I don't know what the Hell this Muppet song is called, but my wife got me this for Valentine's Day.

Enjoy!

-30-

Well, it's a dark day for Terrance. Shit, it's equally dark for me.

Fudge, the slightly skewed Lab mix we got Terrance, bit a kid next door. The child in question, about 10 or 11 years old, got pinched in the back. It was a bite, just not a puncture bite. Fudge's teeth raked across the kid's skin. He drew blood.

The mother was frantic, but when Tonya and I went over to talk to them and see the boy, she started to calm down. Tonya and I didn't have any problem with her anger. She was justified. And we cooperated as much as we could, even in so much as reporting it before the kid made it to the doctor to be looked at.

Of course, the kid's mom said that she'd have to file a report. I knew what might happen then. Fudge would have to be quarantined for about ten days. Sure enough, they served us papers yesterday stating just that.

This morning, Terrance was heading out to catch the bus to school. I had Fudge on the leash, having just taken him out for a potty break.

"You're not gonna wish your dog well. You're not gonna see him for ten days." I said.
Terrance hesitantly approached him and began to pet him.
"I was just heading out, to catch my bus. I might miss it." he said
"Oh, okay." I replied.
I began to lead Fudge back to the crate.
"He doesn't have rabies, right?" Terrance asked with great uncertainty.
"Don't worry," I replied, "he's gonna be fine."
I heard nothing else but the sound of the door closing and him telling both Aaron and I that he loved us.

Before heading off to work, I took Fudge on the ride to the big house. As soon as we stepped off the truck, he began to bark and growl.

He barked at a woman who was coming into the shelter offices. When we were inside, there were three control officers taking a break. One of the three, the second woman, eyeballed Fudge as he barked and growled.

"He ain't happy." she muttered.

One of the other guards, the male, helped me get the paperwork to the cashier all the while Fudge was asserting himself to the officers. The woman he barked at outside, stepped out from a door and began to talk to me. Well, at me.

"He doesn't have to do that. He can be taught not to do that when strangers are near." she said forcefully, increasing her volume to surpass Fudge's barking.

She then instructed me to give Fudge a tap in the ass, with the side of my shoe, each time he barked at someone. After which, I should reward him. Each time he began to growl, she would bark at me.

"Do it now! Do it now!" she'd say forcefully.

So, I did it. It worked. Each time he barked less and less until, finally, he didn't bark at all.

"He's a nice dog, it's a shame he isn't well trained. But it's not too late."
With that, the grey haired stranger was gone.

"Sir, can I tell you something." the male animal control officer said. "If an animal control officer sees you kicking a dog like that, he ain't gonna be too happy."
"I was just thinking that very same thing. They tell us not to hit a dog and she's telling me the exact opposite."

The control officers were very helpful. They told me about muzzles and ways to help stop Fudge from being aggressive. It made the fact that I had to leave him there easier.

We walked to the back of the facility, which didn't smell too great. The officer led me into the kennel and signed some papers, then had me follow him to find Fudge an empty dog run. After finding it, he let me stay with him for a minute or two before he came back with a bowl of water.

The entire time, Fudge was hesitant to approach the water or even get near the cage. And when I got up to leave, he knew it. He began to yelp and bark.

They did tell us we could come and visit. We can even bring treats. But we can't have physical contact. A vet will check on him, daily, for signs of rabies. Of course, he won't show any; he's got his shots. But afterwards, when we pick him up, he'll have to get neutered.

I've never had something like this happen before. I can't say I'm not upset, cause I am. He'll be released on Valentine's Day. Hope the big house don't change him.

-30-

Nothing is sacred.
Not dead bodies. Or live ones.
Now, it seems, drug dealers in Colombia are using innocent little puppies to bring their garbage into the U.S.

Heroin In Puppies

Sick fucking people.

-30-

I was up one night watching Fuse, back when it was called MuchMusic, on the day that Layne Staley was found dead of a drug overdose. If you didn't know, Staley was the front man for Alice In Chains. Chains was one of four bands (Pearl Jam, Soundgarden and Kurt Cobain's Nirvana) to bring the Seattle grunge sound to the mainstream. Just about every music & entertainment channel had run some kind of retrospective about Staley that day.

I was never fortunate enough to see Alice In Chains perform live. I'd always heard that they were one of the best live, rock bands of their era. There were times when I heard Staley sing and thought his voice was just so haunting. Even though I didn't know it at the time, his voice carried with it a great deal of pain. I'm still doing some research on him, to know him better even though he's been gone a while. He died at 34, a tortured soul, an "angry angel." The only time I had ever had a chance to see them was on the Metallica tour that would precede their release of the Black Album. The bill was Alice In Chains, Suicidal Tendencies, Candlebox and headliners, Metallica. Chains had dropped out of the bill before they made it to South Park Meadows in Austin, Texas. They had stopped touring completely, it was said. Reports of Staley's drug use were widely known and most of the people I knew all agreed that the band was done due to it.

But that night, MuchMusic aired a special on Staley that burned itself into my mind. They spoke to several of his bandmates, including Jerry Cantrell, who was shown to break down from interview to interview. It was the evolution of a guy who didn't know what to do for his friend. At first, he was oblivious, almost happy. But by the end, he was stuttering and fearful, maybe even guilt stricken. Fact is, no one knew what to do about Staley. Friends and critics alike all have said that it wasn't something that just came up, they knew it was happening. One music industry insider said, "He's never gonna get off that(heroin) junk." He struggled hard to get clean, from what I read, but it never came together.

I sat there, watching them air clips from their MTV Unplugged special. You could tell from the way his body slumped and the suddenly vacant stare that Staley wasn't well. Inside or out. The voice, even more haunting that before, came through clean and clear. I could see, in the face of Staley, that he wasn't holding on very tight. Another talented soul with a great gift was sent home.

If you've never seen Alice In Chains' performance on Unplugged, you should find yourself a copy.

-30-

Yesterday, like a lot of days, I debated on what route to take home. Usually, I take the freeway since it's the quickest way. My trusty truck, Scarlette, downs gas like a frat boy at a kegger. In the spirit of low gas consumption, I usually opt for the freeway, since that saves all those starts and stops.

But sometimes, I'll get on the freeway and the big Lite Bright signs they've posted in certain junctions warn of "Congestion Ahead; Use Caution". With that prompt, I then take the first exit off and take the street. The exit ramp takes me to my street and I just travel down that road until I reach home. The entire ride probably adds five minutes, maybe 10, to my trip home.

Well, yesterday, I decided I would take the freeway. The lit sign didn't warn of any congestion, so I went ahead. Little did I know that after about 10 minutes, I'd be chocking my steering wheel. I should have taken the street.

This afternoon, after waiting for a parent to calm her child down at the checkout line, I decided to take the freeway to work. I like taking the street because it gives me time to think about the work day and plan, but I was running late. Well, I'd be later because there was a wreck waiting up the fuckin' road. Ugh.

It's like Russian roulette but with all the bullets.

I'm going to go out on a limb and say that 2/3's of the population of this town needs help.

ONE needs to be sterilized. Don't ask you kid if he/she wants to stop crying. Parents shouldn't need to ask. If you ask me, part of the problem parents are considered to be "soft" and why we lose our kids to "violent" video games and films is because we haven't put our foot down hard enough. 50 Cent ain't got shit on my Dad. He whooped my ass good and, as much as I hated it then, it made me a better person. Granted, you can't just smack a kid for any reason, but if a kid don't respect you for being his/her parent, they should fear you for being just that.

TWO people should be tested to see if they qualify to drive on the freeway. My wife, for example, CHOOSES not to drive on the freeway because it gives makes her nervous. Occasionally, for her job, she might take a stretch, but for the most part, she stays off. And she's better for it. There's a cross section of people who, despite how it makes them feel or how ill equipped they are for it, they get on the freeway. I just have one thing to say: stay the Hell off. I was seriously late for work because of an accident on the 410. Of course, I can see how it might have been cause by two people who might have been a little too sure of their driving prowess.

I guess it's just been a shitty day. Car wrecks, congestion on the roads, computer problems at work and I'm just tired.

I can see the cars on the freeway from my window. I dread the decision I have to make when I get into my truck later. Ugh.

-30-

I'm having a bit of trouble getting to the end of my latest script. My wife gave me two weeks to complete script and I have about 6 days left. She knows how much trouble I have finishing these things. The pressure is helping, but I'm resisting. Ugh.

I'm also trying to do a mad dash to get my Steadicam fixed, get a new mic for my portable sound mixer and try to narrow down my ideas for the resolution of my lead character's motivations. Not to mention that I've done some internet research on the theme of my script and it's opened up the possibility for this thing to go into a full-fledged feature, which I don't want to do because otherwise I won't get it done!!

Ugh.

I've had some writer's block the last few days and today I just feel like crap. Had some broccoli and cheese earlier that didn't quite agree with me. I chased it with some instant noodles and then chased that with a couple of Alka Seltzers. I feel good right now, but now I'm tired and slightly unmotivated. You'd figure that with living in a deadline oriented job I might be better with the pressure, but I'm just not.

I gotta get it together.

I think this project is gonna be great, once we start shooting. I'm gonna do video storyboards this time. My director of photography and another friend are waiting for me to bust out with the script.

I'm feeling better just typing this out. I think I'm working through my writer's block as we speak. I'll update the progression of this film as it develops. I'm gonna start a blog specifically for a diary of this project. I think that will help me too.

Stay tuned.

-30-

I'm embarking on my next directorial project in a few weeks. I'm in the process of finishing the script for a short project that I've had rumbling around my head. The documentary I'm doing for work will have to take a back seat. I have to do this.

I'm not saying much about the project, not just yet, but I plan to shoot first and ask questions later. The treatment won't be long and it won't take long to shoot.

More as details develop.

-30-

I've never once believed that we, as a people, as a society, have ever really settled racial tensions. I've always been hopeful that people have changed, but not that racism has been eliminated. Case in point: the riots in Toledo, Ohio.

Planned Nazi March Sparks Violence

If you ask me what I think, I think the White Supremacy movement is a load of shit. I think its a hateful and ignorant way to live. Especially here. Culturally and racially speaking, the United States is one of the most diverse countries on the planet. Yes, it has been marred by years upon years of civil unrest because of many people's inability to blend and share. And with all the years of racial inequalities, with all those whom we have lost in the battle to make everyone's voice equal, it stands to reason that we might have learned something from our mistakes and our successes.

My children are part black and I hope that they are able to embrace what it means to be black. I want them to research their roots and celebrate their shared cultures. I want them to learn that it's okay to be black or white or brown. But I also want them to learn that even if they don't agree with someone's ideology, they have no right to squash it. I hate Neo-Nazis. I hate them. But unfortunately, the Constitution of the United States of America gives these racists the right to peacefully assemble and to express their views. Yes, there are limits, but the right is established.

As much as it pains me to say, the White supremacist have a right to their beliefs just as much as I do. If I chose to march for my beliefs, I would hate for someone to be there to throw food or trash at me or to cause me harm for my choice of beliefs.

The Neo-Nazis were planning to march through neighborhoods to express their outrage over gang violence. They claimed that people urged them to march. I don't know if there's a shred of truth to that last claim. The group got a permit and outlined a route with local authorities in which they planned to walk. This was planned almost a week in advance, according to news agencies.

Hatred and intolerance breed from hatred and intolerance, yes? If you throw gasoline on a fire, the fire intensifies, yes?

I understand that people don't want a Neo-Nazi group to march through their neighborhood and spew their rhetoric. I wouldn't want that happening in my neighborhood. But what would give these people more satisfaction:

A] that you watch from your porch, in seething silence, as they march down the street telling you that they hate you.
B] that you throw things at them, attempt to hurt them and then systematically destroy your own neighborhood in protest.

It takes the same kind of ignorance to tear up your own shit and loot your neighbor's property as it does to believe that because you aren't white, you're no good. They automatically share something. Ironic, isn't it? They are joined together by the gene for stupidity.

Because the Neo-Nazi's were allowed to assemble, protesters of the march felt they were in their own right to attack police officers and destroy both public and private property. What kind of ignorant shit is that?

You know what that says to Neo-Nazis? That they are right. The march protesters have given up their right to be angry and any argument they present is void. The violent mob said, "You're protecting the wrong people!" They were protecting everyone!!!!

I would hate for a group of Neo-Nazis to walk down my block saying, "Send those wetbacks back to Mexico!!! They've come here to steal our jobs and dirty up our streets!!! They are lazy and stupid and they bring down property values wherever they settle!!!!"

I'd be livid. I'd be angrier than shit. But here's what I'd yell back. "If you want your chicken de-boning job, you can have it back. If you want to mow the lawns and trim trees, go for it. If you want to open up tire shops and Mexican restaurants, have at it. If you want to take back all the jobs that lazy, unmotivated WHITE folks don't want and think they are above of, feel free to take them." Better yet, I'd grab the phone, call my buddy Fred over and we'd sit on the lawn, drinking imported beers and smoking cigarettes and laughing as they walked by.

THINK PEOPLE!!!! When you become consumed by hatred, you not only give people like that ammunition from which to continue to fuel their incoherent, ridiculous beliefs, but you take a step down the ladder and are soon beneath them. Channel your fears and angers into something productive from which a real solution comes. Listen to the music you believe gives you strength. Empower yourself to make a difference and give yourself and those around you true strength.

Martin Luther King, Jr. said:
"The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force."

If you can't beat hatred with love, beat it with indifference. You cannot defuse a bomb with another bomb. It might seems silly or idealistic to read those words, in this day, that MLK felt so strongly, but their value has never diminished. And neither has the sense of promise which they so beautifully outline.

"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.' I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today."

Hatred is fueled by ignorance and fear. Don't give them the satisfaction.

-30-

I still don't know why my parents waited so long to have another child.

My "little" brother, Dorian, is somewhere in Buffalo right now listening to my voicemail message advising him not to drink and drive tonight. He'll be out with his friends celebrating his birthday. I think he's 23 today.

Just yesterday, he was chasing me around the backyard, wanting to hang around with me. Well, it seems like just yesterday. I remember wanting to pick him up from his little carrier when he was just a baby. He was a little guy back then. Now he's bigger and taller than me. Little brother, my ass.

I remember when he was little kid, still in his crib, he'd stand, hold himself up by the gate and look down. He was big enough to see over the top. Somehow, he discovered that if he hoisted himself right, he could flip over the rails and reach the ground. Of course, that meant that when he'd flip, he'd come crashing down on his backside with a tremendous THUMP! I came running into the room and there he was, on his back, giggling and laughing. I got scared and put him back, not knowing what happened. As I left, I hear, THUMP! So I run back and there he is laughing again. After putting him back the second time, I turned the corner and snuck a peek. He stood up and hoisted himself over, doing a complete flip on the way down and then THUMP! Back to the giggling. In retrospect, that might explain a lot about the man I'd come to call, 'Dee.'



He was a good kid. Very bright and personable. He inherited my father's volatile sensibility which always put him head to head with Dad. When he was about 10 or so, we'd tell him that Dad was on his way home and he' high tail it out to the backyard to hide. They still lock horns from time to time. But he doesn't run anymore.

Between school and my parents, I tried to have as much of a positive effect on him as I could. We'd get on each other's nerves from time to time. But for the most part, we were close. He always hung around me and my friends, trying to throw his two cents worth into anything he could. I offered him all the best music I could find and we always went to watch movies together. I ripped the manager of a Dollar Theatre a new asshole for not allowing him to watch a rated R movie with me. It was a shitty, Jean-Claude Van Damme movie too. "Timecop."

When I was still at home, we didn't have separate rooms. Not for a long time. We had this bed that had another bed underneath it. It had a handle and you'd simply pull it out. We'd stay up talking about games, movies, girls and God knows what else.

He and my dog, Jordan, grew up together. There's a photo that, if I ever find, I'll post. He's kneeling down and she's at his side. He must have been about 8 or 9. For 14 years, they played in the spacious backyard at my folks house. He loved her just as much as I did. Maybe more. It was a heartbreaking day when we had to cut a hole in the living room floor to get to her lifeless body. We both cried all day long, it seemed.

The day he told my folks he was going to Buffalo with his girlfriend, my parents nearly lost their minds. Not because they were gonna miss him, but because they thought he was making a mistake. There was, of course, no talking him out of it. He and Susan seemed solid. In the back of my mind, I was hoping that it would last. He's not with her anymore, but he's still in Buffalo. He's had his share of fuck-ups, but who hasn't. Still, he's managed to make close friends, he's a volunteer firefighter and he's happy and healthy. My parents are very proud of all he's accomplished out there.

What makes me particularly proud is that all the things about literature and film and music that I taught him stuck with him. Not to mention the fact that he's a great guy. One of the finest men I know and I'll ever know. He doesn't visit as often as I'd like, but I have yet to visit him in the nearly 5 years that he's been in Buffalo. He was the best man at my wedding. That was something. Damn near had me in tears with his toast. I think about it, I get teary eyed.

For years I called him "kid." After a while, I came to realize that he wasn't a kid. He'd begun to sprout hair on his face, had a girlfriend in tow and was sneaking beers here and there. And now, he is undeniably a man. A great man.

So, hoist a drink up for Dorian. The best brother a guy could ever have.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!

I can't say I was ever a die hard Van Morrison fan. I mean, I listened to a few albums of his. An Irish friend use to listen to an album with Van and The Chieftains. That was a great album. They even sang in Gaelic.

The last time I gave Van a try, he was rambling through a chorus of "Boom Boom" with John Lee Hooker. What is it about aging singers that makes them repeat words or whole sentences over and over when they sing.

"And I, and I, and I, and I love you, baby!!!!" Christ.

Needless to say, I didn't go through the whole album.

Then I found this. I haven't listened to any of these songs yet. Well, just the one about the danish. I'm dying of curiosity.

Contractual Obligation Album

-30-

It's not often that I have a picture of me to post since I'm usually the one taking the pictures. Seems it's been like that all my life. Jaime, our Photo Editor, took this one of me taping Jonathan Thompson during his going away party. 

Sometimes I'll be driving and just utter, "I fucking hate people."
Sometimes, I feel bad about saying it. Even though I mean it. Other times, I don't give a good goddamn.
This is one of those times.

Aaron has been quite miserable these past few weeks. A wheelchair, coupled with a brace he wears all day, has reduced what he can do to just about nothing. He and Tonya went to Shriner's in Houston last week and they took away the wheelchair and diminished the use of the brace to just at night. Aaron was delighted. He was given a walker to promote his mobility and to help strengthen his leg. Since he has very limited use of his left arm, the walker comes with a handy platform and strap to immobilize his arm and help provide support.

Tonya and I had to go cash her paycheck and figured we would go to HEB (our local grocery store) and stock up for the next couple of weeks. Since Aaron was with us, he would either have to amble around the store with his walker or ride in one of those motorized shopping carts. He elected the cart probably because it allowed him to drive. He sometimes gets excited at the prospect of driving, but we have to bring him down from his cloud. Aaron will never drive. But he is able to control a bumper car, so we figured this would be okay. He actually drove very well, minus a few minor collisions with endcaps and miscellaneous store obstacles. As we moved about the store, Tonya and I both noticed that just about everyone we encountered was fucking rude.

This HEB ain't nothing to write home about. The produce isn't always fresh. Some of their items are marked up a bit compared to the HEB by our house. For me, the only reason to drive over there is for the beer selection. Aside from that, the store is nothing special. The Central Market on Broadway, which is frequented by the likes Tommy Lee Jones, when he's in town, has the major selection of fine foods and produce. Of course, you pay through the nose for the privilege. I mention all this because some of these people must have thought their shit didn't stink by the way they behaved. And they behaved like a bunch of rude fuckers.

The entire time we were there, trying to help Aaron move around the store, there were nothing but sighs and eyes being rolled and general dislike of the fact that our son couldn't move around properly. Or at least well enough for them. A bunch of fucking snobs, these assholes were. A couple of people were really nice to Aaron; they moved their carts and offered him the right of way, whether they had it or not. Most everyone else could have given a damn. They blocked isles and stood by as Aaron repeatedly said, "Excuse me, please," in a very calm and respectful tone. Aaron was the model of manners. I wanted to start smacking people in the mouth.

I don't know that we'll be going back there to shop. I might head there for the beer, but if it's possible, I'll just try some other place. I won't take away from any of those people who were nice to Aaron and gave the kid a hand. Kudos to them.

What remains clear is that I do hate people. They prove to me, with great frequency, that their capacity for selfishness and their love of material worth is greater than their capacity to get along with the other people on this big blue marble we call Earth.

I hope that someone reaffirms my faith in humanity soon. Lately, I just fucking hate people.

-30-

As I left work, I could see this guy from a distance. When I got in the truck, I drove up and took his picture. Late evening snooze at the bus stop. Or too drunk to stay awake. Anyhow, I thought it was funny. 

How is it possible that now, just about everywhere I turn, I have to hit some form of advertising?

I was going to this video gaming website I go to and when I clicked on a special feature and was forced to watch an ad before it took me to my link. What the fuck is that?

It's not enought that we have to sit through commercials on television and NOW commercials at the fucking movies, there are a string of never ending pop-ups and flash-ads and all kinds of clickable garbage.

Just a few minutes ago, my cell rang and I answered it only to end up listening to some woman saying I'd been selected to receive a free cruise. Remember when it was impossible to get a wrong number on a cell, let alone telemarketing recordings?!?

And now they'v even gone so far as to create spambots that send crap to blog sites as "comments." FUCK!

How about I tell YOU when I wanna get my morgage refinanced?
Or if I want a bigger penis.
Or if I want to learn how to duplicate dvds for fun.
Or if I want to read more about the Sacramento Kings.

These are the things that make me regret I still have some hope for humanity.

Too angry to type.

-30-

I like to find strange/unusual places on the net. I surf several sites that point me in the right direction.

I'm not sure where I got this link, but it demands inspection.

Doggy Bags

You will either say, "What the fuck!?" or "Holy Shit!". If you cuss, I mean. Otherwise, you'll just shake your head.

-30-

I can't remember the last time I had to figure out the whole latitude and longitude fiasco. I figured, eventually, I'd have to help Terrance do homework.

I can remember the times my father had helped me with my homework. It wasn't often that he did. Mostly because I was afraid to ask him. I love my father, but sometimes our personalities clashed. He has always been a hard working man. Sweatin' 8 to 10 hours a day at a machine shop to bring home the bacon. When he did help me with my homework, it was...intense. My idea of help and his idea of help often depended on who was more stressed out at the time. Leave it to Latino males to turn into a simple act like homework into a full fledged argument.

I got home the other night and Tonya was on the Mac trying to look up latitudes and longitudes for some NJROTC homework Terrance needed to get done. Not really knowing where to look, they punched in numbers into all sorts of places trying to decipher coordinates they needed names for. After some time, Tonya let me take a crack at it. At first, I was reticent to attempt it, afraid I'd look like a fool. I mean, I haven't been in school for more than 4 years now. You never forget how to learn, just what you've learned. I tried a few things and finally, I found a link that would allow me to enter the digits and then had a link to the location on a map. I showed Terrance how to do it, step by step and he eventually got them all done.

This morning I was helping him look up some words for his English class. He was having trouble finding a particular word, amity, and was looking to get online to use the webster's dictionary there, but I gave him my monster unabridged version and he found it there.

It's silly, I know. I mean, it was six or seven questions, but it felt like a lot to me. He's becoming a man and one day, he might not need me anymore. Sometimes I feel like he doesn't need me now, but I think those are just my own insecurities creeping about my skull. So, for now, I'll take this and run with it. I know that in the future, things might be different and it's the promise of that difference that keeps me moving forward.

-30-

"Youth troubles over eternity, age grasps at a day and is satisfied to have even the day." - Dame Mary Gilmore

I sat in the bus today, watching this old man a few rows ahead of me. Alacqueredd, wooden can hung from the steel barrier at his knees and etched into was the word 'Raines.' Probably his name. He was a very stately man, crisp white shirt, light tan slacks and a hat to match. He cleaned his bifocal glasses with ahandkerchieff as the bus made it's bumpy route down the road.

I don't know why my own mortality suddenly jumped into view, but I wondered, as I sometimes do, about what my life has in store for me. Raines sat quietly on the bus and I watched him still.

Will I get to see that age?

I hope that in the years to come, I can teach my boys what it means to be a man. Not just in theory, but with practical applications. Aaron will see things differently than Terrance. Terrance is always on my mind. He has the potential to achieve such greatness. Sometimes I feel like I'm not teaching him right or teaching him enough. And then I think of the lessons my father taught me. Did he ever think it was enough?

My wife is always on my mind. The love in her eyes, that love that I've seen radiate through the darkness is a beacon in the night. I want to be with her forever. I want to show her all the things in the world and be there at the end of it all.

And my own desires for fame and fortune? Well, if they never come to fruition, I'll be satisfied knowing that my wife was behind me, do or die and that my kids love me. I guess that's really all anyone can ask of life. Happiness.

"If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam; The world has nothing to bestow, From our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut,--our home." - Nathaniel Cotton

-30-

I was at the grocery store getting some quickies for dinner and decided to pick up a quart of Miller High Life. I use to drink High Life in a pinch and lately, I've acquired a taste for it. I keep it nice and cold and it tastes great. If you love beer, you have to learn to slum it a little. Besides, a real bear enthusiast learns to love all kinds of beers.

Anyhow, I was paying for the groceries when the clerk says, "So, what's the difference between High Life and MGD (Miller Genuine Draft)?"
I quickly mulled it over. "Well, if I want a cheap, crisp, light beer, I get this. MGD is a bit heavier."
He absorbed my answer. "My cousin has a friend who gets paid twenty bucks an hour to taste beer."
GETS PAID TO TASTE BEER.

What a world.

-30-

I can't recall when it was that I first saw a beer and I don't remember when it was that I tried beer for the first time. What I do know is that when I was old enough to get my hands on it, I drank a bunch of it.

Originally, I intended to simply spin yarns about my adventures in alcohol, but as I thought about it, I found something else.

I've had a long and distinguished career in beer drinking. I'd venture to say that 80% of all my friends have been drunk with me at one time or another. Very few can keep up. Even fewer surpass me. I'm not trying to blown my own horn, but I can drink. What's more, I enjoy it. My love of drinking extends into all areas of my life. I've made my home at many bars and even worked in one. I was a doorman and a barback. At home, I collect beer bottles from all over the world and have a specific collection from special occasions.

Recently, it occurred to me how many stupid things I've done while swimming in amber. The spills I've taken, pun intended. At a friend's graduation party, I got stinkin' drunk on 18oz rum & cokes and inch tall shots of Jack Daniels served in wide mouth tumblers. I was told later I was pretending to fly a jet in a lawn chair and took a header into the concrete patio. The only reason I even knew I had busted my head was that I got up in the middle of the night to expel some liquids and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had this huge scab already formed on the left side of my face, near my temple. It was at least an inch tall and an inch wide. I must have just skid off the concrete upon impact. Wow, talk about a headache.

Blacking out is never fun. Then there was the time me and a few friends went to drink at a cowboy bar because a buddy of ours had an open tab. He was a DJ for a local country station and often invited us to drink on his company's dime. Most of the time, we never really did much damage; a beer here, a shot there. This time around, we had another friend, Ira, driving, so me and my friend, Jav, decided to get hammered. We ordered back to back to back shots and beer chasers. At one point, I raised my shot glass, took a smell of that nasty-ass whiskey and said, "No good can come of this."
After getting primed there, Jav and I decided to drink 10 pitchers of beer and some shots. Jav had 18 and I had 12. He was drinking Goldschlagger and I stuck to my Jack Daniels.
When I got home, I plopped down on the couch and that was the end of it. Or so I thought. In the morning I would wake up to find that I'd continued drinking, sort of. I had this old, beat up, coffee table that my brother, Fred, had given me. It had a quarter inch high lip around the edge of it. Well, the beer had fallen over and everything on the surface was covered in beer. Including the sandwich. Apparently, I wanted a bite to eat after all that drinkin'.
My first thought was, "Oh, shit, I tried to eat." I raced to the bathroom and threw the door open in fear of what I would find. Nothing. At least not on the toilet. In fact, the toilet was remarkably clean. Suddenly, it struck me that the true horror lay behind the fully closed shower curtain. As I stepped forward, my foot brushed up against an empty bottle of Formula 409 bathroom cleaner. I paused for a moment. "I cleaned the bathroom?" I thought. When I pulled back the curtain, there was no mess. Just a wadded up towel sitting near the drain. I didn't want to pick it up, afraid I'd find what I was looking for in the folds of the old thing. But when I did, there was nothing. The room smelled very fresh.
So far, everything was good. No mess to clean up. But then it dawned on me that maybe I didn't puke there. Maybe I hurled in some other room. The kitchen was a likely spot, so I strolled over to take a look. When I got there, my cat, Miles Davis, was standing at the edge of the carpet, where the kitchen floor began. He had this look of bewilderment. He ears perked up and his head cocked to the side. When I turned the corner of the breakfast bar to see what he was looking at, I found myself face to face with my mess. Not puke. Mustard. There was a broken line of mustard from the French's can across the refrigerator door, globs of mustard on the floor and a big trail of mustard from the bottle to the bread, which was still open and strewn about the counter. The lunch meat was mysteriously absent.
What followed was one of the worst hangovers I have ever had in all my years of drinking. The only thing I can say about that night was that I'm glad that I wasn't driving.

A lot of things about those nights still frighten me. I know I've driven home drunk and blacked out because there have been nights I've woken up and had no idea how I got home. Each time, I think my God of choice touched me and I made it home alive. Or he touched the other people and I managed avoid them. Either way, he let me live and I am, forever, grateful.

There was a night that I was going home, alone. I was drunk, no arguing it. I was driving down McArdle, a road that let me avoid most of the busier streets and kept me away from the cops. There was a bit of construction near my place and for some reason, I decided I wanted to let my car out a bit. I was in Lucille, a tattered, coffee colored Mazda 323. She didn't have a lot of work done yet and ran pretty good. I looked forward and saw no cars around, so I gunned it. I mean, the pedal hit the floor. The car picked up speed and with the windows down, everything was a blur of sight and sound. The apartment complex flew by me and I realized, as the cool night are suddenly sobered me up, that I was racing into the intersection at 90 miles and hour.
I'd like to thank God, right now, for letting me live.
I knew there was no way in Hell I could stop if a car should cross my path. Any impact, at that speed, would sound like a cannon shot and anyone in either car might not stand a chance. If I survived, I would go to jail, lose my license and my freedom.
I crossed the intersection, miraculously, no cars were anywhere near. I managed to bring the speed down, gradually and turned the car around. I parked my car and went upstairs to my third floor apartment. My hands shook violently as I walked up the stairs and made every attempt to not faint from the shock. My heart was pounding against my chest, looking to explode. I sat down on the couch, took out a cigarette and with shaky hands, tried to calm myself down. Everything was clear. I was completely sober. And I'd never been more frightened in my life. If I would have been blacked out, I might not have been that lucky. I was lucky PERIOD.

I'd like to say that I was more careful after that, but I wasn't. Some nights were better than others. Each night I drank, I tried to tell myself that I could handle it. I was a good drinker, not some sloppy fratboy trying to squeeze a bottle of tequila and a twelve pack into an hour long binge. I wasn't a young punk with something to prove. Or a naive kid who didn't think he could get drunk. There are more frightening stories in the catalog. Things that I recant now with some humor and irony, but that when reflected upon with a keen eye, are horror stories about the night I almost died.

I'm a distance drinker. A marathon man. I can drink many people under the table. And for some ungodly reason, I'm still around to do it.

My advice to anyone who thinks drinking is easy: it's not. Drinking can result in several different outcomes. One of them is final. The others aren't much better. I've been to the point of addiction and managed to shake it off. I came back with a greater understanding of what it means to socialize with a beer or a drink. Alcohol must be respected, but you must first respect yourself. Drinkers can tell you how to drink. Real drinkers can tell you how not to.

Peace, love, understanding.

-30-

Tim Duncan victorious
Originally uploaded by iamlegend1623.

My first year and I already live in an NBA Championship city. San Antonio shakes off the pressure to defeat Detroit in Game 7, 81-74. Rock on Spurs, rock on.