In Which I Discuss Cycling As A Form of Exorcise

Today is the 40th annual Chilly Hilly bicycle race that is held on Bainbridge Island. Thousands of cyclists will ride the 33 mile race around the island. 2,675 feet of climbing. Unknown acres of spandex.

When I was a boy I rode in the race with my dad once or twice. One year me, my friend Evan and his younger brothers set up a lemonade/coffee stand and made a killing! These days I usually mark the occasion by forgetting to leave my house earlier than usual and then driving slowly behind all the bicyclists cursing and boiling with frustration. I have a love-hate relationship with cyclists. I fully support people getting exercise and certainly applaud alternative modes of transportation but a seeing a cyclist a half-mile down the road can be a harbinger of a coming resentment.

Last Summer I quit smoking. I recall a day about two weeks into quitting when I was driving into town and a cyclist who was in front of me flashed his left palm at me, cut across a lane and ran a stop sign making a left hand turn. I had to slam on my breaks to avoid hitting him. At first I wished I had hit the bastard. Then I realized that was a completely unreasonable reaction. I figured the more appropriate response would be to follow the guy to where he's going, knock him out and stuff him in my trunk, drag him into the woods and tie him to a tree using the bicycle inner-tubes. Then I would force him to eat every piece of his bike piece-by-piece and leave him tied up to think about what he'd done. Don't fuck with me when I'm quitting smoking.

The Chilly Hilly is held on the last Sunday in February which means that two years ago it was held less than a week after I got sober. At that time I don't think I even knew it was February let alone which day of the week it was. You could have told me it was the ninth Thursday in August and I would have agreed with you. My new friend Derek had invited me to his birthday party at his grandparents house a few miles away and I had set out to go experience my first taste of Fun In Sobriety when I drove upon throngs of frigid cyclists. I had this sick feeling in my guts. Jesus, do people actually do things like this? Thousands of people exercising in freezing weather. Dads with their kids. Lives that made no sense to me were on full display and I couldn't stand it. The whole spectacle was almost too much for me to handle. I had that sweaty palms, twisted stomach feeling like my intestines were being sucked out me. My head felt like a pinball table with bells and whistles going off, but they were not signalling a free-play or bonus points. I don't know that I necessarily wanted a drink but I certainly did not want sobriety.

I made a couple of stops at my parents house and another friends place before finding my way to Derek's party. This day now feels like it was the beginning of something new.

Derek had invited some friends from Seattle who were also in recovery. His uncle is a member of a famous Seattle band and he was there with another former member of an equally famous Seattle band. I couldn't believe I was hanging out with musicians I had totally idolized when I was a teenager. Derek's friends were incredibly cool and nice and made me feel very welcome. This was all totally surprising because I was used to going to parties where I felt unwelcome, uncool and exceptionally drunk. On this day I felt sober, in-touch, tuned-in and safe.

That evening we walked from his house through the woods to a 12-step meeting that I now attend regularly. This 12-step group holds a monthly "birthday" meeting on the last Sunday of the month where we gather to recognize members of our group who are celebrating another year of sobriety that month. I was totally confused by the whole spectacle but I felt very at home too. Derek and his friends seemed like unrelentingly cool people and seeing these strangers gather to support each other and laugh together made the whole idea of sobriety so much less scary. Maybe life wasn't going to be defined by frustrations like being stuck in hordes of cyclists but more by victories like staying sober over the hills through the valleys. Maybe life might still be fun sometimes too.

Last summer, not long after I contemplated kidnapping that unwitting cyclist and feeding him his bicycle, Derek died unexpectedly from an overdose. I miss him every day. Today is his Birthday and tonight I will get a piece of cake with a big number 2 on top of it at that 12-step meeting.

Derek and lots of other people are the ones I owe my life to. I like to say they "held the door open for me" on their way into the meeting.  But the gift that I credit him for exclusively is the knowledge that even though life will always give me some surprises, I can handle all of them with the help of my friends.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get into town and then I have a bicyclist tied to a tree to feed.

In Which I Procrastinate For 30 Minutes

This morning I vowed that if I went out for breakfast I would return and get started immediately on my housework. "Don't just sit on the couch when you get home," I said "you'll just end up wasting the day on Facebook or blogging or something stupid." Well, you know what? When I'm swanning around in a swimming pool filled with cash like Uncle Scrooge and rejoicing in the millions I've made off this blog I highly doubt I'll be wishing I'd spent more time washing dishes.

Suck it, dishes.

About a year ago my friend Eric (who is a contractor) was in possession of a used dishwasher that he had acquired after completing a kitchen renovation. He asked me if I would like it for my house. My abode is very small and the kitchen is not large enough to fit a dishwasher. "Yeah, you'd have to set it on your back porch," he joked. I seriously considered the idea.

Throughout my adult life (which I generously define as everything after age 20) I have lived without the luxury of a dishwasher with the exception of one glorious year when I shared a house with two friends. It has been an ongoing struggle and sometimes an all out battle to keep up with the onslaught of kitchen mayhem. In the past, during my early twenties, I admitted complete defeat a couple of times. Once I threw out an entire dish set and went to a thrift shop and bought another used set. My cousin and I once decided to just use plastic and paper for several months. I have humbled myself to the point of drinking out of Tupperware and eating off of cutting boards. I have cooked Top Ramen in a tea kettle because the small sauce pan was buried under a mountain of dishes. Please don't judge me.

I have been tortured by hasty cleaning and hurried, frantic scrubbing sessions. There's nothing worse than wanting to make something for dinner but knowing that you need to do the dishes first and dinner might not be ready until 10 PM. You have never seen a man clean a house as quickly as a man who is expecting female company and thinks he might be getting laid.

It is with great pride that declare those days behind me and not just the getting laid part. For several months now I have been kicking dishes' ass. Nothing has gone uncleaned for more than a day or two. It has been a constant, daily struggle but I am determined.

I can hear you asking "what's the big deal? Why don't you just clean the dishes after you use them?" Well, that's a very good question to which I would reply "what a novel idea! Also, shut up!" I'm busy. I work, I go to school, I'm single and have no one to impress but myself. I'm easily impressed.

But lately my standards have risen. I want to treat myself better than I treat anyone else and that means having a nice, clean environment. It doesn't have to be spotless, in fact I kind of like a little clutter. Clothes around the bedroom don't bother me at all. But drinking out of Tupperware is beneath me. Besides, I don't have a matching set and two people drinking out of mismatched Tupperware is terribly tacky.

So, that being said. I'm going to wrap up this blog post and get down to business. I'm not expecting any female company any time soon but when she finally does get here she'll be impressed.

In Which I Talk About Being Sober For 2 Years

Lately I've been thinking about recovery from alcoholism. Strange, I know. In particular I'm thinking about how the second year has been so vastly different from the first. Yes, vast is the appropriate word. 

Without getting into too much detail about the "who's"and "whys" of Year 1 I will try to encapsulate what it was like (for me) to be sober for that first year. Days would begin great. I would wake up someplace familiar with boundless energy and the absence of any detectable headache, a complete set of memories about the previous day and as much money in my wallet as I had the last time I checked. I would promptly smoke two or ten cigarettes, drink a half-pot of coffee and begin freaking out about something, anything, whatever. By lunch time I would typically be furiously mad at my boss, full of despair about my love life and about finished with my first pack of  smokes. By the afternoon I usually had been to not one, but two AA meetings and was feeling positive again. Then more coffee, smokes and plenty of misdirected anger and a constant need for others to validate my existence by praising me. Throughout this first year I estimate that I went to 500 meetings (no joke, usually 2 and sometimes 3 a day) sat through hundreds of hours of group treatment sessions, drank at least 3,000 cups of coffee (yep, close to ten a day) and smoked about 500 packs of cigarettes. If my parents are reading this...I'm sorry, I know that's disgusting. By bed time I was either miserable or joyful for no apparent reason. I was always horny. Again, sorry to my family who may be reading this.

Year 1 was this terrifying roller coaster of emotions. I'm so glad I experienced all of it and I never want to experience any of it again. Now for Year 2...

Year 2 has been about victory. It is about victory for two reasons. The first being that I have succeeded at some very cool things. I got the best job of my life working in a sensational restaurant. I quit smoking. I have stayed single the whole year and feel surprisingly good about that. I am back in school with a solid plan for enrolling in a graduate program. I'm on a fucking roll. 

The second reason this year is about victory is because it's also about failure. The famed British raconteur and gay-rights activist Quentin Crisp said "if at first you don't succeed, failure may be more your style." This is humorous but poignant. I've had to fail and see failure in my life in order to succeed. In my first week of Year 2 I saw the end of relationship. It was traumatic and sad. I won't go into the details but  it really shook me up and I felt very affected by it. I committed to healing from it and after an incredible amount of work I have learned more about myself than I thought possible. I never realized a person could know themselves as well as I know myself. 

My best friend died suddenly and tragically. I realized that relationships I thought had healed were not healed at all. I gained a little weight. I rarely got laid. The lessons I learned from these failures were 1) people die (or otherwise leave your life) and it is sad, treasure the friendships you have. 2) I can't control other people's capacity to forgive me nor can I really know how I've hurt other people. 3) A little weight looks good on me and 4) getting laid isn't that important and I'm grateful to be healthy. 

Throughout the year my emotions have been much more grounded and slightly more predictable. I've begun to understand what makes me sad and what makes me happy. I've begun to understand that what makes me happy is not always good for me and often what makes me sad is completely beyond my control. I've learned to let go of people and allow myself and others the dignity of making mistakes. I'm learning to love myself no matter what and treat myself like my own best friend. I'm learning that it's okay to cook an extravagant meal for yourself only- that my best qualities do not exist for other people to enjoy. That I and God alone am responsible for my own happiness. I've come to realize that I can say horribly cruel and negative things to myself. I've learned to stick up for myself when I talk about myself like that. I feel kind of crazy and it's because I am. 

Most importantly I've learned that I'm not responsible for any of this sobriety stuff. I'm alive and sober for reasons that I can't explain. I will continue to do the work that is put in front of me because that is what seems to work. But I have stayed sober and become happier in spite, not because of myself. 

At the end of my first year I felt like an expert and today I feel like I'm brand new. I prefer this. Thanks for reading. I love you.

In Which I Decide That Blogging Every Six Months Is Perfectly Fine

Whoa! Where'd that last post go? The one that was posted on September 26 about the end of Metro's Ride Free Zone. It's like it just got deleted and has disappeared off the internet for ever and ever.... Weird. What did it say? Oh, who can remember. It was probably just some offensive drivel written by yours truly. Sadly, I can no longer blame bad behavior on drunkenness. Actually, that's not sad at all. It is awesome.

Last week both of the people who have read this blog asked me when they could expect another post. Since I'm not one to disappoint any of my two adoring fans I've decided to absolutely phone-it-in and drop some knowledge on y'all. My agent says I should really be using all the hip new slang that I know so that I can up my page views. That's why I just wrote "drop some knowledge on y'all." Because it's hip and new.

Anyways, now that we're all up to speed on my new phraseology we can get down to business. I'm always a little hesitant to write blog posts about emotional subjects. Considering that this blog hasn't been updated in six months it's probably safe to say I'm hesitant to blog about anything. But the problem with emotional blogging during a period of raging sobriety is that when you sober up from your emotional bender you read the blog post and feel like a complete asshole. For instance, a guy might be upset at the world, ex-girlfriend(s), dead friends and people in general and decide to write (what seems at the time) to be a measured summary of the end of the Ride Free Zone. But when he comes back to read the blog six months later after taking some classes in the field of social work he might realize that what he actually wrote was a pathetic and angry diatribe directed at the homeless population. It might sound like the kind of speech Bill O'Reilly and his golfing buddies would make between sexist jokes. Now he feels like an asshole. Hypothetically.

But the problem is that I'm an emotional guy. I want to write about what I know. Out of respect for other people's privacy I will not blog about past relationships or speculate about those who are no longer around to stick up for themselves. But I'm the kind of guy who watches season 5 of The Wire and cries when Bubbles gets his 2 year coin at an NA meeting. I think about a text message I got almost two years ago from my friend Derek and I lose my shit. I was washing dishes and listening to music a month ago and the wrong (right) Bright Eyes song played and I broke down at the sink. The month before that I listened to some fucking Broadway show tunes (Jesus!) and cried because I forgot how much I used to love singing them. The point is: I'm a big, weepy baby and you need to know that. Well, maybe you don't need to know that but I want you to know it.

So to my two readers, please be aware that this blog is about me exercising those emotions which I can't seem to exercise any other way. I'll also try to use a little toilet humor and all the latest new slang. This blog is gonna be off the chain, yo.