French Fried Grey Matter and the Difference Between Me an You


my boss recently told me that someone once close to me told them that my brain was fried from drugs. and yes, ive dabbled in my share of the illicits, but fried my brain? no. certainly not. if anything my brain might be fried from constant dealings with idiots like the one mentioned above. its these people with their high horses all filled with bullshit that tend to fry the synapses of ye old mental bubbler. these people with their constipated views on the way that others should think, act, or be, like there was no generation better than the one that they might belong to, there are no rules that apply better than the ones that they adhere to, and there is no lifestyle better than the one that they themselves live. ive met all kinds of people in my brief existence, and i can tell you that morons come in all shapes, sizes, color, creed, and most importantly economic class.
i once worked with a fellow, both docile and lumbering in his frame of six foot six, that at one time served in the merchant marines. no small feet, either in being a merchant marine, or those that laid at the end of his ankles. this man once told me in solace that he attributed all his successes to being an early morning riser, and that those that sleep in miss so much opportunity to succeed in the latter part of the day. the thing about this man whose name was Tony, was that he not only carried with him intense knowledge on all subjects- he probably had an IQ far and away above the mendoza line, im guessing 150 or thereabouts- but he was also the worst alcoholic ive ever met. (i can state this claim irrefutably. my education on alcoholism began at an earlier age then most. ask anyone in my family.)
Tony and i would share lunch breaks together when we were both working at a turbine plant making integral pieces to jet engines just outside Troy NY. i would eat my bagged lunch, or if too poor for a brown bag, whatever change i could scrounge together to create a peace meal out of coin operated vending machine fritos and ho hos and 1.00 dollar burritos. (you know youre eating garbage when all the main components of your dinner end in the letters O and S) Tony on the other hand would compile his lunch from a raw potato, or tomato, a slice of bread, and a fifth of rot gut vodka. you know the ones in the plastic bottles that come from such distant and exotic lands as Canada, or Connecticut, or Sommerville, Massachusetts. Tony and i would gnaw on our food in his 1983 honda civic hatchback with a garbage bag electrically taped over his previously smashed and now nonexistent passenger side window in the dead cold of winter. we would talk about how to navigate at sea using only the stars as a compass, or the greatest generals in the history of time, all the while he would slug that fifth until the only thing remaining was vapor. (i was young and stupid, and reading Sun Tzu at that point in my life, so i argued that it was indeed Sun and not Alexander the Great as he would state. like i said- i was young. and stupid) and eventually our conversations would linger into his drunken babblings of being unworthy of Gods love and how he had forsaken his family. and then after 45 minutes of intense dialog we would return to work where eventually Tony would make a complete ass of himself by doing something that only drunk people can do at work... and get away with.
i once went to church with Tony, to prove to him that not only was he James-Worthy of His love, but that he was capable of making amends on a spiritual foundation that he could later use to build upon for further successful impact. six weeks later Tony slept in for what would be the first and last time in his life, as he was found dead in his single room apartment, complete with communal bathroom, that rested above the stockade inn in Schenectady NY. heart failure said the coroners. that foundation that was laid before him had been sledgehammered by his own compulsions. that was the last time that i went to church, its not like i was a regular before that instance, and certainly not that i hold a grudge against christianity or God itself, i was just affected by the experience is all.
*-this is just one example of many of people ive known whose brains are/were fried from their battles with substance abuse. i could write a book, and may still, about my dealings with the underbelly of societies liver.-*
but its times like now, when i hear about those usually pursed lips that looked like an asshole on a mans face, those lips that eventually pinched open and spewed forth shit about me to a boss of mine at my place of business, and in the past when things like this happened i tended to well with venom and acid and strike verbal acrid and let the repercussions figure themselves out after. but not anymore, i know who i am, and am comfortable in my past dealings with humanity to understand the difference between those people who hold honor and integrity as a sword, and those who hold it like Bob Dole does those pens, as a prop to look competent when we all know that a stiff breeze could dislodge that prop from your dead hand that connects to a soft arm that leads to a weak soul. and thats the difference between me, and people like that pursed lipped man. honor is a sword that i keep sheathed, integrity is a pen that you sir, lose daily. good luck to you in finding and holding on to what it is that you have lost.