This Place Stinks

1977 marked the year my childhood really went down the emotional toilet. Things weren’t going all that well before that. In the previous year my mother consummated her position in life as a practicing alcoholic. She drank regularly and acted inappropriately. Her favorite activity was walking around the house drunk and naked with curtains open. Her behavior only made the situation worse as the arguments between my parents escalated to a new level. This new level involved broken lamps and microwaves, hitting each other, and occasional blood on the walls. I was pretty scared.

My father came up with the big event of 1977. He got the brilliant idea have an affair with my aunt. Now, in his defense, my aunt was quite an attractive woman. She stood about 5’8”, blonde, thin and had a figure that wouldn’t quit. Although I heard that same figure has now given up on life, she was quite the looker back then.

There were two essential problems with my father’s plan. The first was the potential for family fallout was terrible. The second was the location these two came up with for their affair was truly ridiculous.

My father earned his keep as a truck driver. He drove 32 wheel semis and hauled crude oil when Michigan was an oil producing state. He hauled the crude oil from the well to the refinery.

The funny thing is that crude oil wells really stink. They smell like a mixture of gasoline, dung and natural gas. Not exactly an aphrodisiac, but my father and aunt decided to hook up in the sleeper of my dad’s company truck at an oil well. She drove 30 minutes, smelled the stink, look at my father in his truck driver clothes and said lets get it on.

They did it with crude oil vapor wafting in the open windows. Sleepers then didn’t normally come with curtains. It was summer and therefore warm. I’m sure they were pretty sweaty.

When they finished up my aunt went home and my father finished his workday. When he returned home he acted like nothing happened. She did too for a while and then guilt overcame her and she told her husband (my mother’s brother). The shakedown from that single crude oil smelling act of debauchery affected everything in my life from thereon. The rest of the family blamed my mother for the whole thing. All this information is according to my mother. I have asked my father and he never denied anything.

Basically the family decided that if my mom had been a better wife none of this would have happened. Surely my dad solicited my aunt and my aunt, being a woman, was powerless and just said “yes I’ll have sex with you anywhere you want.” Since my aunt was powerless and my father would only solicit extra-marital activities if he was in need, then it was my mom’s fault he was in need in the first place. One thing I can verify is that my parents did it a lot. I heard them all the time. Sadly for me, my mom is a screamer. They woke me up all the time. What I’m getting at is that I don’t think my father went looking for extra curricular activities on the side because services weren’t rendered at home. I think he was just an ass. I don’t think my aunt really was powerless, especially now that she tries to be a strong and righteous woman.

The real problem is that these two people made a horrible decision that affected far more people than themselves. They affected directly me, my uncle – the heir to the family farm and family golden boy, and everyone else within the immediate family. What it came down to is that my family needed a scapegoat and they chose my mother because that was the most painless way to deal with the whole situation. My uncle, the golden boy, could suffer no consequences other than his own personal torment, which from what I understand was extensive. My aunt, being the golden boy’s wife, could suffer no real repercussions because, well, she was the golden boy’s wife. My father didn’t suffer because it was my mother’s fault. After this judgment my mother’s drinking became truly legendary and she was ostracized from the family with me along for the ride.

I didn’t see my golden aunt and uncle, or my cousin, for about 4 years. My uncle couldn’t handle the thought of seeing us because it reminded him of his wife’s choice and probably made him want to kill my father. When I did finally see that part of the family again it was well after my mother and father had divorced and my mom worked a pathetic job at a small manufacturing company. The day of the reunion, my golden aunt and uncle came over and picked me up. They took me to the drive-in movie theatre to see Star Trek the Motion Picture. I could tell at 11 years old this was a big deal for my mother even though my aunt and uncle never came inside. I walked out to their car with my mom, she waved and we drove off. I still remember the movie.

To this day my aunt and uncle are still married. Their relationship suffers. They haven’t been intimate for years. My aunt doesn’t seem to like my uncle. She’s a born again Christian and tells her children she’s never consumed alcohol and certainly never done anything like screw my father. I have for her children. I’ve witnessed her consuming alcohol and if she didn’t screw my father then I don’t see what’s in it for the both of them to make up a story like that. The manipulation on her part continues to this day, which is something I actually won’t get into.

Take what you want from this. It’s just a horrible situation rising from some stupidity that happened almost 30 years ago. Yet the idiocy remains as those involved live with a tormented past and continue to bury it.

This Place Stinks

1977 marked the year my childhood really went down the emotional toilet. Things weren’t going all that well before that. In the previous year my mother consummated her position in life as a practicing alcoholic. She drank regularly and acted inappropriately. Her favorite activity was walking around the house drunk and naked with curtains open. Her behavior only made the situation worse as the arguments between my parents escalated to a new level. This new level involved broken lamps and microwaves, hitting each other, and occasional blood on the walls. I was pretty scared.

My father came up with the big event of 1977. He got the brilliant idea have an affair with my aunt. Now, in his defense, my aunt was quite an attractive woman. She stood about 5’8”, blonde, thin and had a figure that wouldn’t quit. Although I heard that same figure has now given up on life, she was quite the looker back then.

There were two essential problems with my father’s plan. The first was the potential for family fallout was terrible. The second was the location these two came up with for their affair was truly ridiculous.

My father earned his keep as a truck driver. He drove 32 wheel semis and hauled crude oil when Michigan was an oil producing state. He hauled the crude oil from the well to the refinery.

The funny thing is that crude oil wells really stink. They smell like a mixture of gasoline, dung and natural gas. Not exactly an aphrodisiac, but my father and aunt decided to hook up in the sleeper of my dad’s company truck at an oil well. She drove 30 minutes, smelled the stink, look at my father in his truck driver clothes and said lets get it on.

They did it with crude oil vapor wafting in the open windows. Sleepers then didn’t normally come with curtains. It was summer and therefore warm. I’m sure they were pretty sweaty.

When they finished up my aunt went home and my father finished his workday. When he returned home he acted like nothing happened. She did too for a while and then guilt overcame her and she told her husband (my mother’s brother). The shakedown from that single crude oil smelling act of debauchery affected everything in my life from thereon. The rest of the family blamed my mother for the whole thing. All this information is according to my mother. I have asked my father and he never denied anything.

Basically the family decided that if my mom had been a better wife none of this would have happened. Surely my dad solicited my aunt and my aunt, being a woman, was powerless and just said “yes I’ll have sex with you anywhere you want.” Since my aunt was powerless and my father would only solicit extra-marital activities if he was in need, then it was my mom’s fault he was in need in the first place. One thing I can verify is that my parents did it a lot. I heard them all the time. Sadly for me, my mom is a screamer. They woke me up all the time. What I’m getting at is that I don’t think my father went looking for extra curricular activities on the side because services weren’t rendered at home. I think he was just an ass. I don’t think my aunt really was powerless, especially now that she tries to be a strong and righteous woman.

The real problem is that these two people made a horrible decision that affected far more people than themselves. They affected directly me, my uncle – the heir to the family farm and family golden boy, and everyone else within the immediate family. What it came down to is that my family needed a scapegoat and they chose my mother because that was the most painless way to deal with the whole situation. My uncle, the golden boy, could suffer no consequences other than his own personal torment, which from what I understand was extensive. My aunt, being the golden boy’s wife, could suffer no real repercussions because, well, she was the golden boy’s wife. My father didn’t suffer because it was my mother’s fault. After this judgment my mother’s drinking became truly legendary and she was ostracized from the family with me along for the ride.

I didn’t see my golden aunt and uncle, or my cousin, for about 4 years. My uncle couldn’t handle the thought of seeing us because it reminded him of his wife’s choice and probably made him want to kill my father. When I did finally see that part of the family again it was well after my mother and father had divorced and my mom worked a pathetic job at a small manufacturing company. The day of the reunion, my golden aunt and uncle came over and picked me up. They took me to the drive-in movie theatre to see Star Trek the Motion Picture. I could tell at 11 years old this was a big deal for my mother even though my aunt and uncle never came inside. I walked out to their car with my mom, she waved and we drove off. I still remember the movie.

To this day my aunt and uncle are still married. Their relationship suffers. They haven’t been intimate for years. My aunt doesn’t seem to like my uncle. She’s a born again Christian and tells her children she’s never consumed alcohol and certainly never done anything like screw my father. I have for her children. I’ve witnessed her consuming alcohol and if she didn’t screw my father then I don’t see what’s in it for the both of them to make up a story like that. The manipulation on her part continues to this day, which is something I actually won’t get into.

Take what you want from this. It’s just a horrible situation rising from some stupidity that happened almost 30 years ago. Yet the idiocy remains as those involved live with a tormented past and continue to bury it.

Let's Get Manipulated!

Here it is March 17, 2006, 57 years to the day that my mother came into the world. I was blessed last night to receive another drunken phone call from her. It’s really silly how the dance with her works.

She gets drunk and then calls people and tries to act normal or does stuff to give people clues that she’s loaded. Then of course she denies it when confronted. It’s like she packs two games and addictions into one ridiculous experience. Maybe it’s all one big game she plays with herself to keep herself busy and avoid how truly pathetic her life has become.

Here she is at 57, divorcing for the 27th time and lives with her mother. Actually she’s on her 4th divorce. It’s still pathetic if you ask me, but it shows a real commitment to failure and mediocrity. She works for $6.50 an hour as an assistant manager at a Family Dollar. She has the audacity to complain when others get drunk and call her to work for them. I guess even drunks have a moral standard.

The truly sad thing about my mother is she really is one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. Her cognition is just sick. I consider myself a fairly smart guy. I understand people and ideas rather quickly. I occasionally read philosophy and enjoy new ideas. My mother, however, puts me to shame. I can read her texts aloud to her that I find dense and have to reread numerous times to decipher the author’s meaning and she understands them immediately. I think her hyper intelligence and understanding has been the ballast and main instigator of the way she lives her life.

She developed a highly skilled game of manipulation where she never honestly looks at her world and what she’s accomplished, which is essentially nothing. She plays a role. A role where she pretends to fit in with the simple stupidity of everyone around her. Then for drama and amusement she messes with things by getting drunk or playing some manipulative, head game. This leads to people showering her with bizarre attention and those same people wonder why she does what she does. Little do they know they play the perfect part in what she’s trying to accomplish. They end up manipulated. I seem to be the only one who figured this out.

I remember sitting in a counseling session with her and telling her counselors how my mother was manipulating them. Their eyes got big as I pointed out how their doctrine of responses and recovery worked with her idea of manipulation and addiction. They were shocked. I went on to point out the depth of my mother’s manipulation and how they were actually the butt end of some sick alcoholic’s joke. One counselor in the session, my mother had two at the time, sat there with her jaw hanging slightly open. The other just looked at the floor rather embarrassed. My mother squirmed in the chair next to me. My mother didn’t realize yet I had figured this out. Still my mom enjoyed watching her counselors blown away by what I said. After their meeting with me, her counselors met between the two of them to decide what was best for my mother. They decided their current counseling methods weren’t working and one quit within a month. The other was gone shortly after that.

The paradox is Mom really is a sweet woman. She’s just so caught up in herself that she never really looks at life without jaded eyes. Last night during the blessed phone call she asked again for the 100th time if she could come and visit me and my family. My answer was the same it always has been; sure you can come if you stay in a hotel. But she was drunk, oh and here is one of the little clues, and forgot what the hell I said the last time she called drunk.

The truly humorous moment during the phone call came when her mother knocked on the door to her room. My mother had to quickly exit our conversation because her mother wanted to talk to her. She had something to hide and had to get it out of the way before her mother came in. Five minutes later my mother called back with some lame excuse about why she had to go and proceeded to repeat herself.

I don’t know why someone pushing 60 continues to do what she does, especially with someone almost 85 like my grandmother. I know why she plays the game with me. She does because it’s what she does and that’s all she chooses to know anymore. I do wish she’d stop messing my grandmother and just drink herself into a silent, private oblivion.

On a lot of levels, I find these phone calls annoying. I know what they are about and can get over them with pretty quickly. I also know that my mother is basically a waste of human flesh. She never really does anything beyond creating a personal crisis for herself. Her last marriage ended when she drank in the same house her husband lives in. The hilarious part of this situation is he killed someone in a drunken driving accident a few years previous. One of his parole stipulations was that he may have no alcohol in his home. My mother gets the bright idea to play the, lets get drunk at home game, and screw with her husband’s freedom. He gets angry of course and throws her out. He’s been manipulated!

She complains about him and his awful behavior. Apparently he had an affair, but I have to say that drinking at home was a pretty disrespectful thing for her to do. I mean she could have gotten drunk in the local pub and walked home drunk, then passed out. But noooooooo she had to get drunk at home, maximize the rewards of the manipulation game and risk his probation. Apparently he had had random home checks for alcohol.

My mother is just one of those lost causes everyone deals with in life. There are a lot of great people in the world but she chooses not to be one of them. I’m working on being one and on this St. Patrick’s Day, 2006, my mother’s birthday I sit here at 7 a.m. drinking a beer in her honor. Here’s to you mom. I’ll have the first one of the day. Guess what? I don’t have to hide it either!

Thanks for reading to the end. Seeya next week!

In a post script to this column, my mother actually managed to call me sober. She managed to get her own car and got a second job for a whopping $10 per hour. It’s not much but it’s a start. I’ll quote the script of Vanilla Sky, “every single minute is an opportunity to turn everything around.” It could happen with her but I’m pretty sure I’d pass out holding my breath. The only thing that I can say in her defense is that she finally admitted to the manipulation game. Maybe she will turn it around. The rest of the world will not wait for her to see if she does.

You Have the Potential Damnit!

The western world holds people to the ideal they must live up to their ultimate potential. If someone has the ability to do something then ultimately they should. Consider fat people: inevitably someone asks, “Why don’t you just lose weight? Why not go to the gym?” Pressure to lose weight just because of the potential to do so causes a problem within our society and creates a rift.

This rift can result in a fat people everywhere wondering what’s wrong with them. Obese people send themselves negative messages because they know they can, in principle, lose weight. Yet they don’t seem to have what it takes to get the job done. This conundrum is the prevailing idea I want to talk about now. Why is it people who have the ability to directly change their lives just not do it?

I realized a few years back that I have more than my fair share of god given gifts in this life. I have an array of talents: singing, drawing, cooking, playing guitar and being intuitive. I’m a pretty good communicator. I have knack for writing my feelings in a way people can relate to. I have a degree and I’m fairly athletic when I play sports. Despite all these “gifts” I still am unemployed, fat and find it hard to get the motivation together to really accomplish anything. Why is it I have so much potential that remains relatively unrealized?

I think the answer lies in a decision I make at a very base level. It’s the thing that alcoholics call their bottom. It’s when people realize something has to change and their lives become unacceptable. Every person has a different threshold for their decision, but that’s not the key. The key is that people must reach this point before they do bring about any personal change.

I have a friend who when I met her five years ago she was already quite fat. In the five years since I first laid eyes on her she looks like she’s doubled in size. She now has fat hanging off her knees and her head is so huge it looks like it’s covered in a fat helmet. Her butt and legs are so big that when we both sit in a car together she sits higher than me. I’m about 5 inches taller than her if we are standing side by side.

The problem with my friend is that she hasn’t reached the point in her mind that will make her change. She is a mere 32 and takes medication for hypertension. A heart attack looms in her near future and all she does is sit around and eat. Her life is cushy. She has a highly marketable chemical engineering degree, lives rent-free in her grandma’s basement and isn’t looking for employment. She spends her time with her computer, her food and her television. Her boyfriend keeps finding excuses not to move closer to her. Yet she maintains that her life is put together and just fine. Maybe it is, but she has a ton of potential. She keeps getting fatter and fatter and it’s pretty scary.

The point is that she hasn’t made a decision to change. She doesn’t like the way she is. She’s intimated to me that she knows what she looks like when she looks in the mirror. I haven’t completely made my decision to change either. It seems like some people have an unlimited capacity for personal pain and it prevents them from changing. It seems like some people are just lazy. I’m not completely sure.

One thing I do know is the willingness to change comes from a place deep within ourselves and it’s the only place I think we have that is truly our own. It’s the only place no one outside of use personally can truly touch. Others can affect this place in us but ultimately it’s our decision as to how we see things.

Our decision to change comes purely from our willingness to change. Basically if we are not willing to change then we are never going to make the decision to change. That’s the difference I’ve found in myself is that I’ve had to become willing to change. From this base I can simply choose what I want to do. With that realization I’ve been able to look at life with much clearer eyes and look at what I want to change.

The changes have proven difficult for me but with the willingness to change I know eventually I’ll get to where I want to be. That’s a great feeling and my past no longer rules my future decisions like it once did. Now I choose to live my life on the other side realize my potential.

As always, thanks for reading to the end.

Grow Up Boy You Are Seven Years Old

When I was seven years old my parents were in the throws of their ultimate destruction that lasted for the next three years. Life went from being somewhat normal where my father worked 60 hours a week driving a semi and my mother stayed home with me, to this bizarre family war zone. Strangely the only participants in the war were my mother and father. They worked together like fire and water in their dance toward oblivion. I basically stood on the sidelines and pleaded with them for peace.

My mother drank almost constantly at this point. This is also the time she started naked drinking, which was a real treat. She would get drunk and call whomever she could think of and just start yammering about whatever drunk, pathetic people yammer about to people who dutifully listen on the other end of the phone line. I witnessed many conversations. I remember her talking about my father with reckless abandon and no regard for me. Sometimes she would literally go on a rant about the horrible things he did for 10 minutes while I stood right next to her listening. Then she’d realize I was there and yell at me to go to bed.

I was lost behind in this tumult of unreasonable emotions and ineptitude. My father avoided us and banged chicks. I inhaled late 70s asthma medications along with my mom’s cigarette smoke. She smoked her face off and drank. My dog skulked around, with his tail between his legs, in our small 40’ by 20’ modular home. I paint this pretty picture because that’s what I saw through the eyes of a child.

One particular night always strikes me as I recollect these times of my life. It was late and I had gone to bed when I was awakened by a loud argument from the living room. Since the living room was only 25’ from my bed this wasn’t difficult and my parents accomplished waking me in this manner frequently. This night, however, was different.

Generally my father would get all bent out of shape about my mother and take off to some unknown destination. I have thoughts now as to where he went but I’ve never asked and I’m pretty sure if I ever did my father would look me straight in the eyes and lie. My father still averts his eyes when I ask him hard questions from my childhood. Now he faces a man with man size anger and disrespect. As I said, my father was the one who took off and left my drunken mother with me while I “slept”. Of course I didn’t sleep but that was part of the ruse we played.

This night was different. My mother started to yell at my father in the garage louder than normal. I got up a few minutes earlier when I heard my parents go outside and I was terrified they were going to both leave me there alone. I pressed my ear to the wall of the living room to make out what they were saying. All I could hear were hushed tones from my father and my mother yelling at the top of her lungs.

“No, it’s my turn,” she bellowed over and over while my father tried to hush her up. I knew what she was talking about. At seven years old the situation was not lost on me and I knew my mother felt like it was her turn to take off from the home scene. I knew she was even more blasted than usual and also knew that driving drunk was a very bad thing. I was horrified my mother would suggest such a ridiculous transgression. At seven, even with my idiot parents, I knew the potential consequences of getting behind the wheel of a 2-ton projectile when the navigator can barely walk.

Their argument continued for a few minutes until I heard a car door slam. My mother screamed. My stomach turned then I heard the garage door open and I saw our car leave from the front window. I ran into the hall and hid out of sight of the front door until I heard someone come in. A moment later I heard the sounds of my mother sobbing. Slowly I crept back down the hall to my bedroom and closed the door.

I don’t remember what happened after that. I’m sure my dog waited for me in my bed and I probably just went to bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. Perhaps I cried. I wish I could tell you but I’m just not sure.

What’s the point of this story? I think the point is that to a large extent we make our own reality and as adults we get to largely choose the path of our lives. As children we are passengers on someone else’s train. This creates a situation where adults actually have a responsibility to their children not just for themselves.

As always thanks for reading to the end.

It's Time to Make a Decision

I remember a time in my adult life when I lived far up north in Michigan. It was early December but the weather was unseasonably warm. A high of 68 degrees that day rings a bell and the warmth persisted into night. Normally the temperature at this time of year hovered somewhere between the high teens and mid twenties during the day and the nights were much colder. I walked around town that day in a pair of jeans and t-shirt well after the sunset.

I found myself down by the water that was so important to this small university town. The water of Lake Superior is cold any time of year and as I was near its edge I could feel cool fresh air from the lake brush up against my skin. I walked along the boardwalk and looked at the lights of the town across the water. It was a truly beautiful winter experience, one of those surreal events you experience once or twice a lifetime. I felt nostalgic as it was happening.

My mood turned introspective as I neared the end of the boardwalk. I’d had a couple of beers and the party mood of the town was winding down for the night. No matter how warm it was people still had to get up the next morning and head to work or get to class, but there I was.

I stood there alone and looked at the water. I sat down on the end of the boardwalk and let my feet dangle over the edge. I couldn’t see into the depths where I had swum the summer before. The water was dark and looked rather murky as I went reminisced about the experiences I’d had by this water.

My first marriage fell apart in this town. I’d skinny dipped with one of my ex’s boyfriends along with a group of people in this water. I’d had sex with more than one person on a more remote section of that very boardwalk. Then took a dip then did it again. I’d taken many walks along the shore and played some guitar as well. My heart turned bittersweet as I recalled my life there.

A pensive mood struck me as I sat there thinking. I was alone on the boardwalk. Eventually my thoughts turned to my life as a whole and what it meant to me. I stared into the water and realized I had a decision to make. It was almost like God was asking me a question. I realized that I could just end everything in my life right then and there. I looked down into the water and thought to myself that I didn’t really have to live anymore. All I had to do was let go and slide into the water. The water was icy. Hypothermia and lack of oxygen would take if from there. In about a minute and a half I’d be done, expired. I’d lose consciousness then simply float away and become a part of the ecosystem until someone found me and decided to bury me.

Now I must say here that I did not feel particularly suicidal. I didn’t harbor secret thoughts about my demise. I simply realized how easy it would be to end it all. My life up until that point hadn’t been all that great. I’d done a lot of things I’d wished I hadn’t, but still I didn’t see a reason to kill myself. The odd thing was that I didn’t really feel a strong urge to go on either. I was at a crossroads. Like Robert Johnson before me I found myself faced with a decision that affected the rest of my life.

Right about then I heard a car pull up behind me. I knew it was a police car and briefly looked back to confirm this feeling. There were plenty of police cars around this town. The funny thing was that the normal winter patrol vehicle was a Chevy Blazer. Today the policeman drove one of the cop shop’s Crown Victorias. Then something truly strange happened. The policeman sat there in his car for a moment then got out. Then he walked slowly up behind me to my right and asked me if everything was ok. I looked at him and smiled then made up a story about how my roommate was arguing with his girlfriend and I didn’t feel like sitting there in my apartment listening, which was partially true. The argument had been on the phone and had ended before I left. He smiled, looked down and nodded. Then he told me he just wanted to make sure everything was ok.

It’s funny how my mind’s eye can recall certain instances from my life with surprising clarity. The simplest thing can affect people for the rest of their meager life. This moment was one of those times. That policeman appeared almost out of nowhere and took the time to make sure everything was ok. He could have just driven past and looked to make sure I wasn’t drinking in public. But no he felt compelled by something to check on me. Maybe it was the fact that I was locally famous, I’m not kidding about this, and he recognized me. Maybe it was the fact that it was summer in December, or maybe he had a feeling I might be thinking what I was thinking.

Whatever he thought I got the message that someone somewhere just checked up on me. It was like God looked over my shoulder and said, “well Matt it’s time to go on. You don’t need to do this and I have some things I want you to do.” The policeman was just a messenger, an angel if you will all dressed in blue and wearing a gun.

After the messenger policeman left I sat there for another couple of minutes and smiled. I’d gotten the message and made my decision. I think at some point everyone makes this decision. Everyone is faced with their own life and they have to decide whether or not it’s worth living. Unfortunately, or maybe not, some decide it’s not worth living and they go away. But on that day I decided to go on. I’m glad I did.

That warm summer day in December will always stay true in my mind. I’m glad for the experience. It truly changed something in me and every time I get a chance I wear a t-shirt outside in the winter. Today was one of those days and tomorrow looks like one too. I plan to go for a walk in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Too bad there’s no body of water in this town or I’d walk around that.

As always, thanks for reading to the end.

Scott Became Great, the Great Scott

During the summer of my twelfth year I saw my parents divorce officially and my mother achieve new lows in parental ineptitude. This is the summer we had lived with Lou the Weaver. Some of you may remember the story about the Weaver from a previous column.

Anyway, that summer portended nice weather and painful mishaps with my diminishing list of friends. I didn’t really know how to relate with people very well at that time. My mother’s obsessive tendencies were not an example of how to make friends. Her “mentoring” was quite possible why I was frequently inappropriate when trying to meet new people. I blame this tendency toward inappropriateness on an overactive and underused brain in an extremely addictive environment.

I was a very intelligent only child. I knew how messed up my life was but I had no recourse to change the situation. I thought that if only I could go live with my father life would improve. The only problem with this pipe dream was that my father didn’t really want me to live with him. He and his wife were swingers, and as far as I understand, they never once went to court to say, “hey, this kid might do better if he lived with us. His mom is a drunk, can’t really hold a job that pays the bills and is a mess.” I guess the prospect of a fat, smart, creative but destructive asthmatic just didn’t appeal to my father.

But this column isn’t really about all that. It’s about my friends and what happened with one of them. The friend I refer to is Scott. I wish I could tell you his last name but libel prevents me from doing such. Scott is a pretty great person. Sometimes now I even think of calling him out of the blue and thanking him for being my friend once upon a time. I’ll explain all this in a moment. Scott showed the kind of insight and heart you rarely find in a male 12 year old. His bushy red hair and smoking habit belied his true sensitivity.

All the kids I grew up with smoked by the way. Even I did. We all lived in the worst part of a stupid little upper class town. In my part of town, when the fire marshal showed up to ask someone if he had a permit to burn his leaves he would escort the fire marshal off his property at gun point. Shortly thereafter the police would escort said leaf burner to jail. This happened more than once. My friends and I smoked because that’s what all the adults did. We might have had sex with each other if any girls were around. Instead we were testosterone machines cruising around bumming smokes off each other. We lived without roll models and did the best we could.

Here’s why Scott was special. One time Scott had spent the night over at my house. He had done this many times before, but this time my mom drove him home drunk. I didn’t even notice because by this time she always smelled like alcohol. She was also pretty good at holding it together in my presence so as not to set me off. But Scott’s mom noticed, and she stopped letting him come over to spend the night. His mom was understandably appalled my mom would drive kids around loaded.

I had no idea of these things of course, so I dutifully called Scott every week to see if he wanted to come over and hang out and spend the night. For a couple of months he said no he couldn’t. He gave me great reasons why and I believed them. I didn’t really have any other friends so I just hung out alone in my bedroom. My bedroom at the Weaver’s house was walled with that great paneling in mobile homes from the 70s. It was dark and depressing.

Finally one Friday I called Scott and asked him to come over and spend the night. I heard a discussion in the background and Scott said he would call me back. Ten minutes later he did and said that he would come over that night and would stay most of the next day. He rode his bike. We only lived about 3 miles away and the ride was pretty safe. We spent the night watching movies and shooting the breeze. We just had a good time hanging out.

That next day we were outside, sitting in the sun and swapping fart stories when he said he had to tell me something. He told me the reason he didn’t come over the last few months wasn’t because he was busy. His mom wouldn’t let him. He said the reason why he made up all the excuses was because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. He also told me the reason why his mom wouldn’t let him come over was my mom’s drunkenness when she dropped him off, her smelly breath and slurred speech. The only reason he even got to come over this time was because he begged his mom. Apparently he knew how much I needed a friend and told his mom so. His mom finally gave in and decided to trust his judgment.

A tear comes to my eye as I write this. I can’t believe the heart that boy showed simply by choosing to be my friend. Eventually we grew apart. My mom separated us by moving to new locations and eventually entered into alcohol therapy. I am not sure if his mom stopped letting him come over. But as things normally go we just drifted apart. I was always happy to see him. Scott was a quiet and shy person. He was short and had fair skin but he meant a lot to me.

Scott was one of those special persons in life. He believed in me as a person when there wasn’t a whole lot to believe in. He did things to help build my confidence. We talked about our dreams and did his best not to let me grow up in a vacuum of confusion and self-doubt. Life is hard enough.

Thanks for reading to the end.

Excellence Lives On

A few weeks ago while leaning against a wall I heard a quote. I cannot remember it exactly now but the point remains the same. The person speaking quoted Joe Paterno, venerable football coach at Penn State University. The quote sounded something like this. Those who strive for something great frequently never achieve excellence and they are constantly worried about losing what they have. While those who strive for excellence frequently accomplish something great in their quest for excellence.

I found this message intriguing. That message pervades as I write this column sitting in a coffee shop. I’m surrounded in an environment of a corporation that did nothing except strive to give people a great tasting product and yummy treats. They now have people all over the world purchasing and drinking lattes and cappuccinos by the score.

This doesn’t mean that I agree with all of their business practices. I know the price of coffee has been kept low over the last few years yet the price of coffee at the shop keeps going up. But, this place has great coffee and I always know I’m going to get an excellent product.

Back to the message in the quote, I took it to heart. I’ve read much about people who build personal empires or rise up from the ashes and right all that wronged them in life. I’ve also seen people who continue to bathe in squalor. The success stories always mean more. They always say to me that I can do it. I can do it. I have to figure out what I want and then go for it.

I’ve written before about greatness. I strive to become something more than I’ve ever been. Currently I’m about 60 lbs overweight. I’m out of shape and up until recently I haven’t worked for 3 years. I can correct each and every one of these things if I choose to do it, if I strive for excellence.

For me excellence is the idea that I set my own expectations and it’s up to me whether or not I meet them. It’s a process. If I work at this process of excellence who knows what may happen at the end?

At work I simply see everyone as a peer with different sets of responsibilities. Not everyone agrees with me but I reconcile my beliefs with others’ expectations or decide to move on. I think this view of my coworkers allows me to expect more of them in a way that’s conducive to higher achievement. I view them positively. Therefore they act in a more positive way. I think this is an excellent way to see the situation.

I used to strive for something great to happen. While in Vancouver I spent time with a man who just wanted money. That’s all he wanted. He fleeced people and shafted them in any way he could. He didn’t care about the people with which he worked. He just wanted money. He thought that if he had money he could travel the world and be happy. He strove for something great. Having someone give him $3 million would be great but he didn’t do much to get it.

I must strive for excellence. If I strive for excellence at all times with my writing then great things will happen. My plan is to write this column, get it self-syndicated, write a novel and then become a public speaker. But first I must be an excellent writer in my own way. My responsibility is to create something that touches people while I help myself. That’s why I share my experiences. That’s why I write.

Great things can fizzle out. However, excellence remains.

Thanks for reading to the end.