Friday, July 31, 2009


I have a couple of dogs. One is Lou and the other is Oliver the Beagle. Louie is a Boxer/Pit Bull-mix and Ollie is a pedigree. Ollie has a thick coat and Lou is thin-coated, sparsely-covered.

Ollie is fat and Lou is tall and gangly.

They share the same space. They sleep on "their" couch. They spend every waking moment with each other.

Louie is sleeping right now. Oliver is biting at his feet, his legs. Scratching at his ears, his shoulders, his flanks, his underbelly, his jaw.

They share the same space. They live with each other.

In a vacuum, if I viewed Oliver's histrionics, I would assume that the boyo had fleas. In a vacuum, I see Lou unabashedly lounging on the couch. What am I to believe?

I have never seen a flea. I have never seen a "hopper."

Does Ollie do it for attention? No. He itches. Badly. It actually hurts me to see him carrying on so. I am 99.8% certain that Oliver is not flea-infested. [As I type this, Lou lounges on the couch.] I think Ol may have skin dermatitis, or something like that. Skin allergies. He itches. I looked up on-line a homeopathic remedy to a dog driving himself and his human compatriots NUTZ by incessant scratching. There was an elixir to which peeps had sworn: In a spray bottle, mix one-third baby oil, one-third water and one-third Listerine and then douse the canine with the spray. Rub it in. Vigorously. For a thicker-haired doggy like a Beagle, make sure you double-douse and double-rub. With Love.

Because it sucks to see a family member suffering. And Ollie is--most assuredly.

Tonight, if the supplies arrive, I will spray the cute motherfucker and try to alleviate his itchiness. Within the next twenty-four hours, I hope that his malaise will be lifted. It is his burden to bear; Louie is as snug as a bug in a rug. If there were fleas, would they both not be affected? Yes, methinks.

Ollie: Better daze, man.

Lou: Keep yon sleep, brudder.

...To Be Continued....

Friday, July 24, 2009


I have written about disc golf before. You may or may not know this, but I like to play the game and I have the lefty stroke to prove it. It revealed itself earlier today.

Walking from the front room to the kitchen, I took off my sweaty floppy baseball cap and sighted the far chair in the dining room, about 18 or 20 feet away.

I visualized success and let fly from my left hand. The cap floated serenely through the air (in the space of about a second) and--BAM!--landed safely on the back of the chair.

The dork I am, I may have pumped my fist and monosyllabically grunted, "Yeah! Boom!"

I am easily pleased.

Enjoy your weekend!

Monday, July 13, 2009


Where do I start? From which point do I begin?

Let's haiku it, shall we?

start the deadening
let loose of ideals and Hope
sit and sit and drink

Uplifting, huh?! =o)

There comes a time in one's life--and I have not yet reached said point--in which the individual comes to his or her senses. He or she realizes that the trodden path (mashed down by multiple scores of addicts and alkies) is not the path upon which he or she wants to tread. The path is filled with jabberwockies and noodalzins. (And you never want to meet a noodalzin in a dark alley--they have sharp claws and even sharper teeth.)

See, here is the thing: I can look at myself and I can appreciate the strength that I possess. Thick arms, strong shoulders, strong neck, rippled quads. I am proud of my body (though I have lost 15 pounds recently and worry about the Big C--lol). I'm proud of my body, but I'm not proud of my brain. Sure, I am intelligent and creative, but--seriously--who gives a rip? I lack mental strength. I lack that genome that tells an individual that enough is enough. To borrow a phrase from a much-beloved individual: "Enough already." Enough.

There is much psychic pain in addiction. Whole shiploads of it. Self-hatred, shame, physical malaise, self-doubt...I could go on. But I'll stop.

Yesterday, I went golfing for the first time this year. I hadn't swung a club in a year. No driving range; no nothing. I stepped up to the first tee, BAL at about .15, and I stroked the five-wood right down the center of the fairway. No practice swings, no nothing. I just stepped up, gripped it and ripped it. It reminded me of that one time when I went with a friend to a Pistons game and we were allowed to shoot a free throw before the game. I was tanked. Other people stepped to the free throw line and air-balled their shots. I asked the escort if I could shoot from the three-point line. "Sure, go ahead," he said. I dribbled three times and, like a free throw, kept my feet firmly planted on the Palace floor. Swish. Nothing but net.

Nothing but net. I was sloshed, yet I swished the free throw-three.

And, yesterday, with the first drive of the season: nothing but fairway.

And that saddens me. Most people with the BAL of me would have swung and missed at the ball, air-balled the basketball shot. It saddens me because it tells me--firmly--that my tolerance for alcohol is intolerable. I can do a lot of things when I'm fucked up, fucking excluded.

It sucks. It sucks for scores of reasons, but it really sucks that Life takes a backseat to the brew.

I know I need to stop, I know I want to stop, but, at this point, drink by side, stopping is the furthest thing from my Soul. My Soul says "more" and I acquiesce.

And so it goes. Right?

I am not writing this to get advice. I'm not writing this as a call for help. I am simply writing this. To those who read this, you might get a tear in your eye. Or you might not. You may get angry. Fine. Feed on it. You may read this and say, "Shit. Same ole thing." And that is your perogative.

I just had to purge these thoughts and emotions. I had to get them out. I'm tippin' the scale, here. I am reaching a breaking point. But I don't fully give a damn. Alcohol is a snake, for sure.

Alcohol is a snake. For sure.

God helps those who help themselves. I know that and I believe that. Seriously, I am not looking for sympathy. I ain't looking for a hug or a coddle.

It simply boggles my mind how insidious alcoholism can be. It is baffling. It is powerful. It is a pain in the ass. From you, it'll strip every strata of your life. I'm nonplussed. It--the beer, the drink--pulls me strongly.

How many times does one have to go to rehab? Once should be enough, right? The second time I was in there, there was a fellow patient who'd been rehabbed 17 motherfucking times. When they wheeled him in on a gurney, he looked emaciated and near death. Perhaps he was. After three days of abstinence and good fatty foods, he looked a hundred percent better. Chris, I think his name was. 17 motherfucking times?! You gotta be kidding me. No. 17 times.

I remember I had thought to myself, well, I'll never be like that! Really, Adam? Are you sure?

No. No, I'm not sure. I am far from sure. This demon rivals the fallen Michael. Even when I am not tossing two or sixteen back, the demons are gibbering in my ear. "Have one, A. It's fine. Everyone does it. You need to relax. You need to getcho buzz on. Have three, have 2900, I don't care. Just have some. You deserve it. It's the weekend. It's the middle of the week and you've had a hard day. Drink up. Drink! It tastes good. It's snappy. It's cool. You're a writer; all writers worth their salt drink like fish. You can control it just fine. You can have a six and call it quits; I know you can!"

The demons can suck my balls. They're always promising but never delivering.

But. And I'll still tip the beer can or bottle. It's what I do; it is who I am. Damn.


Saturday, July 11, 2009


Now, I love playing fantasy football just as much as anyone. It is exciting and it makes interesting games that one might rather not watch. I scour the Web pages and I get "professional" information sent to my in-box. I love football. Fantasy leagues just make the game better.

But...I ask you: Is July 11th too early for the league at work to start collecting dinero? I mean, criminy, Kickoff Weekend is at the beginning of September. That is, by my calculations, almost two full months away!

Never mind, I guess. I bought in to the football fever. I purchased my first fantasy football mag of the year a couple of daze ago. It'll be outdated within the month, but, hell, I just like reading about the men in tight pants. Who wear helmets (sometimes purple). Who crash into each other at high speeds and, sometimes, knock each other unconscious. The game itself is a walking hard-on. The only places you'll find more testosterone are prisons and Rosie O'Donnell barbeques.

I like the fact that a Lion is highly-touted. Cal Johnson, receiver, is ranked (early, yes, but still...) number three out of the entire league at his position. And--hell, yes--he is the only Lion that I'd feel comfortable drafting. The dude is a stud. He puts up stud-like numbers (80, 1300, 10); the numbers are made even more impressive by the fact that he played on the worst team, record-wise (0-16), in NFL history.

Here is the thing about the Detroit Lions and their fans: It is a love/hate relationship and, damned near every year in recent history, they have been the Lucy to us Charlie Browns. "Here, Chuck, kick the football. I'll hold it this time." And we Chucks grimace and then shrug and wind up for a booming kick. Lucy Lion always pulls the ball away, just as our collective foot is about to make contact, and we are sent somersaulting through the air. We land hard. The wind is knocked out of us. And Lucy Lion snickers and says, "Okay, that was a joke. This time I'll hold it for you, Chuck." And we gear up--though we know we are fools--for another kick.


The last couple of years, I've not bought in to the pundits', the "experts'," theories about the Detroit Lions. I'm sick of somersaulting. They have to prove it to me. They have to prove that they have turned the proverbial corner. Matt Millen is back in the booth--where he belonged all along--and we have a new coach and coaching staff and they (the Lions' brass) are saying all the right things but, as Morgan Freeman said in "Seven" as he was contemplating opening the box within which Gwen's beautiful golden-haired head held residence, "I don't know...God...I just don't know."

It could be a bomb. Morgan didn 't know, and I don't know, either.
I don't know. I would love to have faith that they'd reach seven wins...but I just don't know. I doubt it, actually. They have made some off-season moves, sure, but how in the hell do you plug seventy million holes on the team in one off-season? Quick answer: You don't.

In his eight- or nine-year tenure, Matt Millen fucked this team up beyond repair. Put that way, Matty is akin to G. W. Bush(fucker). It'll take years to climb out of the mess, the quagmire, the morass. At best, I expect four wins out of this club.

Then again, they are the Lions. I think they get off on being contrarians. You think, expect, them to do one thing and they do the exact opposite. Forgetting last year (0-16), that is all they have ever done: Lose to the teams they should beat and beat the teams to which they should lose. If you are ever stupid enough to bet on a Lions game, bet contrary to your gut. You are guaranteed to win! =o)

Okay. I admit it. I am getting football fever. There should be a pill for that....


This song gets me every time. Sarah McLachlin has the voice of an angel. The lyrics stick to me.

But, it is more than that. There is some kind of internal barometer that says, yes, exactly. Call me a pussy if you want to. I won't care. I understand beauty when I hear/see it.

And this song/sonstress are Beauty.

[If you're not touched the first time, well, play it again.]
Postscript: Bobby B., Dean, Grandad, Uncle Rod, Grampa Burr___, Nana: they're all guardian angels. I thank them all.


Have you all ever walked into a living room, shirtless, wearing but underwear and a single sock?

Well, I just did. Imagine how it'd have been had it been a swing-shinny! :-O

Just. Rambled. On.


"Naw, wait, Meagan. We can't do that. If we switch positions on the canoe, we're gonna spill; I don't wanna fuck up my camera. And my phone."

She looked at me and then laughed.

My main thought had been--on that July Fourth weekend, in the canoe--that I provide the power to surge. When the time had come to direct us back to the launch area, I had wanted to be The Propeller. With my back to the shore, I had thought that we were fucked. Meeg'd have to row us back in. Otherwise, what? We shift seats? And risk being Persons Overboard? Helllll, no.

And then Meagan laughed. I realized what I had said.

A truly "Blonde Moment."


I am...City Boy. Hear me roar.