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I Think I Can Make it Now: Sober Musical Interlude #6

Last night, I dropped acid with my buddy Brett.

Okay, that’s not technically true: we grilled some chicken, drank Italian sodas from Trader Joe’s and watched Luc Besson’s The Fifth Element – but in sobriety, watching that film totally counts as an acid trip.

I can’t speak for Brett, but I know I had a great time.  Great conversation, great company, a mind-trip of a movie. AND I got to bed at a decent hour. AND I remembered the entire evening when I woke up this morning. Even more astounding, I didn’t do or say anything last night that I need to be ashamed of today. I kept my clothes on. I didn’t accidentally or intentionally break anything. I didn’t humiliate myself or offend my guest in any way. And perhaps best of all, it was a one hundred percent vomit-free evening.

I had a good time last night and woke up today without a headache. Before 9 AM.

When I opened the sliding door into our backyard to let the dogs out for their morning pee, this is what greeted me:


Bright sunshine, the smell of jasmine, and the knowledge that I am blessed beyond comprehension. It truly is springtime: in my backyard, and in my heart.

Tomorrow will mark nine months of complete abstinence from alcohol and drugs, and my world just keeps getting brighter.

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone
I can see all obstacles in my way 
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind 
It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright) 
Sun-Shiny day. 

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone 
All of the bad feelings have disappeared 
Here is the rainbow I’ve been prayin’ for 
It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright) 
Sun-Shiny day. 

Look all around, there’s nothin’ but blue skies 
Look straight ahead, nothin’ but blue skies 

Demons Who Drank With Me: Sober Musical Interlude #4

As part of my recovery, I try to find songs that inspire me and provide a sense of hope for the future.  I add them to my “recovery playlist” on my ipod, and occasionally share them here. There are times, though, when I need to hear a song that reminds me of what it was like when I was using. As author/philosophist George Santayana famously wrote, “Those who can not remember the past are doomed to repeat it.”

I am a chronic forgetter: in the past, when I’ve been clean and sober for a respectable amount of time, I ‘ve tended to  forget how bad it was when I was “out there.”  I’d begin to regain a sense of power over my drug use. I’d stop investing in my recovery, and slowly (or sometimes at the speed of light) slip back into my disease.

With Table for One, the typically provocative singer/songwriter Liz Phair eschews controversial lyrics and viewpoints, crafting instead a first-person account of one man’s life as an active alcoholic. Though crystal meth was my drug of choice, the feelings this song elicits are pretty much the same ones any addict feels when living in their disease: loneliness, shame, hopelessness.

This time, I’m going to remember to not forget.

Give it a listen (lyrics below):

I’m walking down in the basement
I’m leaning on the washing machine
I’m reaching back through a hole in the wall’s insulation
I’m pulling out a bottle of vodka
Replacing that with a pint of Jim Bean
I’m lying down on the floor until I feel better

It’s morning and I pour myself coffee
I drink it til the kitchen stops shaking
I’m backing out of the driveway
And into creation

And the loving spirit that follows me
Watching helplessly, will always forgive me

Oh, I want to die alone
With my sympathy beside me
I want to bring down all those demons who drank with me
Feasting gleefully
On my desperation

I hide all the bottles in places
They find and confront me with pain in their eyes
And I promise that I’ll make some changes

But reaching back it occurs to me
There will always be some kind of crisis for me

Oh, I want to die alone
With my sympathy beside me
I want to bring back all those moments they stole from me
In my reverie
Darkening days end

Oh, I want to die alone
With my memories inside me
I want to live that life
When I could say people had faith in me
I still see that guy in my memory

Oh, I want to die alone
With my sympathy beside me
I want to bring down all those people who drank with me
Watching happily
My humiliation

Sober Musical Interlude #3

“My life, it don’t count for nothing /  When I look at this world, I feel so small / My life, it’s only a season / A passing September that no one will recall”

In just a few short years, I went from working for the great Steven Spielberg and touring with The Red  Hot Chili Peppers to sleeping in public parks.  Now, as I begin rebuilding my life, I have a tendency to judge what the future might hold for me by comparing it to the accomplishments of my past.  Though I’ve mostly reconciled myself to the fact that I may never live that kind of heady life again (and perhaps that’s for the better), there are still days when I look back with intense regret about the career I singlehandedly destroyed.  There are also days when I wistfully ponder where life’s travels would have taken me if I hadn’t hijacked myself and set a course straight for the gutter.   On those days, today being one of them, I listen to this song.  Her gorgeous warble sounding like some strange breed of angel, Iris Dement brings me back to reality, and keeps me focused on the one thing that truly matters in this frequently troubling world: love.

My life, it’s half the way travelled,
And still I have not found my way out of this night.
An’ my life, it’s tangled in wishes,
And so many things that just never turned out right.

But I gave joy to my mother.
And I made my lover smile.
And I can give comfort to my friends when they’re hurting.
And I can make it seem better,
I can make it seem better,
I can make it seem better for a while.

Sober Musical Interlude #2

Ooh-oo child, things are gonna get easier
Ooh-oo child, things’ll get brighter
Ooh-oo child, things are gonna get easier
Ooh-oo child, things’ll be brighter
Some day, yeah
We’ll put it together and we’ll get it all done
Some day
When your head is much lighter
Some day, yeah
We’ll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun
Some day
When the world is much brighter

Sober Musical Interlude #1


“The Wolf is Getting Married” can be found on Sinead O’Connor’s 2012 release “How About I Be Me and You be You?”

If you follow this blog (and thank you SO much if you do)  you know that I write dark, depressing stuff full of angst and anger and, well, as my husband puts it: “meth, death and bated breath.” The reason for this is because it’s the way I process feelings like guilt and shame for all the wreckage i’ve caused in my life and the lives of those who care about me. And believe me, there’s been so much wreckage I could tattoo “brought to you by Irwin Allen” on my forehead.  But here’s the thing: I don’t want anyone getting the impression that I am a depressed, miserable person. Even in the midst of the melodrama I write about were many, many moments of joy. My dogs, my husband, long walks, time spent with family and friends.

I also want to let you know that the last eight months have been the happiest of my existence. I’m restricted by tradition, so I can’t provide specifics as to why or how, but let me say this: I am learning, at the bruised-fruit age of 48, to like myself. I’m not talking about my looks, or my career, or my belongings…all the things I have mistakenly thought were me and which caused great despair as one by one, they began to disappear.  I’ve learned to let myself be loved even on the days when I feel utterly hideous and unloveable. I’ve learned that being kind to others is a far more uplifting and productive pursuit than sitting around hoping others are going to be kind to me. There are still days when the thorn-bush has roses, but overall, I’m feeling extremely optimistic.

Which brings me to a favorite of what I call my “sobriety songs,” The Wolf is Getting Married by the amazing Sinéad O’Connor, who became one of my personal heroes the moment she tore up that photo of the pope on Saturday Night Live (I have my issues, as does she, with the roman catholic church).  The title is an obscure Arabic expression meaning, loosely translated, “a break in the clouds.”  The song seems to have been written for, perhaps, a love interest. When I listen to it, I think of a collective of people: my family and old friends who have always loved and supported me (even when I was stumbling around like an early Walking Dead prototype.) I also think of all the new people in my life: the sober ones – particularly my new Tuesday night family – friends who are guiding me and helping me and crying with me and rooting for me and loving me, until I can transition from mostly liking myself to actually full-on loving myself.  I also think of my trio of spiritual advisors who brought me home to my higher power.

Their smiles make me smile. Their joy gives me joy. Their hope gives me hope. I am so absolutely surrounded by love these days. Maybe I always have been. But I’m actually able to register it now, and it’s powerful. There’s been a break in the clouds, and the sun feels fucking amazing.

I used to have no wolves around me
I was too free, if that’s possible to be
No safety, is what I mean
No solid foundation to keep me

But the sun’s peeping out of the sky
Where there used to be only gray
The wolf is getting married
and he’ll never cry again

Your smile makes me smile
Your laugh makes me laugh
Your joy gives me joy
your hope gives me hope


Song Sung Blue

I’ve always been someone who easily veers into depression, and over the years i’ve had to cultivate strategies to  avoid tumbling into the abyss. One of my first coping mechanisms was discovered back in 1973, when I realized that repeated listenings on my  portable phonograph of my 45 rpm single of The Carpenter’s “Sing” could literally change my mood from morose to joyful. I could escape that persistent, underlying feeling of being different from other kids my age:  painfully shy and far more interested in my sister’s barbie dolls than the Tonka trucks and sports equipment my father had foisted upon me Christmas after Christmas, birthday after birthday.

I’d close my eyes, lying on the shag carpet of our home on Long Island, my head next to the speaker on the boxy, plastic-handled contraption. Three minutes and twenty seconds of lyrical happiness would wash over me, followed by ten seconds of the record player’s arm lifting, clicking, and moving back into position to begin all over again.  Happy images would fill my head, pushing out the fears and anxieties that usually took up all the space in there. With my music, I was at peace.

“How many times are you going to listen to that song?” my mother or father would invariably ask, as the stylus reset itself yet again.

The answer could be twenty, or thirty, or a dozen times. I would process each and everylyric, gauging the applicability of each and every one of my small collection of 45’s to my own existence. I never tired of a song I loved.

When I reached my turbulent teens, when the fears and anxieties had multiplied exponentially, I turned to Linda Ronstadt for comfort. Though she rarely wrote any of her own lyrics, the river of her voice carried so much nuance, so much emotion, that I could easily start crying when listening to her songs of pain and loss. This is about the time that I discovered that songs of sadness, plaintive lyrics that spoke directly to the kind of pain I was feeling, could also have a soothing effect on my soul.  As Bernie Taupin famously wrote for Elton John:

“Guess there are times when we all need to share a little pain
And ironing out the rough spots
Is the hardest part when memories remain
And it’s times like these when we all need to hear the radio
`cause from the lips of some old singer

We can share the troubles we already know”

So i’d share my troubles with Linda, the soulful ballads on her “Hasten Down the Wind” album speaking directly to me, particularly the gorgeous, aching cover of Karla Bonoff‘s “Lose Again.”

The lyrics of that song spoke directly to me: a confused fourteen year old, struggling with his sexuality, hating who he was and hating that girlfriend after girlfriend could not change those very wrong feelings inside, feelings he was certain had been planted there by a certain priest years before.  Knowing that each crush I had on male classmate after male classmate could never be reciprocated, and that I was doomed to live a life devoid of love.

“Nothing can save me / from this ball and chain / I’ll love you and lose again.”  Right on the money.

I still listened to upbeat songs, those of ABBA were a particular favorite, as were ELO, Blondie, The Ramones…though I generally did so when I was already feeling happy and needed to maintain it, functioning as a sort of aural mood stabilizer. But I always got out the Ronstadt albums when I needed to feel like I wasn’t alone.

513lWM2hD6L.jpgWhen I reached my early twenties, around the time I was beginning to accept my homosexuality – and dealing with all the emotional upheaval that provided me – came Maria Mckee, first with her band Lone Justice, then as a solo artist.  Maria’s lyrics and her incredible, flexible, can-sing-the-shit-out-of-anything vocals resonated with me the same way Linda’s had. This beautiful girl had something simultaneously earthy and angelic about her, her big, soulful eyes gazing out from her first solo album’s cover, she resembled – to my Fine Arts Major eyes – a modern-day Botticelli painting. And that voice.…I would close my eyes, walkman headphones firmly clamping my head between them, and listen. And feel less scared, less hopeless, less…less.

“Turning around I see someone / That I thought I used to know / You wide eyed in the crowd / How does it feel to see the world / And not turn cold / I wanna hold you / And protect you from the change / Though I know it’s gonna happen anyway / Take this veil, I’ll dry your eyes / In a world like ours you’re nobody’s child”

And when I finally was living life as an openly gay man, and going through the tumult of constant breakups ( the high number being attributable to my own habit of seeking validation through the physical appearance of my partners) Maria also provided the perfect face-down-pillow-sobbing breakup song, the classic “Don’t Toss Us Away,” (penned by her brother, Bryan MacLean of the seminal LA band Love.)

Back then, I was devoid of any semblance of spirituality whatsoever, having, as I like to say now, chucked the Baby Jesus out with the dirty Catholic bathwater.  I am learning to love her canon of brilliant songwriting all over again, having finally, in utter desperation, been reunited with my Higher Power that was taken from me by force when I was still a pre-teen.  Her classic song, the inspirational “You Are The Light” is no longer, for me, a paean to a lover, but a song of deep spiritual meaning and a provider of spiritual invigoration. Many of her songs that once spoke to the physical now seem to address the spiritual, with equal, if not more beauty.

Maria’s later solo work continued to provide comfort, as new releases seemed to be eerily timed – content wise – with the continued upheavals in my life.   Her composition “High Dive,” detailing a fall from grace and the work required to regain said grace, became my theme song of encouragement while I struggled to rebuild my personal and professional reputation after burning out – catastrophically – from my addiction to crystal meth.

“Blowing my trumpetBelievin’ in something / Courageous and crazy / Nothing could faze me‘Till I hit the pavement / And now it’s back to school / Ready to play the fool / Cause I took a high dive into an empty pool”

And when my husband had finally had enough of my drug-fueled escapades and demanded I move out of our home, the plaintive “Turn Away” consoled me for months when I was living in my old bedroom in my mother’s house, a five-hour drive from the man I loved, who refused to speak to me.

“Why am I the one to wear the pain?
I guess I do it with panache
To talk it over now would only be a strain
With our hearts lost in all this trash”

It’s taken me years to find actual happiness, and I’m working hard to maintain it, feasting on gratitude for all the beautiful things in my life that still remain, namely my husband and my physical health. I also work hard to cultivate, to regrow,  the things I did lose: my spirituality, my optimism, my mental stability.  And again, Maria Mckee has provided the soundtrack to this chapter of my existence. “Power On Little Star” is the song that gets me through my moments of self-doubt, the times when faith feels like it might once again be slipping from my grip.

“Power on with your dying breath,
Power on, no regret.
With the fuse that was lit,
By the breaking of your spirit,
Power on, don’t quit.

And the things that made you
Want to trade in your heart,
Are the very things that
Made you who you are.
Power on, little star.

Power on til you know yourself,
From the voices in your head,
From the bruises and welts,
Power on, like hell.

And if you only make it one more day,
Well it’s one more day,
Than you threw away.
Power on, anyway.

And though you may never make a mark
Or live your dream,
Well at least you may live
To make peace with the memories and defeat.

With a heart that will be slashed,
And your dreams that will be dashed,
Like a weather stain,
Like a sad refrain,
Power on, my little babe.”

All my life, despite my difficulties, I have been blessed to have personally known some of my heroes. Miep Gies, who hid Anne Frank and her family. Mamie Till-Mobley, whose insistence on an open-casket funeral for her murdered boy Emmett, was a dear friend of mine until her death several years back. Having worked in the entertainment industry for many years, and by virtue of being married to a working actor for almost twenty, I’ve also had occasion to meet many people whose talent I have stood in awe of. Sometimes meeting these people is disillusioning, sometimes not.

When a chance meeting with Maria Mckee unexpectedly spawned a friendship, it was a great relief to discover that this woman who had unknowingly guided me through so much pain and sorrow is even lovelier a human being than I had imagined. That my new friend inadvertently set off the chain reaction of introductions that would ultimately lead to my seeking recovery from a brutal crystal meth addiction seems almost pre-ordained, in retrospect.

I continue to find artists who, through the courage of their songwriting, seem to speak directly to me. The phenomenal John Grant (whose lyrics suggest is also no stranger to emotional upheaval) has provided much comfort in recent years.  His debut solo album, the critically adored (and rightfully so) “Queen of Denmark,” is filled with songs I could have written myself, had I the talent to do so.  “Silver Platter Club” is one I listen to on those days when I feel like I’m just not enough, that i’m missing some as-yet-undiscovered “social acceptance” gene.

“I wish I had the genes of Edwardo Verastegui
That I was effortlessly masculine as well

I wish that confidence was all you could see in my eyes
Like those interviews in locker rooms with talented sports guys

I wish I had no self-awareness like the guys I know

Float right through their lives without a thought

And that I didn’t give a shit what anybody thought of me

That I was so relaxed you’d think that I was bored”

And the title song, whatever it’s actual lyrical intent as an overall composition, includes words that bring me to tears every time I hear them, for they so perfectly describe the hopelessness of being mired in addiction:

Who’s gonna be the one to save me from myself?
You better bring your stun gun and perhaps a crowbar
You better pack a lunch and get up really early
And you should probably get down on your knees and pray

I could blather on for hours about artists who have moved me in one way or another, but I’ve rambled long enough.


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