Sunday, October 2, 2011

Ask Uncle Cranky: Yes, I'm Back

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

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."

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.

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.

I'm working at Apple 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).

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 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 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 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. 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.


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 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


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 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.

Sunday, April 10, 2011


Me: I can't smoke weed.
Him: Dude, you know, I hate that they lump pot with all other drugs in society and in 12-step stuff. There are so many people who smoke it who are NOT addicted, who can keep their job, their wife and their's a plant, you know? You can't O.D. on it. It's bullshit.
Me: Oh, I agree with you. It's basically illegal because of racism.
Him: And it chills me out, you know?
Me: Enjoy, bro.
Him: Why can't you?
Me: It makes me wanna do heroin.
Him: ...
Me: ...
Him: You shouldn't smoke weed.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Just What I Needed

It's hard to stay in a bad mood when you play with a puppy...especially when you really don't have a good reason to be in a mood to begin with.

"Look...I don't care how cute you are, I'm not going to pet you right now."
(see picture below)
"I'm brooding, okay? You can wag your whole body and have that retarded puppy coordination all you want."
(see picture below)
"I mean it! I'm angry! GRRRRRRRR!"
(see picture below)
"Fine. But I won't enjoy this."

"Dammit! I'm happy and shit."

Saturday, March 26, 2011

The First 45 Days

Treatment feels like summer camp crossed with jail.
"Here you will develop the tools you need to change your life. Everyone comes here with lots of baggage."
That's goddamn right.
"You're minimizing, man. I think you need to open up and let those feelings out."
How long have I been repressing my emotions? Shit...
"Take your mask off, brother. Everyone here has been where you're at."
And I thought I was original.
"Can you see your ears? That's by design. When you share, your peers are going to see things that you can't."
Pain. Guilt. Remembering hurts.
"Positive affirmations aren't just empty things we say. Believe them. You are a good person who has done bad things."
Damn my legs hurt. Fucking softball. I've gained 8 pounds already. Time to hit the weight room again.
"Good game, guys. We're playing again tomorrow."
I'm really trying to get recovery this time. I need to help out with everything I can.
"You really listen to me, dude. That was good advice."
I'm here for you, brother.
"Read the letter you wrote to your friend. It's time."
Damn you for making me do this. Escaping grief with dope was a selfish, fucked thing to do. I can't let Hunter go.
"John, we don't forget those we love. We learn to live with the loss, but we can also honor their memory. Cherish the friendship...Use this opportunity to live...for you...and for your friend."
I'm tired of fucking things up.
"You remind me of myself when I got here. Have you ever forgiven yourself? It was the hardest thing I ever did, but you need to do it."
I've never done that. Wow.
"You deserve recovery. Don't forget that."
Is addiction a disease? I think it's more of a neurological disorder...does it matter? Treatment for it is the same, whatever you call it. Dive in.
"These arbitrary rules and the little bickering going's all bullshit. Focus on what matters. I know I look like I don't care...truth is, I care about what truly matters."
I am powerless over other people's actions. I need to quit trying to control everything and just let go. Heh...Fight Club.
"You really like that meditation shit, don't you?"
I don't have to believe my thoughts. Feelings come from them...but I can challenge those thoughts and not immediately act on them.
"Time to go out there, look for work, go to in the real world. Call someone if you feel like using."
There sure are a lot of bars downtown. thanks.
"Get up, asshole! We're going to a meeting!"
Hell of an alarm clock.
"I've seen a change in you, bro. You're not trying so looks like you believe it now."
I connected with something greater than myself. I can't explain it - spirituality, not religion. I feel it.
"They found Cage this morning. He's dead."
No. Of all people...God, why?
"Listen,'re a smart motherfucker, know what I'm sayin'? Get out of your head, can do a lot out there. We need you, make me laugh. You care about people. Those are gifts, homey. Use that shit."
Damn, dude. I won't squander this, I promise.
"Halfway there, John. How do you feel?"
60 days clean. I've never had 60 days clean and sober before. I'm still scared.
"Being afraid is natural and healthy. It's when you're overconfident that you can let that guard down. Work your recovery. And don't ever forget."
Forget what?
"What got you here. The good. The bad. Your family. Your friends. Everything."
Thank you.
"What are you going to do? You going to stay in San Antonio or go somewhere else?"
I'm just walking the path. We'll see where it leads.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. - Lao Tzu

Thursday, March 17, 2011

My Friends Cage and Hunter

William "Cage" C. arrived at Lifetime Recovery the day after I did. He was 21 years old, from Alamo Heights, an avid reader, a film and music elitist, one of the smartest kids I've ever met, and a heroin addict. He had been here back in November, but he left early to get into a sober house in Austin. He slipped back into using again and came back here to Lifetime for help. My buddy Rabi and I took an immediate liking to Cage.
He was young, but his face and the look in his eyes showed that he'd gone through some shit. It was the same look I had. He was beat down and needed some help.
After detoxing, Cage started to come out of his shell. He played Rummy and Spades with us, was a killer 1st baseman in softball, and didn't care what other people thought about him or his unmoving opinions on life, love and religion. Oh, and the boy liked hackeysack, Benjamin Franklin and the Wu Tang Clan. Go figure.
For the next 30+ days, I watched him open up in our small group therapy and individually to myself, Rabi and a few others. Rabi and I saw ourselves in him...saw the same pain, same issues with the same drug...we wanted him to succeed.
Cage and I completed the first phase (30 days) of our treatment recently. The second phase (60 days) is that we got to leave the center during the day to look for work, go to meetings, do service, eat fast food...whatever. Then we come back for evening classes and sleep at the rehab.
Cage was in great spirits. He hung out with his dad his first day a haircut and a shave. He looked like I felt - ready to take on the world.

He was found dead yesterday morning at home. He would have turned 22 today.

He and I were a lot alike...we both thought we were too smart for our own good. We both also thought that this treatment was our last shot. Addiction is progressive...we both felt that death would be imminent if we went back.
The thing is, while I wanted to teach him, he ended up educating me. He embodied the phrase "to let what does not matter truly slide". He acted like he didn't give a shit, but the truth was he just didn't care about little meaningless crap. He helped me let go of my attempts to control things or other's actions of which I had no control over. I couldn't thank him enough for that. I will miss him more than this blog entry can express.

Today Hunter would have been 42. He had a big heart and his personality lit up a room. He could even make me less cranky, believe it or not. He loved photography, live music (watching and performing), his wife Jennifer, his blood brother Erik, his dog, his friends, and for some reason, me. Oh, and the fucking Seattle Seahawks, who I still watch to this day.

I had to work through some unresolved issues with grief and guilt about him over the past month, using his sudden passing in 2008 as an excuse to bury myself further into heroin. Our last conversation was him being concerned about my drug use. Sitting here thinking about Hunter and about Cage certainly makes me keenly aware of my mortality and of the pain that is part of life. I try not to dwell on "why them and why not me," even though it's natural.

I made a promise to Hunter and to myself: I will not waste the life that I still have. I will carry the memory of my best friend Hunter with me for the rest of my life. And I will not be forgetting my friend Cage and what he has taught me through his life...and death.

Happy Birthday, Hunter. I have 53 days clean...I'm doing this for both of us. I love you, man.

Rest in peace, Cage. I love you too, brother.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Treatment Center Moment

(Out at the smoking area)
Me: What's the problem, man?
Ryan: The Spurs tip-off is in like 15 minutes, but the dude in there is watching "Smallville."
Me: It should be over soon.
Ryan: Pinche Superman. He can't even fly, güey.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Until That Day Then.

You don't get an award for kicking booze and drugs on your own vs. with help. So why decline outside assistance?

I'll tell you why...because you think you know everything...or because you think you can handle it. When you think about it, it's pretty damn ridiculous to think you can deal with shit on your own, especially when you consistently suck at self-control.

I've never had a problem with "cravings" when it comes to addiction...I've always had a problem with giving a shit whether I'm sober or not. "What does it matter..."

You become very self-centered when you're a drunk or a junkie. You don't care about others or how you make them feel. When you clean up, all those emotions and thoughts regarding yourself and others come rushing back...and you feel like the asshole you've become.

Addiction. Hospitalization. Job loss. Love loss. Dead best friend. Worried and hurt family. Alienated friends. No direction. Broken spirit. Physical fatigue. OD. Loneliness. Nervous breakdown.

Go ahead, John. Handle it all on your own.

Not anymore. I'm going to get help. Treatment. I leave Monday...and I'll be back in May. Time to pull out of the nose dive. Time to take a step back from the edge.

Time for hope.

I'll see ya.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Written Fifteen Years Too Late

And I said, "What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?"
She said, "I think I remember the film.
"And as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it."
And I said, "Well, that's the one thing we've got."
Then she said, "I'm not staying with you because we both like the same movie. Seriously, Barry, you're a compulsive gambler, a drunk and you cheated on me 4 times. Don't you think it's sad you had to go back to a 50-year old movie to find some common ground? Eat shit."

(guitar solo)

Friday, January 21, 2011

Comedy Gold Set

Video from the Velveeta Room. Enjoy.

Friday, January 14, 2011

That's My Level, Apparently

In half-price bookstore: I have the longest conversation I've had with a stranger in Seguin...with a 10-year old girl. We are both looking for origami stuff. "I made a rose the other day," she says.

Me: "That's a difficult one."
Her: "You'll get there one day."
Me: "..."

Her: "Nice board. Where did you get those wheels?"
Me: "A shop in Austin...a friend works there."
Her: "I need to get my mom to take me there and fix up mine."
Me: "Well, nice being pwned in public. See ya."

I figured I better leave before I find out she knows more about the bands I like than I do.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Arm Update

The wound has sealed...I no longer need to wear a bandage...well, unless I'm doing some serious labor, then I might want to protect it. Check it:

Now THAT is a scar, kids...and a serious reminder of the negative aspects of self-destruction.

If anybody who doesn't know me well asks me where I got it, I'm just going to say, "Mexico."

(Heh...unintentional display of The Tao of Pooh that I'm currently revisiting.)

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Dear Google User Who Found Me With "bang buddy in seguin tx. women"

Dear Google User Who Found Me With "bang buddy in seguin tx. women":


Not your bang buddy,


RabonGrad Report: 01/06/11

RabonGrad Daily Report

by Sgt. J.F'n.R.

Due to the recent breakout attempts, the compound walls have been rebuilt and fortified. Even though the new additions to the camp should hold, I am recommending additional supervision of certain personnel in captivity. Prisoner # 8321882 (aka "Boomer") should be considered the leader of the prison breaks. Prisoner # 2284458 (aka "Molly") has long been considered just a follower in the who does not cause trouble unless influenced by another captive. However, it has been reported by trustee # 2288819 (aka "Tom the Cat") that "Molly" has begun to do their own digging.

It is my personal recommendation that both subjects should be constantly supervised and considered dangerous to the current regime. Movement and privileges should be restricted until further notice.

Sunday, January 2, 2011


I feel like I'm in the plot of an independent film made by a pretentious asshole: Recovering addict comes home to reconnect with his family and himself.

Jesus, that sounds like an uncomfortable 2 hours. You could call the movie "Greenberg 2".

The hardest part about being here is finding something to occupy my time and brain (which is working overtime now that I'm not dumbing it with booze or drugs).

"Maybe you should write more."

Maybe you should suck it. Sorry, I know you mean well...but seriously, quit "helping". I'm working on it.

I worked out AND jogged yesterday. Hey, if you get the chance to smoke for 15 years then attempt to run a mile, enjoy the burning and coughing up of lung material.

A friend of mine said, "It sucks you had to move, man."
My reply: "At least you know I'm clean and sober here. Would you rather me be there making you wonder if I'm in jail or dead?"

'Nuff said.