Thank You

I have been avoiding WordPress.

I get personal here.

I am honest about my life and experience on this site because I know someone will be reading my posts.

I have been posting my b.s. rants on other sites recently. I’ve been doing it to let off steam about people, places and things that mean next to nothing to me.

I don’t post this gibberish here because I don’t want to waste your time.

I post it on the other forums because almost no one, so-called followers included, read my posts.

In fact, the only folks reading my posts on those sites ( I find this out by reading their posts and bios) are also WordPress bloggers.

I come here to do my best work because I’ve made friends here.

Friends who will always say, no matter how long I’m gone, “Welcome home.”

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Posted in 12 Step Meetings, Blues, Love, Memoir, Poetry, Recovery, Relationships, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

My Grandson. My Godson.

I haven’t seen my boy in months.

My grandson.

My godson.

My boy.

Last year the scholarship to the private school was approved and the faculty was expecting great things from him till…

He took a pencil “shank” and drew blood from his best friend’s leg.

It had been a long time since my boy had been in trouble but it wasn’t the first time…

So he was expelled from private school just before Thanksgiving break…

He was still qualified for public middle school so he enrolled in time for Christmas holiday.

Sometime before January 1st, 2018, my grandson, my godson, my boy started smoking weed and having sex.

“Goddamn,” I said. “I was hoping you’d wait till you were 14.”

And I was also hoping I’d have the rest of his 7th grade year and upcoming summer vacation before I said goodbye to him.

But I didn’t make it to the end of May.

And I never got to say goodbye.

One day, he just stopped taking my calls.

His mother said he didn’t want to talk to me.

She said, “Thanks for your help. I’ve got this.”

And, I guess she does, after an 8 year period of me making sure my grandson got to school, to his games, to his band concerts, completed his homework and ate breakfast and supper, I guess she’s finally rested enough to take over.

Or, more than likely, she figures, “He’s big enough to smoke out, he’s big enough to raise himself.”

The first day of public school was August 15th. His math and homeroom teacher says, “He’s off to a fine start.”

Just like last year.

His teacher also says, “He is on the football team.”

He still won’t answer my calls but he’ll text me his game schedule.

And I go to his games when I’m not working.

Last week, I was running late and the contest had already started. I heard the announcer shout, “Touchdown. Number 88.”

And I thought, “That’s my boy.”

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I’m Back To Let You Know

Life has been changing for me and I’ve not wanted to keep anyone posted about my comings and goings.

I get that way sometimes.

Silent.

I tell myself I need to let the dust settle, the emotions stabilize but that’s bullshit.

It’s not what I need. It’s what I want. And what I want is to not have any emotion at all.

And, until today, I didn’t want to keep feeling the twists and turns my life has taken these past few months. I didn’t want to feel them as they were happening.

So, until today, I denied being affected and I avoided any discussion of the devastating events.

I told myself, “It’s not like anyone died. It’s not like I relapsed. It’s no big deal. Not worth talkin’ about.”

But, my tight lipped avoidance and denial hasn’t done me any good. In fact, I’ve taken a turn for the worse.

I’m irritable and mean. A couple times I would’ve gotten into a fist fight if the other men involved hadn’t decided to back down. And they didn’t walk away because they were afraid. They left peacefully because they knew something was wrong with me.

They knew something was wrong with me.

And, now, I know something’s wrong with me.

And, that something, I know exactly what it is. I know exactly what it is.

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May 28, 2018

The first tropical storm of the season should be hitting soon. Nothing much to worry about. Don’t care what Weather Channel wants or says, this is not a hurricane.

It’s gray, windy and promises to be wet. That’s okay coz I have a room. The ceiling doesn’t leak and the Netflix signal is strong.

I want to watch a foreign film. I want to hear the actors speak in their native tongue. I want to close my eyes and pretend I understand what they’re saying.

I have a friend 30 years retired from the United States Air Force. I saw him this morning and, because it’s Memorial Day, I said, “Thanks, man, for serving.”

And he said,”God, you’re stupid. I’m standing here, breathing air. And, you know what that means? Two things: One, I have not yet died for my country and, two, your premature appreciation of me cannot be accepted.”

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Please take a look at my draft

https://medium.com/@7b631cfdb622/2bf639b77e65

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THE FIVE SECOND NOVEL

I’m gonna write my novel 5 seconds at a time.-Joe Fuller

Prologue

I’m back at Denny’s after a long abscence. Years since I made it a point to show two, three times a week.
I was in love then. Unrequited, of course. But passionate enough to write an entire album of songs, play them on the radio, make a cd, and, still, never have the opportunity to perform them for my muse.
That’s okay. I’ve fallen a couple of more times since. And more than one wonderful woman has been more than receptive to my artistic advances.
I am a very lucky man. Lucky coz fate never cooperates with me. Like, this morning, my godson has me sitting in a booth at Denny’s and our server is not crush material. All business, perfunctory greeting, no smile and I will tip her big for her lack of interest.
Life is good when I’m not desperate for attention. When I forget how much I miss the feel of skin on skin, I’m reasonably happy.
That’s why I’m letting my gray beard grow long and shaggy. That’s why I’ve moved from 34 to 42 inches in the waist, why I’ve gained 38 pounds in two months.
I don’t care what I eat and I don’t brush my teeth.
And, now, listening to Irene Cara sing the theme song from that 80’s ‘Feel Good’ movie, “Flash Dance,” I tear up coz I don’t think her last months, days, minutes and seconds were happy. I think, “Her hit song was just another broken promise.”
Damn, I just checked google while waiting for a warm up on my coffee and found out Irene Cara is still alive. And so is Jennifer Beales, star of that goddamn movie. Jesus, I was sure one or both of them died the tragic death of a coked-up has been.
I guess the broken promise joke is on me.
But, in my 5 second novel, they can be dead. Dead to me and dead to all 3 of my readers. This is fiction, not memoir. They’re dead if I say they’re dead.
And I’ll say anything to keep this work alive.

Chapter One

I am not good to smart phones. If they were all that brainy, they’d refuse to sell themselves to me. The one I’m using now is only a year old but the screen is cracked, the clear plastic protective cover is chipped and the letters on the keyboard sometimes stick causing a hundred strings of the letter “k” to be sent to text before I’m able to stop it from happening.
The only thing this has to do with my novel is that it becomes more difficult to write if I have to stop every 45 minutes and delete line after line of runaway letters.
So be it. My laptop was destroyed a couple of weeks ago by a forgotten glass of sweet tea left on the back seat of my brother’s Mescalade. Left to spill and drip between cover and keyboard of my 10 year old Mac.
I’ll stop complaining about my smart phone and be thankful it’s still working. Otherwise, I’d be using pencil and paper 5 seconds at a time.
Which reminds me of another complaint…Wait a minute. Complaint? Sounds so formal, so 19th century. Why not call it like it sounds to others having to listen to me rant? Why not call it for what it is? For what I’m doing, why not call it bitching, with a “g?”
For instance, the other day, at the music store, I started in on my buddy, Dr. Gitbox. I said, “Gonna get the Zydeco thing goin’ at BayWalk again this season?”
And he said, “We’ve been talkin’ about it, yes.”
“Gonna have me play accordion again. Or you gonna have Ted’s buddy, Liam, replace me?”
“Well, Liam’s schedule might prevent him from…”
“I knew it. Man, you just need to tell me I wasn’t good enough for your show.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“To me. You didn’t say that to me. But I know your boy, Curt. I know he thought I was kind of lame.”
“He tell you that?”
“Didn’t have to say anything, brother. Body language told me what he thought about my playin’.”
“Last year, Curt was the man who brought up your name.”
“And, this year, the first to rescind his endorsement.”
I continued to press Gitbox for bad news but he would neither confirm nor deny anything. And, through it all, he was Curt’s champion.
I can’t say I blame the good doctor coz I can’t say I gave a shit if I played accordion with those cats again or not. If I was to be honest with others about my performance, I’d say I pretty much sucked. But, before I owned it, I wanted to hear the same opinion from someone else. But Dr. Gitbox’s bedside manner prevented him from telling me the truth.
That’s why I said, “Okay. Have it your way. But remember, when Liam’s up on stage with y’all, you had better remember, you coulda had the best accordion player in this entire goddamn county.”
And, that’s when I walked out thinking, “Liam’s not from this county so I might not be tellin’ a lie.”

Chapter Two

Posted in Blues, Denial, Fiction, humor, Money, Poetry, Recovery, Relationships, Uncategorized | 5 Comments

Where I’ll Be Snug And Sheltered From The Storm

It is warm today. Scott said it’s going to rain. I don’t care.

Now, the radio is telling me to expect hail. Sixty mile an hour winds. I care about that…a little.

I don’t like driving in high speed wind. Being pelted by the sky is okay.

I like it when it all comes down.

Right now, I’m at the gas station disappointed the price of fuel has increased ten cents a gallon.

What can I do?

Not much other than take three dollar bills, eight quarters to the cashier and say, ” Five bucks on pump seven.”

Then, I think I’ll drive home and take a nap.

Posted in Blues, Memoir, Money, Poetry, Uncategorized | 2 Comments