until life has to separate me from it. I have to grow...evolve. Come August 1st I'm living with the girl I love and start a new chapter in my...our lives. I want to give her everything and take care of things. Who knows what job I'll take next. I just don't want it to define me...or rob me of will and creativity.
Until then...I get to be all Zen in everyone's little hostile face.
**** Update: See my rebuttal, I Am My Job.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
We Can't Stop Here...this is DQ Country...
In line at Dairy Queen. The woman in front of me was charged incorrectly on her credit card. They then credited that purchase back to her card then charged her the right amount. A line formed because she wants to make sure the kid at the register understands something that she clearly does not.
Lady: You should have just given me the change because now the bank is going to take out another $50 for the second purchase. I get the money back, but it's still a pain to wait for it. They did that to me at the gas station. I had to talk to my bank because I got gas and I just figured I only spent $12, but I couldn't make another purchase later...
I try to make eye contact with the kid working who hasn't said a word since the lady started talking. He's zoned out like he has a brain slug from Futurama under his hat.
Lady:...my card had actually expired so they confiscated it but they ended up giving it back. But then a week later is when I got gas again and the same thing happened and I had to tell my bank. I forgot why they take that out but they told me at the bank that they do, so when you do another charge, that takes another $50 out which is kind of inconvenient. I just want you to know that because that could happen to someone else.
She waits a second for a reaction from Ruprecht the Monkey Boy, who stares blankly at her. I am not more irritated with this fast food zombie than with her at this point. Someone behind me sighs.
Lady: So...I'm just saying that you should have just given me the change because It's going to be $100 now...and like I said, I don't know why they do it, but my bank explained it to me...
Alright...Here we go.
Me: Ma'am?
Lady: ...And I...what?
Me: Certain companies put an additional preauthorization on credit card purchases for fraud protection, they claim. It's to ensure that the cardholder actually has the funds for the purchase. Some gas stations started doing this because people were getting gas on credit, then pulling the money out before the charge cleared. Can...
Lady: Okay yeah that's what the bank said with the extra charges...
Me: Yes, they reserve the money, and then it drops off within a couple of days depending on your bank's policy. But none of that is relevant or really matters, because Dairy Queen doesn't do additional preauths, ma'am. No fast food joint does. If they did, broke people like me wouldn't eat here and they'd tank.
Lady: But they should still give change in the future...
Me: Businesses don't usually give cash back on credit card purchases because that opens the doors for people to scam them with stolen credit cards or just with getting cash on credit lines...
Lady: Who does that? I mean, really...
Me: I would've 6 months ago for quick cash if it were possible. Now I'm on the straight and narrow, trying to do right...and I need a fucking chicken finger basket.
Lady: You should have just given me the change because now the bank is going to take out another $50 for the second purchase. I get the money back, but it's still a pain to wait for it. They did that to me at the gas station. I had to talk to my bank because I got gas and I just figured I only spent $12, but I couldn't make another purchase later...
I try to make eye contact with the kid working who hasn't said a word since the lady started talking. He's zoned out like he has a brain slug from Futurama under his hat.
Lady:...my card had actually expired so they confiscated it but they ended up giving it back. But then a week later is when I got gas again and the same thing happened and I had to tell my bank. I forgot why they take that out but they told me at the bank that they do, so when you do another charge, that takes another $50 out which is kind of inconvenient. I just want you to know that because that could happen to someone else.
She waits a second for a reaction from Ruprecht the Monkey Boy, who stares blankly at her. I am not more irritated with this fast food zombie than with her at this point. Someone behind me sighs.
Lady: So...I'm just saying that you should have just given me the change because It's going to be $100 now...and like I said, I don't know why they do it, but my bank explained it to me...
Alright...Here we go.
Me: Ma'am?
Lady: ...And I...what?
Me: Certain companies put an additional preauthorization on credit card purchases for fraud protection, they claim. It's to ensure that the cardholder actually has the funds for the purchase. Some gas stations started doing this because people were getting gas on credit, then pulling the money out before the charge cleared. Can...
Lady: Okay yeah that's what the bank said with the extra charges...
Me: Yes, they reserve the money, and then it drops off within a couple of days depending on your bank's policy. But none of that is relevant or really matters, because Dairy Queen doesn't do additional preauths, ma'am. No fast food joint does. If they did, broke people like me wouldn't eat here and they'd tank.
Lady: But they should still give change in the future...
Me: Businesses don't usually give cash back on credit card purchases because that opens the doors for people to scam them with stolen credit cards or just with getting cash on credit lines...
Lady: Who does that? I mean, really...
Me: I would've 6 months ago for quick cash if it were possible. Now I'm on the straight and narrow, trying to do right...and I need a fucking chicken finger basket.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
May I Never Be Complete
On Thursday of last week, I successfully completed treatment at Lifetime Recovery. I immediately moved into a sober house, and I am currently seeking employment.
I should be dead. I don't mean that in an "I've been so lucky it's crazy!" way, I mean that I overdosed and stopped breathing 4 months ago. I don't know why I'm here while others more deserving are not, but I'm grateful I am. I believe in life, love and people again...and if you know me, that's not something I would have said over the past 10-15 years.
I took a bus to the grocery store yesterday, bought two bags of stuff and came back home. While walking from the bus stop the few blocks home, I was reminded that this is part of real life and shit we have to do on a regular basis. Real life...that has stopped for everyone else just because I went to rehab for 90 days. It made me appreciate again the massive support and attention I have received over this process.
I want to refrain from thanking everybody individually as it will turn this blog into a lame-ass Oscar acceptance speech. "I'd like to thank God...and my agent Bubbles McGee." My mother and father are awesome people who never turned their back on me and continue to go out of their way to help me out. Obviously, I can't thank them enough for what they've done.
I lost contact with most of my bar friends...but, they're bar friends. When I was teetering on the edge, I still had a few friends that cared and never gave up on me. Going through this has strengthened our friendships for the future. You know who you are, and you don't give a shit about a shout-out, do you?
I need to single out someone, though.
Everyone who has met Windy knows that she is the kindest soul you will meet. She has overcome more turmoil and life bullshit than most of us will ever experience, and she's kept going. She, however, made the horribly generous decision to help me get on my feet when I lost everything...giving me a place to crash and support I didn't appreciate at the time. I will NEVER be able to repay her for giving me a chance...and forgiving me for things I said and put her through. Thank you so much, Windy.
My favorite characters in movies, books and graphic novels are anti-heroes: charmingly flawed and grungy characters that find redemption...eventually. You think I want my story to be cut tragically short by my own actions? That would be heart-breaking and awful. I don't want to be an example of what not to do anymore. I don't want the love and support you all have given me to be for fuck all.
Thank you, guys.
"Well, let's not start sucking each others' dicks just yet." - Mr. Wolfe
(couldn't resist.)
I should be dead. I don't mean that in an "I've been so lucky it's crazy!" way, I mean that I overdosed and stopped breathing 4 months ago. I don't know why I'm here while others more deserving are not, but I'm grateful I am. I believe in life, love and people again...and if you know me, that's not something I would have said over the past 10-15 years.
I took a bus to the grocery store yesterday, bought two bags of stuff and came back home. While walking from the bus stop the few blocks home, I was reminded that this is part of real life and shit we have to do on a regular basis. Real life...that has stopped for everyone else just because I went to rehab for 90 days. It made me appreciate again the massive support and attention I have received over this process.
I want to refrain from thanking everybody individually as it will turn this blog into a lame-ass Oscar acceptance speech. "I'd like to thank God...and my agent Bubbles McGee." My mother and father are awesome people who never turned their back on me and continue to go out of their way to help me out. Obviously, I can't thank them enough for what they've done.
I lost contact with most of my bar friends...but, they're bar friends. When I was teetering on the edge, I still had a few friends that cared and never gave up on me. Going through this has strengthened our friendships for the future. You know who you are, and you don't give a shit about a shout-out, do you?
I need to single out someone, though.
Everyone who has met Windy knows that she is the kindest soul you will meet. She has overcome more turmoil and life bullshit than most of us will ever experience, and she's kept going. She, however, made the horribly generous decision to help me get on my feet when I lost everything...giving me a place to crash and support I didn't appreciate at the time. I will NEVER be able to repay her for giving me a chance...and forgiving me for things I said and put her through. Thank you so much, Windy.
My favorite characters in movies, books and graphic novels are anti-heroes: charmingly flawed and grungy characters that find redemption...eventually. You think I want my story to be cut tragically short by my own actions? That would be heart-breaking and awful. I don't want to be an example of what not to do anymore. I don't want the love and support you all have given me to be for fuck all.
Thank you, guys.
"Well, let's not start sucking each others' dicks just yet." - Mr. Wolfe
(couldn't resist.)
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Easter
2005. It's Saturday night before Easter, so I decide not to get drunk. I leave the bar early and stop at a convenience store. There, I meet a drinking buddy who tells me there's a party right up the street. "You can leave your truck overnight and just crash on the floor. There's a keg!" Shit.
I dig my punk bar buddies, so I go. I remember going to the keg out back to get a beer for me and one for a friend...My next memory is they are sewing my face together in the hospital.
I try to say "what happened" with a bottom lip split in half like the bad guy from "Blade 2", and I'm told that I got jumped. This shocks me...not that a bunch of drunk and coked up punk dudes would kick somebody's ass, but that it was my ass that was kicked.
After surgery, I'm released out into the bright Easter morning. I'm wearing a straw cowboy hat spray-painted black, black western shirt, leather jacket, black jeans and black lizard skin boots held together with copious amounts of duct tape. I'm completely covered in dried blood and mud. I've got my sunglasses on, and I'm attempting to smoke out of the side of my freshly stitched face. I'm scaring the hell out of families bringing flowers and balloons to hospitalized loved ones on the way to church.
I call Shane, my roommate, and say, "I just got out of the hospital...I don't know which one it is or where I'm at. All I know is there's a highway and I can see Corvette Country, apparently."
Shane: "I know where you are."
When he picks me up, Shane says, "Hey." And that's it. No questions. I stare at him.
"Aren't you the least bit curious?"
"Well...I figured you'd tell me eventually."
That's Shane.
After two days of wondering why this happened to me, who did it, was it my hat...I find out what happened. That year it rained buckets in Central Texas in April. The keg at the party was in the middle of the yard on a bare spot that turned into mud. If you take mud and throw in footwear that is covered in duct tape, you get a little accident. If you also throw in the corner of a concrete slab to land on with your face...you get a major scar. When my drunk friends rushed me to the hospital, they were under the impression that if you told the ER that the patient was attacked, they had to treat him, regardless of their health insurance situation. Good call, guys.
So yeah...I curb-checked myself. I hadn't even had a drink.
2011. April 24th has a new meaning for me. I'm 90 days clean and sober, and I'm 2 weeks from getting out of Lifetime Recovery. Not only are my eyes clear but my brain is a fully-functioning pain in my ass. I think my thoughts...all of them. These thoughts generate emotions, and I feel every fucking one of them. Completely.
Truth be told I think I'm a little crazy now. I could probably use some prescriptions now I took recreationally in the past. No thank you, shrinks. I've been through worse.
While thinking this blog out in my head, I was sitting at a bus stop, just before 7 am. Right next to the bus stop is a McDonalds with two drive-thrus, and cars are cutting each other off to get their McGriddled Shit and force it down on the way to work. Everyone looks pissed to be awake...or to be at McDonald's. I, however, give them a glance but direct my attention back to the sunrise I've been watching. The simple act of doing nothing but observing calms my being. My brain shuts the hell up and I just enjoy the moment. I'm alive.
They say life is too short to be addicted to drugs. That's not true at all. The reality is that life is too long and painful when you're a junkie. Time crawls by allowing you to really feel how awful everything is and what you've become, and all you want to do is figure out how to score to forget.
With the support of my family, my friends, my girl...I press on. I hope I never forget that the worst case scenario for me clean is still better than the best case scenario for me as a junkie.
I dig my punk bar buddies, so I go. I remember going to the keg out back to get a beer for me and one for a friend...My next memory is they are sewing my face together in the hospital.
I try to say "what happened" with a bottom lip split in half like the bad guy from "Blade 2", and I'm told that I got jumped. This shocks me...not that a bunch of drunk and coked up punk dudes would kick somebody's ass, but that it was my ass that was kicked.
After surgery, I'm released out into the bright Easter morning. I'm wearing a straw cowboy hat spray-painted black, black western shirt, leather jacket, black jeans and black lizard skin boots held together with copious amounts of duct tape. I'm completely covered in dried blood and mud. I've got my sunglasses on, and I'm attempting to smoke out of the side of my freshly stitched face. I'm scaring the hell out of families bringing flowers and balloons to hospitalized loved ones on the way to church.
I call Shane, my roommate, and say, "I just got out of the hospital...I don't know which one it is or where I'm at. All I know is there's a highway and I can see Corvette Country, apparently."
Shane: "I know where you are."
When he picks me up, Shane says, "Hey." And that's it. No questions. I stare at him.
"Aren't you the least bit curious?"
"Well...I figured you'd tell me eventually."
That's Shane.
After two days of wondering why this happened to me, who did it, was it my hat...I find out what happened. That year it rained buckets in Central Texas in April. The keg at the party was in the middle of the yard on a bare spot that turned into mud. If you take mud and throw in footwear that is covered in duct tape, you get a little accident. If you also throw in the corner of a concrete slab to land on with your face...you get a major scar. When my drunk friends rushed me to the hospital, they were under the impression that if you told the ER that the patient was attacked, they had to treat him, regardless of their health insurance situation. Good call, guys.
So yeah...I curb-checked myself. I hadn't even had a drink.
2011. April 24th has a new meaning for me. I'm 90 days clean and sober, and I'm 2 weeks from getting out of Lifetime Recovery. Not only are my eyes clear but my brain is a fully-functioning pain in my ass. I think my thoughts...all of them. These thoughts generate emotions, and I feel every fucking one of them. Completely.
Truth be told I think I'm a little crazy now. I could probably use some prescriptions now I took recreationally in the past. No thank you, shrinks. I've been through worse.
While thinking this blog out in my head, I was sitting at a bus stop, just before 7 am. Right next to the bus stop is a McDonalds with two drive-thrus, and cars are cutting each other off to get their McGriddled Shit and force it down on the way to work. Everyone looks pissed to be awake...or to be at McDonald's. I, however, give them a glance but direct my attention back to the sunrise I've been watching. The simple act of doing nothing but observing calms my being. My brain shuts the hell up and I just enjoy the moment. I'm alive.
They say life is too short to be addicted to drugs. That's not true at all. The reality is that life is too long and painful when you're a junkie. Time crawls by allowing you to really feel how awful everything is and what you've become, and all you want to do is figure out how to score to forget.
With the support of my family, my friends, my girl...I press on. I hope I never forget that the worst case scenario for me clean is still better than the best case scenario for me as a junkie.
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