Dialogue

Today is the beginning of three, glorious days off in a row. I go straight back into the Wild after this for nearly the complete month of March for boy’s hockey tournaments, the Wild, and an assortment of other concerts and shows at the Xcel Center. But now is not the time to think about that, now is the time to sit back, relax, and tell you a little story about love.

As many of you have read in previous posts, I’ve been dating a gal for a while now, and I think it’s time I shared a little of our story with you, and follow it up with some amazing pictures from our trip to the Como Park Conservatory this past weekend.

Instead of me trying to type about her, I think I’ll do something a little different here, and hand off the microphone to her, so to speak, so she can tell you herself. Say, hi to everybody, honey.

Hi y’all.

So, for the purpose of this post, all of her words will appear italicized, and mine will in standard Calibri font. And from here on out, I will be speaking to her, and not to you, the reader, so sit back, and enjoy the show.

So, Heather, what do you want to tell my enormous audience that spans the globe, and reads it in 47 different languages?

I’ve been doing the sober thing for a while and part of our lifestyle is fellowship in the recovery community. It is through an interwoven tapestry of lives that we make connections with people around us in our fellowship. The day I met Vince had a serendipitous quality to it. As I think about the meaning of that word, serendipity, I’m imagining how the unexpected intersection of two lives in a certain place at the right time can be more meaningful than either would realize at first. I was at Vince’s house as a result of an invite from our mutual acquaintance. The dinner he made was so impressive that I had to stick around for conversation that ranged in topics on everything from art to anuses (he made me say that but it’s definitely true).

Well, Heather, I sound really impressive, and I do recall making quite a feast that night. But really, you nailed it. That night had a certain quality to it that was on a level I’ve never experienced. I knew I liked you, and I knew immediately that I wanted to see more of you. So I leapt into action like we all do these days by sending you a friend request on Facebook while you were still in my living room. And you graciously accepted. So, one more question for this post, and then we will share the pictures.

Heather, no relationship can be perfect, but what are a few things that we’re doing correctly, things that we can attribute to copious amounts of laughter, and the reason we want to be together as much as possible?

I believe that we are sincerely doing our best to be accepting of one another’s shortcomings and celebrating the attributes of our personalities that make us an ideal match every date night.  After two weeks of dating, I told Vince that his weirdness matched my weirdness and I noticed we’re the same height while brushing our teeth together in front of a mirror.  The other noticeable thing in that moment was that his smile made my heart flutter and I was truly happy. So, we spend as much time together as we can, doing things we’re both passionate about, and all the happy moments keep adding up to more love and excitement about the future.

Wow. I’m not even the best writer on my own blog anymore. I really like that paragraph; it means a lot to me.

And now, as promised, some pretty pictures from our last date…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Check Please

It had been 975 days since I last held a meth pipe in my hand, but there I was, shut inside a small bathroom staring at the glass bubble, with nerves igniting sinister thoughts, and that old familiar lump burrowing down my throat. I should have known not to look inside the rolled-up bandana on top of the toilet paper dispenser. Nothing good can come from this. But my curiosity dictated that I unravel the mystery anyhow, so I did. When the bandana unfurled, I saw a shiny pipe, a lighter, and a tube commonly used in the drug world for snorting crushed up crystals.

What I saw took me back over two years to the morning I walked into the courtroom for my sentencing. I had just woken up two hours before my scheduled appearance and spent the entire time between the bed and the door smoking meth. It reminded me of how that little piece of glass controlled my life; everything I did was entirely dedicated to keeping the high going.

I noted the contour on the glass bubble, and saw the noxious residue inside, and knew the only choice was to roll it back up and put it back where I found it. It was only a matter of a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to me in the confined space.

This might sound like an old story, but it happened yesterday at the old Copper Dome restaurant on Randolph Avenue in St. Paul. When I exited the bathroom, I informed the manager that there was some drug paraphernalia in there, and he promptly went and removed it. My hands were trembling; palms damp. I never had the thought to actually use the device or any of its accessories, but it sucks that there was the option.

Throughout the day I had thoughts of the poor guy who lost it. I wondered what chaos his life was, and if he would ever find his way in to the rooms of recovery. On the same note, I have lost many pipes, many bags of drugs, and an excess of drug-related material over the years, and I wondered if anybody in recovery had ever come upon it, and if so, if they had the strength to resist temptation. Was this all some test? Was I meant to be shown my former life? No. It was, of course, a coincidence.

It’s been a rough 24 hours since that chilling moment in the bathroom, but nothing could compare to what things could have been under the influence of the addictive substance that made me give it all away. Twice.

It’s late, and I need to rest, but I wanted to get that off of my chest. Goodnight.

Moore

Recently I started posting my blog in a Facebook page I created, and the results are in: few people are reading. I’m not going back to regular FB, I’m going to ask for your help, though. If you happen to read this, or any of my other posts from now on, please take the time to like or share it, helping me spread it around. I saw I had 22 page-views from Russia yesterday, which means somebody—hopefully Putin—read 22 of my posts. That was exciting.

I’m off today. I only work two more days and then I am off for roughly a week, which will be nice, but will still have to be filled in with spotty work at the laminating factory. I wish I could just take unemployment, for which I am eligible when there’s no work, but technically I have to be available to go in, even if it is to stand around and do grunt work. The worst part about the factory is just that: it’s a factory. It’s loud, smelly, and there are no windows. One of the bosses is pretty fun to talk with, the other is pretty widely known as a massive douchebag, avid Trump-supporter, and prime example of what is truly wrong with America.

I watched Michael Moore’s most recent film, Where to Invade Next? If you’re a republican, 1%er, or otherwise privileged and white, you’ll probably hate it, even though the message is powerful, and shines a light on what this country used to stand for. It’s on Amazon Prime, and I give it all five Vince-Stars, which is a complicated, star-based rating system that I just now created. By contrast, I give my blog only 4.2 stars, so I have some work to do.

The film follows a much-fatter-than-last time Michael Moore to several countries around the world where he interviews citizens, corporate C.E.O.s, employees of famous companies, and teachers on a wide variety of subjects including vacation time, public schools, free college, food, union labor, standard workweek, and so much more. The interviews are shocking, and Moore’s goal is to take these aspects from around the world, and claim the ideas for America, to really make it great again. I really liked it, and I hope you watch it.

And speaking of your filth bag president, what the fuck is going on in the white House? How has this man still in office? From barring the media from a briefing, to fucking with gender equality, to spending our money on golf trips, all just in this week, something has to stop him from making this country uninhabitable. I can’t comprehend how anybody could protect his views, thoughts, or ideas on how to “fix” our country. I’m just at a loss. You just can’t throw the rights of the people out the window, and deport anybody with dark skin and hope all your troubles go away. If you voted for him, you’re okay with racism, sexism, and greed. Just know that.

Ugh. It’s hard not to think about the damage he’s causing, and the danger he represents. It’s even harder to know that somehow people still support him. You can’t change their minds, just like you can’t change ours. That’s tough to accept, but it’s the truth, and it’s only causing stress and discord in our society, which is clearly separating our country, making it divided again. Maybe that’s what he wants: divide, segregate, eliminate. If you think that’s far-fetched, I have some references I can show you later about a certain type of people that were eliminated as a result of a dictator.

Well, that’s enough of that! I really hate politics, but I love the idea of the melting-pot of our country, the foundation of the free-world, more than I hate Trump, so I have to write about it instead of recovery every now and then.  And that’s it for now.

 

 

Southeast

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.

 

The 12

I've written plenty of posts from work, but I never thought I'd have the opportunity to write one from the kitchen. I'm currently seven hours into a twelve-hour shift, and there's currently nothing for me to do but wait for the Game of Thrones concert to start.

This is a quick shot I was able to get of the orchestra doing some kind of warm-up, taken from three-stories up on the club-level of the Xcel Center. I probably shouldn't have been doing that--or this for that matter--on the company clock, but this is what I do with extra time 😬. 

I've never seen an episode of the show, but I would imagine it's much like a video game or something comparable because that is what the music makes me think of. It's pretty awful.

Something recovery related: I walked into one of the massive coolers in one of the kitchens in this gigantic building the other day, and I had a very brief, but powerful urge to get high. Not on meth, alcohol, or weed like you might think, but nitrous oxide. You see, back in the day, while working in many of the kitchens I did whilst in the depths of my struggles with powerlessness over intoxicants, I had a very reliable source of laughing gas through cans of whipped cream. It probably sounds odd to you, but I went through case after case, chasing the eerie, buzzing high that can be achieved by inhaling the gas charge, while holding the can upright. 

I never got caught somehow. I can probably attribute that to the fact that I was in charge of ordering it, and often the only one who used it, in the small kitchens down in Southeast Minnesota where that particular addiction took hold. Once I got all the nitrous out, the remaining cream would come out rather liquidous, employees and management were often baffled by that, but at the same time never seemed to catch on. A couple of you reading this now, former coworkers, probably have light bulbs appearing over your heads right now. Yeah, it was me. 

So when I entered the cooler and had that urge, it dissipated rather quickly, but now every time I see it on the shelf, I continue to have thoughts of using. Briefly, my brain tells me that it would be easy to get away with doing it because there's so much here, nobody would notice. Than I remembered how my addiction works: I try one, then I need the rest. Whether it's beer, cocaine, or a simple can of whipped cream that I craftily deplete, the monster takes over after the first consumption, and I no longer have any control.

That is what keeps me from trying that first thing; the knowledge I've built up through meetings and sponsorship, that tells me I can't be like normal people. I do one, and all must fall. This is my life, and that is the only way.

The band has stopped. I should get back to work.

AmazNo

This 13-day workweek has nearly come to an end. I finished day 12 about two hours ago, and promptly went for my first outdoor run of the year. The weather was perfect, the sidewalks were treacherous. I went a mile-and-a-half which isn’t too bad considering I hate running, and I haven’t been on so much as a treadmill for a couple months. My Fitbit tells me I’ve stepped 18,311 times today, which is about 2,000 over my usual these days. Tomorrow I go in for a half-day, and then I’m off for one whole day before going back. The schedule lets up only slightly for about two weeks, during which I am only scheduled forty hours per week, and then I start working 50-60 for the rest of March.

I got a letter from Amazon today. Statistically it’s better to give people bad news on a Friday so there’s less chance of an incident; I think I learned that from Office Space. Here’s what the letter states:

Dear Vincent,

As you know, Amazon.com Inc. or its subsidiaries or its affiliates (‘Amazon”) procured a consumer report, also known as a background check, on you. We now write to advise you of an adverse action that Amazon has taken against you. Specifically, Amazon has decided not to enter into, or to discontinue, an employment relationship with you.

Well, no shit. I applied way back in 2016, and I put right on the application that I was a convicted felon. I can’t imagine why they would put me through all the hoops, just to tell me they don’t hire felons. I mean maybe they do. Actually, they don’t. I just did a little online research, which I believe to be the most reliable source of information these days, and I discovered that in not one single case, has a person with a felony been hired in Minnesota with a felony record. So why would they even accept my application with a check in that box? Who knows?

I’m over it. Even though my current job doesn’t offer benefits, I like working there. And, as my beautiful girlfriend pointed out, happiness is a great value in the workplace, and I have that rarest of benefits. I’m not dying, so I don’t really need medical insurance, but it would be nice to get started on a 401k and some other money-related stuff. I am getting old—I have seven grey hairs—so I do want to get something to supplement my Social Security someday, but for now, I am content.

And that’s all she wrote. That’s all I wrote. I mean, that’s all I’m going to write today.

Inmigrantes

Más del 70 por ciento de todos los trabajadores agrícolas estadounidenses contratados son de origen extranjero, la mayoría de México, y cerca de la mitad son indocumentados. Muchos llegan a Estados Unidos para escapar de la pobreza y el hambre en sus países de origen. Pueden ganar más dinero aquí, pero todavía viven de los salarios a nivel de pobreza y sufren de inseguridad alimentaria.

En la cocina -y estas son estimaciones aproximadas tomadas de varios éxitos cuando busqué en Google- el diez por ciento en general son inmigrantes. Ahora, de esos millones, 20-30 por ciento son indocumentados. En mi cocina, es más como 25% en general y la mayoría son de México, y todos están aquí legalmente. Sé esto porque Levy es muy minucioso con la identificación de posibles empleados. Pero he estado en muchas cocinas, y he trabajado con muchos ilegales. Oh, y confía en mí, no quieres sus empleos.

Mañana va a ser un día difícil para los trabajadores de cocina de todo el país, ya que los inmigrantes de todos los orígenes no van a trabajar como parte de un "día sin inmigrantes". Es su manera de protestar, y yo no podría estar más emocionado Para ver qué impacto tiene en todos los ámbitos. Esto es en respuesta a las promesas del Presidente Trump de combatir a los ilegales, usar "exámenes extremos" y construye su estúpida pared de mierda
La idea, por supuesto, es mostrar al imbécil cuán importantes son los inmigrantes en el mundo del trabajo duro, que se negará a ver. Casi puedo apostar que él dirá algo horrible mañana que hará que la gente lo odian aún más. Pero para aquellos de nosotros en el campo, vamos a ver y sentir la diferencia.

Escribí en mi último artículo sobre uno de mis días más difíciles de trabajo, y en los últimos mensajes de pareja he señalado que tal vez trabajo más duro, más rápido y más eficientemente que algunos en la cocina. Pero no estoy en la cima. Ni siquiera cerca. La gente que elijo emular, aquellos cuyos pasos yo elijo seguir, son casi exclusivamente mexicanos. Son el ejemplo estelar de lo que significa poner en un duro día de trabajo. No llaman, siempre están a tiempo, y siempre son los últimos en irse. Eso parece ser su ética de trabajo.

Cuando tomamos nuestro almuerzo, me siento con los mexicanos. Mi compañero de cuarto (con quien trabajo) y converso bien con ellos porque su inglés es muy superior a nuestro español. Pero nunca pienso en mi mismo, ojalá aprendieran inglés bien, porque están en América, reflexiono sobre lo duro que debe haber sido para ellos hacer la transición a nuestro país y nuestra lengua y nuestro estilo de vida. Ojalá hubiera pasado más tiempo en la escuela aprendiendo su idioma, en lugar de aprender cómo llegar alto. El español es un lenguaje funcional en una cocina, y puedo oírlo venir de todas las direcciones cuando trabajo.

En todo el país, los inmigrantes se quedarán en casa mañana, no sólo de cocinas, granjas y otros trabajos de restauración, pero cada negocio, ocupación y lugar que se pueda imaginar. Estarán pasando el día en casa con sus familias, sin gastar su dinero. Y lo sentiremos, espero. Idealmente esto será una llamada de atención para muchos estadounidenses, que probablemente piensan que "algunos mexicanos" tomaron un trabajo lejos de ellos. Bueno, mañana es tu oportunidad de entrar y ver lo que realmente hacen por ti. Mañana es tu oportunidad de trabajar como un inmigrante.

  And now for you Americans:

More than 70 percent of all hired U.S. farm workers are foreign-born, mostly from Mexico, and about half are undocumented. Many arrive in the United States to escape poverty and hunger in their homelands. They can earn more money here, but they still live on poverty-level wages, and suffer from food insecurity.

In the kitchen—and these are rough estimates taken from various hits when I searched on Google—ten percent overall are immigrants. Now, out of those millions, 20-30 percent are undocumented. In my kitchen, it’s more like 25% overall and most are from Mexico, and all are here legally. I know this because Levy is pretty thorough with identifying potential employees. But I have been in many kitchens, and I have worked with many illegals. Oh, and trust me, you don’t want their jobs.

Tomorrow is going to be a tough day for kitchen workers across the country, as immigrants of all backgrounds will not be going to work as part of a “day without immigrants.” It’s their way of protesting, and I couldn’t be more excited to see what an impact it has across the board. This is in response to President Trump’s pledges to crack down on illegals, use “extreme vetting,” and build his stupid fucking wall.

The idea, of course, is to show the idiot how important immigrants are in the world of hard work, which he will refuse to see. I can almost bet he will say something horrifying tomorrow that will make people hate him even more. But for those of us in the field, we will see and feel the difference.

I wrote in my last post about one of my harder days of work, and in the last couple posts I’ve pointed out that maybe I work harder, faster, and more efficiently than some in the kitchen. But I am not at the top. Not even close. The people who I choose to emulate, the ones whose footsteps I choose to follow, are nearly exclusively Mexicans. They are the stellar example of what it means to put in a hard day’s work. They don’t call in, they are always on time, and they are always the last to leave. That appears to be their work ethic.

When we take our lunch break, I sit with the Mexicans. My roommate (with whom I work) and I converse well with them because their English is far superior to our Spanish. But I never think to myself, I wish they would learn English good, because they’re in America, I ponder how hard it must have been for them to make the transition to our country and our language and our way of life. I wish I would have spent more time in school learning their language, instead of learning how to get high. Spanish is a functional language in a kitchen, and I can hear it coming from all directions when I work.

All across the country, immigrants will be staying at home tomorrow, not just from kitchens, farms, and other foodservice jobs, but every business, occupation, and venue you can imagine. They will be spending the day at home with their families, not spending their money. And we will feel it, I hope. Ideally this will be a wake-up call for a lot of Americans, who probably think that “some Mexican” took a job away from them. Well, tomorrow is your chance to go in and see what they actually do for you. Tomorrow is your chance to work like an immigrant.