Indiana

As soon as the guitar started playing I was thinking of Indiana.

I remembered the cold brown of the corn fields with their trimmed stubble poking up through the gray Indiana ice.

I was climbing a thin swaying evergreen tree. I was high in its limbs, and went to reach for the next branch above me when I saw the Blacksnake coiled around it waiting for a bird. I backed down the tree frantically worried that the snake would get scared, loosen itself from the limb and fall on me.

I lived on a lake and we would swim for hours, doggy paddling with cigarettes clenched between our lips, trying to keep them from getting wet.

In Farmersburg, all the big Oak tree's trunks that lined Main Street had been painted white. It was to fend off a particular bug, they said. It always made me think of Tom Sawyer and his fence.

Teenagers, snorting well-timed bumps of crank, chain smoke in their cars and call out to each other as they drive by one another. The local rock stations refuse to play anything but CCR and Billy Squire, so we all listen to cassette tapes of Alice in Chains over and over.

Jesse and I would hike out to the meadow near my house. There was a little pond in the center of the clearing, looking like a mirrored pupil in a large eye. We'd pour gasoline on the water and then light it with a flick of a cigarette butt so we could see the water burn.

I was thirteen when my brother gave me my first beer. I took minute sips when I thought someone was looking at me, but otherwise focused on trying to get the nasty taste out of my mouth. After an hour, it had gone warm, but still I walked around with it, choking down small swallows here and there.

I was in the seventh grade, and somehow found myself holding hands and walking with Mindy Jackson. I spent the next ten years trying to recapture that feeling.

Cat had heard voices, but I didn't know about it until the sod had already stitched itself together over his grave. We stood around the tombstone talking, drinking. We went home and stood around the garage talking, drinking.

I went back once as an adult. Boys I had once known were now playing pool in the bars I visited. Girls I had once wanted to know didn't recognize me, or if they did, they pretended not to. It was OK, because I saw people that I pretended were strangers too. We drank draft beers and told each other we should do this more often.

The Past is My Future

They say real change isn't possible. We may make minor adjustments, have opinions that grow or shrink with our perspective, but at the core we remain who we have always been. Some would say that we remain what we were always meant to be.

For those of you who know me, you know I'm far from healthy, but I'm working on it. One of the more recent changes I've made was getting more picky about where I buy my meat (insert meat joke here…then insert a meat insertion joke behind it…then insert a meat insertion in the behind joke), and how the animals are treated during their short delicious lives here on Earth. So, last night I head over to The North Market to pick up some chicken and fish. Things were much slower on a Tuesday night than they are when I normally go on Sunday afternoons. At North Market Poultry and Game I got to speak with the guy behind the counter a bit about their farming methods and products, and it was evident immediately that this guy was passionate about what he does.

"OK, that's two chicken breasts split. Anything else, man?" he asked.

"Yeah, do you guys have any ground turkey?"

"Sure do, but it's frozen. Is that cool?"

"Well, what about this ground chicken here?"

"Dude, you've never had the ground chicken from here?"

"Nope."

"Dude, you've got to get this. It's so delicous as burgers, and you can use it instead of ground beef. Plus, it's cheaper than the turkey. Bro, get the chicken."

"Sold."

I liked the guy immediately. He was totalling my order and asked me if I needed eggs. I did, and he grabbed a dozen from the cooler.

"Dude, have you ever had our eggs?"

"Nope."

"Oh man, you're going to love these. You know, when you're baking or cooking or whatever, you can use any eggs you want, but if you're going to just sit and eat an egg…this is the one you want to eat."

His eyes lit up as he talked about the eggs, and it would have been funnier to me if he hadn't been so sincere. He was excited about what they had to offer, and he wanted me to be excited too. Here he was, some guy in his mid to late twenties, long scraggily hair, eyes a bit glazed, letting me know there are "every day eggs" and "special eggs". I had no idea there was such a thing as a "special egg".

He reminded me of characters from another time in my life. I was immediately transported back to being in school, in some stranger's house with two sacks of marijuana sitting on the coffee table in front of me while the dealer talked.

"This is good daily smoke right here. Dependable and smooth. The other here…well, it's more of a weekend smoke. You need to make sure you don't have anywhere to go for awhile if you're going to smoke that."

I always wanted the weekend weed, but never could afford it. It always bugged me that this was the case, and I told myself that when I got older and I had more money I'd only smoke the "weekend weed". That time never came, and I stopped smoking years and years ago.

So, this morning, I stood at the fridge wondering if this random Wednesday was a big enough occasion to indulge in a "special egg". Fuck that, I decided. I'm a middle class white male living in a condo I'll never be able to sell and I spend my days in a cubicle that I can't see over the walls of. I'll never indulge in "weekend smoke" and will have to find other indulgences. If that doesn't rate Special Eggs on a Wednesday, I don't know what does. I may have traded my weed for eggs, but in the end I don't think there's that much difference in the two. I'm such a different person than I was back while I was in school, but I still want the elite purchase.

I cracked two beautiful brown eggs into a Pam covered skillet this morning and felt special.

Marijuana Will Straight Up Kill You, Son

I refuse to believe that Nancy Reagan lied to me. Marijuana kills, right? I mean sure, maybe not right away, but eventually. I mean, it's the gateway drug. Smoking a joint is the equivalent of smoking half a pack of cigarettes. Osama bin Laden is funding terrorist attacks right now one dime bag at a time, and there you sit on your couch with your laptop overheating doing nothing about it. How dare you?

So, how is it possible, that Michael Phelps smokes weed? When did he find time to train while getting stoned, stealing to support his habit, raping women, and eating pints of Ben & Jerry's? It goes against everything I've ever learned. Don't tell me it's possible that Nancy wasn't telling the truth. Say it's anything other than that.

If we know anything, it's that drug use will prevent you from performing in athletics at a high level (no way do pro athletes indulge in recreational drugs), becoming President of the United States, being a respected artist, graduate college, or from being a cop. No way can excellence and marijuana usage coexist.

Now that I've done some research though, I can't help but wonder how we missed the signs. Take this picture for example. It's obvious that he's ripped. No sober man would raid the bushes for a makeshift "Nature Hat". And just look at that awkward smile that seems to scream "I need a toke". Plus, he's holding up that medal like he's willing to trade it for for a quarter of Indiana Ditch Weed. Sad. So so sad.

Thank God he's got six medals. Hopefully he won't have to get more creative when it comes to what he's willing to trade to feed his addiction.

Armed with the facts I've been provided during the course of America's War on Drugs, I think it can be clearly stated that Michael Phelps is supporting future terrorists attacks. I don't like to call anyone out in writing like this, but his obvious hatred of America makes me feel more comfortable discussing it.

If only he could do something in a public setting that would be amazing enough to overshadow his wanton spliff sucking. If only he could pull off a feat of such amazing proportions that we'd be forced to overlook him unwinding over a bong hit or three. If only...

I'm not a smoker. I don't experiment with substances of any kind. Still, I don't know how it's possible we're still having these discussions. The fact that marijuana is criminalized floors me. The fact that the sick don't have access to it for medicinal purposes angers me. However, the fact that some dude who did the "Monkey Boy Dance" for his nation wants to relax in his own special way doesn't even phase me. If you want me on your bandwagon, call me when he's shooting heroin directly in his eye and blowing members of the dive team for $10 a shot.

Until then, smoke 'em if you got 'em, Mikey my boy. Put on some Cypress Hill, open a cold 40 oz, and roll one up. We'll get over it.

That Time

Do you remember that time we danced in the living room to Otis Redding?

Do you remember that time I shot my brother's nine millimeter into the air, and only wondered where the bullet would come down after I pulled the trigger?

Do you remember that time I stole the bottle of Adidas cologne out of that kid's pocket in middle school, even though I knew he would know it was me?

Do you remember that time we used to smoke the crushed butts of Viceroys out of your old man's ashtray?

Do you remember that time you brought vodka to the Youth Group trip to Chicago?

Do you remember that time that guy we knew got his hands of six pint bottles of raw ether and the way we screamed when you tried to light a cigarette?

Do you remember that time when we couldn't stop laughing?

Do you remember that time we walked up on that group of six deer and they just stood there and looked at us?

Do you remember that time I was looking down into the Valley of Armageddon, and didn't even realize it?

Do you remember that time we held hands while walking on the beach and then cracked up at what a cliche we were?

Do you remember that time I told the kids at school I had lots of GI Joe vehicles and figures because I wanted them to like me even though they probably already did?

Do you remember that time I saw the neighbor kid's dad punch him for not helping with the groceries fast enough?

Do you remember that time you told me that you hate people that do the things you do?

Do you remember that time we sat in your car in the parking lot at Kroger trying to pick up the Indianapolis station long enough to hear Radiohead's "Creep"?

(Regina Spektor's "That Time" came up on my iPod and got me rolling.)

Don't Mess With Texas

I may not have been intoxicated at the exact moment I stood up in the front of the ornate church in some Texas town I've forgotten the name of, but during that period in my life I was rarely without my medication. It's influence was obvious in most of the major decisions I was making at the time. (Note that I said "...when I got married the first time.")

And so it was that I was lying on a mattress that sat on the floor of our little apartment over a garage with my soon to be ex wife trying to sleep when I heard the screaming. It was after ten, which in my mind made things worse. Somehow I thought if a woman were screaming her head off before seven it would be less sinister. Deciding I wanted a cigarette anyway, I searched around for my shoes and headed downstairs with my hunny-bunny bride in tow.

We followed the yells to the edge of the property we lived at to a bridge that crossed a small stream that the neighboring farmer let his cows drink from. We had had a man staying down there a few weeks before, a drifter who was passing through. It wasn't the first of the drifters, but we had gotten used to them quickly as they all seemed to be harmless hippies for the most part. When I heard the screams I was just positive that I would be face to face with a mild-mannered hippie turned rapist, and I was not pleased about it.

Far from sober, it took me a few minutes of looking down at the little stream to realize that the lights coming up out of the dark belonged to a car on its roof - not a sex crazed madman's campfire. I remember standing there, stoned and detached, being so grateful it was just a car accident.

I scrambled down the embankment and a woman was pulling herself through the driver's side window. She had a small cut on her forehead, but otherwise seemed OK. I asked her if there was anyone else in the car, and she said no. To be sure, I got down on my knees in the water and the leaking gasoline peering into a backseat that looked like a traveling yard sale. There was so much shit in there I couldn't even begin to list it.

I called up to have exie call the squad, and the woman and I sat on the side of the hill, me holding her in my arms. She stank of gasoline and beer, and she bawled as I held her. I just hugged her tighter and told her she was OK and to try to be as still as she could because she might be hurt and not realize it. After a few minutes she quieted.

Suddenly, she pushed back against my chest, looking at me for the first time. My hair was an all one length grunge grease mess that just hit my shoulders and I had a goatee so long it tickled my neck and chest when I would read at night in bed. Sometimes it was dyed bright red. I don't recall if it was at the time. Regardless, she saw enough of me in the fading light of her headlights to reconsider our snuggling.

"I don't even know you!" she slurred.

"No. No, you don't."

We didn't talk the rest of the time. The police showed up first. One cop made it down the embankment to check out the situation, and then asked me to stay with her while he called it in. I stayed. Shortly after, the squad showed and they carried her out of the stream on a backboard.

I climbed the embankment and watched them load her into the ambulance smoking a cigarette. Begrudgingly, one of the officers on the scene came over and mumbled "Thanks" and shook my hand with three halfhearted pumps. I guess he didn't like my goatee either.

I sat out on the porch and re medicated (how else does one fall asleep?) and then took a shower to get the gas and mud off of me.

That really encapsulates my Texas experience. Medication, marriage, divorce, being called "faggot-assed faggot" by a farmer while visiting our local Dairy Queen, and just trying to wash it all away in a nice hot shower.

No Coffee, Thanks. Please Pass the Downers

Sunday morning I step out on the porch and take a sleepy swipe at the paper and catch it by the end of the platic bag pulling all eight glorious pounds of it into the house. I'm not a huge newspaper guy as a rule, but there is something about Sunday morning a cup of coffee and a dog at your feet that just feels like home. It's a ritual that puts me at ease and while I don't go crazy if I'm too rushed to spend an hour or so flipping through the sections that interest me (Arts, Metro, Travel & the advertisements) it's a good part of my day anytime I can work it in. It relaxes me.

Fortunately, in case I wasn't going to be relaxed enough on my Sunday puttering around the house, the good folks at the Columbus Dispatch teamed up with Advil to help take even more of the edge off my morning.


That's right. Handily included with my morning dose of death, destruction, and half-assed movie reviews were free sedatives. Hot damn! The writing turned poetic. The sidebar detailing tips to stay comfortable, even on the longest of flights, was especially poignant. I giggled through the book reviews and managed a nappy guffaw at Family Circle. The Real Estate section changed my life. Oh, the colors, children!

That's right. I, like many other Central Ohioans, crushed my free Advil PM into dust and snorted it right off the Business section. From that moment on, I knew I would never read the paper any other way.

The rest of the weekend was great, although less chemically enhanced. We bought the new bikes we had our eye on. Jen got to bring her bike home, but they are waiting for mine to come in. Our little bike shop managed to get me the last Raleigh Venture 4.0 available in the manufacturer's warehouse. I can't wait until the great white death outside melts into puddles so I can go racing through them in a cloud of muddy spray.

The last thing of note from this past weekend was the introduction of Christianity into my home from a rather unexpected source. First, some background.

Until my father decided to run through a string of additional wives/pre-built families, he was a minister. In his early years our family was Nazarene, but over time he became less picky and would go to work for any church/denomination that would overlook his checkered past. This is not as rare a thing as you would hope. Anyway, the point is, I was raised in the church until the time I turned eighteen and left home at which time the church and I parted ways. While my father passed a little over a year ago, my mother and sister remain very involved in their respective congregations.

My brother and sister-in-law are looking for answers and seem to have found some with this Christian motivational speaker guy (sorry, forget his name). From what I can gather, the gist of his message is "Ask God for favor, and you'll be amazed at what you will receive". They are way into receiving, not unlike me. We just go about it different ways.

My wife also is looking for answers. She would like to believe in the traditional spiritual avenues the majority of Middle Americans travel, but in the end she just can't bring herself to buy into anything. As a result, she's moved on to philosophies, primarily Buddhism. While she doesn't claim to be a Buddhist, she is learning more and more about it and has started some meditation. It brings her a bit of comfort, and there is no way I would ever do anything to take that away from her. Plus, add the fact that I know very little about it, and I don't have too much to say on the subject.

This weekend Jen brought home a Buddha head just because it looked cool. The Buddha she got was not the happy "Let's have another cheeseburger and get high" Buddha I tend to love, but rather a skinnier more femininely serious version that I'm told leans more to the Thai model.

I like it. A lot. I like it because it doesn't fit in our living room (its new home), it looks aged and cracked, and I know that my father would have hated to see it. You know, false idols and all of that. You see, when I was a kid, the idea that people would even want a Buddha in their home was laughable. Who could believe such horseshit? These people need to smarten up and get down with a believable religion like Christianity. Right.

Well, she brought it home, put it on its shelf and we all loved it. Well, all of us but one.

Otis, my ten pound Silky Terrier, caught the fire of the Lord and rebuked that stone Buddha head all evening long. He would lean forward to sniff at its nose and growl. He would take two steps back and bark at it. When he walked away from it, it was always while throwing nervous glances over his shoulder. We thought he would let it go the following day, but no. He still had things to say to the passive hunk of ceramic.

If you had asked me before this, I would have told you dogs would make great Buddhists. They are all about living in the moment. On the other hand, apathetic agnosticism would probably be the best fit; they don't know and they don't care. What I never would have guessed would be that a dog would display such a visceral reaction to Buddha and it leaves me convinced that my dog is Born Again. So be it. If it brings him peace, who am I to criticize?

Still, I'm more curious than ever about his beliefs. I plan on getting busts of Obama, Freud, Stalin, Woodie Guthrie and George W so I can figure out exactly what I’m up against.