Monday, June 26, 2017

3


Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and give thanks constantly. And because all things contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 
7-7-14 The day I went to prison.
 
Three years ago today (Thirteen days before this picture was taken), I was looking at a broken man in a mirror in the bathroom at the courthouse in Rochester, Minnesota. The man looking back at me had a black eye, a black heart, and a head full of worry. His life as he knew it was over. He put some meth in a wadded up piece of toilet paper, and downed it with a few gulps from the faucet, and went into the courtroom and waited.

That was the last time I used any mind altering chemical.

The quote above strums a chord within me. It resonates throughout me, and it’s because I have always been far more grateful for my incarceration than resentful: it was the thing I needed to change it all around. I’ve said it before and I will surely say it again, I don’t think I could have stopped the madness by myself. In fact, I’ve tried it a few times by myself, and I never could get a hold on life without the assistance of others. I’m far from ashamed to say that. Actually, I’m much more embarrassed about what happens when I don’t have help.

I want to take a moment here to thank all of you who, for some reason, have chosen to follow this blog for nearly the entirety of my new life. My statistics constantly fluctuate, but it would seem that 100 people regularly read my posts. That certainly isn’t a number to brag about, but I am so grateful that people are interested in what I have to say. If I didn’t have readers, I would probably still write because it helps me cope with life in a way that I can’t seem to mimic with human interaction, and it has gotten me through some tough times.

And speaking of tough times, these three years—even though they have been the most productive and fulfilling of my life—has had its share of struggle. I started my life outside of prison living under a roof with my mother. We found out quickly that it wasn’t a good fit, and our relationship was put to the test. I think we are now closer than ever though, despite a rocky start.

Living on house arrest for my first 13 months of “freedom” was one of the most depressing periods of my life, and I often had the thought that time would be easier on the inside. It is true—life really was easy in there, but it was a horribly disgusting place and I am grateful I had the willpower to do what it took to stay out here.

Going through one brief, and one moderately longer relationship—both ending in disaster—took its toll on me as well. But I am grateful for the experience and the fun times I had in both, and I hold no resentment for either, as anger no longer has a place in my life.

And then the stress of changing jobs twice in six months was a bit stressful, but it was worth it. I found that all of these changes were more manageable with a clear mind, and a solid foundation.

 

So that’s a recap in a nutshell. Most of you have read everything more extensively as I have devoted entire posts to a particular subject, so I won’t blather. I just want to say that I am grateful for my life. Every day I wake up I am simply happy to be alive, happy to have family and friends, happy for the ability and means for something as simple as taking care of my dog, and so grateful for my fellowship and home group of A.A. I could not have done all of this without you. I am grateful for my prison term and all the positives that resulted from it, and the friends I still have from behind bars. I am grateful for my addiction, for without it, I would not have this incredible story to tell. And most of all, I am grateful that I have three years sober today.

 
Today


Thank you!

Monday, June 19, 2017

Beurre


This last workweek has been trying to say the least. In my career as a cook, I have only had limited time at a sauté station, and it is known as the fastest-paced station in any busy restaurant. Over the past four work days, I have been trained in on that very station. When I say trained in, I mean thrown to the wolves like is customary in a kitchen.

The last time I tried my hand(s) on a twelve-burner, I was working down at Riverside on the Root in Lanesboro, MN where I was high on days of meth and I had trouble keeping my eye on a single pot of boiling water. I never could keep it together at any station there: tongs and spatulas everywhere, none of them functioning properly as my mind whirred about in a spin-cycle of culinary chaos. I would sweat profusely, and I was blind from neglect of proper eye-care—I cannot see without corrective lenses. I often wonder what I looked like from the point of view of a coworker or a diner; could they tell? Did they watch me waste nearly every move, spinning in unproductive circles, and wonder which drug I was currently abusing? Of course they did.

Five or so years later, and with couple-or-so years of sobriety behind me, I am able to be in the moment, and focus on the task-at-hand. Orders come in, and I can make sense of them, put them in order in my mind, and cook properly. Sauté is difficult, and I have made some mistakes, but I didn’t get flustered: I fixed them and moved on. There is no time in a busy kitchen to waste on thinking in the past. Everybody will make mistakes; we just have to make sure those gaffes don’t make it out to the customer.

One thing that is a little frustrating is that the particular clientele—country club members—occasionally will send something back that is perfectly cooked, and we have to start it over. This slows everything else down, and disrupts the flow, but these people pay a lot of money to be members, so we do what they say and keep moving.

So, what do I do on sauté? Well, I start the day by getting all of my ducks in a row. I set up my line, make a few sauces like beurre monte, and orange beurre blanc, and make sure I have adequate amounts of all of the pastas and ingredients and proteins. Then we get to work. Orders come in and I quickly scan the ticket, look for things I need to fire, and then assign them an order in my brain. I do a lot of sides like sautéed pea shoots and roasted baby carrots with pepper jelly. I also make pasta to order like the mezza-luna which is like a half-circle-shaped ravioli that we make from scratch. For that pasta, I assemble together in a pan: buerre monte, lemon juice, shallot, garlic, fines herbs, smoked raisins, roasted cauliflower, and s&p. I put the pasta in boiling water for a couple minutes, and when it’s ready I fire the burner and add the pasta to the ingredients and flip it around just long enough to heat it all up, but not so long that the sauce breaks. It is very complicated, and it takes a lot of concentration when I have five other things going on at the same time, but somehow…. I’m good at it. It truly is more complicated than I can even put into words, but I’ll get there.

Each day I fall in love with this new job as it presents a new challenge. Each day I remain sober, my mind becomes more focused on celebrating life and finding the best in every day. I think I’ll stay there for a while.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Dad


Today is normally the second time of the year that I show appreciation for one of my parents, both of whom happen to be my mother. Currently she is out of the country, and I have written a few posts in regards to her and our relationship as it has varied over the years. Today I’m going to do something a little different; I’m going to write a letter to my real father who I have never had the chance to meet. I’m certain that I have only alluded to him situationally, and never delved into it any farther. So, here goes.

 

Dad,

It’s strange that I’ve never called anybody that, or even seen it written at the end of a birthday card or letter. I’ve heard you referred to as Garry or “that asshole” a few times, and I vaguely remember seeing a fuzzy picture of you once, but I’ve never thought of you as a father until recently. I know your last name, and every now and then I think my life could have been easier if my last name were Clark instead of Maertz. Can you imagine having to sound out or spell your last name for everybody you’ve ever met? That’s your fault.

I’m getting off track here. I’m 38 years old now and I wanted to tell you something: I forgive you. I’ve reached a point in my life where I can no longer hold on to resentment or anger; it only bogs me down. For a long time I wondered if you had stayed in my life, if you had stuck around to raise your two boys, if my life would have gone differently. You see I took the same path that you were taking when you left, and it left me scarred emotionally, physically, and mentally. I thought I could go through life selling and doing drugs, drinking excessively, and objectifying women, but all of that lead me nowhere. I thought I had everything I wanted, but I only had a few things I desired, and nothing I actually needed.

 I found myself in prison where I finally had the chance to sit down and look at my mistakes and start actively fixing everything I had broken over the decades of insanity. It is there that I realized how hard it must have been for you to be living that life and fathering children you had no ability to take care of. If I am grateful for one thing in my years of addiction, it is that somehow I managed to not have any kids. I, too, would not have had the capacity to be a father, and I would have taken the same road: I was no better.

I want you to know that I pray for you. Not every day, not all of the time, but every now and then I pray that you have found your way into a life that doesn’t beat you down and tear at your heart. I pray that the children you had later on in life do have a father that loves them. I was lucky enough to have a mother that was as strong as any two parents. Even though some might say I wasted a good portion of my life, I would say that it just took me this long to become the best man I can be and I know that someday, because of everything my mom did for me after you left, I will be the best dad there can be (provided someday I actually find a human female to mate with.)

I doubt you will ever come across this, but I want you to know that you are my dad. We have never met, but I will always have a place for you in my heart. There is no more room in my life for anger, there is only love, and I love you Dad.

Vince

Monday, June 12, 2017

Tinnitus & Tattoos


There’s been a constant ringing in my ears since I can remember. It’s a high-pitch, and is seems to pulse in range with each beat of my heart. It isn’t like a bell, which is what I thought of when I saw the word ringing; it’s more like a constant, high-pitched hum. As I frequently do, I referred to the internet for advice and decided that I have a traumatic brain injury, too much earwax, arthritis, and varicose veins. These are all probably due to the fact that I am a pilot, a rock musician, or a logger, and it is likely a condition called Tinnitus, which is quite common.

What I was happy to read is that it is unlikely due to high blood pressure or prolonged exposure to toxic chemicals or excessive alcohol consumption. I’ve been pretty lucky to not have any long-term physical effects of my research on substance abuse, and I take pretty good care of myself these days just in case.

I read on and discovered that depending on the cause of the ringing, most likely it is treatable, but not curable. One of the treatments—and I like this because it says it is doctor recommended—is that I should get a white-noise machine to drown out the ringing, but that I shouldn’t turn the volume up too high, or I risk causing further damage. There are also medications that can temporarily reduce the hum which include Alprazolam (Xanax), and Tricyclic antidepressants which include both notriptyline and amitriptyline, but Xanax is highly addictive, and I’m not depressed. It should be noted that some side effects of these medications include blurred vision, dry mouth, constipation, and heart disease!

There are a million more causes and solutions on the Clear Ear Blog which includes a number of pictures of old people looking confused and advertisements for various ear cleaning devices and services. That’s all on that.

 

In other news, I have recently made a serious commitment at Beloved Studios with the owner Brandon Heffron to do some new tattoo work. Luckily for me, I have appointments starting in March with the owner himself, and I will be having work done over some existing ink that was laid down roughly 13 years ago. Before new work can be applied, however, I have to have the old stuff toned down a bit, and the only way to do that is with a cheese grater. No. I actually started the laser removal process about a week ago, and I can tell you if you’re interested, that lasers hurt like a motherfucker. This is a year-long project, and it will be really expensive—somewhere in the neighborhood of $4,000. It’s what I want, and I’ve been excited to do something new for many years, and I finally have the means to do what I want to do, so I’m going to do it. I will keep you posted, but it will be a while until I can show you any progress, but when I do it will be exciting (for me) to show off my transformation. This whole process will be documented on video and camera, and I can’t wait to compile some if it and show it off.

 

That’s all for now, I’m going to get out into the sun and see what the day brings. I think maybe a Twins game tonight, who knows. And here's a picture of the moon:
 
 

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Pig Slop


Over the past week I’ve thought of a myriad of subject matter to entertain you with, but here I am now in the flesh and my mind is drawing a blank. Of course, I start many posts in a similar fashion and they turn out to be just fine.

I am coming up on a sobriety anniversary which also coincides with every other life-changing event that has occurred in my life. Well, that’s not true, just the best life-changing events have happened in the past 2+ years.

June 26th will mark the third anniversary that I walked into the courtroom, knowing that I would not leave for a considerable amount of time. I was strung-out on meth, had a black eye, and I had $78 to my name. Oddly, I was happy that the whole process was going to be over, and I could start on a new path, which I have adjusted but maintained now for nearly three years.

Obviously, I can’t count my chickens before they’re hatched. Some chickens will be stillborn and useless, and maybe some eggs were never fertilized. Both ways they are all edible and I should be able to eat like a king for a day or two just off of the unhatched eggs. Sorry, I got way off track there. What I was trying to say is that there are still a little over two weeks until the actual date, and as an addict I know that anything is possible. It is only through work with a sponsor and sponsees that I am able to preserve one day at a time with a clear(ish) mind.

 

Here’s something: did you know that in many restaurants, your leftovers are scraped off of your plate into a large bucket, pureed, then sold to pig farmers for food? (I mean the pigs eat the slop, not the farmers, although I have no proof of that.) Normally, this occurs in larger businesses, and the first time I saw it was actually in prison. We would shuffle through the dish line after a meal and our leftovers would be tossed into a trough where they were sent through something similar to a garbage disposal where the food was “pulped,” stored, then sold to the highest bidder. In my current restaurant, the process is similar, except we don’t do the blending. Just so you know, pigs eat anything and everything, including bones, fat, stems, seeds, rinds, and yes, pork.

All that said, pigs seem to have a similar diet to many humans which makes me wonder what people taste like. Actually, I’ve wondered for years, I’ve just not yet eaten human flesh. Now I have a hankerin’ for some people-meat, and I don’t know what to do about it. Logic dictates that I could cure this obsession by simply eating some bacon, but I just don’t think that would be the same.

 

And there’s what you get with roughly three years of writing experience paired with a mind free of chemicals and alcohol. You may think I’m a crazy person, and you might be right. I might eat you.

Monday, June 5, 2017

The Concert


Good morning. And what a beautiful Monday morning it is. I appreciate having weekdays off because there is less hassle everywhere I go. I am sitting in a nearly empty coffee shop where I can concentrate on writing, and then I plan to go out and enjoy the sunshine and warmth.

This past Saturday I got to see a concert for the first time in sobriety, and it was definitely the best I have ever seen. Joe Walsh and Tom Petty came to the Xcel Center and played their hearts out. I will say first that I could tell that these guys really love what they do: thanking us between each song for our applause, and interacting with the crowd with stories and antics. Joe Walsh was on my bucket list, and not only was I not disappointed, he is the best guitarist I have ever seen live. I wish my camera on my phone worked better so it would be worth sharing the pictures with you, but it is garbage. I don’t know why I didn’t bring my real camera with me. I will definitely bring it with for Roger Waters.

Tom Petty I had seen before. He was even better than last time. I went about a decade ago with a few friends from the Fillmore County area and from the cities, and one of the guys I was with blacked out and threw up everywhere before the show even started. He was slumped over in his chair and sleeping until the end as far as I remember. I was also drunk, but my tolerance has always been higher than most.

Just before the concert started (10 years ago), my friend and I went into an empty bathroom and passed a joint back and forth under the stalls and made vulgar pooping noises because that was funny back then. When we finished up, we opened up the doors to find long lines in front of both of our stalls, some of them children. We couldn’t help but laugh hysterically as we stumbled out.

This time I went with a friend in recovery, and we had conversations with adults, like adults. During Joe Walsh, I was seated next to a woman who was the equivalent of a clothed stripper and kept smashing her butt into my face and apologizing. I could smell the beer on her, and she was gross. Now, grandma, don’t read this next part… At one point she bumped me really hard and exclaimed, “Sorry for shoving my pussy into your mouth!” And she laughed. Ha ha ha ha ha.. Well, you know what laughter sounds like. Fortunately for us, we made jokes about her to the couple sitting next to us who had friends one section over, and we were given the opportunity to switch seats, which we did without hesitation.

Aside from that, the experience was legit, vivid, and memorable. I will never forget every moment, and I will cherish the times when 16,000 fans sang together some of rock’n’roll’s greatest songs.

 

And that’s all for now. For the rest of the summer I will be working 50 hours or more per week, and I will likely curtail my posts to one or two per week for the duration. I love what I do, and I am having fun and learning along the way. I hope you are all able to get out into the bright sunlight more often than not this summer.

And Counting

I remember vividly waking up at 5:19am, one minute precisely before the lights would come on; the indication that it was time to stand a...