With the same chicken every time?

There is a funny story attributed to Teddy Roosevelt. 

When he was president, the story goes, he and the first lady visited a huge Farm.
Teddy was looking at the horses and the equipment the Mrs. was talking to the dairy maids and young women who ran the chicken coops.  The first lady was curious how many roosters in such a huge hen house? The young woman said only one rooster of course.

 Mrs. Roosevelt then asked "how often does the rooster do his rooster duties?"  "13 or 14 times a day" the woman responded, blushing. "Make sure you tell that to Mr. Roosevelt" said the first lady.

When Teddy makes it around to the chicken coop the young woman reports "The first Lady told me to tell you sir that the roster does his rooster duties 13-14 times a day"  "With the same chicken?" quipped the president?   "No, with a different one each time...""Make sure the first lady knows that."

Variety is the spice of life.  I don't think the moral of the story was serial non-monogamy.  I think it's more about if you have to do the same thing over and over again you have to keep it fresh or it becomes drudgery.

If you work out you have to constantly change up your routine.  Not just to make it exciting and thereby something you can do it again and again over the long term. But it also helps you to achieve better results.  You progress faster when you shake things up.

Recovery can be like that.   I am currently in a sober living community and we have a meeting here every night with mostly the same people. 

It can get a little incestuous with the same personalities, the same people sharing; Like recovery karaoke. What we refer to as the "good sharing motherfuckers", recycling things they've heard in other meetings or just invoking religious platitudes, sounding good being the goal.  It's a recovery thing, suspect sharing; "sharing right, living wrong."  It can be discouraging.

Right now I have no choice.  I'm required by the terms of my agreement living here to go to the meeting every evening.  Not a bad thing. I'm building the muscle of just going to meetings no matter what.  Those muscles are weak and atrophied at the moment.  Starting with a simple exercise is prudent.  Learning the skill of finding at least one thing in a meeting I need to hear regardless of the source.

It's a useful skill to develop. However, when I'm on my own and can choose whether or not to go to a meeting I have to go to lots of different meetings to keep it fresh.  A different chicken every time if you will.

I will have a home-group.  One meeting where I have made a commitment to attend every week.  So people get to know you and you get to know them.  Where you build relationships and rapport.

These are the people who have standing to guide... people who can see me, with whom I can build long-term relationships.

Overall success in 12 step recovery also requires keeping it fresh, and as your life gets better hearing the fresh pain of others.  Nothing helps you stay clean and sober like hearing someone who's just come in and how miserable depressed and broken they are.

One main chicken for continuity and then lots and lots of different chickens to keep it fresh.

I'd like to think the chicken story is real and Teddy Roosevelt did say that because that's just bad ass. And so is Teddy, who once finished a speech after having been shot.  He had a bullet in him and still finished his speech... that's a real tough guy.  And he's who the teddy bear is named after. Below is a video of a Teddy bear telling the story.  Spoiler alert in the story Teddy  hates on Mississippi.   Bonus because Mississippi sucks gay, hairy, clown ass.

Drugs are bad, um kay?

Here's the straight dope kids; Uncle Skippy will never lie to you.   The secret truth of the universe is... using drugs can be fucking amazing.

I have done just about every drug there is to do.  From beer to heroin, I have pretty much tried it all.

Aside from smoking tarantula venom and a toxin you lick off actual living frogs I'm pretty secure in saying I've ingested and experienced every commonly known legal and illegal substance used on the planet to alter mood or mind.

And I'll tell you this... if I hadn't stumbled upon the one substance for which I was engineered;  the one perfect drug for me.... I could have taken or left the whole "drug thing"  without a second thought.

Drugs weren't a problem, they were a solution.  Tired? There's a drug for that.  Sad? There's a drug for that.  Need to sleep, there's a drug for that.  Want to know the secret truth of the universe... Well there's definitely a drug for that.

I could have dabbled a little, had fun and gone on my merry way;  Never going to rehab, never had a problem.  And if my aunt had a dick she'd be my uncle, right?

In Eckhart Tolle's The power of now he describes the reason he wrote the book.  He had an amazing experience.  He was suicidally depressed and miserable.  Then one day he had a flash of insight which allowed him to change the narrative within his own brain.  It stopped his thoughts and he attained a moment of peace within himself.  This peace lasted him months and it met all his needs.  He focused this ability, honed it and then he spent years sitting on a park bench completely content; not a care in the world, no worries, no work... no nothing he just existed because all his needs were met.

I know what he was talking about.  That feeling, that peace, that total contentment, all needs being met and the nagging voice of doubt in my head gone completely... it happened to me... the first time I smoked cocaine.

The relief did not last months however; it lasted moments.  But in those moments I knew a peace I had never experienced in my life.

I had never been completely and utterly content before.  But then as in a nightmare, almost as quickly is it came the feeling begin to fade, and as it faded, the depression, pain and suffering filled in the space it left; like a tide  coming in over a dry sandy beach.

Before I could turn around... the peaceful calm, the contentment...was gone and I was ankle-deep in pain, confusion and depression worse than before. 

Actually the pain was even stronger than it had been before the temporary relief of the drug.  Now the need to remove the pain, to return to the calm and peaceful beach... became more desperate than ever.

But that was okay; now  I knew how to get to that beach, my body knew,  my brain new exactly how to make the tide roll out... smoke more cocaine.

So I did. I got back to the beach, but it was not the same.  There was still a little bit of water between my toes and it wasn't as calm... it wasn't as peaceful as I remembered... the pain was mostly gone and it was better but it wasn't the wonderful feeling I had had.... I obviously hadn't done enough cocaine.  I have to try this again ....oh God no... here comes the pain.... its coming right back... how can that be? It's an only been a few seconds.

In that instant I became an addict. And that addiction has haunted, hobbled and confounded me for the better part of 20 years.

I have fought it every way one can.  

Rehab ... relegion... 12 steps... I've read... prayed... meditated...medicated... faked it till I made it... yet it always resurfaced.

Addiction is evil, is the devil, is your mind turned against you, a parasite in your brain, a horrible dangerous life threatening thing.

Drugs are a mine field; you don't know where the bombs are... you don't know if you're susceptible or not. If you are a person prone to addiction and you try drugs it's like playing Russian roulette.

Truth is every time you try any mind altering mood changing substance you run the risk of finding the thing that enslaves you.

That risk is also what makes drugs sexy.  What makes smoking sexy, motorcycles, surfing, skydiving and bull riding sexy...the risk.

But the risk with drugs is horrifying... The risk is slavery, degradation, jails, institutions and death.

I was freed once. I knew.  I was "woke" and still returned to slavery.  Kanye West got it right.  My slavery was a choice.

So now I have all the problems I had before plus an addiction.

Today I fight a daily battle against a return to slavery.  Now every day clean is a day won.

My drug solution is now only a drug problem.  It succeeded in pausing my pain briefly but then caused way more trouble on the way out.

I see it all very differently now. And as I promised at the beginning I will never lie to you.  I leave you with two absolute truths:

1. Addiction is bad; m'kay?

2. Never trust white men in a boat.

And then there were two....

Sometime on the morning September 24th Kelley Florman put a needle in his arm for the last time.  This was his favorite post of all my blogs he was one of my best friends. I could have just as easily been me dead in some abandoned building but I'm glad it wasn't and I hope to live a long, happy life and to think of Kelley often during it.  

I was writing this blog just before Kelley and I both turned 50.  It was occurring to me then how important it was to look after my health.  

So without further ado my self written obituary,  Kelley Florman's favorite post. For you, old Bean!

_______________

Blog posts hint at trouble ahead for dead comic.

By Vernon A. Guidry, III - Staff Reporter 

New Orleans, LA March 18, 2014

The 2013 blog postings of recently deceased, failed comic, Skip Guidry were re- published today.  The blog "Half the man I used to be" at www.skipguidry.com, was a combination weight loss diary and self righteous vegan rant.  Taken down shortly after the would-be comedian's death.  It was relaunched today under the title "Sign posts on the road to disaster".

Skip Guidry
1964 - 2013

Skip Guidry, an unemployed, self styled stand up comedian was found dead in the early morning hours of July 3rd 2013, he was 49.  He was discovered in his apartment an apparent overdose of banned diet pills and fast food.

"This blog is an obvious cry for help" Said Dr. Janice Strong, a psychiatrist who treated Guidry at the VA hospital in New Orleans.  "The signs were all there"

"I could tell he was scrugglin" said Justin Kincaid, long time friend and contemporary of Guidry on the bottom rung of the comedy ladder. "It's all that vegan crap that killed him, the stupid fat fuck" insisted Kincaid "I'll be at the Chuckle Hole in River Bend, NC this Friday" Continued Kincaid, inappropriately.

"I used to click on the page a few times to inflate the page view stats, you know to make him feel better" said an old friend of Guidry's Kelley Florman.  "I guess I should have actually read it"

Paramedics at the scene reported that there was literally writing on the wall.

"He had written BACONATOR in grease on the wall next to him" Said responding EMT Randy Magnum  Mr Magnum is suing the meager Guidry estate seeking compensation for a back injury sustained while attempting to load Guidry on to the gurney. "The fat ones are always on the third floor" Whined Magnum.

"Judging from the empty pill bottles and fast food wrappers in the apartment I'd say he ODed on knock off Trim Spa shipped illegally from Mexico.  That and  a ton of burgers from Wendys" Stated NOPD Detective Chance Boudreaux .  No foul play is suspected. 

A book deal for the blog posts is in the works reports a source close to the dead comic.  

Guidry's 3 ex-wives declined to comment for this article.

##30##

That easily could have happened.   Glad it didn't.  

mainlining the secret truth of the universe

Premium cable drama aficionados will recognize the title as a quote from Rustin "Rust" Cohle; the brilliantly raw, broken, nearly burned out, yet amazing effective homicide investigator played with iconic quirkiness by Mathew McConaughey in the inaugural season of  HBO's groundbreaking police procedural, True Detective.

Wow there's a lot going on in that opening sentence.  I just had to read it again slowly so as to give all the descriptive adjectives their proper weight.  I'm tempted to simplify but that would feel wrong some how so I'm gonna leave it as is... but I digress...

I really enjoyed the character, Rust Cohle in True Decective.   He's broken but has a moral center.  He uses his brokenness to do good in the world.  Broken people make better murder police.    "Maybe the job made me this way or maybe being this way made me right for the job" -Rust

Recovery from addiction is another of those rare occupations in which you can use your brokenness for good.  You can take the things that you're most ashamed of, your worst moments and once you've survived them, you put them in a box and save them gor later.  Then once in a while you get to take one of them out and use it to help someone, to ease someone's suffering.  

Let me tell you the story of how that happened for me.

Tuesday July 3rd 2000 my brother in law, an unrepentant alcoholic, shot and killed himself...in front of me and my sister, his soon to be ex.

Here's the thing; I was clean and sober about 6 months when this happened.  I was doing great.  Good job, great set up in a new town.  My sister was moving to my town, leaving her drunk husband, bringing her 2 young sons to my town so I could help raise them.  I was the golden boy, the family hero.   I was over the moon with joy and I was filled with schadenfreude for my drunk brother in-law.

I loved that my nephews' father was a drunk.  I had been the family fuck-up for so long.  His uselessness was a constant reminder of my new found super awesomeness.  I reveled in his illness.  I offered him only token assistance.  I never reached out.  I wanted him sick.  It served my needs.

Even his death made me look good.  It played to my strengths.   I was the family rock.  Took care of my sister.  Even my father couldn't handle it.  I was happy the brother in-law was dead, happy that he shot himself.  Fuck him! Loser piece of shit.  I was glad of it all.  For a few days...then the adrenaline wore off.  My reverse shock.  Then it hit...the thought...did I help kill him?

I know I didn't kill him but... did I contribute?

Certainly a little bit.  I was not part of the solution. I did nothing to help, even worse I rooted for his failure.

It was a hard soul-searching weekend.  The following Tuesday I was at my home group NA meeting and by then I was a mess.  I was wracked with guilt.  I had made my nephews orphans.  I was the worst ever.  This was the kind of thing that might make me want to get loaded.

I opened up at the meeting I shared my pain I spilled my guts and the group thanked me for sharing as they always do.

Then one of the old-timers a man I greatly respected who had very serious recovery pulled me aside and told me a story.

He said he was married a long time ago and his girst wife was blowing guys  for money at a massage parlor place.   she didn't want to wait for her money that day so he picked her up brought her home and then went back to get her money and then he would take her money and go buy heroin for the two of them.

He did that and when he got home he found out she'd held out on him. She had dope she didn't want to share with him.  But she'd done too much and she overdosed and had died while he was picking up her blowjob money and scoring for the two of them.

At the time they were living in her parents basement she was cold, beyond saving... he was pretty sure she was dead... but before he could call the paramedics he had some business to take care of.  So he sat down on the bed next to her cold dead body fixed his dope and shot up and then called the ambulance.

I love and respect this man.  He is a good man in every sense of the word.  That story helped me so much that day.

 I was thinking I was this terrible horrible unredeemable human being.  And my friend who is a wonderful human being shared with me that he had done something worse arguably.  

But he lived through it, recovered from it, and now today is a respected member of society and a man that I, and many others love.  That's powerful, that's recovery.

He shared with me what would to the outside world be a truly dark secret.  But in the rooms of recovery it was just Tuesday.

I was not responsible for my brother-in-law's sobriety I'm only responsible for my own.

I could have done more and I have done more since.  I have done what's referred to as 12-step work with a vengeance between then and now because of that incident in fact his death is directly responsible for the 16 year sobriety of at least one person... and that person has helped dozens of other people.

When that wonderful thoughtful man told me the story of finding his wife dead and his response to it...when he shared with me that personal Dark Secret... it lightened my load, it eased my path.  

He didn't have to have experienced the exact same thing I did... he just had to be willing to share with me something that was painful that he later came to terms with and from which he eventually got better.

A sponsor once told me the purpose of life is to become of Maximum use to God and your fellow man.

I believe we make ourselves of Maximum use when we are broken in exactly the right ways so it's to fit perfectly into the hole created in the soul of another.

Our scars and jagged edges give us standing with one another.  I can believe I can find shelter with someone who shows the signs of having weathered the storm themselves.

As I prepare to begin a searching and fearless moral inventory I am heartened by the knowledge that whatever is there... no matter how awful it seems to me now.... my inventory will not serve to bolster the resume of a bad person. 

But rather everything both good and bad will serve to strengthen my armor and uniquely equip me for the road ahead.  

My story makes me perfect to help others in a way only I can.  

Without the scars without the broken pieces without the jagged edges that come from a life misspent and recovered from I'm just a blow hard telling someone what they should do.

And really can you trust someone with no scars? Somebody has never done anything wrong? Somebody with no regrets?

It's okay to be scarred, broken and battle-weary.  We're stronger in the places where we mend.

A tale of two egg rolls or food is better than sex

I'm moving this week to a half-way house in New Orleans. I'm back to work and settling in.  A new post soon but until then a favorite from an old blog...Enjoy!  - your working boy, Skip

  When I tell people food is better than sex they often say "Well you must be doing it wrong".  I say to them, you're the one doing it wrong, the food part.  A good meal lasts longer, often feels better and is as satisfying when you're alone as when you're with others.  

You can do it 6 or 7 times a day EVERY day.  In the car while driving, at work, really anywhere, anytime with anyone or alone.  An entire industry is in place to provide you with food in all its forms day or night.  If you're poor the government will give you money to buy food.  Churches offer free food.  In Vegas you can get sushi delivered on a naked woman.  Who's the star of that show?  The food!

Can I be honest with you?

When someone asks "Can I be honest with you?" What they are really saying is "Can I make a cruel, personal, probably unnecessary, and certainly non constructive, observation about you?"  

Rarely do people tell you something painful about themselves. 

 Honesty is most often directed outward.   It's hard to look at oneself honestly.... but here goes nothing.

I'm a 53 year old, overweight, white male, with high BP, high cholesterol, bad knees, grade 2 spondylolisthesis, who's had a heart attack and has a cardiac stent.  

I've been married and divorced 3 times.  I have a son, 14 whom I can't see by court order.

If we've met and I've told you the truth it's because I couldn't be bothered to think up a lie.

I'm a felon, although never convicted.  And I have broken the hearts of two  people with full awareness.

I've probably squandered all the romance this life will offer and will most likely die alone.

I am underemployed, under capitalized and woefully unprepared for my rapidly approaching old age. 

So far the forecast is grim, but wait, it gets worse.  

I suffer from major depression and life threatening addictions, accompanied by scattered narcissism and a 20% chance of mild mania.  

Recently I gave some very serious thought to ending this sad little life but... I trudge along.

I'm actively trying to get better.  I recently quit smoking and am enjoying abstinence from my two primary addictions food and cocaine.

I have a team of doctors, counselors, clinicians and social workers all working diligently with me on the many challenges that I face. Apparently it actually does take a village... but let's return to the honesty, still in progress...

Here are some hard truths...

The first 2/3 of my life are over, the best I can hope for is another 25 years.   And that is a very generous estimate.

And to continue in the vein of rigorous honesty... of those 25 years only the next 5-7 will be effective, potent and potentially productive.

It would be possible for me to enjoy relative peak performance capability over the next few years but then its downhill.

A degenerative downward spiral into irrelevance, incontinence, dementia and death.  And yes, I'm available for birthday parties.

I've blogged about attempts to go vegan, training for IronMan, making huge course corrections in my life but the real challenge is dealing with the reality of my situation.  Accepting who and what I am... right fucking now.  

Knowing and accepting my limitations and appreciating what's in front of me are key elements to success in the years to come. 

Oh but hey as long as we're falling out of the honesty tree... let's hit every branch on the way down.

I'm never going to make huge changes in my life. And even if I could stick to a change long enough for the benefits to kick in I'm running out of time.

I'm not going to be rich, I'm unlikely to ever be truly famous, (Although I do hold out the possibility for local notoriety).  I'll never have any real power or influence.  I'm not gonna be widely remembered.

Enough already with the negative truths.  Is there anything positive?  I had to call a few friends... use a Lifeline or two and here's what I got.

Despite my many faults and horrible sins too numerous to mention,  I am at my core a good man.

When I'm not in my cups, I care about others.  I'm a good father and a good friend. I believe this to be true despite of what I feel about myself.  I believe it because people I love and respect tell me it is true.  I'll have to take their word for it but their word is more trustworthy than mine.

Here's another shockingly hard truth to swallow... life is unfair.  Thank God it is  because I am the recipient of the most unfair thing of all being a white male.  I have won the genetic Lottery.

I'm a white male who woke up in America this morning. Still sadly and completely unfairly the best things to be.

And the hits keep coming because I'm also lucky enough to possess above average intelligence.  I have no criminal record (never convicted).  I am, even with the problems listed above, in pretty good shape physically.  I've been told I can be reasonably attractive and occasionally charming.  And those traits and circumstances taken together... oh my brothers and only friends...that is as good as a winning lottery ticket all day long. 

I like what I do at the moment, French Quarter tour guide and occasional stand up comic.  And while I have a great deal of work to do in my relationship with my son and his mother, ex wife #2, (I'm friendly with ex-wife #1 and in affectionate contact with #3), there is time for all my relationships to get better.  

I have people who care about me.  I have family support and smart friends.

  

The scales are not so far out of whack that they can be balanced in the time I have left.

On the immediate front, I have enough...Enough to survive for today, enough for tomorrow and a plan for next week. (philosophy courtesy of Dave Underwood).  It's all going to be OK.

That's what this blog is about...accepting my mortality.  Thinking about why I'm not dead yet, a minor miracle given all that's happened to me.

Learning from my many failures and giving appropriate weight to the small victories.

Why do this in public, for all to see....  I honestly don't know.   But typing it out and clicking "publish" is cathartic.  I feel better and see things clearer.  It helps me avoid the inexorable descension into the pit of despair.

The path to the pit is well worn and without resistance.   The pit of despair,  the call of the void,  staring into the abyss... Writing this forces me to look at the few positives in my situation. Which for me is definitely the path less traveled by ....and that, plus the Wellbutrin, Latuda and Topamax, has made all the difference. 

The next time someone asks you if they can be honest with you... tell them only if they're planning on complimenting you or divulging painful truths about themselves.

The guy pictured below has nothing to complain about, ever.   All his problems are of his own creation. He's one of the privileged.  He needs to shut the fuck up and focus on improving himself.

And that's the honest truth

I don't look 53, do I?

I've always depended on the kindness of strangers

 Tennessee Williams famous line from  Streetcar Named Desire is in my thinking somewhat of an oxymoron.

.

As previously discussed in a post standing-room-only I like words...  "kind" is one of them.   from the German word "kind" which means child... it's where we get the word kindergarten

Think about our use of the word "kind" it means two things 1:  generosity, gentle concern and care and 2: of a similar type.

Strangers can't give "kind"ness because it  requires consideration in kind.  To extend kindness is, in one way of thinking, to extend sameness.  I would only treat someone with generosity concern and care if they were of my kind.

Blanche Debris. Always depended on the strangeness of Kinder's

The ultimate "kind"ness of course would be to treat someone as I would treat myself... to love my neighbor as myself.

The problem with that is I don't love myself very much and in fact if I treated other people the way I've treated myself over the last few years... I would go to jail.

I am not very kind to myself at all.

Just the diet I force on myself could be considered a hate crime if I forced someone else to eat it.

If I were responsible for the diet of a population that couldn't complain.   People who would just have to eat whatever I gave them; children let's say or mentally challenged adults...  if word got out what I shoved into the pieholes of these helpless people... I would be the subject of a Tribunal at The Hague.

Like the time I ordered a large pizza from every place that would deliver to my address and over the next week that was all I ate.  Breakfast lunch and dinner pepperoni pizza.

This gastronomic atrocity of course included    repurposing the curved bits of crust dried up and left over in the boxes.   I steamed them wrapped in damp paper towels in the microwave and  transformed them into what I refer to as pizza ribs.  These reconstituted recycled bits of dough were then greedily consumed, smeared with cream cheese or dipped in reheated week old garlic dipping sauce...or both.  That was the week of the pizza orgy.

I think that's what my heart actually looks like...

You try explaining that it was delicious AND not even remotely the worst thing you've ever eaten.   While under oath before the oversight committee for the treatment of handicapped adults.

I have no specific unaided recollection...

But again I digress back to kindness...

I see myself as an outcast a lot of the time. Unworthy of generosity, care and concern.  I treat myself badly and distrust anyone who doesn't.

I discount the actions of those who extend kindness to me as being foolish.  Which of course allows me to take advantage of them without feeling any remorse.

I have lately been the recipient of some overt kindness and it is difficult to bear.   It's hard to feel worthy.   I've also been showing myself some kindness....eating better, exercising, meditating, reading for spiritual growth.

It's all uncomfortable.  I don't feel like the kind of person who deserves this kindness.

I'm much more comfortable when people hate me then when people love me.   When they see me as something to be shunned rather than someone to be embraced.   I prefer they see me as not of the same kind so no kindness is required.

That's me on the left

Another hard thing to swallow in all this is the concept that I'm not a bad person becoming good but a sick person becoming well.

If that's really the case then it can happen to anyone.   And while it is my responsibility to get well it is not my fault I got sick.

Maybe I can be of the same "kind" as people I admire.  The good people. Addiction and depression are not character judgments but rather a medical diagnosis.

The doctor didn't walk into the room pick up my chart and say "Mr. Guidry, we ran all the tests and it turns out you're a piece of shit"

The tests say I'm depressed that I self-medicate and the self medication left me addicted, and the addiction feeds into the depression and back and forth the round and round until here we are.

When you're sick you have a responsibility to fight to get well to rehabilitate.
Just like someone who's had a major brain injury has to fight to learn how to talk and how to walk again.

So I'm a sick person getting well not a bad person getting good.

 I deserve kindness because I'm a human being.  I'm not worthless. I'm actually a good guy.  I care about other people.  I deserve better than I've given myself.

So as I try my best to demonstrate self love and to minimize self-loathing self-doubt and self-abuse I will take solace in the fact that today I did nothing to put more shame on the pile.

I'll do something to make myself feel a little a little bit more worthy.  I will seeking out others for whom to do kindnesses.  Today I will be kind to myself.

I'm still going to have another pizza orgy someday cuz that was awesome.

Pizza Ribs, great with cream cheese