LET’S TALK ABOUT ADDICTION

There are many types of addiction to be sure. Smoking, drugs and alcohol are the obvious ones. Food can be one, chocolate, sex (I wish), personality disorders and pretty much anything you can conjure up including exercise.
I’ve never been a smoker. It always made me sick and green just wasn’t a color that looked good on me. Like most people of my generation I experimented a little with drugs and quickly discovered I could take ‘em or leave ‘em. They just weren’t that interesting. Unlike Bill Clinton I did inhale marijuana and for some years (I quickly discovered I could smoke that), due to the stressful circumstances in my life at that time, and was the next best thing to a chain smoker for a while to stay calm. I bought Nabisco stock hoping to make some of the money back I spent buying Oreo’s back then years later. I went into therapy for a while only to be told by three different therapists I wasn’t an addict…just confused (really?). Talking about my past went nowhere because neither of us had any clue what we were supposed to be looking for (that answer was recently answered as you well know by this time) so I was pronounced cured handed a ridiculous “Chip” and sent on my way. Truth be told I think we were all tired and frustrated with each other at that point. I don’t think entities like AA, NA, Alanon and so on aren’t useful things. I’ve known far too many people who have lived better lives because of them to discount them in such an abrupt way.
In spite of the life I’ve lived sex, unfortunately, has ever been an addictive issue. I believe sex addiction exists but not nearly to the level people would like to believe it exists. It makes for a great fantasy or punch line to a joke but the reality is far more troublesome in the light of day. I’ve noticed a trend over the past few years where if you’re rich enough, famous enough (and apparently have a big enough putter) and you get caught with your pants down you can claim sex addiction and pay someone a ridiculous sum of money to cure you (Thanks Tiger….not) and hope everything goes away quickly.
For the rest of us, famous or not, addiction usually brings a rather unpleasant means to an end. Bob Crane (the Hogan’s Hero’s guy) was a legitimate sex addict that was beaten to death with a camera tripod while doing a dinner theater gig here in Scottsdale. Rumor has it because he filmed a few too many people having sex in his hotel room one night. Hardly a stellar way to go much less remembered by, his “drug of choice”, to use a PC term, seems to have the same outcome regardless.
I had been cautious of my drinking most all of my life going so far as to not drink at all for several years as a pious way of thinking I was better than my mother who was a full blown alcoholic a large portion of my growing up years and at times belligerent, other times suicidal.
I swore I would never become like that. In some ways I’ve lived to regret that oath.
When she became sober she was like most reborn alcoholics and after apologizing to everyone she ever encountered in her life (including the garbage men). She dove head first into religion as part of her penance and to make amends for her sins (real or imagined). To be around her was tedious at best and I found it difficult to determine if it were genuine or simply lip service in hopes of bluffing her way into forgiveness by whomever somewhere along the way. It made me stop and re-think my own views about religion. For that I must admit I have to thank her for.
Because of that I stopped being the dutiful eldest son. I had done all of that to this particular point in my life and was done with trying to be what I really wasn’t. I had the wife, the two kids (I love to death), the house with the mortgage, the two cars, at least one “regular” job to pay the bills, a couple of dogs romping around the yard, the Sunday School teacher and for a brief moment chairman of the board at the church. I had stuffed the real me into that box I wrote about some time back and only allowed bits and pieces to come out and play to maintain my sanity. All of that came grinding to a halt one day without notice or fanfare. My wife, at the time, woke up one morning and had no clue who I was. To be honest I’m not sure I knew who I was at that moment either. We went down in flames but emerged friends at the end.
I began to look inward and discovered I was not Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu or any other religion organized or otherwise yet at the same time I was all of those things.
I am agnostic by definition. I believe in God…end of story. I don’t feel a need to go to a building and sit there to talk to God nor do I feel the need to have to pay for the privilege of doing that. Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed and all the others are interesting people who like Republicans and Democrats all say pretty much the same thing in different ways and different practices and symbolism…hardly reasons for wars to be fought or laws to be written saying that one interpretation of something is better than the others. Keep it to yourself, believe however you want to believe and in whoever you want to believe in and shut the hell up and concentrate on something important like feeding people, giving them clean water and a decent education regardless of where they live or what they look like. For the cost of one military ordinance bullet you can pay for three math books.
How I ended up in real estate for nearly twenty years during this time is as much a mystery to me as it is anyone else. My best guess is the dutiful son snuck back in for one more shot at redemption and stuck around a lot longer than anyone could have predicted before the real me arose like a Phoenix bird once again and began pissing people off even more.
I never quite succeeded in making my parents entirely proud because of all of this and resulted in a love/hate relationship that was often times tense but cordial. Just as my mom’s health was diminishing due to her heart problems I was getting the first subtle twinges of my own. I was becoming easily fatigued and had to have a couple of extra drinks at night to try and turn my brain off so I could sleep and things progressed that way for almost a year.
My family is no different than anyone else’s. At times when you need it most they have your back but that doesn’t mean they can’t gossip about you behind you’re not around. It must be a sick way of showing they care about someone and no one seems to be exempt from this process. In spite of that fact you can’t help but love them anyways…besides…it leaves so many opportunities open for paybacks later.
Whispers of me “becoming just like mom” were widely circulated and in some cases with “holier than thou” exclamation points attached to it by some members of the family. Nothing could be further from the truth but who cares when “expert opinion” (not) is sooo much more fun.
My mother passed away several months before my own physical deterioration began to run its course so she missed all of the recent fun. My last memories of her was watching her sit at the long dining room table (that sat about twenty people) filled with every imaginable jar and bottle of more pills than any one pharmaceutical company makes with several of those weekly pill compartment things four or five deep and seven across and color coded with an oxygen line stuffed up her nose. In these she would put all of her assorted pills in by when they’re needed. Pink box for morning, blue for mid-morning, green for afternoon and so on, I remember thinking to myself “that will never happen to me.”
As the Zen master once said “We’ll see.”
I started having heart attacks during the day at odd times. They weren’t anything like you hear, read or see on TV and stuff at all but I knew instinctively what it was and my reaction to it was classically male…I tried to ignore it and figured they would go away on their own. When they became persistent I went the classic asshole direction and decided I could cure myself by making my body do what I wanted it to (a discussion my heart and I had a short time later and guess who won.) and just drank a little more at night to sleep. Eventually that didn’t work either and I would be woken out of a sound sleep by my heart shouting “Hey dumb shit! Pay attention to me!” My rational mind told me I could meditate the problem away…which in all honesty worked in the short term (translation…until the next night). Truth is…I was buying time. Our goofball bookkeeper had told us I couldn’t be added to Wendi’s health plan but just once a year and that wouldn’t be until October (almost three months from then). Being self employed health care was a luxury I couldn’t afford at the time. We found out later it could have been done at any time but…
The rest of that sad tale you know so we’ll skip ahead a few months. My meds were still in a constant state of tinkering over the next eighteen months it took to get back to “normal” (I love that word…don’t know what it really means but it’s fun to say now and then). They gave me meds to help me sleep but all they did was make me more awake. They let me start drinking small amounts of alcohol which made the med experiments interesting to say the least. I didn’t abuse the alcohol, in fact in some ways it helped. My first, now identified as a, seizure incident happened during that time. The family, including my wife, was quick to jump on the “alcohol as the culprit” bandwagon. As it turns out…nothing could have been further from the truth yet again.
Like I mentioned a moment ago they tried several things to help me get to sleep and turn my brain off at night and nothing worked. A topic of conversation that continues with my committee of white coated advisors to this day and probably will for some time yet. With all of the recent changes they’ve made to my meds as Howard says it “We’re reluctant to put more wood on the fire until we know what we’re up against.”
With sleep hanging in the balance I eventually gravitated back to the one thing I did know would put me to sleep…my old friend’s tequila and bourbon and for the most part had done the trick with no significant problems except for maybe one or two.
Alcohol is often called “truth serum” because you might say something you otherwise might defer from saying. God knows I’ve done my fair share of that in an effort to fall asleep and at times been less than tactful in the process. Like I mentioned before my mother had a belligerent side when she drank and I’m hereditarily predisposed to being an asshole on my father’s side. Needless to say that little genetic recipe can only be a hurtful disaster at all the wrong times and I’ve spent the past couple of years apologizing to the people I love for being such a dick at those times in so many ways…especially to my wife. Something I’m still working on at many levels. Not just from the drinking irresponsibly but for allowing it to be a, seemingly, good excuse to cut someone off at the knees when they least deserved it.
Addicts can be an entertaining group. If you ever want to learn how to split hairs creatively spend some time talking to one. They’ll give you a hundred and one reasons why they aren’t addicts at all except for one thing…why they couldn’t (or can’t) stop if they needed to. It doesn’t matter what the substance or activity there are some great excuses to be had.
I like to think that’s the difference between me and them is I have walked away from drinking so many times by my own choice without prompting and without withdrawals, regret, remorse or any other feeling of emptiness. I have many advisors I check in with periodically who know a great deal about subjects like this than I do and can give me straight honest answers and also tell me when I’m full of shit. Over the course of the rest of my life I probably will continue to back away now and then many times again in my life but not necessarily because someone said I had to but more because I see doing so at that time is the right thing to do. There’s a difference between doing that and enjoying a glass of wine with dinner or a few drinks with friends now and then than feeling you need to do to that excessively to feel complete or have the courage to do what deep inside you tells you is wrong for you personally.
Before you think about anything else ask yourself this…does this apply to me and my life? If so why? Am I right? Am I grounded or am I fighting windmills disguised as dragons? If not blow it off.
My family so wants me to be the scapegoat and whipping boy of their own dysfunctional lives that they may or may not believe what I’m saying or trying to say. They’re in dire need of someone to point a finger at and feel superior about. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter either way with me personally but how they ever reconcile things like this for themselves…
Like the old Zen master said…”We’ll see.”

MESSING WITH KIDS HEADS

There’s an added advantage to being my age and perceived as somewhat disabled. One is what you hear isn’t always what someone says. It makes for interesting (albeit frustrating at times) conversations with the participating people. The other advantage is you can get away with saying a lot of things people might think but never say out loud and people will just assume you need your meds adjusted again. With kids either side of that equation can be laughs by the boatload… for me at least. The trick, I’ve discovered is to use terminology they’re too young to know about and historical and social references they haven’t learned about from school or TV yet.
Some time back we had one of the many family gatherings that, more often than not, took place at our house because A) We had the room to do so and B) We had the kitchen, equipment, barbecues and smokers (not to mention the freezers and refrigerators) to prepare and feed a small country.
As would often be the case the smell of the food cooking and smoking would make the grandkids and their child like relatives, friends and assorted conspirators of similar size to be in a constant state of hunger long before dinner would be ready. At times like this they would usually hit “Papa” up for a snack. A) I was generally always in the kitchen making something. B) The other adults were too busy gossiping to hear the kid’s requests and C) They were always entertained by the performance (think of it as Dinner and a Show for the “Must be in bed by 8PM” crowd).
Generally I start out asking them what they’d like to eat and then after getting all of their answers decide what I feel like making for them while launching into a mash-up of every kids show that’s ever been made as I head towards the refrigerator. Bear in mind…the sicker, more twisted or gross you can get without stepping over that graphic boundary line the more kids like it. I don’t know why but they do. As I recall I thought that shit was funny when I was their age too.
“Gee Mr. Veetle, what’s in the Magic Refrigerator today?” “I don’t know Bobby, let’s find out shall we.” “Let’s see… we have a jar of caterpillars Bill Nye the Science Guy left here, some peanut butter, some hard boiled eggs Mr. Rogers dropped by (at which time I turn around and ask “Can you say “hard boiled?” I knew you could.” And let’s see….” “What’s that Mr. Veetle?” “Oh, that’s a head of cabbage Bobby.” “Are you sure Mr. Veetle? It kinda looks like the head of Mr. Nash the mailman.” “No Bobby it’s a head of cabbage. I got it fresh out of our neighbor John Wayne Gacy’s garden this morning.” “Besides, Mr. Nash has two ears and this only has one.” “Oh, OK Mr. Veetle. If you say so.”
About this time I finish making whatever I’m going to feed them and serve it to them. The kids are giggling and happily eating their snack. It’s then, and only then, I notice the silence in the rest of the house. I look up to see all of the adults in the house staring at me with eyes as big a saucers and their mouths hanging open nearly to the floor unable to speak. A personal “gotcha” moment for me, a photographic moment Kodak would love to have and Hallmark couldn’t come up with a sappy rhyme for. Vengeance is mine.
I have been quick to notice though that, given the right environment, children don’t need much encouragement to be bizarre. They discover early on that not much is out of bounds in “Papa’s World” which they appreciate. A perfect illustration is this:
My youngest daughter (The youngest of the three daughters by a mere eight weeks but…) who had some serious career choices to make in her life that went from World domination to gorilla motherhood and opted for the latter, she now has three beautiful, talented daughters who think camouflage is a fashion statement. She recently became leader of a radical faction of the PTA in the town she lives in out in IOWA. They meet in a secret bunker hidden in a cornfield and plot out subversive bake sales and paramilitary training disguised as “play dates” for the kids.
While she was still living here in the valley she asked if I could watch the girls for the afternoon while she did a bunch of things and I agreed to do this. At the time there were only two of them ages three and six. My daughter was pregnant with number three at the time.
At the appointed time she pulled up in the side driveway (that doubled as a landing strip for small planes in the neighborhood) in her SWAT team vehicle disguised as a family SUV fitted with Rhino bars, armor plating, bulletproof windows, and air lines with masks that fell out of a compartment in the ceiling if foul odors entered the vehicle. The car seats were bolted to the Kevlar covered seats. It had tires that would travel for fifty miles even after being punctured by armor piercing shells and a cute little “Baby on Board” sign in the back window. To say she is an overprotective mother would be more than a mild understatement.
She would hand me the keys because she knew I was going to have to pick my wife up at work later and wanted to make sure the girls were safe on the trip. Took the keys to my car and was off with a hearty “Hi, Ho, Silver” to points unknown.
The youngest was quick to notice we were one dog short that day. “Where’s Jack?” she asked.
“Jack got sick and passed away” I said as I tried how to explain this whole concept to her when she asked “What does that mean?” Before I could utter a word the six year old lets out an evil laugh and says “ That means he got buried under a big pile of dirt in the back yard.” Before falling to the floor in fits of laughter, truth be told…she wasn’t far off the mark.
Jack had been our rescue dog. Our office at the time was in the far north part of the valley at Carefree Highway and 28th Dr. One day my wife sees a silver Mercedes pull up in front of our office and take a pure breed pointer out of his car and tie his leash to a handicapped sign post next to it while he unloaded some things out of the back seat. Wendi figured he was taking the dog to the vet down the walkway and thought nothing of it and went back to what she was doing. A few minutes later she looks up and the dog and his stuff are still there and the Mercedes was gone. To make a long story short we inherited a dog that the vet told us had been starved, beaten and tied (probably to a water spicket) by his very short leash on a permanent basis and was half dead, could hardly walk and had difficulty standing up but we took him home anyway rather than put him down.
Our Rottweiler was a lovable oversized lap dog the kids loved and she was very protective of the grandkids. God help the person who tried to get between her and the grandkids without first saying hello to her and getting her permission to approach them. The only negative to her personality was she didn’t like other dogs. She would do everything in her power to tear through a fence or window to get at a dog two blocks away and was therefore in her territory because she could see them. We cautiously introduced Jack (my wife named him that because she said his spots were the color of Jack Daniels…and he walked like a drunk) to Angel. Angel surprisingly didn’t act aggressively and seemed to understand his predicament and immediately took charge of him.
Jack was malnourished, crippled, had no reverse gear but was lovable and the grandkids took to him immediately and had great fun trying to keep him from running into things and out of places he couldn’t back out of. Angel grew tired of having to nudge him out of harm’s way and being stepped on but she still got quickly attached to him too. Jack was showing slight signs of getting better every day.
A few days before the girls came over we made the mistake of leaving the dogs outside while we ran an errand. When we came home we found Jack floating in the pool and Angel lying on the pool deck near him looking heartbroken. We fished him out and my daughter and son-in-law (the one’s we live with now) were living in our guest house at the time and took him out to the horse arena behind it and buried him in the far corner.
All of that lay fresh in my mind while the six year old was doubled over in self created laughter. A short time later we had to go get Wendi at the office so off up the freeway we headed. At the time they were widening the I-17 to Anthem and building the new interchange where the I-17 and the 303 would connect so there was a lot of construction going on.
Out of the blue both girls shriek with laughter and shout “Look Papa! Big piles of dirt! What have they buried there?!” and with each pile of dirt they saw from there to Carefree Highway they would laugh even harder.
It just goes to show you. Children don’t need anyone’s help to be twisted but it’s still fun to try now and then. It’s still fun to get the better of my kids when they least expect it too. The world must remain cautious. I am old and have drugs…you never know what I’ll say next or when.
More later.

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED LATELY

First and foremost: It’s not a bright idea to think you’re smart enough when you’re tired to write a blog page. So many things get left out that might have actually made sense to what I wrote. My apologies to everyone who were unfortunate enough to read last night’s post.
Experimenting with recreational drugs when I was younger was interesting but expensive. These days…standing up too fast gets the same effect and it’s free. Not only that, as Robin Williams recently pointed out, we have reached an age where our doctors are now our pushers and give us far more interesting shit for free.
I have discovered there really is no difference in Republicans and Democrats anymore. They all say the same things; they just use different words while pointing fingers at the other one complaining the other guy is too stupid to realize they’re the smart ones. For much the same reason I have no fantasy to see Sarah Palin, Nancy Pelosi or Michelle Bachman naked. That would fall under TMI and I may never be able to sleep again. It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase on one of my son-in-laws t-shirts that says “Can’t go to sleep…clowns will eat me”.
AARP is a super secret government entity. How else would they know to send you membership information the week before your fiftieth birthday and how else would they find out you were just in the hospital and send you health care info and brochures for assisted living centers the day you get home from the hospital? The discounts are nice but I can only eat at Denny’s once a year without my stomach and taste buds revolting. Besides…apparently I look so feeble these days I get discounts everywhere I go without flashing that cute little red, grey and white card. The only time it really comes in handy are the few times a year my wife and I actually have to go near Sun City. Happy hour is still 10AM – 7PM seven days a week but to get the extra discount you have to show your card (my wife loves it she says it’s like being twenty-one again).
Sending away for samples isn’t always as great as they seem either. You quickly end up with a house full of crap you’ll never use again if you ever use it at all (the kids have developed an attitude of extreme caution when opening their Christmas gifts from us these days fearing what might be inside that we wanted to get rid of). I made the mistake of agreeing to test drive “ObamaCare” not too long ago (why they contacted a Republican for this is beyond me). I chose the $230.00 a month plan for my wife and me to see what we got for the money. Three months later a package was thrown through our front window by the mailman. Inside the box was our first monthly installment of ObamaCare. It consisted of two tongue depressors with the words “Can also be used as splints.” printed on one side, six packets holding two 325mg Aspirin tablets each, a small roll of duct tape, a small roll of silk fishing line, two fish hooks, a small packet of sewing needles, a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, twelve band-aids, a two page list of participating physicians and hospitals around the country (most places you can’t even find with Google Maps) and a three hundred page booklet of medicines not covered by this program. It gave me a warm fuzzy just thinking of how I’m going to be taken care of if this program actually passes.
Sex as I’ve gotten older is even more of an adventure than it was when I was younger. It doesn’t mean I’ve learned a whole lot of new things as I’ve aged. Most of that stuff you learn the first fifteen or twenty years of your post-pubescent life. The things you learn after that are more technique and application. Given this lifestyle I live in you have many opportunities to practice and refine those things over the years. If you’re lucky enough to develop a technique or style that really catches on you develop a reputation for it. The down side of that is you have to keep figuring out how to maintain that edge. At this day and age I can still drive a nail through a 2X4 with my manhood…I just can’t build an entire house anymore. Like many men my age these days I raise the white flag a little earlier than I used to at let someone else take over as I drag my sorry ass back to the bar to recover. In spite of that fact though I find myself in the awkward position of having to send a much delayed Thank-you note to President Obama and his health care idea, I have been able to figure out an additional use for those tongue depressors and duct tape…you figure out how.
On to figure out how I fit into this ever changing world we live in these days.

IT’S GOOD TO BE KING

There are a few advantages and perks that come along with the age I am now. Only a few of them have been handed to me due to my physical deterioration. Most are badges awarded for longevity, ability to survive and wisdom gleaned in the process. With each badge won and leaders fallen you advance up the hierarchy to positions of more power and authority.
Assuming you were granted the power early on you were master of your castle. It’s still in question whether I had such power back then or simply given figurehead status for public ceremonial use only. My ex-wife who went from wife to sister and my current wife and most trusted advisor (who also share the same name, just spelled differently) know the answer to that question but aren’t willing to tell me what it is.
In any event I have amassed and become defacto master of many houses over the years. My children defer to my judgment…sometimes (a giant step forward in many ways from the battles once fought when they were teenagers and I had a ready grave dug in the backyard to put them in if necessary.). They seek out my council (usually when they want an argument settled between themselves and their spouses or their kids.). The grandkids are still grappling with the position of authority I hold. At one moment they will approach me at the foot of my throne with sorrowful faces and water filed eyes and ask “Papa can I (enter request here)?” This is one of those moments when being legally deaf has a fun side because they assume I can’t hear anything at all. I look down at them with comforting eyes and ask “What did your parents say?” (Knowing full well what conversations have already transpired). Their gaze fails to meet my eyes any longer as the quietly say “They said no.” I always allow for a long dramatic pause before saying “Then I’m going to have to say no too then.”
This generally brings out the waterworks and the frustrated admonishment “…but YOU’RE THE PAPA!” as if I still had the power and authority to reverse their parents decision, send them to their room, give them a time-out or spank them (THAT thought is so twisted I won’t even store it in my “kinky” closet).
The very same child will on a different occasion sit down next to me and tell me when we’re babysitting them “My mommy and daddy let me do this, that and the other thing at home all the time.” Thinking I’m really as senile as I look and mightily surprised when that trick doesn’t work either. Children can’t win or lose with me it appears.
My influence reaches far beyond the confines of my castle these days as well. In the lifestyle I have chosen to live within my adult life I am considered an elder statesman, diplomat and respected authority of it which has allowed me to write countless articles (and one book in the works) about the subject along with speaking and lecturing on it over the years. I have been interviewed in print, radio and TV at local and national levels and even been called as a witness in courts in support of it yet I’m still just another face in the crowd.
My wife and I have been fortunate enough to be hosts every month for the past seven years of a meet and greet for like minded people who share that lifestyle with us. They are well attended events filled with people from all walks of life from doctors, lawyers, educators, members of the clergy, captains of finance and industry, UPS drivers, grocery clerks, artists, musicians, mechanics, realtors and every other imaginable occupation you can come up with and we are blessed to know them and have them in our lives.
We had one such event last night. Sort of a coming out party for me since my recent little setback, I was more nervous about this one than anything I’ve done in quite a while. I wasn’t sure how people might react. Many of them read my blogs and articles in other places so I knew a lot of them had been following my adventures of late and their possible reactions to my current circumstances were a bit uncertain. I have been a rather public face for a discreet group of people for a large part of my life now. Would this be too much for them to bear?
My concerns it would appear were unfounded. The place was packed with more people than have said they were going to be there. The sincere offers of support were overwhelming and truly appreciated. What made my heart swell were the genuine display of concern for my wife. After the pats on the back and the heartfelt statements I would move on and work the crowd as I have always done at this event. My wife would be pulled aside and asked questions that would always begin with “his blog is great but…” and would be followed by “What’s really going on with him?” It was the next question they would ask that made me proud to call all of these people my friends. That question would be asked directly to her… “How are YOU doing and holding up?”
I now know I will stand shoulder to shoulder with these people for the rest of my life. They don’t roll out red carpets for me; they don’t genuflect in front of me or anything like that. They simply show me an honest, sincere, deeply unwavering affection for me and mine.
I may not outwardly wear a crown or have an entourage around me but inside me I do. I can sit on my stool on nights like that and look around at the faces in front of me and think “It’s good to be King” without looking or sounding like a jerk doing it. I wear the badges inside me to prove I’ve earned it. If anyone’s really interested in seeing them I’ve been fitted with a zipper on my chest some years ago and will gladly show them to you.
In the meantime I move forward to my next challenge.

BACK TO THE LAND OF AZ

A couple of years ago I had the misfortune, as everyone does from time to time, to pay a visit to the Department of Motor Vehicle to renew the tags on our car. Normally these days that’s something that can easily be done online but this situation was a little more complicated and required a face to face visit with the Great and Powerful Wizard who runs the land of AZ.
Within a matter of seconds I was reduced from a human to a number and had become K693 for the duration of my visit. How long was the duration you ask? I celebrated my birthday there with my new found friends. The problem there is I started this process the Monday after Thanksgiving. My birthday is in March…you do the math. By the time I made it home with the new tags on the car what little hair I had left on my head had grown considerably. The kids couldn’t decide if I looked more like Albert Einstein or Karl Marx (I opted for Groucho). The whole thing was quite traumatic to say the least.
With my recent medical and physical maladies still fresh and raw it was decided by all parties (except me) I needed to get a handicapped sticker. Since I’m no longer allowed to drive I found that a somewhat redundant and belated move. What was I supposed to do hang it on my ear or staple it to my ass? Yet I reluctantly agreed. My regular doctor, Howard, (I love this guy. Everyone should have Howard as their doctor. The guy’s just as sick and twisted as I am.) couldn’t sign the paperwork fast enough and gleefully marked a big X in the Permanent box in the choices of how long the permit should be for. A dagger that went straight through my heart, not only have I been denied the chance to beat him in basketball, but now it rules out trying to run him down in the parking lot as well.
With paper in hand I shuffle off to the car looking and feeling like a kid being sent to the Principals Office. I must go and face the Wizard…again. The DMV office is a mere two blocks away from Howard’s office so I had little or no time to come up with a perfectly ridiculous excuse that would convince my wife not to take me there. Being the evil person she is she made me go in alone while she stayed in the car hoping to start and finish War and Peace before I returned.
My trembling hand (remember the meds are still messing with me) I open the door and enter the Land of AZ. The Keno boards filled with letters and numbers were still there along with the faceless soothing voice guiding people to their ultimate demise. The people still have the same look of resignation cattle have being led to slaughter yet something was different.
Even places like the Land of AZ tweak the system now and then just to see if anyone is paying attention. They call it streamlining I call it fucking with your mind. I suspect in the long scheme of things…it’s all the same thing.
I look around to see which line I’m supposed to stand in to begin this travesty when a bright shining light from the heavens shines onto a small sign no one is standing at “Geriatrics and Droolers Start Here”. As I start towards the sign I turn and thank the security guard still turning off and putting away his flashlight. I hand the nice lady behind the counter my form and a moment later I am handed a freshly minted handicapped thingy instead of a ticket with a letter and number on it. The Great and Powerful Az has taken pity on me. I bounce out to the car to be greeted by a surprised wife who has only gotten to page ten at that point. She puts the book away and we drive off in the opposite direction of the sunset home.
I still don’t know why I had to get one of those things. My wife and daughter are the only ones who have had the opportunity to enjoy its benefits so far. From what I hear it’s been far easier to find parking while shopping these days for them but time will tell if it’s all worth going off to see the Wizard for or not.

MEMORIES...

Are not in the corners of my mind…well…actually they are. They’re just freaking hard to find these days. I’ve had my breakfast. I took my shower so my wife would stop complaining that I smell like a troll. I have my tea beside me as I…what was I saying? Oh yeah… as I gaze out on the picturesque parking lot of our apartment complex. I have my treasure map in front of me so let’s go find those pesky and elusive memories everyone romantically sings about.
First off, this has nothing to do with my recent foray into medical guinea pigness. This all began a few years earlier with all of my heart surgeries.
The doctors are quick to tell you things as you’re being wheeled down a hall with an army of white coats around you things like “If we don’t do this right now you’re going to die!” “We’re going to keep you conscious through the surgery because we’ll need to ask you questions from time to time but you won’t remember any of it later.” My first thought was…”wanna bet?” which left me with only one plausible and rational response since I was still very under the influence of the other drugs they gave me for the surgery I was just coming out of and that was “OK wake me when it’s over.” Then I looked at my wife as if to say “The ball’s in your court now…run with it. “ and I went back to sleep.
What they don’t tell you are things I didn’t learn until several days later after they brought me out of the coma. I come to in a private room in Cardiac ICU (which has become my personal suite. I have a decorator re-do the whole thing every six months to keep it fresh) and, as is typical for people doing this, I started to try and rip my ventilator out of my mouth and the wires and IV’s out of my arms. Needless to say I got a shot of something wonderful (I still don’t know what it was but it was OUTSTANDING!) as they tied my hands down and as I drifted back to sleep I remember thinking “We need to buy an olive pitter.” And out I went.
When I awoke some time later that maniac surgeon was standing at the foot of my bed as the breathing tube was being removed. There must be a class that all doctors and food servers must take because he starts asking me questions while my mouth is still full of this large plastic tube expecting me to give him an answer! Just like “So how’s your dinner?” I eventually regain my composure (and the urge to strangle him) and settle back for out little bedside chat.
It’s then, and only then, that he drops the first bomb. “It’s quite common for people who undergo the type of trauma and surgery your body went through to have a certain amount of memory loss. Some will be short lived and some will be gone forever. Because you were also in a coma you may not get as much back as others might.” “Well thanks for the heads up beforehand pal!” I’m thinking to myself. He talks about the emotions I’ll be going through and my other doctors will help me work through that (Queue the conversation that was never had about anti-depressants as “My Heart Bleeds for You” plays softly in the background by a string quartet.) With that he was off, never to be seen again but the masked man did leave a silver bullet at the foot of my bed… along with a bill.
He proved to be pretty accurate. I, thankfully, don’t remember anything about the surgery. According to my wife I was one angry asshole for a very long time. Today, thanks to the anti-depressants I’m only an asshole. Medicines can only correct so many things and unfortunately hereditary issues aren’t necessarily one of them. If you look in the dictionary today under “asshole” there’s still a family portrait there of at least four generations of Eakins men. My memory is the pile of shit my surgeon predicted it would be. It amazes me what I do and don’t remember.
Every one of us hangs our hat on the memories we’ve tucked away in our heads. Some stay factual, some take on an illusion of what we had wished or hoped had happened. The disconcerting part about illusions is that, given enough time, they seem to become real. Reality for me these days is much more of an interesting challenge than fantasy and sometimes it’s difficult to filter what is and isn’t real. Childhood memories sometimes become suspect. Most people can remember large parts of their childhood and growing up. The people they knew, the places they lived and had visited the magical (and sometimes not so magical) moments of being a kid.
I can remember quite vividly when I was so young I couldn’t walk or talk. I was lying in my crib supposedly going to sleep when I had this epiphany of a thought I just had to share it with my parents. I pulled myself up into a standing position and began to get their attention. Now remember, I couldn’t talk yet so a large amount of blabbering, noise making and probably the occasional cry was involved (some things don’t change in nearly sixty years) but this was important shit. My dad eventually came into the room quietly asking me what was up as he picked me up and carried me across my yellow walled bedroom and sat down with me in the rocker in the corner while I frantically told him my idea. Before long I was out like a light.
I remember that brief incident so long ago it’s not funny but I can’t tell you the names of half of the kids I went to school with and even fewer of my college classmates. We won’t even get started on teachers. I can tell you the day and place I bought my first car… but I don’t remember what I had for lunch three days ago. I fondly remember the girl I lost my virginity to and when and where but the lovers I’ve had through my adult life in this lifestyle I live in… few and far between at best. My phone number and social security number are a crapshoot. You may get me if you call or you may get a support service technician in India. If you get “Hello, my name is “Mike” how can I help you?” It’s a sure bet I gave you the wrong number. E-mail my wife for the right one.
Memories are fleeting…especially for someone like me. It’s going to be interesting what treasures I uncover this year as I dig through the rest of my brain. As long as I don’t make that wrong turn in Albuquerque I should be just fine.
Stay tuned campers.

This brain fart brought to you by Paxil. If you can’t afford your prescription contact GLAXOSMITHKLEIN to see if they can help.

It's a Bird, It's a Plane...

“No Dad…the sky’s in the other direction. Let me help you back up.” And so begins my new journey.
Not a typical beginning to be sure. In stories I’ve written in the past they began in somewhat more scenic and exotic locations for the most part and not face down in a parking lot in north Scottsdale. This will be a first on many levels.
My doctor’s visits have been made; my meds have been adjusted once again in an attempt to regain a somewhat normal blood pressure level in my body. So now I can sit here with my green tea and a plate of cheese, meat, olives and fruit and begin to make some sense of what lies ahead for me.
Let me tell you right from the get-go…getting older is not all that bad. It’s not for the faint hearted either. Things you take for granted in life somehow take on a new life all their own and how you deal with them can be frustrating, humorous or downright disheartening depending on how you approach things.
As an example: The dashing international playboy with the chiseled body of yesterday has been replaced one night while I was sleeping by a genetic blending of Colonel Sanders and Mr. Clean. Not too long ago I won first prize at a Halloween party for my “Uncle Fester” costume. The problem was…I wasn’t wearing a costume but that didn’t deter me from graciously accepting the award.
I have been fortunate enough in life to avoid some of the physical mishaps men my age have had to deal with thus I have never taken Viagra, Cialis or such things. Yes ladies it’s true…I’m still organic but if you want to utilize my services please contact me between the hours of 2PM and 4PM after I’ve had my nap otherwise all bets are off. (A sick part of me would love to give those things a try while I still take nitrates for my heart. I’d love to see just how low blood pressure can go.)
I’m still a gourmet cook and aficionado of fine wine, good bourbon and stellar tequila. I just can’t have as much of it as I used to. Living like a rock star wasn’t a good fit for me. A) Because I’m stone deaf. B) Because it never occurred to me to learn a musical instrument. C) I am legally prohibited from singing in seventeen states, thirty-two counties and at least twelve cities around the world (I’m even prohibited from singing karaoke in Japan). And D) I never really looked all that good in spandex.
Living like a bohemian artist doesn’t work so well these days either. The older I’ve gotten the less clutter I can tolerate. Mismatched furniture hurts my brain. Sleek, modern and uncluttered is the world I prefer to live and work in these days. Partially because that’s where I am mentally these days and partially because all of these people with clipboards who have recently entered my life want me to have wide unobstructed pathways so I don’t fall and kill anyone on the way to the bathroom.
I’m anxious to start painting again but the remnants of my studio of long ago are locked away in a giant storage locker along with all of my other belongings that I have been banned from entering by my wife and children (even my eldest granddaughter has gotten into the act) so it’s anybody’s guess when that’s likely to actually happen. My wife, three daughters, three son-in-laws and four granddaughters have circled the wagons and placed guards to keep me out of trouble. Since that mishap on NYE with the glass I’ve been reduced to plastic cups. I’ve come to appreciate the philosophical underpinnings of that unfortunate song “Red Solo Cup” Toby Keith sings about. I used to hate it…now I’m starting to like it.
In the meantime I’m reduced to sitting here writing what Shakespeare once described as “a tale told by a fool, filled with sound and fury, signifying…nothing.”
For those crazy few who asked me to write more about what was happening to me. Please fasten your seat belts and put your tray tables and seat backs in the upright position… we’re in for an interesting ride.

Simple Pleasures

A New Year, the old one is just barely gone at the time I’m writing this. This is generally the time people trot out their “Thank God the old year is over, blah, blah, blah” speeches. They bemoan how terrible the last year was (which it most certainly was this last year) and how “This year things are going to be different” statements followed by an assortment of resolutions regarding losing weight, quitting smoking and whatnot. Some sincere, some not so much but all said by everyone this time of year as if required by law to do so. I started to do that yet again but was stopped short by a more direct form of resolution generation.
I have lived what many people consider an exciting life filled with adventure (sexual and otherwise), travel, art, music and intellectual pursuits surrounded by sensual and interesting people (some famous, some infamous) whom I still have a deep and unwavering affection for and will until I die. I am proud to call those people friends. I was fortunate enough to meet and marry the true love of my life (although I do wish it had been sooner in life). Together we have shared many experiences only a few have dared to consider and been stronger for it. I have eaten elegant meals in exotic locations prepared and served by celebrity chefs at their personal tables. I have sampled fine wines direct from the barrels at legendary vineyards with world class wine makers and owners. My wife and I are preferred guests at several five star hotels and our wardrobes have been tended to or created by some of the most talented designers and tailors in the world yet our lives have hardly been “charmed”.
My health problems over the past six or seven years have been well documented in other scribbling I have done so I won’t bore anyone with a regurgitation of that. With health problems often comes the ability to maintain a steady cash flow and constant adjustments to one’s lifestyle. Going from homes larger than most people’s “McMansions” with more rooms and guest houses than a person can use, expensive cars that don’t get you from point A to point B any faster or more comfortably than one a third of the price (and still more than you first house costs) to no car at all at periods of time and small apartments smaller than your former master bedroom. I have experienced these things in the past year or so and more.
With each adjustment would prompt a re-assessment of what had brought me to that moment and what I should do to right the sinking ship and change its course. Such a process began, yet again, last summer. The New Year wasn’t even on the radar yet. My health was unstable at best so my, ever growing, collection of doctors and I began a quest to find out just what was wrong with me. Along with that I began to question how I earned a living. I had marginalized what I had spent my life learning about art, writing, and photography. I had continued to earn “fun money” doing those things but had abandoned those vocations as my primary source of income almost twenty years ago and replaced them with real estate. I wrestled and forced the real me and my true nature into Pandora’s Box and locked it tight storing it in a dark corner of a closet full of useless junk back so many years ago.
October of 2011 was a largely forgettable month. We were no closer to figuring out what was wrong with me and my lack of energy and other ailments. My real estate business had evaporated. My wife, my rock who had stuck with me through all of the changes and made some pretty tough decisions on my behalf at times I was incapable of making them myself had just about reached the end of her rope. Some drastic changes needed to be made and quickly.
Through all of this that box was rattling in the back of my mind.
An off handed chance conversation with my primary doctor shed the first shred of light on my predicament. He asked what anti-depressants had been prescribed after my heart surgery. He almost fell off of his stool when I said “none”. Apparently the normal course of treatment after a major surgery is to put someone on anti-depressants to help combat the anger, fear and depression they will most certainly feel after such an experience. Needless to say I was put on yet another drug to my ever growing collection of pills immediately.
About the same time my broker (and one of my best friends) and I had a heart to heart talk about my business. I had gone from a shining star of real estate to not even being on the radar anymore. It was decided I should put my license on hold with the State while I decide what I really want to do when I grow up.
So it’s now November. The New Year is drawing closer and I find myself jobless, homeless (we had to give up our apartment because my wife had been laid off nearly two years ago and people our age are hardly employable at the moment and she had run out of unemployment benefits) and carless. I had succeeded in becoming what I had jokingly threatened to become at some point in my life… a burden to my children. We had been reduced to sleeping on one of our daughters couches while we figured out what to do next.
Thanksgiving and Christmas came and went without fanfare. While searching for work during that time I chanced upon two creative positions with the same company and dutifully sent my resume’ to them and was soundly rejected. Undaunted I sent them a letter suggesting they combine both positions. I was more than qualified for both even though I hadn’t been actively involved in a creative field for more than twenty years but they could more than afford the salary I was asking by combining the two positions. With that I waited for their response.
New Year’s Eve was a quiet one in comparison to many we’ve had in the past spent with our daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter eating pizza and wings with a glass of wine while the kids played on the Wii they bought for Christmas. It was far from the lavish spectacles experienced years before filled with decadent food, rivers of alcohol and elegantly dressed people who eventually become naked piles of flesh enjoying the pleasures of each other’s bodies. Somehow the scene before me this particular night seemed just perfect. Simple food, a couple glasses of wine and family.
Midnight came and we toasted the New Year with a glass of Rose’ Cava, put the granddaughter to bed and settled on the couches to talk while we wound down and got tired enough to sleep.
As we began our “Thank God the year is over” speeches I got up to put an empty glass on the counter in the kitchen and get a drink of water. The glass barely made it to the counter when I felt myself going to the floor taking the glass with me. A moment later I feel someone trying to get me up off of the floor before going down a second time. I later learned it had been my wife and my feet had been shaking so badly she couldn’t get me balanced in a stable manner. It took her, my son-in-law and my daughter to get me up bleeding from several cuts on both hands and arms from the glass which had broken in my hand. They bandaged my wounds and put me on the couch where I slept restlessly through the remainder of the night. The next morning I had a small breakfast and was ordered to stay on the couch. At one point my wife decided to change my bandages. Once again I found myself hitting the floor with my feet and arms shaking uncontrollably.
After a brief phone conversation with my doctor (it pays to have their cell phones on speed dial) and fresh bandages I found myself in the all too familiar confines of John C. Lincoln Deer Valley ER (they’re going to name an entire wing after me soon). Eight hours later and after every imaginable test, X-ray, ultra-sound and blood test created by man they found…nothing…again. My heart, it appears, is unbelievably strong and I appear to not have any blockages but my blood pressure sucked. The three wise men (my cardiologists) and my personal doctor decided to keep me for a while and have a neurologist look at me in the morning.
The next morning I meet the new doctor now added to my ever growing stable of people with a lot of initials behind their names. The frustrating part is he’s barely old enough to be my son and as a parent have found my children’s maturity level to be somewhat suspect on occasion. Now I’m in the awkward position of trusting someone that age with my personal well being. To make it worse…we’re talking about my brain here (irony rears its ugly head at the strangest time doesn’t it?). And so the tests begin.
After each test young doctor “Spooky” would wander in and ask a question or two before disappearing to order yet another test. Just after one such test ( I don’t remember if it was the MRI, CaT Scan or Electrowhatever it’s called with the wires all over my head) in he walks in again. This time he’s got the three wise men and my regular doctor with him. “Have you ever had a stroke?” was his question. “Nope” was my response. “Are you sure?” … “I’m pretty sure I’d have known if I had.” was my response. “Hmmmmm” is all he says as the whole bunch shuffle out the door. A moment later he comes back in and asks “Your medical records say you’ve had Cerebral Palsy your whole life. Is that true?” “ I was born with it. What of it?” I said.
“Hmmmmm.” He says again and heads back out the door.
An hour and a half later or so Dr. Spooky returns while my wife, sister and my eldest daughter and I are talking with a great proclamation.
“You’ve fallen down a lot your whole life haven’t you?”
“Yep, I’ve chalked it up to my Cerebral Palsy and a bum knee going wonky now and then and thought nothing of it why?”
“The falling down isn’t from an odd muscle failure now and then. You’ve been having seizures. Seizures caused by a stroke.”
The silence in the room was disturbingly deafening before he continued with…
“You’ve had a massive stroke on the left side of your brain that, by all accounts, you shouldn’t have survived from. At best you should have had difficulty speaking, reasoning, doing any kind of math, play sports, remember things, walking or be creative if you had survived at all. Yet here you are. The falling down wasn’t your muscles going wonky it was your brain going wonky. You’re having what’s called “non-epileptic seizures”.”
He paused for a moment to let me take in what he had just said before continuing with…
“You’re going to be on a seriously strong anti-seizure medicine for the rest of your life which is going to require a few life changes. You can’t drive anymore…ever. You can’t operate heavy equipment, fly a plane or anything like that. You can’t stand for extended periods of time. You’ll have to walk with a cane the rest of your life to help maintain your balance. You will have to severely limit your alcohol consumption and you will have to apply for and go on permanent disability because you’ll be unable to work.”
With that statement my past present and future was wiped away.
“How or when did this happen?” was my only question.
“As near as we can tell the stroke was a long time ago. It doesn’t show up as anything new on the scans and tests. We believe it happened just before you were born which created your Cerebral Palsy. Back then that was the best neurological explanation they could give at the time. That’s also why you spent the first few years of your life in physical therapy and in leg braces. You’re a one in a million survivor.”
With that he left leaving me and my family to dumbfoundedly look at each other.
My New Year’s resolution was decided for me in a heartbeat and handed to me without gift wrapping or a bow. It wasn’t going to be looking for a job, losing weight or any of the other things ordinarily associated with such things. It was going to be learning to live my life all over again with some necessary tweaks here and there.
I will still have the love of my life, my wife and best friend, my family and a brave new world to explore from a different perspective. I will probably lose some of my friends because they won’t know how to deal with the new me and possibly fear what I might represent to themselves and their lives…unfortunate but if it must be…so be it.
My life has already changed in the short amount of time that this has happened. I rise a little later than I used to and have a robust breakfast of sixteen assorted pills and a glass of water followed by a cup of green tea while I answer e-mail and read the news online.
I may have a light lunch of fresh and dried fruits, various cheeses, nuts and fresh breads before taking a nap.
My afternoon is taken up writing for my book or whatever article that will bring a little extra cash into the family funds. I recently unlocked that box in the closet and am anxious to paint and take pictures that will mean something to people other than me and my misguided ego. I’m seeking out commissions, assignments and competitions to keep me busy and alive.
The daughter who took me in and let me sleep on her couch is looking for a larger place to live because the kids are quite certain and aware I can no longer live by myself. I can’t even take a shower unless someone is home with me so they’re going to find a place with enough space for my wife and I to live other than the living room.
When evening comes I sit with a cup of tea or glass of wine and watch the sun go down content in a twisted sort of way how my life has come about but anxious to do more for more people with the limited abilities still left me and leave a lasting imprint for those who follow.
More isn’t always better. Sometimes it takes a surprise to help you appreciate the simple things you’ve always had but managed to overlook. Happy New Year.