I was brushing my teeth yesterday when the phone rang. The caller ID read: “MAXIMUM SECURITY” so I picked up the call quite cautiously.
“Hello?” I asked.
“The reason I’m making this call today is to let you know the importance of protecting your…”the man began, and I interrupted.
“Just so you know where I’m coming from right now, I don’t have any locks on this house.”
A slight pause, and the reply, “Well, don’t you want to insure that you and your loved ones are protected from…” he kept saying something, but again, a rude interruption.
“Not at all. I wish someone would come in here and haul away every single thing I’ve got.”
“Oh, my goodness!” The man was genuinely disgusted and shaken up. I didn’t anticipate this. “Well, good luck,” he told me. I hung up. I continued brushing my teeth.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Smokescreen
You should know what you’re getting into before getting on the phone with me. I haven’t touched a drink in over a couple of years. I went to 30-day treatments twice—once in June of 2006, and most recently in June-July of 2009. I didn’t complete the 30-day cycle in 2009. Got kicked out of the treatment facility twice in 2009, and was able to talk them into keeping me around the first time, but not the second. I was forced to leave after around 25 days, and they required me to go directly to a halfway house, or they would not have re-admitted me. (I had to negotiate with the director of the clinic terms upon which they would re-admit me at that time. I didn’t think it would be possible to go any period of time at all with sobriety. At that point, the longest I’d gone without a drink was about 100 days.) It was determined in 2009 by the clinicians that I was really a lost cause because of my inability to pinpoint and control the anger issues. I’m starting to think they were right.
I don’t have any idea what to say about all that—if I could effectively control the anger, I’m certain I would have done so by now. It’s not enjoyable. There is no pleasure in being the angriest person I’ve ever met. When I was drunk, it was impossible to pinpoint exactly what the source of the anger might be, so I didn’t much worry about all that in the treatment environment. I find now, it’s still impossible to pinpoint. The last trip I took to Valley Hope in Halstead was just a way to clean my mind, and to try and detox in an environment that was medically monitored. I had DTs for almost a week after checking into that clinic. I think this is quite rare…No one else that came or went during my time down there was shaking and trembling like myself…Then again, no one else down there was drinking well upwards of a half-gallon of vodka every day, either. Funk likes to say I was almost dead at that point—he may be right, but I’m afraid he might have been off the mark there a bit. If I had the money to continue to do so, I would have had a hell of a lot left in me. I fear I still do.
The one thing I’m absolutely sure of is that the alcohol won’t make the anger go away. I would be drunk right now if I were somehow convinced that were the case. So, I’ve got that going for me. I save some money. Unfortunately, I don’t feel I’ve made any headway at all in addressing the real issues that are quite obviously still there. I don’t expect you or anyone else to be able to figure this out, either. I’ve certainly shared this with many, many others. I’ve spent a lot of money in this pursuit over the years, and it’s netted me nothing but less money. So I’ve suspended seeking the help of professionals. Maybe a bad move, but they aren’t going to tell me anything I don’t already know. Or at least the previous six or seven professionals I’ve talked with didn’t…
The only thing I got out of the treatment experience of 06 was the most miserable relationship I’ve ever experienced in my life. I think there might have been some good times, but I sure as hell can’t remember what those were. So, I didn’t follow any advice from that 2006 experience, and I would consider it an absolute waste of time except that I was given some clear-cut indications of actions that were quite obviously ineffective in terms of dealing with myself and others. The net result of that experience is that I stay 100% away from women completely. I still hate the entire concept of women. This isn’t at all fair to the one or two percent of women who might possibly be worth a damn, but oh, well. I know with absolute certainty I’m not worth a damn either, so I figure all is fair there. They stay the fuck away from me, and I leave them alone. At least I’m not making another individual miserable.
There are some positives to come from not being drunk. I’m not so totally blinded at all times by the underlying anger issue that it’s impossible to rationally evaluate the entire picture. I started a business with a friend of mine a couple of years back, and I’ve been able to work full-time at this endeavor since the start of this year. We’re not getting rich or anything, but we’re able to pay the bills. (To be fair, I’m doing this ONLY because I’ve rendered myself through my previous behaviors to be completely unemployable. I’d been self-employed in construction for nearly a decade prior to starting this business, and it doesn’t appear employers have much faith to hire a person like me during severe economic downturns. Again, I did this to myself, I get it, and I’m okay with it. I just thought it should be noted here.)
I’m able to keep appointments I’ve made. To most people, this wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but to me it is. This is probably my most impressive achievement over the past two years. (I’ve made a deal with myself that no drinking may occur while I’m still in debt. In a period of two years time from today, I’m scheduled to be completely debt free, so I guess I’d better go shopping for a fucking houseboat or something…) I don’t know what legitimacy these “deals with self” carry, because they nullify themselves immediately upon drunkenness. But so far, this one, and it’s the only one I’ve really made, has worked.
When I got out of the recent treatment of ’09, I stated before they required me to live in a halfway house. I did that. I lived in Hearthstone, an outfit in downtown Lawrence. I hated every second of it, but that’s not the point. I would gladly do it again if I was in the same situation. It provided structure. I didn’t like that structure, of course, and I suppose that was part of the learning curve. Another requirement of Valley Hope for my eventual readmission was the attendance of 90 meetings in 90 days. So I did that too.
There is a little shithole of an Alano Club in downtown Lawrence, 311 E. 9th. You might know of it. When I was living at Hearthstone, a morning weekday meeting was getting started there. I was coerced by one of the other residents of the house to lead one of these newly started morning meetings, and I finally agreed to do so, only so I could quit being asked to do the task. Within two weeks, every other person who was on the board to lead those meetings had relapsed, and I was stuck sitting around Hearthstone with a key to the club. I figured my choice was to suspend operations of that morning meeting, or to continue to unlock the club every fucking day in the hopes that some other people would eventually become involved on some level and hopefully lead some meetings…
What happened there is at least somewhat remarkable. For starters, I’m not drunk right now. So that’s something. There was a very small nucleus of people that began attending those meetings with almost no clean time, and today I can count at least five people with between two and three years sobriety today. This was very much a blind leading the blind phenomenon. I can’t explain any of that, because none of us knew what the hell we were doing, and I still don’t. In any event, for more than a few people now, the result has been some level of continued sobriety. I’ve even made a few friends through this process. Another benefit, in some circles. (River City, the home group of that club, probably has the highest rate of relapse of any group in the state of Kansas. The percentage of homeless and indigent attendees is very high. Consequently, the rate of true mental illnesses unrelated to alcoholism is also high. I have no way to explain what has happened in that little group, except that it has happened. I chose that group, or maybe that group chose me, primarily because I knew the odds of seeing an attractive woman in one of those meetings was exceedingly low.)
I unlocked that club every single weekday for almost four months. After only a couple of months, I had to move out of Hearthstone because I had another set of bills to pay for the family farm, where I still live. I didn’t think it was necessarily a good decision at the time to move out of there, but I figured I’d sink or swim. I didn’t know I’d be stuck in one of those survival floats for a couple of years…
So, over time, I had to cut back on attending that meeting daily. I don’t live in Lawrence. I have to work. So now, I go to the Wednesday morning 7am, the same one I signed on to back in August of ’09. There are three or four others who go in there and usually get the doors unlocked on time, I am told. I go to the meeting here in Baldwin as well. It is held every Saturday night, and when I first started going there, there were three old guys with over 35 years each sitting at that table every week. One has since passed, and I’m sure the others will kick off at some point along the way…how it goes…
It’s possible I’m very close to spiritually flatlined. Others speak often of praying, letting go and letting god, etc. etc. etc. I don’t do that stuff. It’s not because of reluctance to do so, I don’t think. It could be a fundamental breakdown with my entire construct of god. Maybe it shows. God doesn’t balance my checkbook. The only thing that I know has kept me sober for any period of time was the realization that I was willing to accept any change in the state of my affairs, good or bad. I had gotten to the point of indifference on what exactly that change may be. I’ve read the Bible. Good story. I’ve read the Koran. Same thing. Studied Buddhism, Confucianism, Communism, Capitalism, and every other thing you could imagine, including virtually every bit of approved literature provided by AA. I’ve read most of the stuff provided by NA as well, but my issue is not, nor has it ever been, with drugs not named alcohol. I’ve certainly done virtually every drug available, but that wasn’t what was making my life a fucking mess. So I’ve settled in with the AA. It’s the only thing that has worked.
I have no problem separating spirituality from organized religion. Then again, I’m not sure either has any role whatsoever in my life today. I don’t know where to start to affect a change here. I don’t know that I have the ability to fully embrace the spiritual aspect at all. I have thought from time to time through observation of the events occurring so fluidly in others’ lives that this would eventually sink in. It has not. I don’t believe it is due to reluctance on my part to actively pursue or embrace it. Then again, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. The pursuit here is supposed to be spiritual growth, I’m told. I guess I’ve left myself quite a bit of room for that.
I don’t mean to be dismal, but I felt these were important points. It’s quite likely nothing written above has any relevance at all. I try to help others, but I’m so fucked up in the head, I don’t know what service I could possibly be to anyone on an individual level. I don’t have the ability to help myself. There’s even a guy who selected me to sponsor him. I told him straight up that he couldn’t make a worse choice, and that I really couldn’t do anything helpful at all except to share with him what I had done to avoid drinking in certain circumstances. Even that isn’t too damned helpful. I usually tell him I didn’t drink. It’s the dumbest fucking answer anyone in duress could ever hope to hear, but so far, he hasn’t made me drunk, and I guess I haven’t made him drunk yet either. He now has over a half a year…but it’s not at all because of anything I’ve said or done.
I apologize for this long-winded response to a request for a phone call. If you choose to read it, great, and if not, I can’t blame you. I thought a little background was important. I’m way more fucked up than Funk could ever imagine if he’s casually mentioned in passing that I’m doing “okay,” or “much better.” It’s a smokescreen I’ve built so people who care for me on some level will quit fucking worrying. I’m so tired of being a continual burden to others. A very strong argument can be made that I’ve made no progress whatsoever, except to possibly build a foundation for eventual improvement. I hope it is possible.
Congratulations on 3 ½ years sober. I have no idea on earth how you’ve done it. If you consider yourself “happy, joyous, and/or free,” I really don’t know how you’ve done it. From what I hear from Funk, however, it’s readily apparent you’re doing a hell of a lot better than me, so I thought I’d seek you out. At this writing, I find myself much more open and willing to suggestions and practical applications to live an effective life than at any point I can remember.
Slade
I don’t have any idea what to say about all that—if I could effectively control the anger, I’m certain I would have done so by now. It’s not enjoyable. There is no pleasure in being the angriest person I’ve ever met. When I was drunk, it was impossible to pinpoint exactly what the source of the anger might be, so I didn’t much worry about all that in the treatment environment. I find now, it’s still impossible to pinpoint. The last trip I took to Valley Hope in Halstead was just a way to clean my mind, and to try and detox in an environment that was medically monitored. I had DTs for almost a week after checking into that clinic. I think this is quite rare…No one else that came or went during my time down there was shaking and trembling like myself…Then again, no one else down there was drinking well upwards of a half-gallon of vodka every day, either. Funk likes to say I was almost dead at that point—he may be right, but I’m afraid he might have been off the mark there a bit. If I had the money to continue to do so, I would have had a hell of a lot left in me. I fear I still do.
The one thing I’m absolutely sure of is that the alcohol won’t make the anger go away. I would be drunk right now if I were somehow convinced that were the case. So, I’ve got that going for me. I save some money. Unfortunately, I don’t feel I’ve made any headway at all in addressing the real issues that are quite obviously still there. I don’t expect you or anyone else to be able to figure this out, either. I’ve certainly shared this with many, many others. I’ve spent a lot of money in this pursuit over the years, and it’s netted me nothing but less money. So I’ve suspended seeking the help of professionals. Maybe a bad move, but they aren’t going to tell me anything I don’t already know. Or at least the previous six or seven professionals I’ve talked with didn’t…
The only thing I got out of the treatment experience of 06 was the most miserable relationship I’ve ever experienced in my life. I think there might have been some good times, but I sure as hell can’t remember what those were. So, I didn’t follow any advice from that 2006 experience, and I would consider it an absolute waste of time except that I was given some clear-cut indications of actions that were quite obviously ineffective in terms of dealing with myself and others. The net result of that experience is that I stay 100% away from women completely. I still hate the entire concept of women. This isn’t at all fair to the one or two percent of women who might possibly be worth a damn, but oh, well. I know with absolute certainty I’m not worth a damn either, so I figure all is fair there. They stay the fuck away from me, and I leave them alone. At least I’m not making another individual miserable.
There are some positives to come from not being drunk. I’m not so totally blinded at all times by the underlying anger issue that it’s impossible to rationally evaluate the entire picture. I started a business with a friend of mine a couple of years back, and I’ve been able to work full-time at this endeavor since the start of this year. We’re not getting rich or anything, but we’re able to pay the bills. (To be fair, I’m doing this ONLY because I’ve rendered myself through my previous behaviors to be completely unemployable. I’d been self-employed in construction for nearly a decade prior to starting this business, and it doesn’t appear employers have much faith to hire a person like me during severe economic downturns. Again, I did this to myself, I get it, and I’m okay with it. I just thought it should be noted here.)
I’m able to keep appointments I’ve made. To most people, this wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but to me it is. This is probably my most impressive achievement over the past two years. (I’ve made a deal with myself that no drinking may occur while I’m still in debt. In a period of two years time from today, I’m scheduled to be completely debt free, so I guess I’d better go shopping for a fucking houseboat or something…) I don’t know what legitimacy these “deals with self” carry, because they nullify themselves immediately upon drunkenness. But so far, this one, and it’s the only one I’ve really made, has worked.
When I got out of the recent treatment of ’09, I stated before they required me to live in a halfway house. I did that. I lived in Hearthstone, an outfit in downtown Lawrence. I hated every second of it, but that’s not the point. I would gladly do it again if I was in the same situation. It provided structure. I didn’t like that structure, of course, and I suppose that was part of the learning curve. Another requirement of Valley Hope for my eventual readmission was the attendance of 90 meetings in 90 days. So I did that too.
There is a little shithole of an Alano Club in downtown Lawrence, 311 E. 9th. You might know of it. When I was living at Hearthstone, a morning weekday meeting was getting started there. I was coerced by one of the other residents of the house to lead one of these newly started morning meetings, and I finally agreed to do so, only so I could quit being asked to do the task. Within two weeks, every other person who was on the board to lead those meetings had relapsed, and I was stuck sitting around Hearthstone with a key to the club. I figured my choice was to suspend operations of that morning meeting, or to continue to unlock the club every fucking day in the hopes that some other people would eventually become involved on some level and hopefully lead some meetings…
What happened there is at least somewhat remarkable. For starters, I’m not drunk right now. So that’s something. There was a very small nucleus of people that began attending those meetings with almost no clean time, and today I can count at least five people with between two and three years sobriety today. This was very much a blind leading the blind phenomenon. I can’t explain any of that, because none of us knew what the hell we were doing, and I still don’t. In any event, for more than a few people now, the result has been some level of continued sobriety. I’ve even made a few friends through this process. Another benefit, in some circles. (River City, the home group of that club, probably has the highest rate of relapse of any group in the state of Kansas. The percentage of homeless and indigent attendees is very high. Consequently, the rate of true mental illnesses unrelated to alcoholism is also high. I have no way to explain what has happened in that little group, except that it has happened. I chose that group, or maybe that group chose me, primarily because I knew the odds of seeing an attractive woman in one of those meetings was exceedingly low.)
I unlocked that club every single weekday for almost four months. After only a couple of months, I had to move out of Hearthstone because I had another set of bills to pay for the family farm, where I still live. I didn’t think it was necessarily a good decision at the time to move out of there, but I figured I’d sink or swim. I didn’t know I’d be stuck in one of those survival floats for a couple of years…
So, over time, I had to cut back on attending that meeting daily. I don’t live in Lawrence. I have to work. So now, I go to the Wednesday morning 7am, the same one I signed on to back in August of ’09. There are three or four others who go in there and usually get the doors unlocked on time, I am told. I go to the meeting here in Baldwin as well. It is held every Saturday night, and when I first started going there, there were three old guys with over 35 years each sitting at that table every week. One has since passed, and I’m sure the others will kick off at some point along the way…how it goes…
It’s possible I’m very close to spiritually flatlined. Others speak often of praying, letting go and letting god, etc. etc. etc. I don’t do that stuff. It’s not because of reluctance to do so, I don’t think. It could be a fundamental breakdown with my entire construct of god. Maybe it shows. God doesn’t balance my checkbook. The only thing that I know has kept me sober for any period of time was the realization that I was willing to accept any change in the state of my affairs, good or bad. I had gotten to the point of indifference on what exactly that change may be. I’ve read the Bible. Good story. I’ve read the Koran. Same thing. Studied Buddhism, Confucianism, Communism, Capitalism, and every other thing you could imagine, including virtually every bit of approved literature provided by AA. I’ve read most of the stuff provided by NA as well, but my issue is not, nor has it ever been, with drugs not named alcohol. I’ve certainly done virtually every drug available, but that wasn’t what was making my life a fucking mess. So I’ve settled in with the AA. It’s the only thing that has worked.
I have no problem separating spirituality from organized religion. Then again, I’m not sure either has any role whatsoever in my life today. I don’t know where to start to affect a change here. I don’t know that I have the ability to fully embrace the spiritual aspect at all. I have thought from time to time through observation of the events occurring so fluidly in others’ lives that this would eventually sink in. It has not. I don’t believe it is due to reluctance on my part to actively pursue or embrace it. Then again, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. The pursuit here is supposed to be spiritual growth, I’m told. I guess I’ve left myself quite a bit of room for that.
I don’t mean to be dismal, but I felt these were important points. It’s quite likely nothing written above has any relevance at all. I try to help others, but I’m so fucked up in the head, I don’t know what service I could possibly be to anyone on an individual level. I don’t have the ability to help myself. There’s even a guy who selected me to sponsor him. I told him straight up that he couldn’t make a worse choice, and that I really couldn’t do anything helpful at all except to share with him what I had done to avoid drinking in certain circumstances. Even that isn’t too damned helpful. I usually tell him I didn’t drink. It’s the dumbest fucking answer anyone in duress could ever hope to hear, but so far, he hasn’t made me drunk, and I guess I haven’t made him drunk yet either. He now has over a half a year…but it’s not at all because of anything I’ve said or done.
I apologize for this long-winded response to a request for a phone call. If you choose to read it, great, and if not, I can’t blame you. I thought a little background was important. I’m way more fucked up than Funk could ever imagine if he’s casually mentioned in passing that I’m doing “okay,” or “much better.” It’s a smokescreen I’ve built so people who care for me on some level will quit fucking worrying. I’m so tired of being a continual burden to others. A very strong argument can be made that I’ve made no progress whatsoever, except to possibly build a foundation for eventual improvement. I hope it is possible.
Congratulations on 3 ½ years sober. I have no idea on earth how you’ve done it. If you consider yourself “happy, joyous, and/or free,” I really don’t know how you’ve done it. From what I hear from Funk, however, it’s readily apparent you’re doing a hell of a lot better than me, so I thought I’d seek you out. At this writing, I find myself much more open and willing to suggestions and practical applications to live an effective life than at any point I can remember.
Slade
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Brilliance: An Overdue Retrospective
Ed. note: Sometimes, when I mow the lawn, I have to shift focus entirely away from the task at hand, and occasionally, an alternative reality is created. I mowed the lawn this week.
There are times when humanity’s quest for greatness seems entirely shortsighted. Individuals can either accomplish and contribute, or choose not to. Confronted with unassuming hyperbole, one can only sit back and admire the splendor of inspiration in action. I have experienced the pleasure of knowing one of the great literary minds of our generation, the unnecessarily humble Burke McCray.
My first encounter with Mr. McCray was at college. In the then-fetid Gamma-Omicron chapter house of Kappa Sigma, Burke’s literary fires were stewed by the dismal alcohol- and drug-crazed actions and ramblings of the residents. McCray was unshaken, even solidified, by this seeming lunacy in his midst. Though many others insisted on the spotlight, Burke was always there, learning, laughing, loving. Living. Quietly, he was building the bedrock of his literary career.
Destination: Columbia, MO. Undaunted by the lack of a prize in Mathematics, McCray sharply stated in 1991: "Those Swedes don't know a proper iteration from a hole in the ground."
Burke often told me, “I know I will win the Nobel Prize, but I can’t decide if I prefer Mathematics or Literature.” This initially startled me on many levels, but his multi-faceted and well-honed talents still lacked focus. The Maths continue to pay the bills for Mr. McCray, but it is long past due that someone state a case for the redirection of the rest of his life’s efforts. There, I said it: Burke McCray, it is time for you to pour yourself back into your poetry. You owe this debt of your talents to society.
While his peers were out on a near-nightly basis chasing the ladies around town at the local pubs, McCray was resolutely focused on more important endeavors. Not the Maths he had long-since conquered and continues to contribute to daily, and certainly not the writing—Burke has been known to mull and create his masterpieces in their entirely, at one setting—he simply doesn’t have the time for what he considers pure subjectivity. This focus that drove young McCray was simple: He strove daily to have the best ass anyone had ever seen.
This complex dichotomy of focus is a stunning example of the tormented genius lying so long dormant underneath his logical exterior. Inside, a burning desire of posterior greatness still taunts his sanity. Just last summer on the way to the golf course, Burke felt compelled to ask me, “Does my ass look too big in these shorts?”
I had just enough confidence in my sexuality and superior pride in the Brilliance of his middle-aged ass to honestly answer him, “You and I both know you’ve still got the best ass I’ve ever seen. Stop it. Just stop...” I knew the high-stakes nature of Burke’s true passion. If he even has a hint of thought that his ass is going downhill, he will produce nothing but morbid depression, lifelong disappointment, and emotional impotence.
Yes, it’s that important.
Certainly, any fool can come up with a Haiku. Strictly speaking, their topic is limited by definition to nature. However, in the early nineties, a renegade troop of avant-garde haikuists were staking residence in Lawrence. By nearly any measure, 1992 Lawrence was the renegade haiku capital of the free world. (A long-since vanquished group from the Shansi Region of China was violently banished to Tibet in that awful winter of 1993. The “Broken Flower Revolution” would have to wait for another daring generation.) Where once peaceful and soothing five-seven-fives lined our conventional literary guides, these young souls focused on jagged and cutting-edge works delving in to nearly every form of the human experience.
McCray stayed above this fray. Many whiskey-soaked nights with our notebooks and pens of our little club would not be suffered by Burke. “I’m going to the gym. Just me and my Brilliance. I’ll look over what you guys come up with in the morning,” he would tell the aspiring artists. (ed. Note: This remark above is not overt narcissism. The ever humble McCray attempted to patent his own ass under the catchy trade name “Brilliance” in 1991. He has since softened his efforts to monopolize usage of the word brilliance, in addition to the well formed asses on third parties, focusing again solely on his own ass. The name stuck.)
If one of the young authors could impress McCray, a publishing contract was almost sure to follow. He’d been (and remains) highly solicited by the great publishing houses of the day, and had many contacts in the industry. To this day, the shrewd negotiator McCray has left entirely unpublished the collected volumes of his works. I asked when he was planning on a compilation, and he told me quite bluntly last year, “I’m waiting to select the right charity for the proceeds.” His social consciousness and utter selflessness delineate starkly his asscination, and paints an unsettling portrait of McCray: The most elusive and baffling artist living today.
At last summers’ golf outing, I asked McCray if he was still baking. He won the 1990 & 1991 KU Pastryfests going away. His croissants ruled the roost among Jayhawks early in his collegiate career, but he became bored with this endeavor when he discovered his passion for highly selective muscle toning. Furthermore, the rest of the students on campus still had a chance at the competition once he dropped out, saving Pastryfest from certain destruction. His efforts so monopolized the affairs of ’90 and ’91 there was legitimate concern that the entrant pool would be completely depleted by any further competitive baking on his part. So he stopped. Just like that.
A well-drizzled Bundt, McCray's contemporary vision of Brilliance.
But he still, to this day, takes enormous pride in his cakes. A two-layer affair sprinkled liberally with gold leaf, methamphetamine, and whipped cream cleared the award banquet in ’90, while in ’91 his “Puffydoughs” took home the prize. (Burke’s pet name for his remarkably popular jelly-filled doughnuts laced with crack cocaine.) Though he never partook of his award-winning creations, one could not discount the positive effects of the Puffydoughs, or the ravenous cravings of fans thereof. “I started making them as a specialty order,” McCray explained to me the night of the ’91 award banquet. “I just give the people what they want.” Well, Burke, it’s time to walk the walk. The public demands more poetry.
That same little group of Avant-Garde Haikuists (AGH to those in the know) was having difficulties during that long winter of 1992. Restless and lacking focus, they knew their group would either grow or die. The pressures of maintaining academic schedules, social activities and the literary requirements were taking its toll on the AGH. It was suggested during one of these late night meetings that a contest, similar to the art competition staged by the AGA in 1991 could serve as a proper model to refocus the group. We were struggling, and we knew it. Ever the humanist, McCray entered the singular and now-famous masterpiece that permanently chiseled his name at the apex of any list of Great American Poets:
“My ass is so soft.
It reminds me of Bundt cake.
God, I love Bundt cake.”
Predictably, this entry proved to be the demise of the AGH. Why even bother anymore? We had been blinded by McCray’s illumination of several inalienable truths. This man who had so successfully walked the line between “too firm” and “not enough cushion” for his entire life summed up the drive of his entire personal experience. This compelling struggle of a man so burdened by multiple greatnesses is perfectly expressed in these immortally structured three lines. Many of us who have been in the shadow of McCray’s greatness for so long are now left wondering why the reluctant Burke McCray feels the continuing need to shield the public from the remainder of his collection.
Symbolically, I waited until the seventeenth hole of our golf outing to ask Burke the question that has been on our collective minds for a score of years. “Tell me what you write about, Burke.” As we all know by now, McCray’s only public work remains the popularly titled “Me, My Ass, and I” (McCray thought titling his work was pretentious, but the fragments of the AGH simply referred to the Brilliance as MMAI. Sadly, what was left of the AGH was further splintered in 1993 by MMAAI apologists and the defiant MMAaI societies.)
“I write about my butt,” he said. I am unashamed to say I had tears welling in my eyes anticipating what I had hoped was still the case after so many years. I finally broke down, and he brought me back from my abyss with a warm embrace.
Bawling, I blathered, “What else is there? Tell me you haven’t changed?”
“You know I wouldn’t do that. A man has to have focus in today’s world,” he explained, untucking his shirt. He turned away from me and lifted his polo halfway up his back. Sure as shit, Burke had commissioned on his back’s canvas an elegantly crafted tramp stamp of a meticulously formed Bundt cake. A pair of cupid’s quivers at the base of the cake imprint suggested arrows directed at each cheek. “Would you like to see the rest of it?” he asked. Reassured at the purity of this fantastic artist’s vision, I had seen quite enough.
Not since collegiate showers had I been so close to Burke’s ass. Sure, he’s settling down a bit. The cakes and pastries he prepares for his family today are practically devoid of narcotics. The haikus have become tamer over the years. Reverence of his own ass and the toils spent creating this personal Brilliance still rule his life. But today, I can see he’s matured so much as a man, and quite obviously, as an Assist.
The time has come, Mr. McCray. Please, we beg of you, share the rest of your collected works. The public demands it. Your ass deserves it.
There are times when humanity’s quest for greatness seems entirely shortsighted. Individuals can either accomplish and contribute, or choose not to. Confronted with unassuming hyperbole, one can only sit back and admire the splendor of inspiration in action. I have experienced the pleasure of knowing one of the great literary minds of our generation, the unnecessarily humble Burke McCray.
My first encounter with Mr. McCray was at college. In the then-fetid Gamma-Omicron chapter house of Kappa Sigma, Burke’s literary fires were stewed by the dismal alcohol- and drug-crazed actions and ramblings of the residents. McCray was unshaken, even solidified, by this seeming lunacy in his midst. Though many others insisted on the spotlight, Burke was always there, learning, laughing, loving. Living. Quietly, he was building the bedrock of his literary career.
Burke often told me, “I know I will win the Nobel Prize, but I can’t decide if I prefer Mathematics or Literature.” This initially startled me on many levels, but his multi-faceted and well-honed talents still lacked focus. The Maths continue to pay the bills for Mr. McCray, but it is long past due that someone state a case for the redirection of the rest of his life’s efforts. There, I said it: Burke McCray, it is time for you to pour yourself back into your poetry. You owe this debt of your talents to society.
While his peers were out on a near-nightly basis chasing the ladies around town at the local pubs, McCray was resolutely focused on more important endeavors. Not the Maths he had long-since conquered and continues to contribute to daily, and certainly not the writing—Burke has been known to mull and create his masterpieces in their entirely, at one setting—he simply doesn’t have the time for what he considers pure subjectivity. This focus that drove young McCray was simple: He strove daily to have the best ass anyone had ever seen.
This complex dichotomy of focus is a stunning example of the tormented genius lying so long dormant underneath his logical exterior. Inside, a burning desire of posterior greatness still taunts his sanity. Just last summer on the way to the golf course, Burke felt compelled to ask me, “Does my ass look too big in these shorts?”
I had just enough confidence in my sexuality and superior pride in the Brilliance of his middle-aged ass to honestly answer him, “You and I both know you’ve still got the best ass I’ve ever seen. Stop it. Just stop...” I knew the high-stakes nature of Burke’s true passion. If he even has a hint of thought that his ass is going downhill, he will produce nothing but morbid depression, lifelong disappointment, and emotional impotence.
Yes, it’s that important.
Certainly, any fool can come up with a Haiku. Strictly speaking, their topic is limited by definition to nature. However, in the early nineties, a renegade troop of avant-garde haikuists were staking residence in Lawrence. By nearly any measure, 1992 Lawrence was the renegade haiku capital of the free world. (A long-since vanquished group from the Shansi Region of China was violently banished to Tibet in that awful winter of 1993. The “Broken Flower Revolution” would have to wait for another daring generation.) Where once peaceful and soothing five-seven-fives lined our conventional literary guides, these young souls focused on jagged and cutting-edge works delving in to nearly every form of the human experience.
McCray stayed above this fray. Many whiskey-soaked nights with our notebooks and pens of our little club would not be suffered by Burke. “I’m going to the gym. Just me and my Brilliance. I’ll look over what you guys come up with in the morning,” he would tell the aspiring artists. (ed. Note: This remark above is not overt narcissism. The ever humble McCray attempted to patent his own ass under the catchy trade name “Brilliance” in 1991. He has since softened his efforts to monopolize usage of the word brilliance, in addition to the well formed asses on third parties, focusing again solely on his own ass. The name stuck.)
If one of the young authors could impress McCray, a publishing contract was almost sure to follow. He’d been (and remains) highly solicited by the great publishing houses of the day, and had many contacts in the industry. To this day, the shrewd negotiator McCray has left entirely unpublished the collected volumes of his works. I asked when he was planning on a compilation, and he told me quite bluntly last year, “I’m waiting to select the right charity for the proceeds.” His social consciousness and utter selflessness delineate starkly his asscination, and paints an unsettling portrait of McCray: The most elusive and baffling artist living today.
At last summers’ golf outing, I asked McCray if he was still baking. He won the 1990 & 1991 KU Pastryfests going away. His croissants ruled the roost among Jayhawks early in his collegiate career, but he became bored with this endeavor when he discovered his passion for highly selective muscle toning. Furthermore, the rest of the students on campus still had a chance at the competition once he dropped out, saving Pastryfest from certain destruction. His efforts so monopolized the affairs of ’90 and ’91 there was legitimate concern that the entrant pool would be completely depleted by any further competitive baking on his part. So he stopped. Just like that.
But he still, to this day, takes enormous pride in his cakes. A two-layer affair sprinkled liberally with gold leaf, methamphetamine, and whipped cream cleared the award banquet in ’90, while in ’91 his “Puffydoughs” took home the prize. (Burke’s pet name for his remarkably popular jelly-filled doughnuts laced with crack cocaine.) Though he never partook of his award-winning creations, one could not discount the positive effects of the Puffydoughs, or the ravenous cravings of fans thereof. “I started making them as a specialty order,” McCray explained to me the night of the ’91 award banquet. “I just give the people what they want.” Well, Burke, it’s time to walk the walk. The public demands more poetry.
That same little group of Avant-Garde Haikuists (AGH to those in the know) was having difficulties during that long winter of 1992. Restless and lacking focus, they knew their group would either grow or die. The pressures of maintaining academic schedules, social activities and the literary requirements were taking its toll on the AGH. It was suggested during one of these late night meetings that a contest, similar to the art competition staged by the AGA in 1991 could serve as a proper model to refocus the group. We were struggling, and we knew it. Ever the humanist, McCray entered the singular and now-famous masterpiece that permanently chiseled his name at the apex of any list of Great American Poets:
“My ass is so soft.
It reminds me of Bundt cake.
God, I love Bundt cake.”
Predictably, this entry proved to be the demise of the AGH. Why even bother anymore? We had been blinded by McCray’s illumination of several inalienable truths. This man who had so successfully walked the line between “too firm” and “not enough cushion” for his entire life summed up the drive of his entire personal experience. This compelling struggle of a man so burdened by multiple greatnesses is perfectly expressed in these immortally structured three lines. Many of us who have been in the shadow of McCray’s greatness for so long are now left wondering why the reluctant Burke McCray feels the continuing need to shield the public from the remainder of his collection.
Symbolically, I waited until the seventeenth hole of our golf outing to ask Burke the question that has been on our collective minds for a score of years. “Tell me what you write about, Burke.” As we all know by now, McCray’s only public work remains the popularly titled “Me, My Ass, and I” (McCray thought titling his work was pretentious, but the fragments of the AGH simply referred to the Brilliance as MMAI. Sadly, what was left of the AGH was further splintered in 1993 by MMAAI apologists and the defiant MMAaI societies.)
“I write about my butt,” he said. I am unashamed to say I had tears welling in my eyes anticipating what I had hoped was still the case after so many years. I finally broke down, and he brought me back from my abyss with a warm embrace.
Bawling, I blathered, “What else is there? Tell me you haven’t changed?”
“You know I wouldn’t do that. A man has to have focus in today’s world,” he explained, untucking his shirt. He turned away from me and lifted his polo halfway up his back. Sure as shit, Burke had commissioned on his back’s canvas an elegantly crafted tramp stamp of a meticulously formed Bundt cake. A pair of cupid’s quivers at the base of the cake imprint suggested arrows directed at each cheek. “Would you like to see the rest of it?” he asked. Reassured at the purity of this fantastic artist’s vision, I had seen quite enough.
Not since collegiate showers had I been so close to Burke’s ass. Sure, he’s settling down a bit. The cakes and pastries he prepares for his family today are practically devoid of narcotics. The haikus have become tamer over the years. Reverence of his own ass and the toils spent creating this personal Brilliance still rule his life. But today, I can see he’s matured so much as a man, and quite obviously, as an Assist.
The time has come, Mr. McCray. Please, we beg of you, share the rest of your collected works. The public demands it. Your ass deserves it.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Night Fever
Saturday, the Kansas City Royals played the Texas Rangers on Fox regional. I don’t take the Fox KC’s ridiculous subscription package for the torture of getting the daily baseball games. They just aren’t very good yet. And yet always seems promise somewhere in the distant, hopeless future. Royals fans over time come to notice odd things.
Another AL umpire exhibits the long-term effects of exposure to the Royals.
Not things like jumping at the wall to have the ball bounce harmlessly off the warning track for a ground-rule double on a sure out (my guess—Joey Gathaway? Gathright? It might have been Emil Brown. Or the outfield collectively running back toward the dugout in obvious celebration of an inning-ending second out. Or the top player currently in the organization being unable for some time when we drafted him to get a suitable prescription eyeglass/contact lens. Royals fans are used to stuff like this.
I take my Royals on the radio. In KC (and Lawrence, and Topeka, etc. etc.) the Royals are available on AM radio only. I could get the MLB package, and I’m still highly considering it so I can listen to some actual baseball this year. But I have this team on the radio, and I don’t even have a decent AM receiver. They simply aren’t quite worth even that modest investment.
Friday evening, I saw a guy I went to school with out at the golf club. We briefly (no more than ten minutes) wasted time talking about this baseball team. I think we both had just a little bit of hope that things will improve. The Royals would really have to trip over the bar if there is a failure of accomplishment. They’ve finished last or next to last every year since the strike, except 95 and 03. This in a five-team division. They only have to beat three teams to finish second, and they can’t do that in their best years. “I’ve been to see them five times this year,” he tells me.
“You’re a better man than me. I’ve been…twice…I think. But…what are you going to do?” I rhetorically ask. I honestly can’t remember if I’ve been once or twice, but I know the trip(s) have been quite forgettable. It’s something I just catalogue away in my mind. Maybe women who have been through the much more serious and miserable trauma as rape sometimes do the same thing as a coping skill…I cannot speak to that, and the comparison shouldn’t even be made, except that I am able to completely dispose of the bad after some period of time. It takes something truly ridiculous or outstanding to grab my attention as a Royals fan.
Our man O'Sullivan in a much slimmer era. The down side: The chain here is at a career-high 5% total body mass.
The game came on, and I was immediately horrified. We had Sean O’Sullivan on the mound, and he was wearing something I’d describe as a dog collar with a miniature oriental throwing star attached at the front. The Bee Gees would have deemed it tacky and excessive in 1977. But Sean O’Sullivan is out there testing the fucking fashion water on semi-national TV.
I text a friend: “Does O’Sullivan always wear that sweet-ass medallion when he’s pitching? This is much harder to watch than to listen to.” The answer: “Yes, he does.”
I found this very hard to believe. The guy’s already substantially overweight, (He looks to me that he’s packed on about 40 pounds since his spring training photos) and he’s dragging around about five pounds of scrap metal around his neck. That can’t be good for the body or soul. I’m not in shape—I get that. I’m in arguably the worst shape of my life. Smoke a couple of packs a day, drink about three pots of coffee, and exercise almost none has been my daily personal prescription for several months. I’m 39 damned years old, pathetically out of shape, and I can tell by looking at the guy I’m in better shape than the 23-year old O’Sullivan, who is being compensated to professionally play a game.
I don’t get the fat ballplayer phenomenon. It’s not just a Kansas City thing, though we seem to be better plagued than most locales. I think a lot of them just decide that if they suck, they might as well be a fatass. Curious decision making from a professional athlete. I don’t care at all what they look like, if they can do the job they’re being paid to do. More often than not, a ballplayer that looks like Terry Forster pitches a lot like Terry Forster.
And if the guy was mowing down batters, he could be wearing a fucking ball gag for all I care. If that’s what it takes to get you in the state of mind, well…so be it. But I’d be pretty critical of some asshole wearing a ball gag when he’s giving up homer after homer after homer.
It’s not all his fault. O’Sullivan is a sinkerballer, and entirely dependent upon the low strike call. And more than one decision has been made by multiple people to allow him to do what he does. If he can’t get that call, he can’t force ground balls. Or he walks a hell of a lot of people trying to win an implied argument with an umpire. Either way, there will be trouble with O’Sullivan when that low strike isn’t available to him. And last night it wasn’t. And he was pitching against the Texas Rangers, AL Representative in the World Series last year.
So it appears that he’s not getting the low call, and it appears he’s going to get shelled. I kept the game on for a good part of the lower half of the first. A couple of smashes later, and the first run coming across was enough for me. This thing was written in stone. I started to do something else, and I got the game going on the radio again, with the TV off. Something piqued my interest in the top of the second, and I turned the game back on. It seems the Royals were acting like they might be able to score or something. Already forgotten what it was they were trying to do in that instance, but I don’t think they got it done.
It was a gloomy day—some weird mix of spit and fog and rain all day. I’d been considering going for a run, but I was so sore I don’t know if I would have made it. I’ll never know. I’d gone running for the previous couple of days, and I just couldn’t go very far. Can’t get my legs under me quite yet. I’m in tremendously bad shape, and I know it, but I’m working on it. I even walked to the end of the lane, but the weather was just bad enough that I turned and came back an hour or so before the game.
So, anyhow, the game’s back on the TV for whatever reason, and I’ve got the pleasure to watch O’Sullivan give up about a 400-foot blast to get the Rangers going. Sean O’Sullivan doesn’t miss bats. His whole game is predicated at him throwing the ball at a bad part of the bat. Weird game plan for a young righthander, but…whatever.
So I watch the ball fly violently out of THE Texas Ranger Ballpark at Arlingon, and I screamed something that sounded like, “FUCK!” and grabbed the golf clubs and a hat. If I wasn’t going to run, I’d go out in the miserable conditions to do something to ensure I would look a little less like Sean O’Sullivan as a person. I can’t change the past, but I went out to do a little something about the future.
I got to the car, and SOS had already given up a second homer. The game was turned automatically to the station carrying the games, so when I started the vehicle, I was treated to a Texas celebration. By the end of the round, a third consecutive homer had been hit by the Rangers, and O’Sullivan had given up ten runs.
Lose the chain, man. Lose the chain.
“Well done, sir.”—The B’s G take a break from stuffing trousers and watching cricket to mesmerize themselves with Sean O'Sullivan's true style in action.
Another AL umpire exhibits the long-term effects of exposure to the Royals.
Not things like jumping at the wall to have the ball bounce harmlessly off the warning track for a ground-rule double on a sure out (my guess—Joey Gathaway? Gathright? It might have been Emil Brown. Or the outfield collectively running back toward the dugout in obvious celebration of an inning-ending second out. Or the top player currently in the organization being unable for some time when we drafted him to get a suitable prescription eyeglass/contact lens. Royals fans are used to stuff like this.
I take my Royals on the radio. In KC (and Lawrence, and Topeka, etc. etc.) the Royals are available on AM radio only. I could get the MLB package, and I’m still highly considering it so I can listen to some actual baseball this year. But I have this team on the radio, and I don’t even have a decent AM receiver. They simply aren’t quite worth even that modest investment.
Friday evening, I saw a guy I went to school with out at the golf club. We briefly (no more than ten minutes) wasted time talking about this baseball team. I think we both had just a little bit of hope that things will improve. The Royals would really have to trip over the bar if there is a failure of accomplishment. They’ve finished last or next to last every year since the strike, except 95 and 03. This in a five-team division. They only have to beat three teams to finish second, and they can’t do that in their best years. “I’ve been to see them five times this year,” he tells me.
“You’re a better man than me. I’ve been…twice…I think. But…what are you going to do?” I rhetorically ask. I honestly can’t remember if I’ve been once or twice, but I know the trip(s) have been quite forgettable. It’s something I just catalogue away in my mind. Maybe women who have been through the much more serious and miserable trauma as rape sometimes do the same thing as a coping skill…I cannot speak to that, and the comparison shouldn’t even be made, except that I am able to completely dispose of the bad after some period of time. It takes something truly ridiculous or outstanding to grab my attention as a Royals fan.
Our man O'Sullivan in a much slimmer era. The down side: The chain here is at a career-high 5% total body mass.
The game came on, and I was immediately horrified. We had Sean O’Sullivan on the mound, and he was wearing something I’d describe as a dog collar with a miniature oriental throwing star attached at the front. The Bee Gees would have deemed it tacky and excessive in 1977. But Sean O’Sullivan is out there testing the fucking fashion water on semi-national TV.
I text a friend: “Does O’Sullivan always wear that sweet-ass medallion when he’s pitching? This is much harder to watch than to listen to.” The answer: “Yes, he does.”
I found this very hard to believe. The guy’s already substantially overweight, (He looks to me that he’s packed on about 40 pounds since his spring training photos) and he’s dragging around about five pounds of scrap metal around his neck. That can’t be good for the body or soul. I’m not in shape—I get that. I’m in arguably the worst shape of my life. Smoke a couple of packs a day, drink about three pots of coffee, and exercise almost none has been my daily personal prescription for several months. I’m 39 damned years old, pathetically out of shape, and I can tell by looking at the guy I’m in better shape than the 23-year old O’Sullivan, who is being compensated to professionally play a game.
I don’t get the fat ballplayer phenomenon. It’s not just a Kansas City thing, though we seem to be better plagued than most locales. I think a lot of them just decide that if they suck, they might as well be a fatass. Curious decision making from a professional athlete. I don’t care at all what they look like, if they can do the job they’re being paid to do. More often than not, a ballplayer that looks like Terry Forster pitches a lot like Terry Forster.
And if the guy was mowing down batters, he could be wearing a fucking ball gag for all I care. If that’s what it takes to get you in the state of mind, well…so be it. But I’d be pretty critical of some asshole wearing a ball gag when he’s giving up homer after homer after homer.
It’s not all his fault. O’Sullivan is a sinkerballer, and entirely dependent upon the low strike call. And more than one decision has been made by multiple people to allow him to do what he does. If he can’t get that call, he can’t force ground balls. Or he walks a hell of a lot of people trying to win an implied argument with an umpire. Either way, there will be trouble with O’Sullivan when that low strike isn’t available to him. And last night it wasn’t. And he was pitching against the Texas Rangers, AL Representative in the World Series last year.
So it appears that he’s not getting the low call, and it appears he’s going to get shelled. I kept the game on for a good part of the lower half of the first. A couple of smashes later, and the first run coming across was enough for me. This thing was written in stone. I started to do something else, and I got the game going on the radio again, with the TV off. Something piqued my interest in the top of the second, and I turned the game back on. It seems the Royals were acting like they might be able to score or something. Already forgotten what it was they were trying to do in that instance, but I don’t think they got it done.
It was a gloomy day—some weird mix of spit and fog and rain all day. I’d been considering going for a run, but I was so sore I don’t know if I would have made it. I’ll never know. I’d gone running for the previous couple of days, and I just couldn’t go very far. Can’t get my legs under me quite yet. I’m in tremendously bad shape, and I know it, but I’m working on it. I even walked to the end of the lane, but the weather was just bad enough that I turned and came back an hour or so before the game.
So, anyhow, the game’s back on the TV for whatever reason, and I’ve got the pleasure to watch O’Sullivan give up about a 400-foot blast to get the Rangers going. Sean O’Sullivan doesn’t miss bats. His whole game is predicated at him throwing the ball at a bad part of the bat. Weird game plan for a young righthander, but…whatever.
So I watch the ball fly violently out of THE Texas Ranger Ballpark at Arlingon, and I screamed something that sounded like, “FUCK!” and grabbed the golf clubs and a hat. If I wasn’t going to run, I’d go out in the miserable conditions to do something to ensure I would look a little less like Sean O’Sullivan as a person. I can’t change the past, but I went out to do a little something about the future.
I got to the car, and SOS had already given up a second homer. The game was turned automatically to the station carrying the games, so when I started the vehicle, I was treated to a Texas celebration. By the end of the round, a third consecutive homer had been hit by the Rangers, and O’Sullivan had given up ten runs.
Lose the chain, man. Lose the chain.
“Well done, sir.”—The B’s G take a break from stuffing trousers and watching cricket to mesmerize themselves with Sean O'Sullivan's true style in action.
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