How Rude

As I was typing my last post, something blue flashed across my screen. It was square, and I recognized a couple shapes at the bottom as options, probably yes or no. But that was it. At the very moment the box appeared, I had pressed the Enter key to start the next paragraph, confirming whatever action that was going to take place. I sat and contemplated what it could have been, but since nothing had happened, I just continued on. I wrote a really good post about the 9^th step, and ended it with a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson. It was beautiful writing, and I thought one of my best posts. And as I typed the very last word, my computer restarted without warning, and began a two-hour process of updating my system and installing Windows 10. Actually, failing to install Windows 10. I sat in disbelief, and then just laughed about it. There’s no point in getting flustered, angry, or upset about something that’s out of my control. I waited two hours and retyped the post, but it was not as good.

And that’s sort of what this post is about. Last night I went into a Walmart to buy a new phone. First thing I noticed was that I wasn’t greeted. Never mind that, I wanted a phone. I made my way through the droves of Somalian women wearing Walmart vests and gathered in groups talking to each other. I don’t believe it’s racist to observe and mention something, so I’ll continue along here. I got to the electronics department where nobody offered any help. I selected the card that corresponded with the new phone that I wanted, and I proceeded to the checkout. That’s where I was greeted by the rudest, possibly the dumbest, man I’ve ever come across in the employ of any managed department store. He was of Arab descent and when he was finished with the gentleman in front of me, shouted over him at me, “What?”

I’m sure I looked confused. It was if I had encountered a character actor of “Rude Salesperson.” I asked, “What?”

“What you want?”

“Me?”

Then he just pointed at the card I had in my hand. I said, “Oh, yeah I just want to buy this phone.” I handed him the card, and he looked it over. This would not be an easy task. He opened the cabinets, drawers, and cupboards, or whatever terms they use for those things when they aren’t in a kitchen. He couldn’t find it and management had not yet entrusted him with a key to the secret drawers below the display shelves. We all know those secret drawers. I think maybe one of them has candy in it. I like candy.

Back on track. He saw a cluster of Somalian women approaching which had now grown to include non-employee friends and he yelled over to them, “Give me your key!” There was no please, but his voice was angry. No doubt he despised asking a female supervisor for help. The woman walked over without hesitation and gave him her entire cluster of keys. I highly doubt that is in the Walmart handbook. With not so much as a nod, he opened up the drawer and pulled out a phone. He handed it to me and I stated, “Nope. That’s not the one.” He took it back and shuffled through the drawer of phones. He dug one after the other out and handed them all to me. Clearly he had no idea what he was doing. I showed him how all of the pictures looked similar but the name of the phone was at the bottom of each box. It didn’t matter. He would hand me phone after phone until finally he got it right. He rung it up, shoved it in a bag, and did not hand it to me. He simply shouted over my shoulder, “What?”

Is it the cities? Are people just rude here? I think so. Customer service seems to be a lost art. This includes restaurants, too. I’ve not had one experience since my release where I left thinking, “Wow that was an amazing server!” People just don’t care anymore. At least there wasn’t the presumptuous tip jar next to the register at Walmart.

Don’t worry white people, you’re rude, too. But this story wasn’t about you.

Lately

Some of you are probably wondering where the rest of my fictional story is. Well, here’s the scoop: My original plan was to include it as the outro for the E-Book which is going to consist of the first year of the original blog. Well that plan seems to be on hiatus for now, so I will get to typing this weekend. I’d like to have it all written and done with so I can continue on with the main purpose of the blog.

I’ve been working on myself through work with my sponsor in the Big Book lately. Recently, we read through steps 7-11, which include everybody’s favorites 8&9. The time has come for me to start making amends for my past actions and behaviors. At the very least it appears to be an intimidating task, but in reality, it’s actually supposed to be quite fulfilling when done properly. As with every other step in this program, it is constantly in the works once it is started.

What happens when I go to each individual will remain private. For the most part, especially with family, I already know what’s coming. I’ve spent the last 11 months getting to know my family again, and that’s all I need to keep doing to repair things. It’s a living amend. I’m repairing the damage done with every day of hard work in my recovery. It’s not just staying sober, although that’s a big part. It’s continuing my work in the program, and making forward progress. I’ve been doing all of that, now it’s time to make it formal.

The 9^th step says “We made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.” I am included in the others. What that means is that I cannot put myself or anybody else in harm’s way in order to make my amends. There are people out there that probably never want to see me again, people everywhere that I never want to see again, and a few that are dead. Going to seek out somebody actively living in the meth world would be very dangerous for me. There’s far too much risk there. If, someday, some people enter the rooms of recovery, I can approach the subject then, but not before. The only thing that matters in these cases is that I am willing.

There are ex-employers to whom I owe substantial amounts of money. In some cases, they may hold resentments toward me, and going to admit my guilt could lead them to press charges against me, which of course is not a productive use of an amend. My sponsor says that in these cases, it is necessary to wait until the statute of limitations runs out, until I make contact. Even then they may want nothing to do with me, but it is important that I try.

When I was sober from 2001-2006ish, I stopped working the program before I ever got to this point. Even though I remained sober for years after I stopped, I believe this is specifically why I ended up spiraling out of control. I didn’t try to fix anything before I moved forward. This time around, I realize how important it is to fix the past, to fix what is broken. The title of this blog has its roots in step nine.

When my sponsor and I finished up my fifth step, he asked me my definition of success. I was stumped. He gave me an assignment: Define success. He gave me a few ideas of what to look for, and agreed I would write something up. I did some research and wrote a page, front and back, and I thought I did an okay job. A couple days later, he gave me an envelope with a few motivational sayings. One of these really stuck out to me. I carry it with me and will do so when I’m making my amends, because the words are beautiful. In a sentence, Ralph Waldo Emerson describes what I want my life to be. I think these words are so beautiful because they are so simple and true.

“To laugh often and much; to win the respect of the intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the beauty in others; to leave the world a bit better wether (sic) by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that one life hath breathed easier because you lived here. This is to have succeeded.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

I’ve said before that I try to be a good person, even when I think nobody is looking. Well these are new words to live by. This next phase of my life that began when I read through the ninth step in the Big Book will be a test of all of these characteristics. It will be a test that never ends, and that I cannot ever give up on. Good night.

Hazelfest

It’s Sunday morning and I’m sitting in my usual blogging spot at Nina’s coffee shop in St. Paul pondering why anybody would pronounce “Nina’s” with the long I. Those employed by the establishment like it that way, but I still come here. I’ve been calling my grandmother Nina for 37 or so years and that’s how I spell it. When she sends me cards, she signs her name, “Neena”, which I guess phonetically is how I pronounce it. This puts me in a tough spot. But I digress.

This is where I started my yesterday out, but not in the normal fashion. I met up with a few fine folks from the rooms of A.A. and we tilted a couple cups and embarked on a road trip to Center City to the Hazelden campus for Hazelfest 2016. This would be the fourth consecutive outdoor concert in the known history of the world renown drug and alcohol treatment center. I went to the youth version of the program back in 2001 and had a fairly good run at sobriety. I’ve written plenty on those years so I’ll get back on track.

We got there and were guided into a parking spot in a giant grass field by an inept gentleman in an orange vest who, in my mind, is currently waving around one of those light-up orange traffic deals that you see at airports. I think he may have just been pointing with his finger, but my mind gets carried away sometimes. Also I remember him having the lower torso of a gerbil. Anyhow, I desperately needed to pee because I hadn’t gone since I left the coffee shop and it was time. I peed.

We meandered, but not caterwauled, over a trail through the brush to the parking lot where we checked in and gaged the scene. I saw eight food trucks; my wallet would get lighter soon. There was a crowd already which would no doubt grow as the day grew shorter and the “Big” bands started to play.

I was with two ladies and another guy. The two boys split off to find adventure. We took a slow loop of the food vendors. My friend wanted a gyro (pronounced Neena), a staple of food trucks, and we found that particular vendor and ordered. I can’t recall what my food was called, but it contained at least 2,000 calories and it was amazing. I normally eat pretty healthy food, but today would be special. We gorged ourselves and wandered through a tent in which people were peddling various wares and services. My friend and I agreed that our day would be full of competition at the various games and skill challenges, but neither of those things existed there so we settled on a spin-off at the wheel of eating disorders, and a mini claw game.

After the merchant’s tent, we found a petting zoo. In order to respect the anonymity of the program, I have and will not use names or pictures of people there. But goats are fair game. Well, chickens are actually game, but I didn’t take any pictures of them. If you don’t already know, farm animals are incredibly boring, I think maybe that’s why we eat them instead of scratch their bellies and give them treats. Enough of the petting zoo. We left.

Friend and I found the ladies, had a few pictures taken, saw Curious George (I think it may have just been a person in a costume, but that’s only speculation as I was unable to remove the head piece while he was running away from me.), and went down to the area with the stage. The sun was overhead as is normally the case during the daytime hours, and we had about six hours of music coming. It was getting hot.

The first band that we sat down for was Davina and the Vagabonds. They started up and I immediately remembered why I hate jazz; the sound. I was able to stay seated while fifty and sixty-year-old women twitched and twirled in front of the stage. I couldn’t take more than half of the set and I got up in frustration and left to search for entertainment. I found a bathroom which I put above jazz music in every graph and chart I have ever made that contain the two. By the time I got back, they were done. There was peace and quiet.

Next up, and equally as disappointing, The Honeydogs. Promoted as a 70’s style rock band, The Honeydogs performed more like seventy-year-old rocks. I understand that’s not very old for a rock, but it was funny in my head. They did a lot of that thing where they get really close with their instruments and smile at each other… I really hate that. They were out of tune, out of sync, and the singer was dreadful. I believe there was probably a lot of talent up on that stage musically, but they weren’t using any of it. Just terrible.

By contrast, Hippo Campus is a group of guys just a few years out of high school that, to me, sounded like had been classically trained in music. Everything about them was right. I even looked down to see my foot moving around to the beat. I believe they call that dancing. Three of the four in the group are St. Paul natives and all graduates of St. Paul Conservatory for Performing Arts. It was my favorite performance in years.

There was one more band that made quite a show. I had only heard of Cloud Cult on the radio, but I had never actually heard a song. I’m not sure how to categorize their music, but it was well done. Each artist had more musical talent possibly that anybody I’ve ever met combined. I say that because they were all surrounded by a few different instruments that they would switch out throughout the act. None of them had a kazoo which is the only contribution I could have made.

They also had two artists painting the pictures you may be able to see in this picture. At the end of the show they would be auctioned off to benefit people who couldn't afford treatment.

Overall it was a really fun day. There was a lot of laughter, a lot of food, and a lot of sun. At this very moment all of my front casing hurts. It’s my skin’s defense to the sun’s powerful rays, but to me it just looks red. I will definitely go back next year.

Mixed tape 4

My taste in music has changed since my release. Ever since I started supporting MPR, specifically the Current, I have actually really started to enjoy what is referred to as Indie or Alternative music. I hated the Alternative of the '90's. Every time Smashing Pumpkins or Green Day came on the air, I wanted to kill puppies. I refrained, but I hope you get what I'm saying. Shit, I didn't even like Nirvana until a few years ago.

So here's some of what I've really enjoyed listening to over the past few months, it's all better heard with headphones because a phone speaker simply doesn't do music any justice. Enjoy.

First up: Alt-J, Left Hand Free. I like the drums, it reminds me of Ringo. The bass line is pretty catchy, too.

Possibly my favorite voice in any modern voice, Alabama Shakes is creeping up on being one of my overall favorite choices for music. Hold On is on the top of my list followed byYou Ain't Alone. I picked the live version for the second song because there's a lot of passion to be seen there. These are very talented artists.

There's Work Song by Hozier, a band that would ordinarily scare me off because of the religious undertones in a lot of their music, but the quality is up there musically  so I thought I should share it.

Now, these bands and songs may not be new to you, and maybe they play them on the mainstream stations all the time, I simply wouldn't know. Hopefully this is new stuff to a few of you.

Awolnation plays a few songs I like including Sail. So there's that.

And now I'd like to share a few songs that my friend Mike Tambornino listened to during what should have been our high school years and into our late teens. We were huge fans of Alice in Chains. We especially liked Over Now, and would routinely play it over and over. I couldn't get this version out of my head at Mike's memorial service, possible because of the intro.

Another one we loved was Possum Kingdom by the Toadies. It's possibly the only song that exists that I've heard under the influence of ever drug I've ever done. It was strange to see this video on YouTube because it made me realize I never had access to cable TV while I was going through many phases of my life and I had never seen who was actually singing it. Weird.

And last, but not least, here's another depressing but great some we listened to repeatedly River of Deceit by Mad Season. I think it's a beautiful song  and I will think of Mike every time I hear it.

11 Down, Too Two Go.

I'm just short of 11 months out of prison. With two months to go on ISR, I really need to be careful. Two Saturdays in a row I forgot to call in to the voicemail system on time. I did call in when I realized I hadn't, and I never heard from them about it, which is good, but I need to pay a little more attention to detail at they said in boot camp. Of course, not calling in was the catalyst to a chain of events that lead me to be stuck at home for a month a while back, and also extended my strict supervision by a month. I can't have that happen again.

Well, I could, and I probably wouldn't go back to prison, but I am really looking forward to being on parole. I can't wait to travel. I want to leave the state, or even just go down to Fountain for a weekend. I want to stay out past 10:30pm. I want to leave the house before 6:30am. I want to be able to switch jobs or move to a new apartment without going through an approval process. I want to cook with wine. 

Those are just a few of the things I can't do now that I'll be able to do in two months and six days, provided I keep following the simple rules of ISR.

The temptation to break the rules doesn't seem to go away. It's as if criminality is ingrained in me and I want to do things just to be a rebel. I mean, I don't break the rules, but sometimes I really just want to stay out late with my friends from AA playing bingo and just bullshitting. But my curfew is 10:30, and there are no excuses for being late.

As much as I understand why the rules are in place, those same directives have hindered me from moving forward in life for too long. In the very beginning, it was so important for me to be at meetings and so socialize with sober people, but I was only allowed to go to three meetings per week, and never allowed to attend fellowship afterward. Two months in when I was finally allowed enough free time to socialize, I had already forgotten how. Aside from my home group, as soon as a meeting is over, I leave because I still don't know how to converse normally with people. Anxiety is still an issue it would seem.

Everything has been sort of an evolution for me. I learn from trial and error, fix things, and slowly move on. Only I just have the rest of my life to play with evolving into a fit, spiritual, kind, fun, loving, and sociable person. And it's hard learn how to be all of those things from a Lay-Z Boy recliner, which I do love. I need to get myself out of that recliner and figure out how to talk to you people in a way other than from behind this screen.

I've been going to the gym for almost two months and I've never said so much as one word to anybody I've never met before. Not one word, not even hi. So I need to branch out socially, and I hope that happens naturally when I'm not so contained.



I really miss my peeps down in Fillmore County. I'm not sure that I could ever live down there sober, because without drinking, Fillmore County would be...... uhhhhhh..... Hmmmm. I'll have to get back to you on that one. But I really miss all of the friendships in my life. Amish you guys. I'm really looking forward to seeing some of you at the wedding in just over a week. But then I have to leave, before it even gets dark out. Fuckin stupid.

Well, that's my rant for the day!