Tag Archives: Drugs and Alcohol

Beale Street, Memphis, TN

Beale Street, Memphis, TN - Beale Street is a less popular version of Bourbon Street in that there are no open container laws, there are a lot of flashing lights, and plenty of intoxicated out-of-towners drinking too much. The crowd on a Wednesday night is primarily middle aged, unattractive, and under the influence of various controlled substances. Like most such streets in America visiting is highly recommended.

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Death and Tijuana

I woke up. 6:30am. Fuck. I just fell asleep three hours ago. My mouth is dry as hell and I feel some sense of urgency to get out of here. Not out of this hotel. Out of this country. Out of Tijuana. Out.

I don’t even want to take a shower. I am packing my bag and checking my pockets. My ID and passport are here, thank God. Holden insists I shower. I hop in and rinse the filth off from last night. What I can remember of last night anyways. I put on some clean clothes. My hands are shaking a little – dehydrated. We eat the mediocre hotel breakfast, drink three bottles of water, and we book it.

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Holden and I don’t say a word. We know what happened last night can’t be mentioned. My visa card is missing; my cell phone is gone too. Thank God I locked everything else in the safe. Holden still has his cell – I dial my bank and cancel everything. A replacement phone will have to wait.

Holden and I try to fill in the gaps from last night. Neither of us want to remember what the other has to offer. We leave it at that. Thankful for forgotten memories. That’s how it will stay.

It hits me. We have to come back tomorrow. I’ve never felt such dread from having to return to a place. We’re on foot by this point heading back to the US/Mexico border. We get in a cab – $1 each. That’s when I see it – the busiest boarder on earth. 300,000 daily crossers hustling in both directions.

I think back briefly – the whole night was a blur. I remember beautiful Mexican women – they were on us like a bunch of tweens at a Justin Beiber concert. We saw them do things I can’t believe. Beautiful amazing things. The beer, the tequila, too cheap. We took advice from a taxi driver and a stranger – that might have cost us. I see two American guys – they hand me a rum and coke. I drink. I drink. Drink.

They kick us out. Holden and I aren’t willing to pay for sex – the other two guys do. We leave. That’s when I woke up in the hotel. That’s why I have to get the hell out of here. My memory is destroyed. The only thing I can recall is bits and pieces of shit I wish I couldn’t.

The border again. Focus. It’s packed. We pay some guy $5 to get us to the front of the line. I’m still a little drunk. We get into a van. I’m not sure if this is the right thing to do. Are we being robbed? No. There are normal people in here, good.

Thirty minutes later we are across the border. Long trolley ride back to San Diego – I have to come back tonight. For now I want coffee – I want air I can breathe. We get to San Diego and I feel better – a good taco helps my mind and my stomach smooth things over with last night.

Ying and Yang of Growing up Rough

From the ages 6 – 12 I lived in a predominately black neighborhood in South Atlanta.  To be honest it was the hood. Not just the kind of place where people claim they grew up in a rough neighborhood, but it was really just the suburbs – this was quite literally the ghetto.

Rough Neighborhood 

I was the only white kid, that I knew of, in my neighborhood.  I remember two high school guys fighting outside my house one day and even my dad was unable to break it up. I remember being a little scared that the one boy was going to kill the other.

He had a padlock in his hand and was bashing the poor bastard’s skull in.  His white shirt was drenched in blood. What’s even more fucked up is I remember rooting for him too.  The guy that was winning was from my section of the neighborhood and I kind of looked up to him.

Another time a young man was shot a killed at the beginning of our subdivision.  I remember walking to the bus stop for school the next morning and seeing his blood still staining the sidewalk.  It was strange – he was the first and only person I have ever known personally who was murdered.

There are times I look back on my life and relive it like a movie.  I can barely believe it myself.  I remember times my parents would have so many people over they wouldn’t notice and wouldn’t care when people slipped me shots of liquor, which I took proudly, just to seem cool.

I remember seeing pounds of pot stacked in my living room being packaged for sales.  Even back then I knew how many grams went into a nickel, dime, or quarter bag of marijuana to sell on the street.

I saw my Dad go to jail a few times, I saw my Mom on the brink of self destruction, and I saw enough young people come and go through our home that I’m quite sure both my parents will find a warm spot in Hell for all eternity for blindly instigating their addictions.

Ying and Yang

My life is almost a Ying and Yang.  On the one side I look back on events that seem surreal – some of which I’ve mentioned. Other events make me realize how I made it.  For example, my best friend, who I spent a lot of time with, had two of the best parents on the planet.

They were from Puerto Rico and devoutly religious.  I distinctly remember once suggesting to the Father that he lie to his daughter so we could leave to play basketball without her getting upset.  He looked me directly in the eyes and said: “I never lie to my children.”  That will stick with me for the rest of my life.

I also remember playing little league football.  It seems like every child who grows up in a rough neighborhood is absolutely convinced he will grow up to be a professional athlete.  I thought this too, without question, for my entire childhood.  I think that explains why so many excellent athletes come out of seemingly rough circumstances.

It’s kind of funny too.  While my Mom and Dad were terribly addicted to one drug or another most of my childhood I distinctly remember that my Mom would make me do all of my homework and write my spelling words down five times each until I was in the 5th grade.

If she did one thing right it was letting me know how important school was to her. Both my parents knew how to make me feel proud of myself and I think that has proven invaluable throughout my life.  If anything, I have never had an issue with self worth.

Moving Out

I’m not sure how I would have turned out had I not moved out of that neighborhood when I did. Man was that conversion interesting.

I remember going from a school where I was almost the only white kid in the entire building, where you had to be checked with metal detectors before entering the school, and security guards walked the hallways – then to a school with almost all white people and no security what-so-ever.

I had an accent, wore baggy clothes, and was completely oblivious that I was any different from the rest of the kids. In fact, it wasn’t until high school that I started to dress like a typical “white guy”.  It took a thorough lashing by all of my “friends” in high school until I realized I dressed like a black guy. I quickly remediated my wardrobe problems and slipped into the expected mold.

Somehow I found a place on the sports teams, made all A’s, and found a way to fit in. It is almost insane to me how resilient yet fragile the human mind is.  You can overcome almost anything or crumble because of almost everything.

When I take a careful look at my life over the past 25 years I am incredibly thankful for what I’ve overcome.  I’m incredibly thankful for what I don’t have to relive. I’m infinitely thankful for the future I see myself having and sometimes it all still feels like I’m remembering a movie I saw – not my own life.

I do not speak to my Father

Yesterday was my Dad’s birthday. I didn’t call. I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t remind my wife or say anything to my best friend. I thought about it a few times and let the idea fade from my brain until I was busy doing something else instead.

Maybe I could have been the bigger man and gave him a call. I’m not sure he deserves it though. On the other hand maybe it would have been good for me – evidence that all of my harsh feelings towards him mean nothing. I didn’t call though. I want him to know that the life he has lived isn’t okay and that he doesn’t deserve a phone call from his only son.

My Dad represents almost everything in life that I dislike. He abuses the system, he mentally and physically abused my Mother, was never and still is not a good provider, he is the most selfish man I have ever known, he is a drug addict, and toxic to everyone he’s around. The worst part is that he walks around with a since of entitlement like the world and everyone in it owes him something.

The last Straw
I think the last straw was a couple months back when my Mom attempted suicide. My Dad and me weren’t really on speaking terms then either, but I hadn’t completely abandoned the idea of speaking to him. My Mom called me crying saying that my Dad was seeing someone else and that she “wanted to go be with Jesus.” It was terrible and I was more disgusted than afraid.

After that incident I found out that my Father had been sharing his meth addiction with my Mother. They were both hooked and it made more sense than ever why she was so fucked up. My Father has successfully used drugs and mental abuse as a form of mind control based on insecurity and getting high for the past 26 years on my Mother. No I think its too late for anyone to do anything about it. I somehow escaped.

The Holidays
The holidays are approaching too. This should make avoiding family even more difficult. At this point I completely refuse to speak to my Father or his mother. She has harbored him at a motel he owns where he makes beds and does maintenance for rent. That’s also where he cheats on my Mother and does meth.

The part that most disgust me is that my Grandmother is on this holy trip. She is and always has been “religious” yet she has somehow justified allowing my father to live on her property, have sex with other drug addicts, buy and sell meth, and abandon his responsibilities as a husband. That motel is a compound of irony.

I will not be uncivil – my quiet protest will be my absence. Luckily I have in-laws who are excellent people and I have adopted as my family. That also make my wife happy so it’s a win-win. I will make a small amount of time for my Mother, but her inability to do anything for herself, her mental laziness, and her constant complaints are something I can only deal with in small doses.

Looking ahead
In years to come I am not exactly sure how I will deal with this situation. Part of me says just forgive them and move on. Let them live their shitty lives and let the universe punish them accordingly. It is not my place. The best thing I can do is let it all go and move on.

Another part of me says just never speak to them again. Forget about it completely and move on in a different way. However; honestly I am not sure which method is the right one. If I maintain a relationship with my parents does that set me up for more heartache and trouble? Does it give my parents more opportunity to suck me in and make their problems my own? That is the risk.

Either way this whole thing has taught me the value of being a decent human being and a man of integrity. I am thankful for that.

You have a Problem Child Sir! Medicate HER!

This awesome blog post is brought to you by Holden.

The last few days of work have been killer for me. My team is up against a tight deadline and we’ve been pulling insane hours. I didn’t leave work until about 10pm the last two nights in a row, and after work you either go back to a lonely hotel room where there is basically little else to do but watch reruns of crappy sitcoms on TBS or you hit the hotel bar for overpriced drinks and conversation with a lonely bar tender.

At the same time I’m embattled at work my wife has been having a meltdown of sorts at home. My four year old and one year old are being challenging- fighting, screaming and destroying shit, and as you found out in my last post, my wife is up against a bit of a cancer scare.

And to top it all off, there is yet another issue at hand, the quiet war being waged against my four year old and the endless, quiet suggestion that I put her on behavior altering drugs.

Would you prefer the red pill or the blue pill……

A few weeks back my wife went to visit my bat-shit crazy family out of state. I warned her it was a bad idea, but she’s a bored stay at home mom and wanted a change of scenery. While there, my mentally retarded, nutty ass aunt and grandmother pummeled my wife with their opinions regarding my wife’s parenting style and the mental health of my four year old.

Yes, my family whom we barely know told my wife she was a shitty parent and that my kid needed to be put on behavior modifying medication. This is why I live 500 miles away from these fuck-tards.

My wife being who she is took this to heart and has let it bother her. Now fast forward a few weeks to pre-school and we have a pre-school teacher also conferring her very professional medical opinion upon us, insinuating that maybe my four year old needs some help. I’ve been asked if her hearing is bad, maybe she has Attention Deficit Disorder, maybe she has this, maybe she has that….

Instead of my wife, the teacher, the family member actually dealing with a four year old the way you should (with structure, discipline and consistency) they’d rather suggest we dope her up. Why? Because this is the state of our sad, downward spiraling society plagued with incessant laziness and endless propaganda from big pharma suggesting that we need to medicate EVERY MOTHER FUCKING PROBLEM UNDER THE SUN!

The Spitting Image of Her Father

I see so much of me in my little girl that it amazes me. She is my greatest source of pride. When I was a kid, I had behavior issues too. I got bored easy, I didn’t always pay attention or listen, and when I got out of line my dad busted my ass.

Today, we frown on real punishment in favor of bullshit games and medication. Yes, we’ve traded hard love for pills and games. We are slowly hobbling and handicapping ourselves.

I only imagine what would have come of me if my parents had medicated my problems away, stripping me of the very characteristics of my personality that have ultimately driven me to go above and beyond in many aspects of life. It isn’t so much that I deny some kids (possibly even mine) have legitimate issues that might need medication to correct, its more so that I think we’re not giving my daughter our all and are instead looking for the disgusting easy way out.

How to Fix the Problem…

Ah… the golden question. It is easy enough to sit around and whine but what do I do to fix this problem? First things first, I need to chill out and calm down.

I’m on the road four days a week for work, I can’t change that. My wife simply isn’t the type of parent that is going to figure out this issue on her own, I can’t change that either. But I can try to manage it and create structure from a distance and be extra attentive when I’m at home.

This is a double challenge. A challenge of coaching my wife up to rise to the occasion and a challenge of giving my daughter the attention she needs to correct a problem. I need to create goals and tasks on how I’ll achieve them then attack this from the top down…

More to come on this in time.

-Holden

A few good reason to Legalize Marijuana

I think this judge from California articulates a few good points surrounding the legalization of marijuana.

My mom attempted Suicide today

My Mom called me while I was at work today. She was upset, but that’s not terribly unusual. She often calls me crying when my father and her have had a fight. I stepped outside to get some privacy and that’s when she said it.

“I just swallowed a whole bottle of Klonopin”.

She was sobbing almost uncontrollable at that point and the adrenaline hit me in the face like a hammer. I almost started to shake and I could feel my lungs contract a little because my body was preparing itself in a fight or flight sort of way.

“Mom, call 911 right now.” She refused. “Mom, for your only son, please call 911 right now.” She refused again and the crying became more intense. “I just want to go and see Jesus” She said. The crying became uncontrollable at that point so I hung up. I took a deep breath and knew it was essential that I stay calm so I could handle the situation; however I couldn’t for the life of me remember my Mom’s address to call 911.

By the time I was able to reach 911 I was informed that parametics were already on the scene. Apparently my Mother also called her sister. I honestly believe that her “attempted suicide” was more a call for help than anything else. She didn’t really want to die.

More to the Story
Oh, but the story gets more interesting. After rushing to the hospital some hours later I find my aunt who has interesting news for me.

“They found Meth in your Mom’s system.”

My only question was who is she getting it from. “She’s getting it from your Father – he’s addicted to.”

So great – though my parents are separated they occasionally share a few hits of Meth together – how romantic. I can’t say I’m surprised though, I’ve had to deal with this shit my entire life. Fucking druggies and liars – you can’t really have one without the other. My parents are both.

I immediately called my father to get the whole story because as it turns out my aunt is a notorious liar too. I have to be a goddamn CIA agent to get any truth out of anyone. So my tactic was to seperate each, question them, and compile the truth from each of their corroborative stories.

Not surprisingly my Dad lied. He first said he had no idea what I was talking about. He said it so convincingly I’m sure he believed it himself. After about a half hour of questioning and begging him to simply “man to man, level with me” he came clean. He has himself been on Meth for years and occasionally shared with my Mother. This is not surprising since each of my parents have done stints with drugs that they finally admitted to me over the years. My Dad, though he does Meth daily and will not quit, claims he is not addicted.

So here I am – a guy trying to live his life. A mother who attempted suicide today, a mother on Meth, a Father also addicted to Meth – and just wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with this mess. I have shielded myself and my wife from my family with a veil of selfishness – a refusal to recognize my parents’ problems as my own and continued successes in my own life. I refuse to bring myself down because of them. I’ll handle this shit just like I do everything else. If/When I have kids one day – they will never have the burden of their parents to worry about.

I think the helping my Mom to move closer to me is out of the question now, but we’ll see how this plays out. The idea of bringing that kind of trouble into my life may be worse that leaving her to rot in her own soup of destruction. This requires more thought.

She was asleep when I arrived at the hospital so I didn’t even speak to her. The hospital refused to wake her because she was “extremely aggressive” when they brought her in. More good news.

What’s Next
So for the next few days my Mother gets to stay in the hospital. I get to drive 60 miles (one way) to visit her and eventually they will transfer her to some sort of mental hospital for a week or so. At least I’ll have something to write about for the next year decade.

Two Bachelor Parties, Two Days

“Legendary-ish Stories” is a series I plan to write occasionally in which I describe actual incidents that happened in my life. These incidents often involve alcohol and at times immorality – neither of which I necessarily condone. With these stories I hope to add a touch of humor and display human imperfection while simultaneously eroding my credibility. Enjoy.

If you are curious about what the quickest way to develop cirrhosis of the liver is I can tell you.  Plan and attend two bachelor parties over the course of two consecutive days.

Right now I feel filthy.  I have ingested more alcohol than I care to consume in the next 6 months, I have witnessed more whores undress for singles than I have in my entire life, and I’ve seen enough vomit on cream colored carpet to last a lifetime.

Since my memory is too foggy to tell a decent story about what happened I figured a few highlights would suffice.

1. Shot and beer guzzling at friends house. I have procured moonshine from a local distillery. We realize moonshine does in fact put hair on your chest.
2. Binge eating of meat products at one of the best BBQ joints in the South. I manage to get the local band playing to give our bachelor a shout out. The crowd cheers and we quickly realize this was a great idea due to multiple patrons buying us alcohol and encouraging binge drinking.
3. More beers and shots at the local pub. Realize a gay bar is next door and what could be more tempting to a bunch of gay guys than a bachelor?
4. Gay guy hits on me.  I’m flattered.
5. Drunk.  Go to strip club to reaffirm our manliness.
6. Become more interested in the type of people who frequent strip clubs than the actual strippers themselves. Try to carry on “real” conversations with strippers and quickly realize she only wants my singles. I do not want a lap dance – neither does anyone else – I become disappointed because I really wanted to write about an entry on this blog entitle “this hoes life”.
7. Bachelor goes shirtless in probably the most crowded street in Atlanta. Arrest seems likely.
8. The Bachelor, who is a literal and certified genius, can no longer remember basic tax code nor add 3 digit numbers. He begins rambling incoherently about “what’s happening to me.” We ignore his complaints and continue force feeding him alcoholic beverages mixed with energy drinks. Bad idea in retrospect.
9. Take taxi back to house. Bachelor passes out. Wakes up briefly and vomits all over the floor. Success.

I wish I could go into more detail about what happened, but I think that’s against the bachelor party code of ethics – especially when the grooms in question are business professionals.  I’ll just leave it at this – everyone survived and the wedding is still on.  That’s good enough for anyone.

Forget Vegas – What Happens in Chicago STAYS in Chicago

“Legendary-ish Stories” is a series I plan to write occasionally in which I describe actual incidents that happened in my life. These incidents often involve alcohol and at times immorality – neither of which I necessarily condone. With these stories I hope to add a touch of humor and display human imperfection while simultaneously eroding my credibility. Enjoy.

What I did was despicable, terrible, accidental, unplanned, unforgivable, and also memorable. What I did is something no one should ever do and no I do not commend my actions. If anything I discourage them, but as this blog is about being human, about the truth, I will shamefully tell it anyway – however hesitantly I proceed.

Let me start out by saying being a young man in a bar with your closest work friends (who have become personal friends) with an unlimited bar tab and tables that have taps of limitless beer and liquor – is a recipe for disaster and mistakes to be made. Even by a man like me who prides himself on having integrity. A word I can barely write at the moment.

The night started out innocently and unplanned enough. Of course we planned on drinking as much as possible on the company dime – who wouldn’t. However, when the bar closed at 1am and we had ingested an untold number of beers and two older women were hitting on me continuously – what was I to do? Resist?

I’m a young guy in my mid-20s. I am married, so I’m not proud of what happened. My conversation with the women started of completely innocent. I talked about my time in the city, asked for suggestions, and even talked about my wife and their husbands. It was a blur, I will admit, but to my knowledge I was completely forth-coming and polite – yet it seems that older women with husbands really, really like younger men with wives.

Upon blackout a friend of mine (also attached) and I teleport to their hotel room. I don’t remember leaving the bar, making the decision to follow them, nor arriving to the hotel.

Let me stop right here though and say that I was strong. Stronger than most in this position. I resisted their constant propositions. However, that did not stop them from undressing and that did not stop me from looking. I’m not proud. I shouldn’t have put myself in such a situation and how I resisted the desire to take full advantage I may never know.  Still, I deserve a kick to the testicles if nothing else.

Now this is where the story gets funny because if you know me than you would completely understand that this is something I would do. In the middle of all of this “excitement” somehow we get on the subject of politics. (Me being from the South they joked that I hated Obama) That’s when, in my drunken stupor, my mind went from thinking about sex like a 14 year old – to politics. I started in on all of my beliefs and proofs – many of which you have read in this blog. I think the fact that I subconsciously care more about economics and politics than a naked women is clearly more shameful than being in the room with two naked women while I’m married.

In the end I convinced two very liberal women that Ron Paul is an excellent choice for president and that many of my “pseudo-socialist-libertarian-naturalist” viewpoints are incredibly valid. This made me feel AWESOME since both of these women were clearly well educated executive types. They could have very well been my boss. To make matters worse I went on a rant about integrity (while ironically showing no integrity at all).

That’s about the point I felt completely disgusted with myself and realized I was about to force myself to leave and take a very expensive cab ride back to the hotel, alone. So I excused myself and took the walk of shame down to the hotel lobby and shook my head when I noticed the sun was coming up.

I hailed a cab, cringed at how much it cost, drank a lot of water and coffee, took a shower to rinse the disgust off of my body, and went back to work. Now I’m just trying to forget these memories of blatant idiocracy on my part. The shit I feel right now in the form of a massive hang-over, the credibility I may lose from all my “many” readers, and any negative consequences that come from what happened – I deserve.

I’ll leave you with a the most memorable quote from the night (please excuse the language): “You are an impressive young guy. I would hire you and I would fuck you, but not necessarily in that order.” How do you forget something like that?

She dumped WHAT over your head?

“Legendary-ish Stories” is a series I plan to write occasionally in which I describe actual incidents that happened in my life. These incidents often involve alcohol and at times immorality – neither of which I necessarily condone. With these stories I hope to add a touch of humor and display human imperfection while simultaneously eroding my credibility. Enjoy.

A few months back I went to New Orleans to celebrate the New Year.  It was the second straight year my best friend and our wives had made the journey.  We love the great food, the music, and the cheap drinks so it usually makes for a good time.  The only problem with New Orleans is that going there always turns into a shit show.  I’m not sure if it’s the combination of loud music, energy, women exposing their breasts, and alcohol – or what – but inevitably something goes wrong.  Too much sin, I guess.

One thing you have to understand is that my best friend and his wife have two kids.  They are little demons from hell so no one, not even me, will babysit. The two of them never get out under normal circumstances so when they do it’s kind of like letting a lion out of the cage with a bunch of antelope after feeding him vegan dog food for the last few months.  Substitute antelope for tequila shots and Bloody Mary’s and you have the some understanding of the situation in question.  Looking back on it now I realize the problem was that we were over-zealous and over-ambitious.  We started drinking at about 4pm and actually expected to make it until midnight.  Rookie mistake.

Being a bunch of cheap-asses we started drinking in the hotel room.  I guess $3 drinks weren’t cheap enough.  I distinctly remember my friend’s wife guzzling a concoction that would run my car and feeling like I was going to puke just watching.  In the back of my mind I knew we were screwed from the start.

After an hour of boozing in the hotel room like a bunch of frat boys we hit the first bar – which was conveniently located next door to the hotel.  We drank $3 Bloody Mary’s for dinner.  For a while we thought about staying there all night, but for some reason we decided relocating would amplify our fun.  So we found ourselves at a more crowded, shittier, bar on Bourbon Street.  This part of the story starts moving so fast in real life that I have trouble describing it now.

Soon enough the only thing I can remember is it being dark outside and admiring a nice pair of fake breast expertly implanted and evenly proportional.  I remember examining them more out of curiosity than perverse enjoyment.  My wife was next to me and neither of us having touched a pair theorized on the density and texture of said breasts.  We came to no consensus.

I also remember complaining that fake breast bother me.  This made my wife happy. A few flashes later and I have a “huge ass beer” in my hand and we are listening to a white guy rap on stage.  It was mediocre.  I do remember wishing for a second I was rapping on stage, but even in my drunken stupor a white-man two step jig was all I could manage.

I remember eating a slice of pizza and saying to myself “you’ll be running that off tomorrow” – for some reason I wasn’t concerned about the empty calories from all the beer I was consuming.  At this point I also had about 5lbs of beads around my neck that I am not certain how I acquired.  I was only marginally concerned later the next morning  that they smelled like puke – especially since I had not vomited that night.

Next I remember seeing my friend.  He was soaked and furious.  “She dumped a $10 drink on my FUCKING head!”  I remember being more concerned at the wasted $10 than my soaked friend.  Apparently his wife and he had an argument brought on by cheap booze and loose women. She had dumped a giant mixture of vodka and juice over his head.

His shirt was stained cranberry red and everyone in the immediate area could only stop and stare in amazement wondering what might happen next. My friend stormed off and we didn’t find him until well after midnight and New Years Eve had ended.

I remember sipping my beer while all this was going down thinking “this is a real shit show”.  His wife started crying and I pretended not to acknowledge her existence.  We had become those people with the crying lady in public.  No amount of booze could make up for what had just happened.  It’s the first time in my adult life I remember looking at someone I care about and thinking “you deserve to cry.”