Dated May 9th, 2009

Magnetism

AKA

Dog Bites and Grocery Store Claw Machines

AKA

Know God,
Know Peace.

No God,
No Peace.

AKA

If you can toss the Heineken bottle and still catch it, you haven't had too much too drink.

(Start tape now)

I loved doing drugs. Some I loved more than others. For instance, I loved mushrooms. The only time I didn't have that much fun on mushrooms was after I took a handful that a lady at Elliott's (RIP) gave me. It wasn't fun because it was the last night my dad was in town, a Sunday. He was going to be taking the Greyhound back to Portland at around 10 pm. I ate them at 9. So they started kicking in as I was walking him down to the Greyhound, 4 blocks away.

We got to the station, and I was full on tripping. They Greyhound station is notorious for some nefarious characters hanging around, that night was no exception. I was watching my dad playing a driving game, Cruis'n USA I believe, and I was totally enthralled. At one point the track he was racing on veered off onto a runway at an airport, and when a plane nearly landed on him, I thought I was gonna have a heart attack.

Well anyways, as I watching all these cool flashing lights and incredible racing action, a transient taps me on the should asking for a cigarette. This guy the gnarliest black scab on his right cheek bone, some random ball cap that looked as if a marching band had walked over it, missing teeth, soulless dark brown blood shot eyes, and he appeared out of no where 6 inches from my face. Being in the middle of a full on mushroom trip, he freaked me out. He offered me 20 cents for a cigarette, I said I didn't have any. Even though I did, USA Gold menthol, 100's even.

At about 9:25, I was wondering if I was gonna be able to handle it any more in this Greyhound station. More people were filing in, clothes in garbage bags, two dozen kids in tow, very Night Of The Living Dead looking. I was feeling quite alien, I felt like I was a good ten feet tall, it felt like everyone knew that I was on the brink of losing my mind. That was what it felt like. They dullness of this bus station, with this glaring fluorescent white glow overhead, the strangest of strangers eyeballing each other. Finally I said to Pop, 'You gonna be all right? I think I'm gonna head out.' He says yeah, we hug it out, and I walk out with these huge feeling of guilt on my shoulders about being totally fucked up the last night my dad was in town. And the feeling someone was gonna follow me home.

The walk home, though only four blocks, felt like it took an hour. The trees branches loomed over the sidewalk, creating pitch black shadows that looked I could fall into. So I walked very cautiously, trying to stay on lighter shaded parts of the side walk. Every car that passed, every rustling of leaves, all noise seemed to be happening right inside my head. All I could think of was the safeness of my apartment, how badly I wanted to be in living room, with blinds closed, the door locked, the lights off. Once I was there I'd be OK.

I finally made it, walked in, kept the lights off, turned on the TV, locked the door behind me, and sat right on the floor maybe a foot away from the TV. I turned on a show called Green Acres, which I had previously not seen before. The show was a riot, my paranoia started to lift, and pretty soon I was licking the inside of the baggy the mushrooms were in, trying to get any dust that may prolong this high that now finally I was enjoying.

I did a lot of coke in L.A., which to me seems like a very L.A. thing to do. At least to me. That shit was every where. I liked it, it was fun, but it wasn't good enough for me to get hooked on. People don't know this little fact, but the heart kinda tribal tattoo on my leg, I got it after I had been up all night snorting coke and drinking vodka. I showed up at my appointment, lay on the table and he started. I am not kidding you, he may as well have been using a ball point pen. It did not hurt at all. I sat and carried on a semi coherent conversation with Shiva the whole time. Later that day, we went to the Saturday Market there in Hollywood, and I bought the Batman wallet that is in my pocket right now.

Drugs were never the problem for me. They were fun, in high school I did as much drugs as I drank, simply because they were easier to come by than alcohol. Alcohol you had to steal or have someone buy for you, in high school I think I stole alcohol maybe 4 times. People always had weed though, speed was pretty prevalent, acid on occasion. Lot of paint huffing too. We did that shit too.

Drinking though, that is my preference. I got to see a lot of the ill effects of drinking as a kid. Some real wild shit, I remember being in the car when my mom got a DUI. My fault too, a cop drove past us on some stretch of highway, she says 'where's that beer??' in a sorta panicked way. So, I being the good son and trying to help, grab it an hold it up for the whole world and the cop to see. We got pulled over, I think I rode in the cop car with her, then had to stay with some family for I guess about a day. I do remember riding in these strangers car going somewhere, and they were getting mad at me for unbuckling my seat belt. I still don't like wearing them..

There's something about booze though. I remember the first time I actually got drunk, I knew I was in trouble. Because to me, this just felt too good. I saw what the fuss was all about now. That first time I got drunk, I ended up sitting out on the curb in front of a friend's house, drunk as hell with a river of vomit flowing down the street towards the drain. A friend's mom picked us up, I got dropped off, passed out with half my ass hanging off the couch. Slept all afternoon, really got in no trouble with my mom, my dad happened to call that same day and sorta laughed about it. Hmmm... No repercussions? Fuck it, it's on now....

And it was too. I went so hard for the next 10+ years, there was no low low enough. Nearly killed myself at 17 in a car accident, while drunk. Kicked out the army, arrested about a dozen times, injuries, blackouts, wrecked cars. None of it mattered. Who knows how many people I hurt. My drinking was at it's all time worst in L.A., it was nothing to me to drink a 5th of Jack Daniels and then go to the bar for a few hours. It was nothing to stay drunk for a few days straight. I didn't care. One day I decided I had had enough, so I took about 30 Excedrin, drank a 5th and passed out. I just knew I wasn't gonna wake up this time, and I couldn't wait. I woke up a few hours later, threw up, stumbled down to the gas station and got a bunch of water and Gatorade, barely even thankful my half ass suicide attempt had failed.

I know now that it wasn't my time to go. If it was I would just jumped off my balcony, I was living on the 3rd floor after all. I could have easily jumped and landed perfectly enough to impale myself on a wrought iron fence down below. I guess I wasn't as hell bent on ending it all as I thought.

The reason, I believe, I was kept alive was to be a father to Tristan. Tristan is the most amazing miracle, the most improbable human being I know. I was kept on this earth to be here for him. Tristan was conceived within weeks of me being back in Idaho. I was hooking up like crazy at this bar downstairs, nothing. Then one random ass night, one isolated incident, I contribute 50% to this little bad ass. That is why I am here. It is what my whole life has lead up to. As hell bent as I was on my own self destruction, something else was in the works.

My all time low, the circumstances that lead me to putting the bottle down for good was getting arrested just 8 days after he was born. He was still in the damn hospital, in intensive care I think. When I saw the flashing lights, the red and blue, knowing I was going down for my 4th DUI, a felony, there was actually a sense of relief. I knew at that exact moment that finally I had had my last drink. That the bottom had been reached, I could start trying to claw my way back up. I was feeling an intense guilt about my selfishness, knowing I was gonna miss part of his life being in jail. I had no idea just how much I would be missing. 80 in days in jail, 8 surgeries. Fucking crazy.

So anyways, 379 days have passed since I last had a drink. For the most part, the desire is gone, but it does creep up every now and then.

That's all I got for now. Thanks for reading.

(Stop tape now)