It was twenty years ago today...

...but it wasn't Sgt. Pepper, or Dr. Pepper, that taught this man to play.

Instead, it was a jewel case for my copy of the Footloose soundtrack and a couple of high school friends in for Halloween weekend during our freshman semester in college. And an 8-ball of cocaine -- which I was surprised wasn't anywhere close to the size of an actual billiards 8-ball. And half a dozen two-inched lines of fine, white powder expertly scratched across the photo of a head-phoned Kevin Bacon sporting a hip-clasped Walkman and rolled up sleeves.

I'd seen it done in movies and on TV so many times I didn't have to ask very many questions, even though I was a total virgin when it came to anything more than Boone's Strawberry Hill. Hell, at that point, I didn't even smoke grass or allow it in my presence. But for whatever reason, I'd decided to allow Halloween Night 1997 to be the night that I jumped right past every available gateway drug and straight into the hard stuff.

We did a few lines from Casey's stash and then we finished donning our Rocky Horror garb to head out to a midnight showing at LSU-S. A few more lines in the car and a few more at an "after-party" of sorts (really, just this seedy drug house inhabited -- I think -- by a dude that had an on-again/off-again relationship with another friend of ours).

I guess I kinda liked the coke. I mean, I didn't mind the post-snort drip down the back of my throat and I felt like I was talking a lot more than usual (and I already talked a lot before), but I didn't feel like I was really doing anything all that different from what sophisticated people like doctors and attorneys did when nobody was watching. I mean, it was okay to experiment a little.

Right?

I mean, it wasn't like I could become addicted to something the very first time I tried it, right?

I mean... right? Well...sort of. But only sort of.

For instance, I didn't instantly start doing cocaine all the time.

But the vodka sours felt a little glamorous when I tried them out and decided they'd be my college drink of choice, so there was something about the nightlife I'd been turned onto.

But it was another two years before I ever even tried my first hit from a joint... although, there were a few other behaviors linking the two events that were a little less wholesome than that of the image I'd spent two decades cultivating.

And these behaviors I mention, they were mostly of a singular and sexual nature, to be honest; which was where I was wanting to head with this hashtag and my stories of the men in my life that got me here: nearly 40 years old, still single and sitting in this coffeehouse night-after-night typing away on my keyboard (some of it for my blog and some of it for my eyes only), thinking maybe I'll write the great American novel or maybe I'll just be a "writer/blogger/journalist" without any substantial publishing credits to his name, turn 40 and still be single.

Who knows, and -- really -- does it even matter?  Remaining single, I mean.

After all, my picker's been broken for so long, I'm not totally certain it can even be repaired.

But how did it get that way?

Well, it all started -- and I shit you not on this -- with the son of a preacher man.

But that's a story best told next time. It's one that deserves a post of its own.

A little will-he-won't-he blog situation

In theory, taking time off from work – not for any particular reason other than the fact that you have to use it or lose it – to spend mornings sleeping late, afternoons writing at the coffeehouse across the street and late nights cruising the dating apps for a hookup sounds like something ideal. In reality – like most things in life – it's a little different. Not bad at all, just not what you envision in those final working days leading up to the staycation when all you can think about is everything you're going to do with the time. 

But here I am, a Monday night at North Town because this is where I come to pop in my earbuds and write. And what have I accomplished with this full week of days away from deadlines? 

A late start on Friday followed by some intense shopping with Brennan where I managed not to find anything I was looking for in the way of seventies couture, but he managed to find an armful of cheap and attractive selections to add to his fall wardrobe, along with a stack of pretty good titles at one of the local Goodwill. The night was salvaged when I made some last-ditch efforts at Walmart and Walgreens and found exactly what I was seeking to complete the look of a masquerade party guest at that house Tom Cruise infiltrates in the middle of Kubrick's final film. 

Another late start on Saturday followed by another failed shopping excursion for the blue iris I wanted for the 3:30 p.m. photo shoot scheduled with Jake to round out the last selection in the Halloween series I spent most of the month working to complete. That was followed by a trip to the Yakima Valley Libraries book sale from which I walked with all the trash I need to carry me into the cold winter months ahead (a little Jackie Collins, Harold Robbins and Judith Krantz – along with one of Wally Lamb's books I haven't read, but mostly just so I wouldn't feel like a total waste of brain potential for only selecting junk food for my mind).  

I psyched myself up for the Studio 54 party at The Seasons until it was time to shave my balls and scour my skin just in case the night ended on a lucky note – it didn't – and then I walked my fully decked out ass over to the spot only to find that it failed my expectations and was filled with an assortment of folks I didn't know. With every intention of returning later (and the hope the situation would drastically return in time for my return), I left to meet up with Shawn and Molly at a party in Selah – where, incidentally, I knew several people and had a good time.  

But instead of returning to disco dancing – and because I'd mildly injured my left foot/heel/ankle at some point in the night – I just went home. It was still early, and Molly – as she often does – inspired me to write a little so I figured I'd salvage what night remained by pounding out a load of words on my keyboard for a while. Instead of writing – or even reading any of the Andy Cohen book I keep thinking I can't wait to get back to – I picked up a few episodes of "My Favorite Murder," hung a thick, dark blanket over the window, and decided to sleep late another day. And all this time, the notion swam through my head of this great conversation I'd had with Molly last week where we discussed our lists of the men in our lives and I reflected peacefully on the fact that I'd loved each of mine – even if only for a very brief time – and I thought the notion would make a fine trajectory on my blog for a while. But even as I sit here at North Town on a Monday night and the next two days still free from work and deadlines, I'm not sure whether I'll actually follow through on that list of the many men from my own life. Maybe, though. 

Where was I? Sunday? I slept late again and hung out a little with Brennan. We ran into two chicks we know from the program and hung out with them a while to talk about recovery and relapse and all the things on our minds that we don't always acknowledge or talk about in meetings. And then I completed a little more work on my fourth step, went to a meeting and came home for another night on the podcasts.  

Another day of sleeping late again today. But Brennan drove to Seattle and all the normal people worked today, so I went to the library to focus – which worked – and I came home to call my sponsor and watch "The September Issue." I did manage to pop off a few work-related emails on the podcast idea Kaitlin and I are playing around with and the project I'm wanting to put together for the coming family holidays. I dressed Mary Louise with a pink scarf and took her for a walk and then walked across the cold and windy street in downtown Yakima to my favorite spot in town outside of my apartment to write.  

So far, so good. 

But what about the story (stories, really) of the men in my life? All the loves that should have been or could have been or would have been? I wonder if that's worth exploring here.  

It's not like I have so many readers that I'm likely to raise any eyebrows. But who knows. 

I'll see what happens next.  

Writing's always good. No matter how shitty the product may be at any given time.

Because Tuesdays are my Monday

By the time I make it here to my blog, it's ten minutes after 10 o'clock on a Tuesday night that looks more like a Monday because Tuesdays function as my Mondays ever week.

It's one of the many indicators why my blog posts have all been a little -- okay, more than a little -- filled with self will run riot for the past several months. Also, why they're sporadic and sort of senseless most of the time.

By the time I get around to doing them, I feel used up and worn out. But I have this compulsion to write, so I do some of it here. Also, this is typically the kind of shit I don't necessarily put out there on social media for all the world to read and review.

There was a period in my life when I thought I'd have the first novel completed by the time I was 21. Then it was 25. Then 30. Now, I'm just hoping I can keep blogging regularly until I'm 40 and not have a hatred for this thing I love so much.

I still need to do it, but I sure miss loving to write.

The second step is all about believing in something

I believe in a lot of things.

Love, honesty, integrity and faith are a few. 

I also believe there are times when one needs to take control of the steering wheel after spending too much time driving around with the cruise control set on the road of life. Because there are plenty of other times when one's just sort of playing with things at odd intervals and not really steering the car toward anything in particular. 

I feel like I've been operating with a loose steering wheel since I came to Yakima. 

And I believe it's time to steer the wheel in a different direction. 

When the pain of remaining the same becomes greater than your fear of change, you might find it's time to drive the wheel to a new point on the compass. 

Exploring new options -- it's not a bad thing, it's the way things ought to be.

Long, cold nights during October's full moon

I started dating when I was 16-years-old. 

That means I've been dating for six years more than half my life. 

At what point does this perfect person actually show up? I mean, I've gotten rid of the list and I've stopped looking, but every single time I think about giving someone interesting my number and a little of my time it turns into another disaster.

Enough with all that. 

I'm just going to read and go to bed.

Sunday night at North Town

Tuesday's child is supposedly full of grace.

I was born on a Tuesday, but my entry to the world was anything but graceful.

Allow me to explain...

In addition to being a Tuesday, my birth also was on the 13th of that particular month, so the number should tell you a little something about the progression of my life in the days that followed.

It happened in a Catholic hospital. My birth, I mean. Schumpert Medical Center was its name, but it's since been bought and sold and is now part of a giant medical conglomerate that owns and operates huge portions of the south, including my home town: Shreveport, Louisiana.

Mom said she didn't even know she was in labor. She went in to see her doctor for her scheduled check at his office and he told her she was about to have her baby. She went to the hospital and the nurses called her husband — Dad — and he went to meet her, but she said they didn't have the big birthing rooms in the very, very, very late 1970s so dad wasn't allowed in with her while she was pushing.

She also said had I been her first, I would've been her last because she thought she was having a telephone pole. I had a really big head, she said — some things haven't changed all that much.

So she pushed and they gave her some gas to ease the pain of expelling a telephone pole from her body and at 11:47 a.m. on February 13, 1979, I was born.

The funny part — the part that really puts the whole grace thing into perspective — happened a few days later when Mom and Dad got ready to take me home, to the house at 3737 Parkway Drive.

When parents left the Catholic hospital with newborns in those days, little baby boys were wrapped in blue blankets and little baby girls were wrapped in pink blankets for their first car trips in the outside world.

As fate would have it, though, the nuns were all out of baby boy blue blankets on this particular day and they put into my mother's arms a telephone pole swathed in pink.

Those darn nuns are so resourceful.

Well, Dad apparently hit the roof (as he sometimes did), raising his already loud voice in that way he was known to raise it when angry and he shouted that no goddamn son of his was getting taken out of that hospital in a goddamn pink blanket.

Oh, Dad...

So what's this have to do with grace?

To this very day — nearly 39 years later — when my mother regales me with the story of my birth and the pink blanket debacle, she always asks "...do you think that had anything to do with it?"

Yeah, Mom. It was the pink blanket.

Totally.

But it kinda makes sense. That's how my grace happens, at least.