BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Yeah… I know. But sometimes that happens…

I have met some wonderful people throughout my touring, etc. I have made some very dear friends. Hell, I’ve even made a few enemies, probably. But, this blog is about one of the friends.

In reality, what this is about is his blog…

While I have some widely varied opinions on controlled substances – for instance, I believe Marijuana should be legalized. It’s not my thing- Scotch, Bourbon, Martini’s and Vodka Tonics are (in moderation) – but I still think it should be legalized. Just my two cents.

However, there are other drugs which are so insidious and addictive that they literally destroy lives. I have seen this happen with former friends who were unable to shake the addiction. Fortunately, in a few instances, they were…and, by their own choice, after succeeding in breaking the cycle have chosen to move away and start new lives, forsaking their pasts – even the good parts. While I miss them, I am supportive of them in doing this…If that is what it takes for them to stay clean, and have a liveable life…

But, the point behind this was my friend’s blog. He has seen far more than I have, and has written something from experience which is more powerful than anything I could ever say on this subject. I would like to suggest that EVERYONE read it. It is important… It brings the reality home… And, it promotes a deep understanding of the real victims of someone’s addiction.

With his gracious permission, I have reposted the blog below…

Thanks…

More to come…

Murv

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A Taste-Johnny Seitz

Sinus pills. Cough syrup. Drain cleaner. Hair spray. Fertilizer. Paint thinner. Freon. Brake fluid. Battery acid. Lye. Epsom salt. An inability to sleep. Loss of tooth enamel. Increased sensitivity to noise and light. Paranoia. Confusion. Razors. Syringes. Baggies. Foilies. Smoke. Snort. Shoot. Amp. Ice. Speed. Glass. Dope. Crank. Meth. An amphetamine derivative in the form of a crystalline hydrochloride. Used as a stimulant to the nervous system. High. Spun. Hopped up. Doped. Tripped out. Tweeked. Zoomed.

It controls you. Changes you. Breaks you down and rebuilds you. Nothing else matters. Not your house. Your bills. Your kids. Your job. The next fix. That’s all there is. That rush. That boost. Feeling alive. Being awake. Clean the house. Make some money.

No.

Generalities. Cold fact. Words…

See all the holes in the wall? Those are where the under cover’s had put the wires to listen in. And those trash bags covered with blankets stapled to the windows, those are to keep people from watching. Why is the carpet gone by the couch? Because that mother fucker hid some dope in here somewhere…I saw him messing around over there and I know he put that shit under the carpet. All these clothes are in a pile because I’m sorting through them. All my jewelry? I have it in a sandwich bag hidden in the fireplace so people don’t try to steal it. I took the TV apart so I can rig up a camera to watch the door so I know if people are sneaking up on the house.

“Did you hear that?”
“No.”
“Shh! The dog’s barking, fucking cops must be outside! Get on the floor!”
“Why get on the floor? The window’s are all covered?”
“FUCKING DO WHAT I SAY!”
“The dog’s probably barking because you haven’t fed her in a week.”

Three a.m. You’re 14. Your bedroom door swings open and screaming and profanities stream in. Before your eyes are even open you hear the sounds of breaking glass. The light comes on and you see your mother, naked and brandishing a hammer, screaming and smashing in the middle of your room. You can’t follow what she’s saying, it’s too sporadic. It’s too loud. You sit, stunned for a moment, taking in what is going on. Trying to make sense of a senseless situation. Then the hammer takes out your TV screen, and your pictures on the wall. You try to stand up but as you move, something flies at your head and shatters next to your ear. It’s a glass bowl. The screaming is getting louder and the hammer is finding more and more targets. The floor to ceiling mirror. The stereo. Knocking holes in the wall. Throwing object after object at you, who is still struggling to free yourself from the sheets. The noise. The chaos. And then the hammer comes at you, grazes your temple, and smashes through your bedroom window. You’re mother is trying to punch you at this point. You don’t know where the hammer is. She’s screaming in your face, you still can’t understand her. You can see the whites of her eyes as you try to squirm away. Her pupils are as big as dinner plates. By the time you’re out of your bed she’s trying to throw you into the wall. You try to restrain her but she’s so slick with sweat and squirming and fighting against you so hard that it’s like trying to hold onto a live fish. Your nose gets bloodied. All you can do at this point is try to get her out of your room, so you push her toward the door. She fights back but you catch her off guard with a hard shove the second time and she falls through the opening. You slam the door and lock it. She kicks and beats and punches the door until you hear the wood splinter on the outside and her let out a wail of pain. Then it stops. You sit back and try to take in everything that went on, but you still can’t comprehend what just happened. So you focus on the destruction. Your things destroyed. Your room, your sanctuary, in shambles. Glass everywhere. Blood on your face. A short while later an armed policewoman kicks in your door. Your mother had called the police and said that you’d attacked her and were out of control. The officer handcuffs you and puts you into the back of the car. And you cry.

Arguing from the next room. I turn up the TV to try to drown it out. It doesn’t work so I decided to go outside. As I stand up I hear a loud noise and feel a burn on my cheek. I hit the floor. Mother and her boyfriend are spun and fighting. And he shot at her. When it came through the wall it was so close to my head that I ended up with a powder burn on my left cheek.

“GET OUT!”
“What are you guys doing in my room?”
“GET THE FUCK OUT! NOW!”
“I need my backpack..”
The door slams and I turn and head up the stairs to catch the school bus without any of my books. As I’m almost up the stairs I’m passed by the people who were in my room.
“FUCKING RUN!”
And I did.
Boom. The lab blew and took many of my things with it. Why was it in my room when there was a whole basement around it?

You can just sit and watch people die when they’re cranking. It really reminds you of watching one of those videos in health class on fast forward. In a months time you can see someone physically change to an extreme. You can watch them loose weight and teeth and hair. If you weren’t there every day, you’d easily not recognize them in a short period of time. Being around this mess makes you numb to everything. There is nothing stable. There is nothing you can count on, it’s just a lot of waiting for the next horrible thing to happen. And it will. The neglect is remarkable. ’I’m not eating or sleeping so why should my kids?’ People in and out at all hours. Your possessions being stolen or traded for drugs. Even your pets. The kids dog, traded for a blast.

One day you’ll get that knock on the door. The police will drag you outside in cuffs and raid your house. Eventually, you’ll convince them that you’re only 15 and they’ll un-cuff you and make you sit in the back of the car. You know what’s coming. You see your mom trying to make a run for it, and being tackled. You see her get sprayed with mace and dragged back inside at gun point. What’s horrible about it is that you don’t feel anything. Nothing. You’re completely numb. Your dad comes to get you and your sister, who’s been inside through all of this. On your way through to get your clothes your mom tries to hug you, crying, and saying how much she loves you and how sorry she was. You don’t hug back. You’re too disgusted. She goes through the system and gets out of trouble, but doesn’t change her act. You see her on and off when she wants something or is trying to steal all your dad’s change off his dresser. Three years later she doesn’t even come to see you, her first born child, when she finds out that you had stomach cancer. And soon enough, she’s in prison.

Meth. It controls you. Changes you. Breaks you down and rebuilds you. Nothing else matters. Not your house. Your bills. Your kids. Your job. The next fix. That’s all there is. That rush. That boost. Feeling alive…

Or, so she would have you all believe…

Now, before you die hard “Morrisonites” go nuts and threaten to burn me at the stake, read on, digest the evidence, and THEN make your decision. I suspect you will reach the same conclusion as I.

Now, to understand exactly WHY I am calling her friendship into question, we must begin with Chicken and Dumplings. Why Chicken and Dumplings you ask? Well, for starters, C&D’s are pretty darned good. Especially to folks who are Southerners like Morrison and me. C&D’s that aren’t totally screwed up (i.e. all mushy and gloopy) are comfort food to the Southern palate. They harken back to mama’s kitchen, the big cast iron kettle on the stove, and the wonderful and peppery aroma of stewed hens fresh from the yard combined with the tender and flavorful dumplings that have simmered in the lovely juices. (Damn…now I want a plate of them…*wistful sigh*)

But, to continue, they are a meal that sticks with you for just the right amount of time– they warm you and they even carry the right combination of enzymes to make you feel better when you have a cold. In short, they are one of the most perfect foods on the face of the earth.

Where the hell am I going with this? Read on…

Now, there is something else you should know about Chicken and Dumplings. If you pull into any Cracker Barrel in the United States, they will have a big ol’ pot of C&D’s simmering away in the kitchen. Now, while it is romantic to think they have a replica of mama’s kitchen back there, complete with the cast iron pot, I know better. It is a commercial kitchen, and the C&D’s are more than likely bubbling away in a big stainless steel stock pot, or in a tray on a steam table. But, that’s okay. They learned how to make C&D’s the right way. I even watched a show on Food Network where they talked about learning how to do it properly from a Southern Gramma, so there you go. All I can say is that I’ve had them on countless occasions, and they are VERY good. Damn near the way mama (and, my Grandaddy Babb, who owned a diner in Fulton, KY where I’m from) used to make ’em.

And, of course the point above is that they are already on the stove…What does this mean? Simple – Pull into a Cracker Barrel, and if you’re in a hurry, order the Chicken and Dumplings. They’ll be in front of you FAST, they’ll be good and filling, and you’ll be back on the road in no time.

I know, you still have no clue why it is that I think Morrison is actually evil and out to get me…Keep reading, you’ll understand soon…

So, as you all know Morrison and I tour together quite a lot. And, as I have talked about in the past, book tours encompass many modes of transportation. One of the primaries, however, is still the good old automobile. So, this means that be it my truck, her Jeep, or even a rental car, we cruise the highways and byways of the U.S. much like Tod and Buzz on Route 66. (Yeah, I’m dating myself again, but that’s not the point here…)

Now, being hard working authors, we get hungry. Powerful hungry in fact. Meaning, we need to eat. However, you must remember that there are times when we are doing multiple stores in multiple cities all in one day. So, we are doing a lot of driving and rushing about to get to places on time. Stopping to eat requires that it be QUICK, reasonable, and since we both like for it to be at least halfway decent, Cracker Barrel has literally become the “Official On The Road Restaurant of all Morrison-Sellars Book Tours”… Now, THEY might not know this, but we do…(Hmmmm…maybe we should tell them…That way maybe we’d get some kind of endorsement contract or something…Maybe even some free Chicken and Dumplings…)

Anyway, now I am digressing…

So, here’s the thing. Whenever we stop at Cracker Barrel, since the Chicken and Dumplings are so quick to be had, this allows Morrison an opportunity to shop (let me tell you, this is something she does like a maniac. It’s just plain frightening)…Anyway, so she shops in the “Country Store”…Thus far, she hasn’t forced me to strap a rocking chair to the hood of the vehicle or anything, but she has actually done far worse…

You see, the folks at Cracker Barrel sell some pretty odd crap. Everything from the nostalgic candies of my youth to John Deere hats. However, they also sell silly mechanical noisemaking animatronic bizarro holiday oriented thingywhatsits.

AHA! Now we have the evidence!

Yes. Morrison, being the good “Aunt” to my child that she is, has found it necessary on such occasions to purchase, for my child, these bizarro animatronic whatsits.

We currently have a Parrot which digitally records 5 seconds of sound, then morphs it through filters and replays it not once, but three times in succession at high pitch, high volume, and high speed. However, the thingywhatsit that triggered this particular blog is this:

This damn Easter frog thingywhatsit is currently sitting in a chair in my dining room. As you can see, it ain’t exactly small. On top of that, it is wired with both sound and motion sensors. Now, the thing about these sensors is that they are selectively operating sensors. What this means is that if you for some reason, (like you’ve had a few too many and have lost your mind) actually want to show someone how it works, you can jump up and down in front of it, shout, clap, and even fire a gun next to its friggin’ head and it will just stand there staring at you. (and yes, I’ve always checked to make sure it is switched on.) However, if it just happens that someone’s cell phone rings three blocks away, or a drosophila melanogaster (aka fruit fly) flies past the window, this freakin’ thing starts waving its arms and babbling in a high-pitched, childlike voice- It’s the best Easter ever! Time for an Easter egg hunt! It’s Easter time! Hooray for Easter! ad nauseum…

And that, my dear friends is why I am convinced that Morrison is not really my friend, but actually someone sent by a foreign espionage type agency on a mission to drive me insane.

And, you know what else? I think Kristin Madden is her partner.

Murv