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.

"THE" Wine Meet & Greet

Join everyone in January and help bring in the New Year right at the sexiest and longest running Meet & Greet in the state with the Hottest people you’d ever want to party with!
Everyone has already rung in 2012 on the 1st now let’s take it one step further and set the tone for the rest of the year and what sexy fun it brings!
People have started making travel plans from around the country to be here each month for this M&G. It just keeps getting bigger and sexier every month and you won’t want to miss it. The last thing you’ll want to hear from your sexy friends and playmates are …”You should have been there.”
If you need Hotel accommodations check our website at http://arizonalifestyles.org for a list of hotels near Terroir Wine Pub.
So join us Saturday January 21st at the classiest and longest running Meet & Greet in the Valley for the most enjoyable first part of an evening a Lifestyler can have with their clothes on! And speaking of clothes… Dress as sexy as you dare! If you’re still in the Holiday Spirit show it!
A SPECIAL NOTE: As long as you’re having a good time the staff at Terroir will keep the place open for us so the closing time is now flexible.
ALSO: If you find yourself in the mood to have a party afterwards and you want everyone to know…let us know and we’ll get the word out for you.

WHERE: Terroir Wine Pub
7001 N Scottsdale Rd
In the Seville Shopping Center (NE corner of Scottsdale & Indian Bend)

FROM: 7PM to ???

WHEN: Sat. January 21st 2012

DRESS: Casual Sexy

Please register so we can let Terroir know how many to set up for.



KEEP THESE ON YOUR CALENDAR FOR THE NEXT FEW MONTHS TOO
FOR THIS EVENT!




1/21/12

2/18/12

3/17/12

It seems to be that time of year again where people turn inward. I don't know if the holidays have anything to do with it or simply because we're approaching the end of yet another year. I've been reading through forum posts on various swing sites and been more disappointed than usual about how selfishly egotistical many of us have become lately. The concept of swinging is to have intimate fun with people not constantly lobby for who's idea of what swinging is should be the most correct of all the ideas out there. Any thoughts on this?

While I'm Thinking About It...

So why is it that so many nudists or naturists dislike swingers so much? They tend to look down their noses at us like we're some sort of oddity they find incapable of understanding. Stranger yet are the numbers of nudists/naturists who actually are swingers. It boggles the mind.
I know upon visits to nude resorts we have encountered many couples and single women who, within a short period of time, invite us to their RV, bungalow they've rented for the week or weekend or two their private residence on the property for drinks and play. The communal showers near the pool turn into a Bacchanalian orgy once the sun goes down and the kiddies are in bed so why do they pretend to hate us so much?
One resort here in the states will go so far as to reprimand you and threaten to throw you off of the property if you even think about doing something remotely intimate much less sexual.
Is it because swingers know who they are and what they want which might make these people uncomfortable about their true self? Being naked is daring enough but being sexual is just too much for them to handle?
I just wonder.