Why Yes...Yes I Am

I think it is time to out myself and no, I am not gay...not that there's anything wrong with that.   What I am is Asexual.   I took a few online quizzes and I am what they call "Grey -A" Asexual.   This means I don't mind doing things and do have a preference between sexes, but I just don't have that drive to "bring it all home."    I will play football, but have no desire to score a touchdown; I just enjoy the game.    I will play baseball, but am quite happy at first or second base.   I get home sometimes certainly, but that is to make the team happy and not due to an internal desire to score.   Nope, I am quite Asexual it seems.

When I have brought this subject up before, it has always  been dismissed as either a side-effect of medication I am on, a simple fact I have yet to meet that right person, or recently as an after-effect of my cancer treatments, but I must sadly say none of the above is correct.    When I look back on my life I clearly see that I am just not a sexual creature and that is fine really.

I got my first girlfriend when I was fifteen.   She picked me up at a skating rink (kids, ask your parents) I was at while pledging a high school frat.   I didn't get in the frat, but I did get a girl, so I think I won overall.    And it was fun; a lot of fun.   We did everything together and I was totally in head over heals love with this girl, but we didn't have sex.   We fooled around; we explored like kids do; we teased and played: we did all that, but I never broke the barrier.    I didn't want to.  It wasn't important to me.     Everyone assumed we were having sex like bunnies in heat because we did play around A LOT, but nope; no sex.   Not until I turned eighteen and felt I wanted to keep this girl even though I was leaving for college.   It was for her I did IT, not for me.    It was nice, but it wasn't as much fun as other things we did and I just wasn't moved to want to do it more.

I went to college and my lack of a sex drive kept me very faithful to my girl friend back home, but her discovery of a sex drive made it hard for her to do the same for me.   She was an attractive girl in her last year of high school and was finding herself popular.   While I blamed and cursed her at the time, I can understand in retrospect.    She broke up with me quite a few times during that freshman year and for some reason I kept taking her back.   Eventually this girl brought out my dark side and I will write about that another day.    Nothing fatal or illegal, so relax.

I went a few years without either a girl friend or casual sex after the break up.   I had sex with one girl who I did like because I thought that was what I was supposed to do, but it didn't work out.   Great friend, but no romance.  

I met another girl a year or so later and fell again head over heals in love and this time we were sexually active, but I just wasn't there mentally for that final act.   I think she sensed it.   We dated for years, but the sex slowly faded as I think I just couldn't keep faking interest in that.   I loved everything else and could do foreplay for hours, but when it came time to doing IT, I would mentally check out.

When that relationship ended, I think I used the hurt of it as an excuse to the world as to why I wasn't engaging with or looking for anyone, but I think inside I was kind of happy to have that pressure of sex lifted off of me.

So here we are some 25 years later and I am finally admitting I am Asexual.   I love women.  I really do.  I have fantasies and desires and such, but I don't want sex.   It doesn't interest me in the slightest.   I know there are others out there like me and I know I will eventually find another and live in asexual bliss, so I am not worried.   Ironically, a side-effect of the cancer treatments that would destroy most men is no big deal to me: I can't ejaculate.  TMI? Tough!    And yes I am hiding this in another paragraph fully aware it should be a new one, so deal with that too!    I think that news would destroy most men, but I take it as an asset and a shield to those who questioned why I wasn't sexually active: I couldn't be.   Me?  I am quite happy to be Asexual and can't imagine being any other way.

Session One

First one on one session today and wow!  Today I learned something that changed quite a lot: I learned the influence of the movie Roxanne and, by extension, Cyrano De Bergerac has had on my outlook on life.  And this was just one session....I should tell you the story now too and, by extension, tell future self.   And yes, I am digging "by extension" today so there!  =P

I am not going to recap the story of either Roxanne or Cyrano De Bergerac, so if you don't know them I guess  you have homework to do.   I will recap one scene that had an impact on me however- the bar scene from Roxanne.   This is from memory, so it may be wrong to the actual movie, but since it is memory, it is what has influenced me since.   I mean none of us are influenced by events, but rather how we remember them.

So there is a scene where CD (Steve Martin's character- get it?  CD= Cyrano De Bergerac) is in a bar and he overhears someone mocking his nose.  Annoyed by it, but eager to impress a girl he is attracted to, he engaged with the mocker intellectually rather than physically.  He berates the man for such a weak pun in the face of such an amazing target and bets he can do better.   He then proceeds to unleash a barrage of insults at himself thus removing all the power of the bully while, at the same time, humiliating him.    I had a big nose.   I was bullied and made fun of.  I couldn't fight for crap.  This scene was illuminating and inspiring: both for the better and for the worse.

For the better, I developed a quick wit and sense of humor.   I became confident in something and actually developed the ego that evolved into "Kanrei."  My humor made me friends and I was "that guy"for a while: the guy who said what you were thinking and didn't seem to fear saying it.  But myself was still my favorite target.  My humor was biting and sarcastic and I could feel my ego growing which is something I never had, so self depreciation was used to both keep myself in check and to I suppose make any other targets of my humor alright since I used myself most.    This worked out great and it is how, as I said, I developed my written voice known as "Kanrei," but I was developing bad habits that went unrealized until today's first session.

The funny thing is, I so over-analyze absolutely ever single aspect of my life that it amazes me I never put this together, but it seems 30 plus years of using oneself as a target for humor can alter how you see yourself.  When you look in the mirror, you stop seeing a person and start seeing a punchline.  You become your own bully and one you can't escape from.  

Now, before cancer, I could fight off this bully.  I had confidence and still had that youthful sense of immortality that gave me all the time in the world to overcome any insecurities I might still have, but cancer changed all that.  I was suddenly not only mortal, but in my last act and my insecurities were still growing daily and my humor fed them.   They grew strong as I grew weak and, as cancer stripped everything from me, those insecurities remained and took up the newly empty spaces.   Then came the bag...

I joked before I started down the "treatment road" that I could handle anything, but a colostomy bag.  It was fear number one.  I even feared having the bag more than dying from cancer.   Hell, I might have chosen death over the bag if I were alone in the world, but I had family and friends, so it was not a choice at all.

I remembered something my Rabbi said when I went to an Orthodox school in sixth grade.  He was teaching us about the Inquisition and asked us "who were more faithful: the Jews who converted to spare their lives or those who died rather than convert?"   Confidently, we all said those who died rather than convert because they stood true to their beliefs.  

"But they are dead," the Rabbi countered.   "G-d gave them a gift with life.  Life is filled with obstacles both great and small; and each is something you must find a way to stay true to yourself and overcome to preserve G-d's greatest gift.   It is not supposed to be easy."

He continued: "I believe" (He always started with that which is a habit I have to this day), "I believe the more faithful were those who said what was wanted to be heard and prayed as they always did in their minds.  G-d cares not what you call Him, but cares that you call Him.  If there is a gun to your head and it is 'pray to my god or die,' you pray to their god and worship your's. You then try to teach them your faith using their texts.   You teach, you inspire, and you live."

All of that is paraphrased from memory and probably nowhere near close to what he actually said, but it is what I got from it and it ties back to the bag: I had no choice but to get it.  This was my latest obstacle for me to overcome in my quest to honor G-d by preserving life.   This mental baggage is the newest obstacle, but not the last one and I will overcome this one  too.

It is obvious based on this plethora of verbiage that these one on one sessions are going to help a lot.  She listens and asked the right questions.  She stumped me more than once about how I feel about things and the fact I had no answer was quite informative.  

I think I am just tired of writing  right now.  CURSE YOU ADHD!

Setting a Record Straight For Myself

This is a post for me because my memory sucks and I don't want this to fade into a place where I rely on others to remember the ifs, ands, and whys.   It is of no importance to really anyone who doesn't blog where I used to and something  I am not sharing with that blog.   It is for me.

There was a story on that blog prior to Good Friday about a poor kidnapped priest and the report said ISIS was planning to crucify him on Good Friday.   Now I read a lot of news, A LOT OF NEWS, and I tend to research most stories for other sources before I believe or disbelieve anything, so I Googled this priest and didn't find his name mentioned on any real news sites...well, mainstream news sites; there are no real news sites, but that is for a different rant.   The sources for this story were all based on an eyewitness report that ISIS did it and somehow it was known what they would do, despite the only quote from an actual source saying "we don't know who did this or why or what is planned" which basically nullified the entire story, but that is not my rant and for the record, a week after Good Friday came and went, the Church says the priest is still alive and they are working on his release.

I read all of this and made a stupid mistake: I posted my thoughts on the subject.  I said it was assumption that was obviously pre-Easter propaganda to inspire fear before the holiday season and further encourage the idea that all of Islam is at war with Christianity.   I further said that eye witness testimony of a traumatized victim is rarely accurate and posted a link to a Scientific American study to back that up.   I said since there was no evidence of any aspect of the story of the priest, we should discount it.   My mind told me it was another "Jessica Lynch was anally raped" or "Pat Tillman  was killed by the Taliban in an heroic fight" type of story which it was.   I thought that would be the end of it or people would debate the Islam vs Christianity war aspect, but what came shocked me.

My friends, or people who I thought were my friends came at me with daggers out, context dismissed, goal posts moved, and spin at their command.   Somehow to them I had defended terrorism, found out they thought I usually took the side of the terrorists, denied every aspect of said story as a lie, and probably slapped their mothers and broke their favorite toys.   It was shocking.   Now I had began to grow tired of said site long before this happened and this is part of the reasoning.  What occurred around Good Friday falls into "straw that broke the camel's back" rather than "Earth-shattering life ending event".

See, this site used to be somewhat tolerable of other points of view in that those on your side rarely came after you when they disagreed with you; it was an unwritten rule of allies on a site of constant verbal warfare.   And when they did, it was done with respect and directed to the issues and not the person; ad hominem, strawmen, goal post relocation, etc  were the toys we used on the other side, not on our side, but this election changed all that.   Suddenly the place became insider warfare as all  alliances became null and void and it broke down to two camps with only one dividing issue: Sanders or Clinton.

It was ugly and I carry my share of the burden for what it became.  I earned my online enemies and they earned me and I think there is a modicum of respect between us regardless as we enjoy the duel more than a victory.   It is not these fights that drove me, but it is those fights that tired me.

Then the "neutral" moderator who we all knew took sides, but tried to hide it no longer hid it.  He came out for a camp and those in his camp were given freedom while others were under scrutiny.   It was subtle at first, but just like how a hair grows, it changed without notice until it was really changed.  He does his best to try and be as neutral as possible while still playing in the game, but one really can't be an honest and impartial referee when they also openly play for a team.   It is his playground and I don't begrudge him of this, but the realization further tired me.

I came into that Good Friday themed thread tired and battle weary while also dealing with the outside pressures of reality that really has nerve butting into my online life; I work hard to keep Kanrei separate from who I am.  Anyway, when I found myself under attack from those I thought were friends, I realized I was a ship without a port and it was time to get the fuck out of the storm.    I could count on those against me to be against me, but I saw I could not count on those not against me to be with me or at least leave it alone.   It was a realization that there was no truth there, no fairness, and no trust.

I learned a lot in my...14 years blogging there.  FOURTEEN YEARS!  WOW!  Anyway,  I have made some friends there whom are on Facebook and other means for me to still talk to, but the value of that site to me has run its course.   It is now a lot like being ready for high school, but wanting to still go to kindergarten: there is nothing to offer me there than fingerprinting and recess.

My Tattoo

It had been haunting me; bouncing about in the back of my head for years, but something I would never do.   I was afraid; both of the pain and disappointing other people, but it was something I wanted.   My friend Miguel said "maybe it is something you are not supposed to get," but I countered "because of my fear it is something I HAVE to get."   He was the only one in on my internal debate and didn't think I would go through with it.  Neither did I actually.

My first design idea was "7/30/13" which is the day I was diagnosed and my world changed.   I would place it on my upper right arm, inside flesh so it would be hidden by a sleeve and remain a tattoo just for me.   Some people I would propose hypothetical tattoo ideas to with that date would say it was a bad idea because it was a bad date.   Everyone assumed it was a negative thing and wondered why I wanted to commemorate that date given my life changed and not for the better from their perspective.  And while I think of that date as a second birthday, I decided not to get it just because I didn't want a lifetime of justifying the idea and trying to prove it was a good day in the long run.   So the tattoo was back on the backburner but the desire was still haunting me.

While in Captiva, I decided on a new placement for my mythical tattoo; my right wrist.  Still a place where it was just for me, but also a place where I could see it.   The coward in me also felt that if girls could get a tattoo there, so could I.   And I could hide it by my watch if need be.  All I needed now was a design.

My first design stuck with me and a date on my wrist was pretty much decided, but it still didn't sit right thanks to the advise of others.   I still didn't want a lifetime of justifying it to everyone, so I started thinking about what means something to me.  My faith is a guiding force and a defining aspect of how I see myself.   While not religious, I am spiritual and believe in many of the Jewish philosophies found in the texts.    And I have spent the last two years of my life fight for life.   2+2=4 and Jewish faith + life = a Chai.   Decision made, but courage still lacking.   Then I had another operation and ended up in Hell.

While sitting in my hospital room and feeling miserable, a show came on about only survivors of plane crashes and, since NOTHING was on, I watched it.  It was OK for the most part and not half as depressing as I feared it would be and it sealed the deal on my tattoo with something a survivor said.  She said "life had put scars on me and changed my body in way I never wanted, so I found the courage to do it in a way I did."    That was it: I was getting a tattoo, but when?

Months went by and the tattoo stayed on my brain.  I began watching those stupid tattooing shows on TV and reading about them.   My rule was "if a design stayed in my mind for 6 months that I wanted, then I could get it for a lifetime."   I went about 3 1/2 months before I found myself driving to the tattoo shop at lunch one Friday.    Without thinking, I walked in and inquired about getting a tattoo.   The artist on duty was busy, but they said they could call me when he was done if I left my number.  I had a way out and didn't take it.   I left my number and went back to work as lunch was over.   I could still not do it.

My cell phone rang around 1:30 and they were ready.  Again, without thinking I asked my co-workers if I could go run a quick errand and they didn't ask where to, so I went.   I paid before my tattoo was started, so my window of backing out ended quite quickly.   By 2:10 I was back at work with a bandage on my arm that nobody noticed.   Weird huh?

So that is the story of my tattoo done in a quick and probably incomplete fashion.   I might have more to say later.

Vacation Hangover

Oh my vacation hangover.  I feel in a haze today where nothing feels quite right.  Seven days of constant family and beach and dining and fun becomes habit fairly easily as it is perfection and Heaven on Earth, so when it ends it is almost like the end of a world.   Any problems and stresses from the week fades fairly quickly into the past as only the good times, the smiles, the laughs, and the joy remains in my mind and the possible myth of the vacation replaces the minute realities.

Were there stresses?  Most certainly there were.   One cannot spend a week with parents, siblings, in-laws, and children and remain free of hectic stresses and clashes of personalities.   It is inevitable and the reason why we don't live together year round, but for a week or two here and there, the personality differences take a back seat to a combined effort for a united great memory of something that we don't get to experience often enough: getting away with nothing but people you love, trust, and can be yourself around.

For me, the week was just what I needed, wanted, and dreamed of.  It was days of activity and nights of me alone on the beach or in a pool; both times staring at a sky of sparkling white dots forming images like some connect the dots designed by eons of planning.   City living really makes me forget how much I love seeing the stars.

So anyway, as I sit here back in my apartment I am left feeling out of place and wondering how to get back to last week.  It is weeks like last week that I beat 7/30/13 for and thanks to 7/30/13 I was able to participate in ways I never did before and my former hangups did not block my engaging in a great time.

Thank you family and thank you 7/30/13.

One story from my the wedding of my sister

Had an amazing weekend at my sister’s Wedding to her perfect man and I am happy to have him in our family, but that is not the purpose of this posting. This posting is to share a really funny moment I hope translates to text and isn't a “you had to be there moment.”

The wedding was held at a nature preserve and, as most nature preserves do, this one had a gift shop showcasing local artist to help raise money and this particular nature reserve was smart enough to keep it open on a night there was a weed ing reception with an open bar.

Anyone who knows me knows I am very uncomfortable in a social setting and this night I found myself staying with my big brother; I suppose finding security in his shadow. Anyway...I caught him looking at some of the art and debating buying something which, in my little brother state, had me looking at the art with a purchase in mind as well. I found myself standing before a scroll with a koi fish ying yang that was next to a larger copy of the same scroll (important to note there was a larger copy hanging).

As I was looking and pondering a purchase, my unle came up behind me and asked if I was buyi g something. After saying out loud “I think I I'll regret not buying it,” I bought the smaller version.

That was set up; now the story:

When not clinging to my big brother, I was spending time catching up with my two cousins whom I don't see very often. They have great senses of humor that, like mine, can often drift into “blue” territory. This time would be no different.

I sat at their table with my purchase in a bag. I don't use real names so I will call them Michelle and Liz.

Liz: what did you buy?
Me: A scroll with fish
Michelle: let’s see it
Liz: yeah, take it out
Me: Um...I know we’re Southern, but...

They caught it and it began: they were Office fans too and we began sharing our favorite “that’s what she said” moments and he innuendo kept escalating and escalating as did the laughter.

Finally, my mom walked up to the table and, while speaking of the scroll I bought, said “did you show it to your cousins yet, or should they see the big one in the hall?”

I stared at Michelle trying to refrain from saying anything...this was my MOTHER, but was such a fucking great set up. I saw my cousins had as many remarks flooding her mind as I did and they couldn't say anything because this was their aunt. We just sat silent and staring and holding the flood in.

As my mom turned to leave, we just lost it.

I hope this translated into a story and wasn't a moment.

Holy Phuck Batman!

I had not been to a Phish show since 2003, and that was my sole show since 1995, so to say I was out of the loop is an understatement. I went to the night before last night's show, but it was rather weak and I ended up leaving shortly after the start of the second set. It was not bad per say, but there was little energy and my friend was getting bored. He tried to pretend he wasn't for me, but I could tell and we left.

The experiances of the previous night left me not totally looking forward to the New Year's Eve show, but I had many MANY friends I had not seen in years coming down for it and I had to see them even if I was not motivated for the show. I had plans in my head to leave early again.

Before the show, I met up with my long lost friends at the Hyatt and, despite the decade or so since I last saw them, no time had moved between us; we picked up right where we ended. Jodi was still Jodi in every way she could be and Brett was Brett and I was 25 again.

Brett, being my high school friend, college room mate for years upon years, and oldest friend, naturally got my pre-show attention. It had been far too long since I last saw him; got to meet his fiance, and just reveled in how great he was doing. I actually got into the show a tad bit late as a result of hanging out with him, but it was showtime and I was hungry.

I entered the American Airlines Arena as AC/DC Bag was playing as the opener and I suddenly got very psyched. We had called this song being played tonight. The only thing I could hear that was any better as I approached my seat was "Brad" in Jodi's voice and can you believe I heard it? She was in the section right next to mine, so naturally I never saw my seat. This was our first show together since 1995! I got to meet and hang out with her, her husband (a really nice guy) and her friends, some of whom I actually knew from back in the day. A very deja vu night thus far, and it was only going to get stranger.

Phish, the reason for this gathering, was beyond on fire the entire night; barely slowing down or even stopping between songs. I found myself begging for a slow song just so I could stop dancing and sit down, but Phish clearly had other plans.

As Bathtub Gin turned into Punch You In the Eye (the song I wanted more than anything else) turned into the Moma Dance turned into a relentless Guyute, my legs just cried for mercy. Some relief was had during Swept Away and Lawnboy, but it was short lived as Julius closed the first set and Jodi's husband summed it up perfectly with "I can't believe we have two more of those to go." Holy fuck did we.

The Second Set began fooling me into thinking there might be some rest before the New Year kicked in as Rock and Roll was played, but Simple really showed that to be a false hope and Theme from the Bottom sealed the deal. Ghost into a surprising NO2 and Suzie Greenberg closed the last break to be had of 2009.

Party Time opened the third set. A song I never heard before, but it worked as a perfect lead up to the dropping of the disco ball to bring in 2010. Now my favorite Phish show is the NYE show from 1995 because of a rocking Down with Disease that followed Auld Lang Syne and I cannot hear one without hearing the other, so I was praying we would get one and the Phish gods were listening.

Confusion overtook the Miami....erm, American Airlines Arena as a giant cannon was brought onto the stage and Fishman, the drummer, was loaded into the disco ball which was then loaded into the cannon and fired towards a giant X.


It never made it and there was a feeble attempt to find his remains in the audience before "Sarah" answered Trey's cry of "does anyone know how to play drums" and finished the set with an amazing Fluffhead, Joy, Squirming Coil and You Enjoy Myself.

It was during Joy that I took my leave of Jodi and her husband and began my trek back home. I heard Coil start as I was leaving the Arena and knew You Enjoy Myself was all that was left. While I enjoy that song on tape, you can't fast forward through those annoying parts when live and they have a nasty habit of making that song really annoying sometimes.

It was an amazing show with amazing friends who proved that old thought that true friends remain true friends regardless of time spent unseen. I love them so. 2010 is looking good so far.

Trapped in a Flashback

I got carded today! No, seriously, I got carded today. I needed soda (no, I didn't' get carded for soda, can I finish) and I went to the gas station and an urge struck me- I wanted a Black and Mild cigar today. NO, I don't light them, I just like the taste of the air filtered through it. And no, I am not worried that I may have the desire to light one just once and thus start smoking again because I have been doing this for over two years, since I started not smoking, and I have only lit one once and got sick from it, so I am not really a smoker anymore it seems. Anything else, or may I continue?

SO I asked for a single Black and Mild and the lady asked me for ID; I began cracking up. It appeared she was not in on the joke by the look she gave me. It then appeared there was no joke not be in on; she really wanted to see my ID. I suddenly had a flashback to Boulder...

I had no car when I lived in Boulder, so it was not uncommon for me to walk about without my ID. I had been asked for it a few times in Boulder, sometimes with it, and other times without, and I found that it was easier to be without ID than it was to show a Florida ID in Colorado. I certainly didn't look 18 with my long hair, goat-tee, red blood shot eyes...Anywho

One day, it was a Sunday I believe, I found myself without cigarettes and intoxicants for the day- a bad way to find one's self in Boulder, and I walked to the corner store to acquire my daily supply of both, sans ID. It being a real store, my intoxicant of choice would be a local micro-brew and my cigarettes would be the cheapest being sold, for I was just a simple poor hippie wannabe- a home away from being homeless really.

As I approached the checkout line, I realized my lack of ID and thought it may be a problem, this being a "real" store, you know, nationwide chain instead of a Ma and Pa local. I was too lazy or stoned or both or neither to bother walking all the block back to my room and then back the entire block to the store just for ID I probably won't need, so I waited in line for my turn.

"Next" was my que...I was on.

"Hi,"I said as nonchalantly as possible while placing my beer directly between the two of us, "this and a pack of cigarettes please."

"Can I see some ID please?" There wasn't even a moment's hesitation! No pause, no thought, just rote recitation.

"I, um, left it at home."

"OK then," the clerk said firmly, "that will be seven dollars, forty-eight cents."

"Um," I was confused as to what she was ringing up, "the cigarettes are seven dollars?" I took a wild guess as cigarettes had the lower age requirement for purchase.

"No," she responded, "but the beer is. You have no ID."

"What?" I was really confused now, bordering on bewilderment with the next stop total discombobulation. "Let me get this straight, you can tell I am over 21 so the beer is OK, but I may not be over 18 so I get no cigarettes?"

"No," she said calmly, rehearsed, almost as if she had been through this exact scene 100 times before, "I can tell you are over 25, the age you must look to buy beer without an ID, but I can't tell if you are over 30, the age you must be to buy cigarettes without it."

How could I argue with that? She could easily have sold me the cigarettes without problem, but I guess she was doing her part to protest what, to her, was a stupid requirement. It worked I suppose. Here I am, 15 years later, writing about it, so it made an impact on me.

I was back at the chain store in the present with a clerk waiting for my ID. I took it out and gave her the type of smile you give a child when they ask a cute, yet stupid question, and said "here, I'm almost 40."

She suddenly got the joke.

9-11

Time to blog finds me on a day where my sense of humor is best kept away so I am simply going to take a moment to remember and mourn. The world changed on this day seven years ago. The world changed before that date and it will change many more times, but it had not been changed so much so quickly and for the worse in a very long time and let us pray it will be a very long time before the next time.

Chicken Pizza

My mother mentioned in her post yesterday that she would not lie to me, except for the veal incident. Many of you (unless you were spying on me in my youth) have no idea what the “Veal Incident” is exactly and missed that reference so now it is my pleasure to bring you the “Veal Incident Story.”

It was probably 1983 or 84 or 82 or sometime before 1985. I know it was before 1985 because that was the year I left Miami to live with my father for two years and my mom had stopped her Gourmet craze by that point and it was right in the middle of her Gourmet craze that the “Veal Incident” took place. This would mean we are talking about 1982 almost for certain.

Regardless of the year, my mother was going through a Gourmet craze where she was taking weekly cooking classes and then subjecting her family to the homework. It was the common craze around that time as microwaves were just starting to take over kitchens and mothers everywhere suddenly worried about the diminishing quality of food. Most days it was quite good actually. It was only on the rare occasion that my mom had to resort to “this is not a restaurant” to get me to eat that night’s creation.

One night I came to the dinner table to see spaghetti with a garlic butter sauce and, next to it, some brown round thing with marinara sauce and melted cheese on top of it. My eyebrow cocked immediately as I looked at this bizarre concoction my mother came up with and, seeing my hesitation, she said “eat it, its chicken pizza. You like pizza.” My mom doesn’t lie, so I began eating my chicken pizza and found myself a really big fan of chicken pizza.

Once I told my mom how much I enjoyed it I discovered my mom lied to me because it was not chicken pizza, it was veal parmesan. She knew I would never taste something called “veal” and therefore tricked me into trying it.

Years came to pass and my mother would tell me many more things, some of which I just could not believe. “Have I ever lied to you,” she would often ask. All I needed were two words “chicken pizza” and she would say, “yes, but I am telling you the truth this time, I promise.”

And now you know the “veal incident.” To her credit, the year is now 2008 and that is still the only instance I can think of where my mother lied to me.

I must admit to eating veal every now and then. I quit it for ten years and, during my time not eating it, I found that the production increased and the price went down. All this meant was that my protesting was keeping me from eating something that I liked and did nothing to slow the slaughter down.

A Big Gap (in Memory and my Gum)

Friday, I awoke before my alarm as usual, except my alarm was set thirty minutes earlier than normal. My mother was coming to pick me up for my surgery at 9:45 and I had to be awake and ready to go by then. I don't think my internal alarm gets the credit for this one though; my nerves were pretty much constantly waking me up every hour on the hour all night. It was just random chance that I happened to wake up one minute before the alarm rang out to greet another brand new day.

Aside from the toothpaste, I had not had anything to eat since 11:30 the night before. This basically meant that, although my nerves were desperately trying to throw something up, there was nothing in my stomach for them to throw. This did not stop my mouth from preparing itself for the non-vomit to not come; nor did it stop my throat from trying to work up what was not coming. It was a rather uncomfortable feeling that was only relieved by my mother having the Grateful Dead station on her radio and a very good “Wharf Rat” playing when she arrived at my house.

In my sleepy state it was easy to lose myself in the music. I also found myself suddenly remembering that the “thingie” I was going to have removed had disappeared. There was, in my mind, now a better than decent chance that no surgery would be needed. This, with the previously mentioned “Wharf Rat” still playing, had completely put my sleepy head at ease. I was going to have a three day weekend without the bother of pain.

Upon arriving at the doctor's office, I happily bounced like a Tigger into the doctor's office and said “Hi, I'm Brad and I'm here to have an operation on something I think has gone away.” I was all smiles.

Maybe my mother said that come to think of it...I was still basically asleep, but, either way, the idea that we may not need to operate was conveyed by one of us and we were rather quickly ushered into the room I had my initial exam in two months ago.

“The doctor will be in to see you in a moment” a pleasant nurse said as she closed the door behind her.

The doctor was soon in the room with my mother and me, too soon if you ask me, and was just as quickly looking in my mouth and happily saying “no, I still see plenty there for me to get at.”

Swing and a miss. Heart slowly speeding up. Sweat glands clocking in to work.

I was escorted by a new nurse into a new room and I found myself mentally in some Hostel/Disney hybrid. The room was bright, but there, in the center of this room was the chair from the films; the torture chair that innocent people have squirmed and suffered in. And next to it, the small table of shiny sharp objects used to cause said squirming and suffering. The nurse was even dressed in the same garments as the torturers in Hostel as well; only instead of black leather surgical garbs, she had happy teddy bears and and smiling flowers. It was all still very creepy and surreal, or I need to watch a lot less horror movies.

The nurse soon places a thermometer to take my temperature before the surgery begins and I see this as my last chance to stop the operation from happening. If I can raise my body temperature then they can't operate on me until I feel better. My nose had been stuffy all week, so it is possible that my nausea was actually due to an actual illness instead of my wimp-factor when it comes to potential pain. There was still hope!

I thought of every kitchen I ever worked in. I thought of physical education classes in the middle of the hot Florida afternoons I suffered through in my youth. I thought of steam engines, fever, disease, deserts, the sun. I imagined myself a marshmallow slowly becoming engulfed by the open flame it sits above. Any and everything that was hot, I imagined to absolutely no gain what so ever. My temperature was normal and the surgery was going forward as planned yet again.

Swing and a miss. No point in resisting any longer. Eyes closed and mind wandering far, far away. Needle just felt in left arm...

The next thing I know, I am waking up at my parent's house, in the guest bedroom. I am in a bathrobe and shorts and under the sheets of the bed. In the background, I hear Brian Williams and NBC Evening News. Next to my head is a tiny heart-shaped bloodstain on what I think is an expensive pillow; the label had a first and last name. It was really kind of cool though to be honest.

I have a small hole in my gum that goes all the way through. My cheek gets sucked in a bit when I swallow for now until I relearn a new way. To imagine what it feels like, remember losing a tooth as a child and that is the almost the same feeling, except I have not lost any teeth; knock on wood.

I never used any of the pain killers I was prescribed either. Damn doctor did all this great work in such an amazing way that I feel no pain at all. I can't find a good excuse to take them. Curses!

Uninvited Guests at a Wedding

It was a dark night as nights usually are; otherwise we would call them “days.” The moon was almost perfectly hidden by the pitch-blackness save for a single sliver of light. There were a few stars, but not that many to speak of. It was, for all intent and purpose, a beautiful New Orleans night.

The wedding we were attending was held at a plantation that was built around 1840. It sprawled across untold acres and the house sat in the dead center of the estate. It was a three story colonial house complete with pillars addressing the porches of both the front and the back doors. The room connecting the two doors held only a staircase and two doors to the adjoining rooms; one on each side of the hall.

The wedding was held in the backyard of the house, but the house was open for us to enter and explore save for the third floor that was roped off and completely dark. An antique Grandfather clock was the only thing that was visible in the shadows. A single employee in period dress was the only person on the second floor, but little Jayden insisted that something was up there and ran up the first staircase with purpose.

Jayden is now my niece I suppose since my brother married her mother’s sister although most people think she is my daughter based on how she acts around me. She lights up when she sees me and insists I carry her most anywhere we go. I get complimented on my child quite a bit when she and I are together and I actually feel a fatherly need to protect her. When I have a child, I hope to have one just like her so, when I saw she was going upstairs alone I felt the need to go with her and make sure she would be OK.

As I reached the top step I saw little Jayden clinging to the dress of the plantation employee in period clothing and staring at the third floor. I heard her ask “are they nice” as I approached the two of them.

“Are who nice?” asked the young lady.

“Those people” Jayden answered. “The people upstairs.”

The young lady and I both immediately thought some wedding guests had wandered past the rope barricading the staircase, but neither of us saw anything at all.
“What people Jayden?” I asked.

“Those people,” and she pointed towards the Grandfather clock with a look of frustration on her face. She could not believe we could not see about whom she was talking. She started to think we were teasing her. “The people upstairs” she said to clarify to us.

I looked again and there was nothing there, but the young lady had become ghostly herself.

“I have heard people say this place was haunted.”

“When I was in New Orleans last year, “I began to tell the lady, “Jayden saw someone on a street corner and no one else did. She was intrigued by a guy with a beard in a grey suit.”

“OK, you are freaking me out. Tell me you are joking!”

“NO, I am serious. We kept looking and she kept pointing, but there was no one there. I am a bit freaked out right now as well to be honest.”

By this time, Jayden’s mother had wandered upstairs wondering where her daughter had gone and saw the scene. When I told her what Jayden had said she replied with “again?”

The employee was now almost transparent and was stuck to the mother and me as we walked down the stairs. When we left two hours, later the poor girl was still freaked out and so was the mother as I told her more of the details. She stopped me mid-sentence with the words “I don’t want to talk about this anymore” and waved my words off.

I don’t believe in ghosts and never have, but I saw the look on this child’s face and she was not joking either time. She really did see something and at the plantation was so convinced that she was almost demanding to be taken upstairs because she wanted to “meet those people.” It seriously is causing me to now question what I always thought was reality. Just because I do not believe and cannot see does not mean something is not there.


There is something in New Orleans, some “vibe” that I cannot put my finger on. Maybe it was the cold showers I kept taking (again my hotel had no hot water when I bathed) or maybe it is the power of suggestion, but there is something working under the radar in that town and I maybe a believer now. I don’t really know what I believe anymore.

The Detention: Charlotte Part Four

The movies and television shows we watch definitely affect how we perceive reality. At least a reality we have yet to experience. We cannot fully blame ourselves for the things we think of when we hear about jail simply because most of us have never experienced it firsthand. Some of the clichés are real and truly scary, but others are myth and urban legend. I was about to discover which was which and was rather uneager for the experience.

First is this: every description of the cell door closing for the first time you have ever read or heard described are all one-hundred percent wrong. It resonates into the marrow of your bones and shatters any confidence you felt the need to fake. Your entire room suddenly shrinks to the size of a college dorm room and you are trapped with your new roommates. There is not even a wall around the toilet for privacy; in fact, there is no more privacy at all.

The next cliché I encountered was the round table discussion of each person’s crimes. I always thought of it as simply a quick narrative device used by poor authors, but it really does happen. We gathered in a circle with some of us on beds and some on the floor sitting Indian-style. There was a hushed tone to the voices. The stories told me that each of twelve men I shared a room with were real criminals. There was pride in their voices as they shared their charges with each other, almost like a group of anglers telling the tales of “the one that got away.”

“They got me for holding up a store.”

“I was drunk and got into a fight.”

“Assault and battery.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Got that one a few times.

“I was firing a gun.”

Then it was my turn. I was embarrassed for having something so boring to tell. Would they just think I was an idiot for getting caught doing something so minor? Should I make something up since I might be in here for a while?

I choose to tell the truth. I suck at lying and always have. It is not that I am not convincing when I lie, but rather that I have a horrible memory for the lies I tell. My mother learned early on in my life to ask me something twice if you do not believe the first answer. If you get the same answer the second time then it is true: works every time.

I looked down into my knees as I sat on the floor. I was no longer sitting Indian-style, but an upright fetal position as I quietly uttered, “I got busted smoking pot at a Dead show.”

“And?”

“And that’s it.”

The mood in the room suddenly changed. They broke out in laughter. They shook my hand. They felt bad for me being in the cell with them. They were all real criminals and knew I had no business in that cell with them. It was very comforting in a weird surreal way. Mr. “I Fired a Gun” even paid a janitor twenty-five cents to give a cigarette to me. It was menthol and I hate menthols, but that was the best damn cigarette I ever had in my life.

After an hour or so more of talking and laughing we all decided to go to sleep. The only spot left for me to lie down was next to the toilet, between the seat and the wall. It was a very unsettling place to lie down, but there really were no other options left. I kept reminding myself that my friends were in the lobby and it would all be over any second.

A few hours later, the solid metal door opened and my name called. I slowly dislodged myself from between the toilet and the wall and said “here” as if I was answering roll call in school. The officer told me I was going home. I was stunned. Was this a trick? Were they pissed that my cellmates liked me instead of killed me? Oh yea, my friends: my bail was finally paid.

I reached the lobby after picking up my possessions to very surprised friends. It seems they had not paid any bail as of yet. They had been waiting eight hours for me to be “processed” so they could pay they bail. I was simply being released. The court date was set for three days and I was on my own until then.

I would lie if I said the thought of running never crossed my mind. It crisscrossed my mind to be honest, but I could not do it. Instead, I did the harder thing to do- I called my parents for the cliché “hello mom, I’m in jail” phone call.

At first, my mom yelled. Then she decided to yell a little more for a change of pace. After talking to my step-dad, she called me back at the payphone laughing for some odd reason. She agreed to pay for a motel for the next three days and loan us money to buy some court clothes. Any further yelling would wait until I was safely back in Florida. Until then I had enough stress I guess.

That first night in the motel, we watched the news. I learned about the massive drug bust at the Dead show the previous day. I was part of 245 people busted for possession of drugs on a single day, which appears to have been a record at the time.

The next story on the news was about the Jamaican drug gangs trying to move into Charlotte’s underworld and the war they were having with the local gangs. They talked about the top hit man for the Jamaican cartel being in custody and there on my television was Mr. “I Fired a Gun.”

I jumped up in the bed pointing and screaming to my friends that I was a cell with that guy! That guy was really cool! He bought me a cigarette! He never told me he fired that gun at someone; an important detail I would tend to think, but a nice guy just the same.

We showed up for court three days later with our bargain Target wardrobes and paperwork in hand. It looked like about 130 people were in the lobby outside the courtroom. It was eerie being in a room filled with 130 people and complete and total silence.

The bailiff came out into the lobby, collected all 130 documents, and returned into the courtroom. My friend who made bail and I handed ours to him as I smiled, trying to be friendly as best I could. He never said a word to any of us and looked at very few of us. I had no idea what was going on. No movie had ever prepared me for anything like this.

After ten minutes, the bailiff came back out into the lobby and began to read out names from the documents he collected. As we heard our names, we were to step forward and collect our document. Nothing more explained to us at the time.

My name was the first out of my little circle of nervous strangers to be called. I slowly walked up, took my pink document in my trembling hand, and noticed that it now had the most magical word stamped across where the charge was. It simply said, “Dismissed.”

The Cell: Charlotte Part Three

With now two friends out of custody, I felt a tad bit more at ease. I knew it would now only be a matter of time before I was bailed out. Fifty dollars was not really all that much and I knew our friend who avoided arrest had at least that much on him. I realize there were still two of us in custody at that time, but my other friend had much more serious problems at hand and would not be free anytime soon. He was in possession of those more serious drugs they were searching for. His bail was much, much more.

I hope no one reading this has undergone the procedure of going from freeman to state property. It is very degrading and designed to remove any sense of self you may have once had. Especially when you keep reminding yourself that your freedom is only fifty dollars away. Makes you feel cheap for having such a low cost and worthless for not being able to pay it.

I sat in a row of chairs waiting for my name to be called by the booking officer. I never felt quite so alone and hopeless in my life. My friend was sitting next to me, but he had larger problems to deal with. We were no good to each other at that moment. We were in full selfish self-preservation mode. Our only hopes were that our free friends were not in that mode yet. They were all we had.

“Brad.” I gulped. It was my turn. No last minute reprise was coming. It was right then and there the full seriousness of it all hit me, but I was still rather stoned at the same time. It kept the emotion of the drama unfolding a good distance from my mind. I was watching a first-person prison documentary. I knew this guy was fucked, but could not settle on the fact that the guy was me.

“Remove all your possessions and place them on the table.”

I removed my wallet and my earrings and placed them on the table. My cigarettes and lighter were next. I could not remove my “Guatemalan Friendship Bracelets” because they were tied tightly around my wrists, so they were cut off. My unused ticket for the show was placed on the table next.

“I was never read my rights.” My mind was scrabbling for something to attach a shred of hope to. Maybe they would realize this and say they were sorry and let me go.

“So?”

“So I was never read my rights.”

“First- asking to be read your rights tells us you know your rights and second- you were caught red-handed. We don’t have to read you your rights if we catch you in the act.”

That did not sound right at all to me. I took a mental note of that conversation feeling that I was going to need a lawyer and that might be something. It always means something on television.

The last item I had to remove was my necklace. I wear two charms on it as the two signs of my faith and have since ninth grade. I wear a Jewish star my parents bought me in Israel and a peace symbol my uncle had made for me in Alaska. I have lost numerous personal items in my life, but have managed to hold onto both of these for more than half my life.

“Wot’s that?” the officer collecting my personal effects asked of my pendants.

“It’s a Jewish star,” I politely answered back, confused by his question.

“You Jewish?” he asked. “I ain’t never seen no Jew before.”

I heard the Deliverance banjos in my head. I had never felt fear quite like I did at that moment.

I must state here and now that most writers make up dialogue, even in true stories. A person cannot remember ever word spoken, but I assure you my readers that those very words are the words spoken by the cop that day. I have never forgotten them and my hands shake now as I type this remembering that fear.

My memory shuts down after that for a short time. I think a doctor would call it “shock.” I had no idea what was to come. I only knew I was in the deep South in the custody of people who “never seen no Jew before.” Who knows what exactly they believed about me or what would happen to me. I had seen too many movies. I was terrified.

My only comfort was the blue Honda Accord that I saw from the bus window pulling into the parking lot of the county jail we arrived. My friends had gotten to the station at the same time I did. Freedom was moments away!

I was shackled to some short guy with a moustache and my friend who was still arrested was nowhere to be seen. I assumed they had taken him to a different jail since he was facing more serious charges.

It is impossible to walk when shackled to another person. Imagine taking part in a three-legged race, only instead of twine your ankles are held together by unforgiving steel. I take long strides when I walk. The short guy to my left tried his best, but his legs just could not keep up. It was the most painful thirty paces of our lives until we reached holding cell one.

Holding Cell 1 was not its name; it was just where we were held prior to booking part two, which involved the mug shots and cell assignment. It was a large room with two windows for walls, a bench and a door. Lots of graffiti covered the walls: "what became of life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness" is the one that stands out in my mind.

I was sobering up and started wondering what was taking my friends so long to pay that bail. I was about to be placed in a cell any moment now. If they were going to get me out, now would be a great time. I glanced around and saw most of the cells were open barred. They held four people in each with four beds.

They had arrested 245 of us that day and it looked like they were keeping the Hippies together. Thank G-d for small favors. A few hours in a cell with fellow Deadheads did not seem like the worst thing in the world.

When my name was called for my cell assignment, I got something very different from every other Hippie that day. I did not get the open barred cell. I did not get three cellmates. I got led down a hall into a room with a solid metal door. Inside I found myself in a room with a toilet, four beds, and twelve black guys. I would say this new fear rivaled the previous fear, but I had a feeling one was due to the other. I cannot say for certain, but I really do still think it was.

TO BE CONCLUDED…

The Booking: Charlotte Part Two

Mr. Sunshine Daydream had left me and I had a new officer escort now. This man was in a much meaner mood than Mr. Sunshine Daydream was. He was all business and I think there to intimidate us as much as possible. He was very good at his job.

Just outside the police barricade there was a man supporting a gigantic crucifix where all us prisoners could see. Upon the cross were the words “those who follow the Dead follow them straight to Hell.” It was a fitting sign. Normally I would have had a few words for the fellow, but in my current position, I would only serve to prove his point. It is hard to take the moral high ground when being detained.

I was seated at a long picnic style table in a specially roped off part of the Charlotte Coliseum’s parking lot. They had a few trailers set up outside the main gate so all those lucky enough to have avoided arrest could look at us as they entered. At least I had decent eye-candy while I was officially booked and charged.

Directly across from me was a beautiful girl, about 20 years old with long dark blonde hair and amazing green eyes. She wore no make-up and looked like she stepped out of the 70’s. I had a hard time concentrating on the cop during my booking. I remember laughing internally as she slipped her hand out from the plexi-cuffs to scratch her nose every time her officer escort looked down to write what she said. Curiosity made me check and I found I could slip out of mine rather easily as well, but chose not to risk showing it off. They would smirk at the cute girl playing around, but they would jump on the guy with free hands. To them I was a six-foot-three druggie and nothing more. I would become more later on, but as of now, I was just a druggie to them.

“Name?”

“Brad.”

“Where are you from?”

“Miami originally, but I came here from Tampa.”

“Florida?”

“Yea.”

“You drove here from Florida to get arrested? Seems stupid to me.” The guy was a smart ass.

“No, I drove here to see a concert. Getting arrested was just a bonus.” So was I.

I glanced down at the paper work he was filling out on me and noticed some very scary words next to “offense” on the form. He had written “possession of less than an ounce and a half.” I roll big joints. I plead guilty to that, but there is no way I had a 42-gram joint in my shoe. It is physically impossible besides impractical. At the least I would have two 21-gram joints.

“I had a joint,” I said almost forgetting to pretend to remain cuffed. My finger really wanted to point out his mistake, but I went for words instead.

“And?”

“And you are charging me with less than an ounce and a half. I had nowhere near that much. I don’t want to be charged for more than I had.”

“That is the least we can charge you with.”

“How is the judge going to know I only had a joint then?”

“He will.”

“How? You wrote an ounce and a half. That is all they are going to know then.”

A dirty look from officer Unfriendly quickly ended my debate with the man. I was high and I am stupid, but I was neither that high nor that stupid.

Two of my three friends were arrested along with me. The third friend, the guy who was holding the pot avoided the arrest by not being in the mood to smoke when the rest of us were. While I looked a cop in the eye during my hitting off a pipe, he was resting on the hood of the car watching the sky go by. Since he was not smoking, the cops did not arrest him. I kept reminding myself that he was out so I was fine. We just needed to get word to him.

The Charlotte police were very well prepared for the shows. I was personally impressed with their organization. After being booked, we were shackled to one another and loaded into unmarked white vans. Those vans drove us around to the back of the coliseum where we were escorted into a large room backstage. At this point, the officers told us they were going to remove our plexi-cuffs.

There is a look of total shock mixed with fear that a person gets in their eyes when their secure delusion is shattered. This was the look the ten cops had on their faces as forty-five men they thought they bound all held up their free hands and offered the still closed plexi-cuffs. If there were a studio audience, there would have been a deafening roar of laughter and applause. We all snickered and giggled a bit, but really were trying our best to be respectful. Fear does that to you.

The bail was fifty dollars as set by a judge they even had on the premises. We pooled our money and managed to have enough to bail one of us out. Since I had no idea how to drive stick, I was not even considered. No matter what, it appeared I was going to jail for a little while and there was nothing I could do about it.

TO BE CONTINUED…

The Arrest: Charlotte Part One

I made eye contact with him. It is so clear in my head that it could almost have happened yesterday instead of 16 years ago. I was sitting in the front seat of my friend’s car, taking a hit off the pipe and I glanced up and looked the guy right in his eyes. He was looking right at me as well. The image burned into my mind along with every second of the next twenty-four hours. I must back up just a bit though for any of this to make sense to you.

In my younger days, the thought of driving from Tampa to Charlotte was really nothing at all; to see the Grateful Dead even less of a thought, and to see them around my birthday was a no-brainer. This was the case in the summer of 1991 when a few friends joined me on a trip to Charlotte, North Carolina for a two-day span of shows. It was going to be great (no pun intended). To be honest it was actually the week before my birthday, but that is a minor detail.

The drive up was uneventful to the point of it not even occupying a single brain cell in my head. I honestly have no memory of the drive to Charlotte or back to Tampa. I guess it was just filler and endless passing tress: possibly a lot of smoke as well which would help explain the memory gap.

The first thing that does pop to my head is the foreshadowing “Mama Tried” from the first night. It’s the only thing that pops into my head from that first night actually. I really should have paid attention because it was definitely a sign of what was to come. I mean some of the lyrics are “turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole” after all. It was my twenty-first birthday the following week. I don’t think my guardian angel could have made things any clearer for me. What was I on exactly?

The second night we got to the parking lot early. For those who have never been to a Dead show, the parking lot scene before the show is most of the lure for most people. It is where the community gathers and mingles and grows. It is a large part of what made the shows so special. The food, the drinks, and the music- it all created the scene forever embedded in so many of our minds. A small portable community modeled on how we all wish our neighborhoods could be.

After a few hours of wandering about and meeting fellow Deadheads, we all slowly made our way back to the Honda for our pre-concert celebrations. I sat in the front passenger seat with my feet up on the dashboard. We had all four doors open, the windows down, and a really great copy of the ’77 Cornell University show playing rather loudly as we passed a pipe around the car. It was perfection until…

I actually made eye contact with him as he spotted us in the smog of the Honda. He had on the generic “teddy bears sitting in a VW bus with the words ‘Sunshine Daydream’ written above it” tye-dyed tee shirt. I remember thinking that guy was such an obvious poser. He just oozed like some local who heard there were drugs at a Dead show and came looking; the type of guy who gave the scene such a bad reputation. Who could imagine that I was partially right?

“Is that any good?” is the next thing I remember hearing. It came from Mr. Sunshine Daydream as he and a friend leaned into the driver’s side window.

“Yea,” one of us managed to slowly utter from deep within our haze, “You want some?”

“Sure,” he said very confidently as a badge magically appeared in his hand. “We’ll take it all. Get out of the car.”

In my head I heard “turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole and that leaves no one but me to blame cause mama tried.”

I gave up immediately the joint I had stashed in my shoe that I was planning to sneak into the show later. We assured him it was all we had and, after a search of the car, he believed us. He said if we promised not to run he would not handcuff us and “embarrass us in front of our friends.” I was really high and had no desire to walk let alone run so off we went handcuff free to a booking station they had set up in the parking lot.

On our way there I asked Mr. Sunshine Daydream if I could possibly give my ticket away since I was obviously going to miss the show. What can I say, I was really high and that was honestly my first concern. He told me to hold on to it because I had such a small amount there was no way I would miss the show. He said they were looking for harder drugs and all I had was pot. I felt really relaxed at that moment and stayed relaxed until I sat down to be booked and immediately had my hands plexi-cuffed behind my back. Slowly it was getting real.

TO BE CONTINUED...