A bit fuzzy

I had no intention of doing this. I'm beginning, very slowly mind you, to chronicle things about me and my experiences. And what is below is very rough. I just figured it may begin to take flight if I threw it out there.

I’m on an airplane. I can see the sun rising from the East out my window. Business. I’m on this plane for business. A little over five years ago, I was in a holding cell at the Fountain Valley Police Department awaiting an offer I couldn’t refuse from the Narcotics Division. I had just 45 minutes prior been hauled away in a police cruiser. I was arrested, cuffed, and lead away from a restaurant I was paid to manage. My employees watched me through the windows. Some cried; some laughed. They all new why, and I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as big of a surprise to them as it was to me. I remember the arresting detective saying to me, “I have a son like you. He’s good-looking, smart, charming as Hell. That boy gets away with everything and he needs to get caught. And you needed to get caught today.” He was right. I did need to get caught. I needed to learn the definition of consequences. I needed to learn the value of ethics, morality, humility. Lessons every young man should have a grasp of. I needed to get caught, get help, and rebuild my life. And I needed to make one more attempt, (I had made many. Usually after watching Opra) to quit using methamphetamine. But not quite yet.




**tiny granules of illegal white powder and a white shag carpet

I had to be about the age of three. I was a happy child. I have many very early memories. I remember when I had just learned to swim. I’m told I swam before I walked. It’s interesting, once you are an experienced swimmer, it’s hard to imagine struggling to stay afloat. Beating your arms into the water. Kicking your tiny legs as you try to reach the other side. By the age of three I had experienced things that some grownups haven’t had the chance to. I need to get something out of the way right now. My parents always loved me. They wanted the best for me just like any other parent. My Dad has always supported me in everything I’ve done. He used rush out of work to be at my football practices. I remember playing “Joe” with him as a little boy. It was a make believe role playing game where I was always the new guy in town. I would roll in, and my Dad and Snoopy would be the town bullies. They would try to pick a fight with me, though I warned them more than once they were messing with the wrong guy. When push came to shove, we would end up fighting and I would always beat them into submission. At some point in the game, my Dad and Snoopy would inevitably find themselves in great peril. There would be some unfortunate turn of events throwing them overboard into shark infested waters, or trapped in building that was on fire. No one else would offer help because, as I said, they were the town bullies and were unwelcome residents. Out of the kindness in my heart, I would lend my skills to get them out of whatever life-threatening situation they were in. After the rescue, they would see the errors of their ways, thank me for helping them even though they had been so vile, turn over a new leaf and become model citizens. I’m not sure who Joe was. Maybe I was Joe. My point is, Dad would do that every night when he got home from work. I felt like he never missed a football practice. I have always known he did the very best he could. And my Mom, who unfortunately is no longer with us, approached supporting me much like my Dad. She was the taxi for my friends and I. She used to give me advice that amazed me. She loved me, supported me, protected me. The reason I say these things is, before getting into other stories that made me the person I am today, I wanted to make it clear that my parents were the best parents they could be. That said, many of the lessons I apply to my parenting today are lessons in what not to do as a parent.

So I had to be about the age of three. A year or so after I unknowingly smuggled cocaine through the Miami airport in my Snoopy because Mom tore off the head, stuffed cocaine into the body, and sewed the head back on. And I remember constructing something like a ladder. I may have just brought a chair into my parents’ room and placed it by the dresser. Regardless, I climbed up to the top of the dresser, opened the vile of coke I had seen my parents using earlier that evening, poured it out, lined it up, and tried to snort it. Fortunately for me, I blew out of my nose rather than snort in, so I blew the pile of coke onto the white shag carpet below. My parents woke up to see what I had done, obviously relieved I hadn’t ingested pure cocaine, but somewhat distraught because the drug was pretty hard to spot on a white shag carpet. I’m pretty sure as the story goes, they had their friends over later that day to snort the floor.