Clean and Sober, Part Two

Dear (eventual) grandstickies and great-grandstickies,

To review, part one was an encapsulated version of my adventures as a twenty-something. I revealed that yes, Virginia, Poppa did smoke dope regularly during his extended callowyute era.

Now, I'm neither proud or ashamed of this period of my life, but I was extremely lucky. In retrospect (hindsight is indeed 20/20) I wish I had moved on much sooner than I did, or that I had the same reaction to weed as I did to alcohol -- I discovered early on that I didn't much care for it.

As to lucky, I didn't start smoking weed until I was twenty. Science tells us that drinking or doing drugs by adolescents can lead to permanent neural rewiring and many scientists suspect this increases the chance of addiction in adulthood. Also, while the area of the brain that governs pleasure seeking develops early, the area of the brain that governs decision making and judgment may not be done developing until the mid-twenties. Getting baked as a teenager before your brain has finished baking naturally may cause permanent damage.

I set out to get royally drunk one night when I was 18, and already living in my own apartment. I succeeded but didn't enjoy the results. I had a similar reaction to when I had tried cigarettes many years earlier. This is stupid, I don't like this, I'm not going to do this. So you see, not smoking cigarettes and not drinking requires no discipline or muscular virtue on my part. Lucky.

[Speaking of cigarettes, science tells us that nicotine, which personally I regard as a drug with effects that are even milder than those resulting from moderate caffeine consumption, is a highly addictive substance. My personal experience tends to confirm this. Your parental units have both been trying to quit smoking for at least ten years that I know of and haven't made it, yet. I'm cautiously optimistic because ya'll are one of the most important reasons they keep trying, and they're very good parents who just spent too much money on your Christmas presents, as usual (GRIN). It would seem I'm not the only lucky one.

Please don't get hooked on nicotine, or anything else for that matter. And yeah, I know, vaping is better for you, but addiction is addiction. When my mom was in a nursing home and wheezing from emphysema and only one year older than I am now, 64 40, she was cursing her children for refusing to smuggle in her beloved unfiltered Kools.]

...and we're back. Where was I? Oh yeah, lucky. As I mentioned in part one, my nefarious activities never led to any legal difficulties, that is, I never got caught by anyone with a badge. I realize that pointing this out to you may be equivalent to one of my grandparents telling me about using alcohol when it was briefly, and disastrously, prohibited to do so. At the moment it looks like weed will soon be legal everywhere, assuming The Gubmint doesn't step in. However, I'm not talking about what should have been, but what was, the past tense of not what should be, but what is (GRIN).

[At this point in my writing, my muse, imaginary gentlereader, and imaginary grandsticky all looked up from an intense game of Monopoly and looked around at each other, puzzled. Before anyone spoke up I quickly threw a, "I got this, relax, play your game, all will soon be clear" at 'em and they returned to arguing over the subtle, legal ramifications of one of the rules.]

See, had I been caught by the wrong person in the wrong jurisdiction I could've been locked up for quite some time (many were) for the heinous crime of participating in one of mankind's (personkind's?) oldest rituals, the pursuit of a good buzz. Perfectly legally and sanctioned by the powers that be were. That's the not what should have been but what was, referenced above. The land of the free was/is not always as free as one might like.

BIG BUT.

I mentioned early on that I'm neither proud or ashamed of this period of my life. I am, however, regretful. During my extended callowyute phase I, like most twenty-somethings, many thirty-somethings, a disturbingly high (and rising I think) percentage of forty and even fifty-somethings -- thought I was bullet proof, ten feet tall, and would live forever.

[My fellow baby boomers, who, demographically speaking, range in age from 53 to 71 as this is being written, require an entire column or two to analyze because while many have discarded their rose colored glasses, many have not and are members in good standing of the not what is, but what should be club. Some of them are even counting on living forever via having themselves uploaded to a machine. Sounds boring to me, living forever I mean, please forgive the digression.]

Just as many old farts never tired of pointing out to me, just as no shortage of old farts, occasionally including me, never tire of pointing out to you -- you're gonna' wake up one day a couple of years from now and you will be, chronologically speaking, old. You will personally know several dead people even if you're fortunate enough to have managed to get through your life minimally affected by war.

I understood this intellectually long before I understood this in reality, in my heart. I hope the same is true for you. I hope that you operate under the illusion of immortality and happy endings for everyone for as long as possible.

However, I devoutly wish that someone had told me, as a young man, or that I had somehow stumbled upon, the following.

If you want to save the world, or someone, and/or
If you think that grups are boring and more dead than alive and/or
If you choose to party now and worry about so-called real life later and/or
If you've found someone/something for whom/which you can't wait to get out of bed for and/or
If you're religiously/spiritually/enlightenmentally inclined, traditional or unconventional path, and/or
___________________________________________________ . (This space intentionally left blank.)

Reality  still  rules.

Some folks can't/shouldn't "party," ever. They're called addicts. You need to constantly monitor and be brutally honest with, yourself. Question one. Am I doing this for some occasional fun or do I have to do this to deal. Question two. Is this interfering with other aspects of my life? Incidentally, I don't know what the experts advise, these two questions are what I advise.


And while we're at it:

The need for food, clothing, shelter, and healthcare is, and will remain, omnipresent.

Pay your own way if at all possible and everyone will like you more, especially you.

You are never going to wake up one day and be Happy, it just doesn't work that way. Some days you'll be happy, some days you will be miserable, most days will be a mixture of both.

Forget happiness, pursue contentment. Contentment is someone to love that loves you back (pets are perfectly acceptable) and interesting work. Getting paid to do interesting work is rare. Getting paid for doing a job and doing your work for free, um, works. Your work is anything that makes you happy just by the doing of it well, It doesn't matter what it is. Rabid sports fan, rocket scientist, or something in between. "Be regular and orderly in your life so that you may be violent and original in your work." -Gustave Flaubert                                                                                                                                                                                                                      
If you're lucky you will often be bored. As you age you will learn this is not necessarily a bad thing, particularly given the many unpleasant alternatives available.

Goals are necessary, and good, but success at anything requires flexibility and the wisdom to spot a better path. There are an infinite number of paths and yours is probably no better than theirs, just different. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.

Clean & Sober, Part One

Dear (eventual) grandstickies and great-grandstickies,

I am not a drunk or a druggie, nor do I play one on TV. I was a sorta/kinda (weed smoking) druggie when I was a twenty-something sorta/kinda hippie with a job.

I didn't define myself as a druggie at the time. To me, druggies were people that dabbled in, or were hooked on, addictive substances. I also didn't/don't care for people that liked/like to get roaring drunk. Not pleasantly buzzed, roaring drunk. Drunks and druggies were/are, often as not Jekyll-Hydes, people who become their own evil twin when they ingest their recreational pharmaceutical of choice.

Not me and my buds, pun intended. We were cool. Yeah, we smoked weed, but we weren't addicts, we weren't alcoholics, we had jobs.

In retrospect, I freely admit that I was a callowyute for far too long. Most of the friends I didn't go to college with couldn't get married/mortgaged/reproduced fast enough and become hipper, Depublican/Republicrat voting versions of their parents once they got their degree. Revolution? what revolution? That's kid stuff, grow up!

Maybe later. I...

[Aside for historical context: This was the early seventies when all that stuff you've heard about the late sixties was still going on but had begun to fade. The revolution mentioned above, with the exception of the relatively small handful of maroons committed to actually blowing stuff up, was a vague, ill-defined thing. It was a pampered, self-indulgent baby boomers happening to come of age when the cultural consensus collapsed and the threat of death by Vietnam loomed for 19-year-old males (some much more than others) phenomenon.]

Maybe later. I was having too much fun living a very tame version of what I romanticized to be a sex/drugs/rock and roll lifestyle. Get high and do something fun -- like have sex or go to a concert. I wasn't getting high because I was an addict or to cope with my crappy job/life/spouse/children. I was also very lucky in that my lifestyle never led to any legal problems and I had never even heard of AIDS at this point.

In my defense -- weed was way less potent, much cheaper and often hard to come by a thousand years ago. Droughts were common. I went out of my way (successfully) to not reproduce. I believed, and believe, that once you have kids, while selfless sainthood is not required, it mostly is, it's part of the job description. I didn't want that particular job, or a career, at that point in my life -- just a job, so I could pay my own way and live my life.

Truth be told -- I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. So, I figured I might as well enjoy the ride while waiting for instructions. I had two very vague notions. I would eventually meet my soulmate and then, somehow, all would become clear and we would live happily ever after. Or, I would meet my guru and spiritual enlightenment would follow. Maybe both.

[Important aside: The first time I smoked weed I was almost 20  years old. I'm so old that drug use by high school kids was just starting to take off when I was in high school. Drinking was more common but serious partying of any sort was limited to a relatively small minority. Considering that it's now common knowledge that the human brain isn't fully mature until the age of 25 or so, I'm glad I started at what nowadays would be considered a late age. More on this later.]

Eventually, in my late twenties, which coincided with the late seventies, I met and fell in love with a blond girl next door type, a college student. This coincided with Rock n' Roll hitting a wall (pun, once again, intended) that it hasn't been able to break through/climb over/go around since and the fact I was getting bored with being a callowyute and finally starting to grow up.

[Aside for baby boomer gentlereaders: By the way, just because Rock hit a wall, that's no excuse for some of you to still be listening to the same songs, over and over and over again, decades later. I don't mean to hurt anyone's feelings, think of it as one of those things that somebody had to tell you. Think of it as someone meeting you for coffee at an obscure location and gently giving you a heads up about something, for your own good. They'll give you a big, sincere hug and a warm genuine smile when it's time to part ways.  

There's all sorts of music out there. I highly recommend jazz. If you would prefer to maintain your rock/pop sensibility you might think about trying to find some time to go exploring. Even if you prefer to stick with the old stuff, the "hits" were from entire albums of songs you may have never heard. Admit it, you've thought about this. Now, if you could only find the time...]

And we're back. I spent about three years in a grup with a life, wife, and 2.5 kids training program. Many requirements had to be met in order to qualify and get promoted to adulthood. In the end, she changed her mind and ran my application, and my heart, through a paper shredder. She said she was sorry. No soul mate or a guru. That sure sucked sweaty socks.

When I came to I found myself managing a fleet of ice cream trucks in Texas. One day I hired a woman to drive one of the trucks who, in short order, became my wife. She came pre-equipped with a daughter. Hey! look at me, I'm a grup! Well, more or less.

[Uh-huh. Um, is there a point you're trying to make Poppa? Sheesh, it would seem that I not only have an imaginary gentle reader and a muse living in my head, now I've got to deal with an imaginary grandsticky/great-grandsticky. For the record, my grandstickies are real, but I'm addressing them as a group and writing to them as though they won't be reading this until 20 years into the future. Please see last week's column, Sea Change. The great-grandstickies aren't here yet. So, the imaginary grandsticky is a stand in for a group of people, some of whom don't exist yet. Man, this is getting complicated.

Oh for the love of God! exclaims Dana, my imaginary gentlereader. Marie-Louise, my muse, is giggling.]

Calm down everyone. OK, listen, first some literary housekeeping. No, poppa is not misspelled. Both papa and poppa are authorized by the language police. I prefer poppa because papa looks like it should be pronounced paah-paah. Poppa -- pops. When I'm king, I will correct this situation and delete, or at least imperially frown upon, the word papa. Poppa is what my grandstickies (grandkids) call me. Please see my websites glossary for more information.

Second, sorry, I've got to go. I'm already well over my theoretical 1,000-word limit. (A snort of frustration followed by angry footsteps and the sound of a door slam. Dana has left the column.) Hey, it's not my fault that attention spans have been reduced to the point that 500 words without pictures is considered long-form writing, I'm trying to build an audience so I can quit my soul-sucking day job. Poppa loves you. To be continued...

Have an OK day.


.

Sea Change

Interesting phrase, sea change, also rendered as seachange, sea-change and Sea Change. Credited to Shakespeare who used it in The Tempest to describe changes wrought by the sea on a drowned man. Nowadays it's usually used to describe a dramatic change in this, that or the other but it can also refer to a gradual change that eventually produces unexpected results somewhat different than those originally intended. Life's like that, methinks, sayeth the Crank, clearly (hopefully) temporarily deranged by the Shakespeare reference.

I've deployed it for two reasons. Firstly (which ain't Shakespearean but sounds like it) I've never had occasion to use the phrase/word before but I've been waiting for a chance just because it's cool, well, at least I think so. Forgive me, gentlereaders and (eventual) grandstickies and great-grandstickies, if your reaction to the previous statement is one of dubiety (another word, recently discovered, that I've been itching to use and that means exactly what you think it does). I'll stop now.

The other reason is that henceforth from now most of my weekly columns will be addressed directly to my (eventual) grandstickies and great-grandstickies, although I will continue to be putenem out there for the general public. Also, I will continue to speak directly to my gentlereaders and to give voice to my muse, as well as some other individuals that live in my head, via my wildly entertaining and world famous asides.

[Clarification: The previous paragraph has nothing to do with general August Public, the little-known Revolutionary war hero and favorite son of the tiny English hamlet of Putenem-upon-Ditch, his boyhood home before his family emigrated to the American colonies in search of liberty and um, debt relief.]

Now, in light of the fact that three recent columns have been directly addressed to my (eventual) grandstickies and great-grandstickies, one could make a plausible argument this may not qualify as a sea-change. And, after all, the Stickies are mentioned early on in the Read This First Please introduction tab on my website where they, as well as my daughter and son-in-law, are credited as the inspiration for this blog.

[Policy Update: I have decided that it's not pretentious to use the word one rather than the word you occasionally and going forward I'll be using them both. Which one gets chosen will depend on which one sounds or feels right, rather than which one is technically correct. This is a general policy, that sound and feel trumps technically correct, for all of my feeble scribbles. Also, although I am King Crank, and if this country should ever come to its senses I will be the King of America, I will continue to be I, never we, for I am a benevolent tyrant.]

However, seachange works because I confess that the primary reason I've generated a weekly column for almost a year and a half in spite of occasionally not feeling the least bit motivated, and in spite of the fact that the income generated by my efforts is laughable, was the hope that I might break through the babble of billions of bloggers, go viral, make a deal (honey, get the Donald on the phone), and quit my day job.

Still is.

BIG BUT.

It's also true that when I finish the rare column that I'm (well, more or less anyway) happy with I am a very happy camper. It's also true that I enjoy writing enough to keep on with it despite the fact it hasn't yet provided the key to happiness, earned success (1). It's also true that even if I were to drop dead one day soon I would do so content that I had made the effort to pass along some observations and hard learned lessons, however limited in scope and utility, to my beloved Stickies. Even the ones that aren't here yet.

And.

Since I'm technically 63 years old (though just 39 in all the ways that count) and since my sell by date (statistically speaking) is less than 20 years away, and could be tomorrow...

...I shall soldier on (another cool phrase I've always wanted to use) and I've decided that going forward, my column will primarily be a weekly letter to the (eventual) Stickies, that is, the existing Stickies future, mature selves, and their yet to be conceived children --my (eventual) grandstickies, and great-grandstickies. I shall write each column as if it's a letter to be placed in a virtual vault of some sort that will not permit a given column to be read, by them, until 20 years after I've published it to the web.

Pretending to write to/for someone(s) that will not see my shtuff until 20 years from now provides a framework and perspective that I find appealing. Gentlereaders are, of course, are encouraged to not only eavesdrop in the interim but also to share my correspondence with whoever they think might find it interesting.

Finally, some shtuff (there will be more in future columns) about your friendly neighborhood cranks policies and procedures. If you've been here before and/or if you come back. you may have or will notice a general absence of what used to be called profanity. Nowadays, particularly on the web, it's frequently not called anything, it's just how people talk.

I consciously choose to use it sparingly in my writing (more frequently in real life) for two reasons. First, George Carlin was wrong, words are not just words. Context -- who you're trying to communicate with and what you're trying to communicate -- is vitally important. (WARNING:
Run on sentence ahead.) I use the word shtuff (shit + stuff) rather than shit when I'm writing to be (in a lame fashion) funny, to be unique, to try and make a point without offending certain people (but I'm prepared to be offensive if I think it's necessary), and to give the word stuff more power.

Second, when words are just words, powerful words become lame words, beautiful words become ugly words. A delicious salad of words is reduced to the worst salad you ever had in a hospital cafeteria. Like what passes for art in many circles in these strange times, shocking rules, until it doesn't, because once there's nothing left to rebel against, everything is just, well, shit.

Have an OK Day

(1) The Secret of Happiness