I saw a pair of Crocs the other day and it reminded me of a
drunken time on a river when I slipped on some wet rocks and my big toe slid
through one of the tiny holes on the top of the clog. I can tell you this:
those holes aren’t meant for toes, and my largest of foot-fingers swelled into
something that resembled a grape with a toenail, making it even more difficult
to remove it. All of my friends laughed at me. Ha ha ha ha ha, they said.
Look at Vince and all of the trouble he’s having with basic motor skills and
how stupid his foot looks now. Maybe that’s not verbatim, but I think I
captured the atmosphere quite well. I don’t recall exactly what took to remove
my foot from the contrivance, but I am certain it was a group effort. The story
lives in infamy, and it is brought into light about once a year by myself, or
one of my friends down in Fillmore County.
And speaking of Fillmore County, I think it’s about time to
take a trip down there with Heather, my girlfriend. It won’t be a trip just to
meet my friends, it will be a chance to show off the beauty and landscape that
is the famous bluff-country. Lanesboro itself is quite picturesque, especially
the drives down the hill on County Road 8, which is what I think of every time
I think of visiting.
That same hill has seen me swerving up far too many times,
and hitting the meth-pipe on the way down to work every day for the last of my
working days down there. Recently, I saw
this article written about the last restaurant I worked at—Riverside on the
Root—in the small town of 738 (2013
Census), and it reminded me of all the fun I had working there even though I
was twisted out of my mind the entire time. I wish I could have spent my spell
there more productively, and made more of an impression on the owners and the
town, but I was a hot-mess, and haven’t been back there since before my arrest.
Maybe that’s a stop we can make when we go over spring break. The article
itself doesn’t have any good shots of the town itself, but you should go see it
for yourself, you won’t be sorry you did.
I was never very responsible when I was drinking, and maybe
I was even famous for being particularly stupid while under the influence. When
I first moved down to the area, my new friends took me to the Root River for a
day of drinking and at one point I saw a dead fish by the shore, so naturally I
walked over to it, picked it up, and took a bite out of the belly and briefly
chewed on it before expelling out the brewed contents of my stomach, which
caused a chain-reaction not dissimilar to the scene in Stand by Me. I was retching
for hours because the only thing I had to wash out my mouth was warm Busch
Light, which isn’t dissimilar to warm river-water, which has a mild taste of
fish.
Those were the days. Those are the days I think of when I
wonder if sobriety is really any
better than drunkenness. My worst day in sobriety appears, so far, to be better
than my best day in drunken lethargy. And that is where I stand. By me.
