I am an Alcoholic and I have been sober for north of 18 years. I don’t think about drinking alcohol, nor do I crave alcohol.

I was telling my sponsor today that I can’t be around Untreated Alcoholism anymore. The definition of the alcohol personality is Childish, Emotionally Sensitive and Idealistic.

He laughed and said, “You are officially an Old-timer…

I won’t bore anyone with the details of how I came to this conclusion; I’m just happy to have arrived.

My coffee was exotic.

The cream was thick and chill.

I was feeling down like burnt malaise.

But for that, they had a pill.

The model came from Instagram.

So hot, it seemed like crime.

Necks all snapped, and heartbeats capped.

Traffic halted on a dime.

There was liquor and a base beat.

And the rest, I’m not so sure.

There was lust and fussed and upper crust.

And my intentions less than pure.

All

Jordan Peterson said that anyone born before 1895 had it rough. Poverty and backbreaking work were the order of the day.

Considering that 2 world wars and a global depression followed that date; I don’t think that it’s a big stretch to state that very few people living before 1945 had a life of leisure.

We have been living in a time of Unprecedented Wealth & Prosperity for essentially my entire life.

However, it appears to this humans observation that humanity has not adapted well to this prosperity.

The lower and middle classes of society have a higher standard of living than the royalty of 200 years ago. Yet we complain about the slightest of inconveniences when we are really rarely inconvenienced in a comparative historical context.

The super wealthy rarely seem satisfied with what they have, and there seems to be this unquenchable thirst for more.

This latest focus on the proper use of pronouns and everything that goes with that… has me thinking that this leisurely life has passed beyond the threshold of human capabilities.

It’s difficult to imagine the effect that the Depression had on the people that survived it…

The people I observed looked at money as if it were both the curse and the cure.

“How much does it cost?” Should have been the title of their national anthem.

I would rather starve to death in a puddle of my own piss than to ever have to utter those words.

I look at money as a tool. To get what we need and want. I have been called a ‘Spendthrift’ by those who who are forever saying, “How much does it cost?”

Holding on to a few dollars like a squirrel holds onto a nut and counting and recounting and digging it up and counting again.

Apparently, according to my daughter, squirrels have bad eyesight and rarely can find the nuts they bury.

My first day on the oil well patch was also my last. I made it as far as the camp, which was nothing more than 4 50-foot mobile trailers set in a square pattern in a desolate gravel pit near Brooks Alberta. I was debating with myself if I really wanted the job in the first place. The debate didn’t last long.

I was introduced to the Roughneck John Crell by the Foreman Ronnie Earl.

“John will show you around while I look for your paperwork. “

John Crell stuck out his huge right hand and smiled, “You can call me Johnny.”

He was about 6’5″ and weighed and 240 pounds, I figured and not much older than 25 years.  He gave off an air of confidence and a bright, warm smile. “Come on.” He motioned me to follow him. We rounded a corner; he pointed. “There is the bathroom and the showers.” A few more steps and another corner, and we were in what looked like a kitchen. Johnny turned and stuck his face in mine. He almost whispered. “Take this job, and I’ll kill you.”

I think I smiled, but I don’t know.

“Jesus Johnny… usually, I need to get to know someone at least 10 minutes before they threaten me with death .”

He smiled and looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear him before he spoke again.

“I’m not kidding… don’t say you weren’t warned.”

I passed by the foreman and said, ” This isn’t for me, Mr. Earl.”

He shrugged and shook his head,

“We’re having a hard time finding people.”

I studied the look on Johnny’s face as I said. “No doubt. “

I wasn’t sure if I was looking into the eyes of a very large and dangerous psychopath or if Mr Crell was just having a really bad day. I didn’t stick around to find out. The road to Banff is a beautiful drive.

It’s 4a.m. on a Monday.

The roads are quiet, nothing is on.

Been staring at the broken line.

Where the past is never gone.

And you know it’s not too pleasant.

And that’s where my head goes.

But I never stay too long.

A rolling stone where no moss grows.

There is caffeine in the café.

The cat still has a purr.

The kid she sleeps so peacefully.

And at daybreak, all will stir.

The future holds all meaning.

Don’t know which way it will go.

But if I have learned anything.

It’s best that you don’t know.

The walkie-talkie radios squak and break the monotonous silence on most nights. Voices expressing something unnecessary or an attempt at humor; usually by those who can’t stand the silence of their own thoughts…

Morley Ferguson is a large no-nonsense generator operator, and we rarely hear his voice on the transportation channel.

“Jack… we are out of power in stage 3. Bring the 5 ton generator over right away, please.”

Jack is the swamper and grunted something unintelligible. However, 5 minutes later, Morleys voice rang through loud and clear.

“Where is my generator, Jack!?”

Jack mumbled something not coherent, which indicated that the request had not been received with the urgency intended.

Morley answered the mumble.

“When I ask for a generator, it means you drop what the fuck you’re doing, and bring me a generator. Is this your first day on the job?”

The radio went silent again. A few minutes later, I drove by stage 3 and saw the generator and Morley berating Jack.

Hours later, after peace and harmony were restored, a voice came over the walkie-talkie…

“Has anyone seen Morley the genny-op?”

Jack’s voice answered loud and clear…

“He was last seen in the parking lot taking the air out of the blow-up doll…”

That is when the troubles began for Swamper Jack.

My frothy emotional reaction drew a look of askance from their eyes. They didn’t approve of me or anyone wearing their hearts on their sleeves. They swallowed theirs. Hard. Bitter. Final.

I was in the wrong village, at the wrong time. Really, there was no right time. They were all the same. Fathers. Grandparents. All of them… They all preached honesty and swallowed the truth like candy. I don’t know why I let it out like that; I just did. Fuck it!

It was Eve Of New Years 23.

I hadn’t made it out of bed.

All attention on the internet.

Reveiwing “Things I Wish I Said.”

In hindsight sometimes, I remember.

All those things I wrote.

There are dozens must be thousands.

Searching for that tattoo guote.

Many ways to tell a story.

Some good and some are not.

Things are not as they appear.

Is the only worthy plot.