A Devil in the City of Angels: A New Yorker's Journey to Los Angeles

A Devil in the City of Angels: 

A New Yorker's Journey to Los Angeles

Be proud, California...

Ever since I heard "California Sun" by the Ramones, I pictured California (particularly Los Angeles) as a sprawling Mecca of surfboards, dune buggies, burger joints, and bikini chicks. I wanted to trek out there on a mission to surf, skate, and score babes.  Some of my early college choices were based there, but, alas, I stayed hunkered down on the East Coast several more years before I finally made the journey out west.

Of course, the first time I visited California, I went to the San Fran/Bay area.  I packed shorts and tank tops, expecting the sun to blare down on me for the entire week.

Nope.  I froze my nuts off.  I then realized that my view of California was completely off, at least for Northern Cali.  As a native New Yorker, I judged and measured the Bay Area against my home turf: great landscape, crappy roads, and good seafood.  Aside from being where my wife hailed from and it being the current home of a childhood friend, I liked Northern Cali: a beautiful place, but I'd never live there.

Deep inside, I felt that the dream of California, my perfect vision, lay in Los Angeles.  I thought of this city as my mistress to my hometown, so different, yet so seductive.  At 38 years old, my understanding of Los Angeles would grow beyond my childhood Beach Blanket Bingo wet dreams.  It still held a mystique I yearned to uncover and see first hand.  Thus, when I was afforded the opportunity to go out there for business, I silently squealed with glee.

Dreams are dreams, and expectations are to no fault, except to those that hold them.  I was no exception.  I liken the experience to hooking up with the hot girl at the party and then waking up next to her the following morning: no make-up, no pretense, just raw "this is who I am".

And it with with those thoughts, I am compelled to make the following comparisons between both cities, based on my short stay, but also fueled by my knack to pick up on the minor details most folks overlook.  

 
Theme Song: Newman vs. Sinatra

 Your city ain't shit unless you have a theme song.  New York and Los Angeles are no exception, except they each have well known, more than most, melodies that pay homage to their respective metropolis. But this is no contest.

Oh, Randy Newman, you have dropped the ball on this one.  You may have won our hearts with "Short People" and that saccharine crap from the Toy Story movies, but your ode to L.A. sucks. It's dated 80's synth, pop-rock poop.  You can't hide behind your claims of satire when it is used in ad campaigns and at the end of sporting events.  It's lame.   Trees, mountains, homeless people, and rich movie stars do not a theme song make.

"New York, New York", on the other hand, is a timeless, classy tune crooned by Hoboken legend Frank Sinatra.  Sure, Frank isn't from New York, but we consider New Jersey to be our bastard cousin.  We may pick on the red-headed little bugger, but it's still family.  And this track is perfect.  The pace of class and drive of overcoming the odds is synonymous with the Big Apple and all the crap that we face on the daily grind we call "survival".  I also assert that if Sinatra was still alive, he would dick-whip Randy Newman in a fight. 

Ah, L.A., you'd have been better off clinging to "City of Angels" by The Distillers.  It captures the grit and grime of your city with a flair for utter cool. Very awesome and catchy.  Plus, it has a female singer who doesn't seem to channel her voice from her ovaries.   

 

Punk rock anthem, you say? A-ha! I counter back with "New York. New York" by Manitoba's Wild Kingdom.  Check and MATE!

The winner: Old Blue Eyes and Handsome Dick Manitoba.


Rock n' Roll scene

O.K., I brought rock n' roll into the mix.  We can band for band, but we won't.  I'll just bring up The Ramones and stop listening to you altogether.  So let's talk about the rock n' roll scene.

Check out our new album: Bromance, Tattoos, and Irony

When you think New York, you might create images of leather-clad rockers with steel-eyes and a wry grin.  Nope.  Not even close.  We've been plagued by hipsters and silky boys.  New York rock n' roll has lost its edge.  Sure, there are a handful of acts that rock out and rock out well, but we lost our edge and danger.  Our rock is too sensitive and emotional.  Or funky.  I'm sorry, but NY is guilty of trying to fuse everything with funk and reggae.  It's not working out, let me assure everybody.  What about my favorite  screamcore/rap acts?  Nope.  Played out. Even Florida jumped off of that bandwagon years ago.  Shit, even punk bands, like the Bouncing Souls, whine about their feelings and bromances.  Gone ore the days when NY was represented by the likes of Anthrax, Kiss, or the Fast Four.  The face of NY is Vampire Weekend, MGMT, and whatever sweater-wearing douche crawled out of his bed bug infested Brooklyn loft with a Casio keyboard to get up on stage to stare at his shoes for an hour.  This list claims to have the "greatest 50 Rock Bands form NY" and it sucks.  More than half of it is bovine excrement.  Quite frankly, I am hurt and ashamed, as a NY'er and as a rock musician.

Alas, CBGB's, I knew thee well....

I blame Bloomberg and the closing of CBGB's.  It was a pounding pulse of rock n' roll with so much history and awesome, other cities were rightfully jealous. Once that joint closed, the rock scene took a major nosedive. The cardigan-clad feelings-mongers crept in and injected their venom. Of course, some penguin-esque douche from Boston is to blame. No wonder all Boston has is Aerosmith and Irish-influenced punk bands that sing about drinking and child abuse.

In L.A., hair metal and hard rock lives well.  Aside from the rock and metal stations (of which I listened to religiously out there, almost ejaculating at the DJ's exclamation of "Mandatory Metallica" followed by choice cuts from "Ride the Lightning" and "Kill'em All").  Punks, emo, thrash, glam, hard rock...it's all there. They have given us so many iconic bands (you literally could stop at Guns n' Roses). They rock and they rock well.  All day. All night.

They still have all the classic clubs: the Troubadour, Whiskey-a-go-go, and the Viper Room. There are certified rock shops where you can purchase platform boots, studded velvet army jackets, and chains to dangle in your rock star fantasies.  I was in heaven.  In NY, all we have are those crap stores run by Middle Eastern dudes peddling bongs (calm down, no racial connection there.  Go to St. Marks Place and tell me I'm wrong before you become an ethnic crusader). I knew NY was done for when I was in Rock Town on Hollywood Boulevard and saw Sacred Reich's "Surf Nicaragua" shirt for sale right next to S.O.D. shirts that haven't surfaced in NYC since I was 14.

I wish I started Adios Mafia in L.A.  I think they would appreciate the East Coast swagger and grime that are lost on my fellow city dwellers. And I think the crowds are much more receptive and interactive with the bands.  Here, in NY, they look at you like you're in a fishbowl and they're waiting for you to take a poop.

The winner: Los Angeles.  Rock n' roll is not dead.  Thank you. 

 
The People

So let me get the stereotypes out of the way. New Yorkers are always grumpy and in a rush, yet they have hearts of gold, steel resolve, and balls the size industrial, abstract art sculptures.  Plus, we're rude, violent, and drive like assholes.  Californians are flakey, granola munching, narcissists that live a glamorous life of indulgence and fantasy we only could hope for.  Plus, they're stuck up, violent, and drive like assholes. This is tough, so I'm going to be as objective as I possibly can. 

Here's me in my hotel room in L.A.

First thing I noticed about L.A. is how fit everyone is.  By NY standards, I'm chubby, at worst.  I got a spare tire; I can admit that. But when I started to stroll the city streets of L.A., I felt like Walter Hudson.  I guess the year-round nice weather makes the inhabitants more inclined to work out.  Aside from the plethora of L.A. Fitness, this city is strewn with Crossfit gyms for as far as the eye can see.  It's like a religion out there and it makes everyone shredded and muscular.  Not to say the L.A. doesn't have their fair share of the overweight, but they are on average the most physically fit people I've seen. And they don't have a fatty-size drink limit on their foods like we do.  WTF?

So they're more fit than NY'ers, but are they as tough and gritty?  No. L.A. is a sprawling city with hills and trees in the background.  NY is a grey cage of drab buildings that overpower and challenge your psyche for sanity.  We're crammed in, pissed off, and willing to tear your heart out if you cut us in line.  I cut somebody in line at a CVS in L.A., just to see what would happen (and, yeah, because I can be a dick).  All I got was a "Hey, guy.  What are you doing?".  I tried to hold in my laughter as he protested, "That's not right.  I WILL get the manager."  My conscience got the better of me and I profusely apologized, claiming I was just out of it because of the jet-lag time difference. He accepted my apology, but he attempted to lightly scold me for my error. Once I told him, "Look, buddy, I said I was sorry.  You're in front of me now, get over it and let it be." in my thick NY accent, he literally cringed.  I felt bad, as I didn't think our West Coast counterparts were so sensitive.  I was wrong.  And he was scared.

People in L.A. were genuinely nice, at least the ones I met.  I expected them to be plastic and haughty.  Not so.  Although there is a sense of entitlement (I am a citizen of Los Angeles and you will respect me), I can't say I met many assholes out there. However, they were flakes and seemed to have their heads parked between their butt cheeks.  It was like everyone had brain-fry after going on a 3-day MDMA bender, like they were lost in a fog of uncertainty or thinking about their next workout. Even the gangbangers seem to drift off mid-threat (ex.  Hey...fucker.  You don't know....who you fucking with, eh...fucker...).  In contrast, NY'ers are focused on their next errand or on not getting stabbed.  That's why we're in a rush.  We got shit to do and we don't want to die in the midst of carrying it out. 

What the fuck do you mean you're out of Newport lights?  I left my house for this shit?!

Why the difference? I can think of two major factors.  First, the weather.  L.A. does not have the grueling winters of NY which harden us into miserable bastards.  I'm sure if it was sunny and in the low 80s with little humidty, NY'ers would shed those pounds and contemplate their next physical activity.  But no.  After we shovel our car out of the snow embankment, we look forward to some alcohol and fried foods to comfort us in our time of misery.  When it's o degrees out with a rain and a windchill that would make Frosty's balls shrivel up, we don't want to be outside for more than 30 seconds. Relax, Buffalo and Chicago.  We know that you guys get hit harder in the winter, but you're not real cities.  Let the adults have a discussion here.

You know he's hiding a boner...

The second reason is the subway, or as like I like to call it "the International Cattle-car Jamboree of Piss and Vomit".  Everyone in Cali either drives or takes the bus.  It's not their fault.  They're on a fault line and any REAL subway system would be a claustrophobic nightmare of impending burial.  L.A. doesn't get to enjoy the experience of being pressed into a car with other NY'ers like Spam "meat", mashed into a inundating horror of strange body smells/fluids, shitty music blasting on ear buds, bed-bugs, and weirdoes that may or may not flash you their cocks after they grope you. Oh, you also have to deal with the very real fact that you may get stabbed. That's not the best part.  If you're lucky, the train conductor maybe drunk or on crack as he drives the train full of warring gang factions. So forgive us if we come across as being curt, gruff, and anything-less-than-pleasant.  Ride the 6 train from St. Lawrence to 14th St during rush hour and then tell me how many unicorns you feel like painting...if you survive.

Sure it's small for $2400 a month, but the view of the Hudson is worth it...

Did I mention Guidos?  I really missed my goombahs when I was in L.A., the only greasy, chain-wearing Neanderthals I saw in L.A. were Armenians. No Irocs, hair gel, or freestyle music.  I was sad.

Edge: New York.  We put up with some terrible shit on a daily basis and we are stronger and more resilient for it...like cockroaches.
 

Driving and Traffic

Dear L.A. drivers: please stop staring off into the mountains or playing Candy Crush on your phone while on the highway.  You have a turn signal.  Please use it.  And please do not observe the speed limit to "keep me in check" as I will tailgate you and try to send you off into a fiery ditch.  Please, "drive" or get the fuck out the way.

Sleep....sleep...sleep...

There.  I cannot and will not be objective about L.A. drivers.  I almost don't blame them for meandering through the streets at slow speeds.  Everything blinks, even the stop signs.  Why do your stop signs blink?  Because they can?  Is the bright red hexagon not obvious enough? You're a car culture that goes nowhere and drives like it. Why are you horrified by my sudden 3-point turn?  Have you never seen a 3-lane change executed with precision?  If you can turn on red and have your blinker on, why are you still sitting there?  And why, when I honk my horn, do you look at me as if I have a ski-mask on and my dong hanging out?  I don't get it.

How do you misuse so much space?!

OK, in NY, we are impatient and tend to honk the nano-second a light turns green.  Yes, we pass one another just to get to the red light first.  But, dammnit, we drive with purpose and passion. How they hell do you have a traffic jam on an 8-lane highway?  It's inconceivable.  There are so many highways and lanes, yet no one goes anywhere.  And all of the streets leading to such major conduits are jammed for miles.  It literally took me 48 minutes to travel 4 miles during rush hour.  Even the Cross Bronx (I-95) and the L.I.E. are nowhere near as bad.  Sure, we sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic, but we get though it.

Maybe it's because know how to drive.  We're looking for any crack or crevice to ram our car through to get ahead and keep the traffic moving.  I got somewhere to go and so does the next guy.  Don't jam me up and I'll return the favor.  Not in L.A.  You'll cram into a lane just to "teach people a lesson" and keep other drivers at bay. Your construction is also the worst.  Lanes are closed or stopped with no truck or workers there.  It's like you did it just because. Except in Queens.  I know not of what goes on there, as cars slow to a crawl because there is a curve in the highway.  Queens also holds the high distinction of making any GPS directions utterly useless because Queens once, briefly, contemplated designing a series of streets that were organized and promptly said, "Fuck that."

  

You let transit buses and trucks bully you on the road.   That doesn't fly in NY.  I've witnessed a Honda Civic hatchback cut-off a bus and dodge a Mack truck all in the span of 30 seconds.  The drivers never flinched, merely flicking each other the bird and yelling obscenities.  And that's another thing.  Man up when some one gives you the finger or curses at you. Just do it back or smile.  Don't look so mortified.  In my 20s, I was a real jerk on the road and had hand-signs and words for everybody.  In my 30s, I've stopped all that.  However, when someone does flip me off or calls me "a motherless cocksucker", I return the favor or smile at them and say "thanks".  I don't go to my therapist or run them down (as much as the latter option intrigues me).  I let it go because driving in NY is stressful.  Plus, I've been such a dick in the past, I probably deserve it. 

 

Yeah, that's a fleet of gyspy cabs in the distance...let's go back to Jersey.

What's going to happen when the apocalypse comes and your survival depends on driving through a desert, avoiding mutated cannibals that are out to eat you and steal your gas?  You'll be the first victims, Los Angeles.  Not NYC. We'll thrive on such a scenario.  I sleep well, knowing that a fleet of immigrant taxi drivers will protect the city with their aggressive and passionate vehicle operation skills that will run any band of motor maniacs off the road into oblivion.  

Edge: New York (except Queens).  We drive like our lives are on the line because they are.   



Pedestrians

There is a stark difference between NY pedestrians and L.A. pedestrians crossing the street.

In NYC, we know the risks and are not in the business of giving a fuck.

In L.A., I must have terrified an average of 15 pedestrians per day with my driving.  Why? Because I am a NY'er that drives like he is still in NY.  I pull up on corners to get a clear view of what's coming down the cross streets before I make my turns and block the box.  In NY, we have no parking at the corners, so I can see easily.  Not in L.A.  I have to block the pedestrian crossing so I can make sure a truck carrying organic onions doesn’t cream me. On one such occasion, I blocked a crosswalk.  I saw a group of teenagers coming down the block, and I mean they were at the OTHER end of the block.  2 had bikes, one carrying the skateboards, and another was armed with pubescent angst.  I was stuck at that point because of the cross traffic.  Cool. I'll wait it out and listen to some "Mandatory" Metallica.  Eventually, these youths made it to the crosswalk and glared at me.  To add to this, one of them started to lecture me about traffic rules.  Really?  What the hell is with L.A. denizens and their need to lecture people?   This is where that soft and fuzzy "let's talk about our feelings" gets you. I really must have pissed on their cornflakes by making them walk around my car, as they had the entire length of the block to notice me.  Perhaps, in that time, they were honing their points for their oncoming traffic lecture.  Well, unbeknownst to them, NYC fury is immediate and scathing.  My retort was quick and fierce.  Before he could finish his third sentence, I snapped out, "Hey, why don't you shut the fuck up before kick you off the fucking planet, you little turd."  Ghost white and silence.

Sure, I was wrong.  I could have just made a face.  But I guess I was tired of the lecturing going on in that city. I wasn't trying to impede their journey.  But I sure as hell wasn't in the mood to be given the finer points of vehicle operation by an acne-ridden kid on a bike.  Regardless, I'll take full responsibility for my rampant asshole-ism here.

That incident was highly indicative of the L.A. pedestrian attitude: I am pedestrian, yield and hear me roar.  As soon as the light changes, and I mean AS SOON as it changes, they barrel into the street, nary a glance at any car that may be hurtling towards them.  Are they not aware of the hunks of death metal careening through the streets driven by humans, the most backwards and stupid species on the planet?  Are they that ignorant and blissful?  Oh no, that's right, because most of them are texting or Googling the nearest Fro-Yo-Smoothie shop that offers gluten-free alternatives.

And not a single fuck was given that day or ever.

Maybe, like most NY'ers, I'm jaded and cynical.  I assume each and every time I cross a street, a car can (and will) pop out at any moment and strike me down.  I assume that drivers have designated a point value to my person and are attempting to break a personal high score.  You know how I learned to cross the street?  When I was six, I ran out onto Norman Ave and almost got flattened by a truck.  The driver freaked out, screeched to a halt, clutching his chest, while I stood there like a moron about to piss his pants.  I freaked out when he started yelling at me, running all the way back to my babysitter's house.  And you know what I learned? If I don't look when I am crossing, I will die.  End of story.

In NYC, we know that we shouldn't be crossing and take the risk anyways.  Because we got shit to do and don't want to die while doing it.  We dodge and juke our way through cars, regardless of crosswalk signals.  And we're better off for it (except in Queens...).  In Manhattan, it is common for a car to become enveloped by pedestrians if it is not fast enough to make a turn or get through an intersection.  Very rarely does the driver catch any flack (except by the White Knight Samaratin or traffic cop), and NEVER does the driver get lectured. Ever.   

Edge: New York.  Once again, our mindset is on survival.  You can keep your lectures, dweebs.


Food

I can fly through this pretty easy...

Most L.A. street food (and by most, I am gauging at 95%) is a taco wagon.  Nary a hot dog vendor to be found.  Most of the little restaurants are also Mexican. We get it.  You have a lot of Mexicans and they like Mexican food, and so do the gringos.  But we have lots of Mexicans, too. We also have Greek joints, Chinese take-out, bar food, Halal, Indian, Turkish, Thai, and a whole host of restaurants that offer one thing you do not have, Los Angeles: VARIETY.

Are they even aware of what they're advertising?

Don't get me started on what you call Italian food.  Olive Garden is not Italian food.  Let's talk about that doughy abortion you call pizza, or more annoyingly "'za".  Just because you make a circular piece of dough with cheese and some tomato byproduct does not give you the right to call it pizza.  You lose.  And you should be sent to Detroit to think about what you have done.

Please, get a respectable ice cream shop and stop "going out for yogurt".  You're gross and nasty. Stop it. Right now.  Eat ice cream or give up desserts completely.  I decree it.  

What is with the food trucks?  Sure, NYC has our fair share now, but L.A. started it.  Ugh.  Do I really need artisan French fries...oops, I mean frites with vinaigrette mustard and guacamole?  Sounds good in theory, but not when some sweaty dude slaps it together in the back of a truck crammed in a parking lot with several other "artisan" food caterers.  (On a side note: NYC, will you stop with all those goddamn cupcake trucks?  Seriously.  Do we need that many cupcakes?)

Proof that God exists and he LOVES us!

Yet, you shine in one major and important food offering: the burger. You have the burger game on lockdown.  Yes, we have 5 Guys and Shake Shack, but neither can light the flatulence of the most amazing burger of all: In-n-Out Burger.  It is mandatory that when I land in California, I immediately get a double-double animal style with animal fires.  And if you don't know what that is, I hate you.  And if you're a vegan, go away before I cook you and eat you.  These burgers are so fresh and juicy.  I make it a point to taunt all who know of its awesomeness with videos, pictures, and texts because I am an asshole.  Did I mention that there's a secret menu?  Oh, sweet baby Harry, that is awesome.  And the workers are always congenial, not that hood-rat attitude you get from that angry girl behind the bulletproof glass at White Castle.

  

Edge: TIE!  NYC got the pizza, L.A. has the burger. Touchee`, my West Coast compadres.  



Times Square vs. Hollywood Boulevard

Shitty tourist trap vs. shitty tourist trap.  Who will win?

Hmm, both have crappy vendors selling crappy merchandise.  Both are jammed with waddling tourists and annoyed locals.  Both are inhabited by poorly costumed characters pretending to be the real deal while preying on waddling tourists (however, in NYC, only recently has there been a crackdown on these characters after Elmo attacked a 2-year-old).  

Times Square: taller buildings, more theme restaurants, big name shopping, and a militarized police presence.

Hollywood Blvd:  Shorter buildings, nicer weather, Hollywood walk of fame, and cholos. 

Edge: You decide.  But only do so after looking at the following picture I took while on Hollywood Boulevard.

Hollywood Boulevard: Home of the Free Baby

The Homeless

I've saved the weirdest for last.  I though NYC had the market shut down in this department.  We’ve got homeless guys with bricks and needles and pretending to be Jimi Hendrix.  But we are nowhere near the critical level of L.A.

I heard of the shantytowns beneath the highways and the roving bands of transients.  I saw not. I witnessed some dude strolling with a shopping cart in his pajamas.  And not a single person looked askew at him.  And he had bedroom slippers on.  I had to give it to him because his PJ's were crisp and clean.  His sack of belongings? Not so much.  Otherwise, he looked like he strolled out of bed and ran away from home, just in adult form.

No one referred to me as "big man", as in "Hey, big man, you got a quarter?".  I rather enjoyed that, especially in L.A. where I felt as corpulent as John Goodman.  Generally, the people that approached me for change or cigarettes (alas, they were fooled by my electronic EON smoke) were polite and nowhere near the aggressive stature of NYC homeless. 

The clincher that blew my mind occurred one morning at a bus stop.  An old guy was arguing with the bus stop.  He was gesturing and shoving his finger at the posted route schedule attached to the pole.  He was animated and angry, throwing his hands up and even threatening to kick the bus stop's ass.  Why?  Because of the Civil War.  According to this man, the Civil War was fought between Angels and Devils.  It was the apocalypse and we are in the afterlife, hell to be exact, as the devils won the war.  Satan was the president according to his understanding.  Making it more perplexing was the fact that he was African-American.  I'm not saying that he should have been on the North's side of the war, and I'm not here to argue the merits of this conflict versus the economic and political stimuli that really drove the war.  But another guy did.  And this gentleman was also of the African-American persuasion.  He said to the homeless man, "Brotha, if they didn't win the war, you'd still be a slave."  The homeless man's response was thus: "I'm not black. I'm a DRAGON!".  He then began to flap his arms and pretended to fly.

I wanted to go back home and pull the covers over my head.

In the end...

I'm a Native New Yorker, born and bred.  For better or worse, I wear that with pride.  I may seem like I believe NYC is the center of the universe.  We're not.  We're pretty damn close, but we're not.  We have plenty of faults.  They're just faults that I have learned to live with and love.

As for L.A., I will gladly go back to you r city because you are one of a kind. I was intrigued and know that I have only scratched the surface of what you have to offer.  You're pretty kick-ass in ways I never thought of.  Let's do it again. 

For those of you wishing to come to NYC, I say, "Welcome!"   But you seriously need to watch this video first....

Nick Marv is a lovable New Yorker that promises to not be a jimolk in your city when he visits.  .

Breaking Anonymity

Breaking Anonymity:

How to successfully deal with people trying to get sober and not kill them or force them to relapse in the process 

Hi.  My name is Nick and I'm an alcoholic, amongst many other things. And apparently I am a terrible recovering alcoholic because I am breaking my anonymity with you all. But I don't give a shit.  I'm not ashamed and I don't want your pity. 

And no, I am not here to warn you about the ills of substance abuse in the hopes that you will take inventory in your own life and make the necessary changes of teetotaling and abstinence. Relax. I'm not here to judge and I don't care. Go snort some bumps, roll a blunt and wash it down with a shot of Jameson.  Seriously, I don't care what you do and how you live your life,  You can take that as my olive branch of "I-won't-judge-you-bro" or as a caustic shot across your bow.  Your choice; I don't care.  So let's move on...

February 2007 was a rough month.  By rough month, I mean I had several fistfights, constant arguments with my boss, a toxic relationship, a serious run in with the law, and a need to leave NY for week until things settled down.

It was a glamorous life that I was sad to leave behind.

This was also the time in my life when I hit my rock bottom and realized that I could not live in the manner I had been living: paranoid, violent, irresponsible, chaotic, unhealthy, dirty, and abhorrently dishonest. I could regale you with all my wanton tales of insanity, but that's not my purpose today.  This is not a confession.  Besides, I assure you that my story is in no way unique.  I was your typical degenerate alcoholic/addict with a penchant for the absurd.  All I knew was that I had become everything I had feared I would become, and alcohol and dry goods were the fuel for my down-fall. It was time to make a change, and I did. End of story.


I just read an article on a popular website about "5 Things I learned by Being Sober".  And I don't want to link the article or bash it (Ah, screw it. Read it for yourself here.).  However, I feel the author left out some serious stuff about sobriety and I want to clear it up and/or add some aspects I feel were important. This is my perspective.  In the process, I am sure that I am going to anger some of my fellow AA members.  Sorry.  But your program is not my program.  Learn to share and not compare. 

And more importantly, I want YOU, the uninitiated, to be more aware of what someone going through rehab or trying to get sober is going to go through.  You know, just in case you truly care or are just morbidly curious.



The First Few Days

My initial reaction to sobriety was, "What the fuck did I do to my life?!"   All my friends at the time were drinkers and such, and I did not feel comfortable going to them.  All my co-workers were distant from me as a result of my inebraited behavior at work after-functions.  My apartment resembled the life of a junkie with dirty dishes piled up, bottles strewn everywhere and piles of clothes tossed about the floor.  Everyone I associated with were either drinkers, drug users, or dealers. I felt alone.

I wanted to die.  I honestly hoped that I would have a heart attack or some long-forgotten adversary would burst open the door and shoot me in the face, multiple times. It didn't happen.

Then the survival mindset kicked in.  This feeling of "live at all costs" surged through.  I tried reaching out to friends, but no one really picked up (except for one dude that I am FOREVER loyal to).  I had only my family, at first.  Mom was not pleased and thought I was over-reacting.  Dad was shocked, but understood.  They didn't know I had a problem because I had hidden it (which was easy, considering they lived in another state).  I was a mess, but I knew better than to call my parents in a drunken rage or hung-over. And I'm glad I did open up, overcoming the impending fear of disappointing one's parents.  My dad gave me my first ray of hope when he said to me, "Why would I be ashamed or mad at you?  I have a son that wants to get sober and clean his life up.  I love you and I am proud of you."  My brother kicked in and took me to my first sober meeting. What would have happened if they didn't support me?

I was lucky.  Some alcoholics and addicts have NO ONE.  They are left to their own devices, having burned every bridge imaginable and betraying all trust they were given.  Their initial journey into sobriety is a lonely path. They have nobody giving a shit whether they live or die, get sober or get trashed.  So think about that if there's someone in your life trying to do the right thing. Are you really giving them "tough love" or are you just being a dick?

And those first few days are frightening for another reason: feelings.  As a man, I am naturally fearful of my emotions, seeing them as a sign of weakness (this is the part where you "tsk" and sneer down at me because you're a "progressive" and you think I am an outdated neanderthal).  As an alcoholic, I blunted them with substance after substance, poor decision after poor decision. I had only 2 consistent feeling: being fucked up and shame.  Now I had to deal with all sorts of shit like anger, fear, worry, inadequacy, and all the other ones I tried to blot out for years. Do you know what anger feels like when you first get sober?  It's like someone set your body on fire after they removed the skin.  Fear is a merciless bastard when you first get sober. It feels like the moon is going to crash down towards planet Earth and smash you in the nuts. It's overwhelming trying reconnect and properly manage your repressed feelings, especially because it happens immediately.

Is this anger or a deuce?

Physically, many go through withdrawal, depending what and how much they used.  DT's can be a nightmare. I've never had anything like that, but I knew a guy that went through it.  Seeing it firsthand scared the drink out of me for the next few months.  Vomit, diarrhea, retching, cramps, fever.  Fuck that.  I was lucky.  The worst thing I had was the "Drunk Dream".  Some of the old timers refer to this as "bonus time".  This is when your body is expelling the substances and you have lucid dreams in which you feel like you're drunk or high. I felt guilty at first, but you get over it.  Or secretly enjoy it.

The recently sober are fragile and intense.  Tread carefully.  But Nick, they fucked up and ruined their lives.  Not my problem. I see your point, you heartless bastard.  Sure, go in for the quick kill and gloat over a weakened soul.  Or you can just be a compassionate human being.  Your choice. 



Making meetings

Meetings, I feel, are essential to establish sobriety.  When I thought of AA and all associated groups, I thought they were like Druid rituals, held in church basements whilst hooded people in cloaks chanted around candles. I kinda hoped it was, but sadly, it wasn't.  And it sure as hell wasn't like anything I say in the movies where some preppy in glasses with a clip board wants everyone to "get real with their feelings".  It's much different than what you expect, especially for the recovering addict/alcoholic.  Here is what one faces in sobriety within the rooms...



           The Good

Typcial AA meeting.  Except for the dude in the cowboy hat...maybe.

In fact, the first AA meeting I ever went to, I was high.  I was taking somebody I cared about to a meeting in support of his sobriety.  But hey, I didn't have a problem at the time, so why not get trashed? And I wasn't friednly at all to the gentlemen that asked me, "Are you OK?  Do you have a problem?"  I promptly informed this guy that he was going to have a problem if he didn't leave me alone.  There I was at my first AA meeting, high, drunk, and ready for violence.

So the day I decided to make a change, I went to my first meeting, sober.  It freaked me out.  I knew at that moment I was in trouble, that I had decimated my life and had fucked up royally.  Fear overcame me and I wept.  But I left relieved.  People there were friendly.  They approached me and comforted me, offering phone numbers and an empathetic ear. Again, I had hope, but this time with understanding.
 

Yeah, sometimes we hold hands.  So what?

You have no idea how important that empathetic ear can be.  I've said this in meetings and I say it to you: the only person that can TRULY understand an alcoholic or an addict is another alcoholic or addict.  When I finally loosened up and began speaking in the rooms (terminology for AA meetings), I was able to say how I felt or what I was thinking. After several months of sobriety, at a meeting, I talked about how pissed off I was.  I had destroyed the cabinetry in my kitchen in a fit of rage, turning my knuckles into bandaged carnage (perhaps I had latent animosity towards wood-work, but more likely I had difficulty with my anger).  I shared that I wish I owned a flame thrower just so I could run around the streets and shoot it up in the sky to scare everybody, so that they could feel the anxiety and uncertainty that I felt. In today's age of over-reaction, I was concerned that someone might call the cops on me or report me, but I wanted to be real and honest with myself.  I needed to open up and not tell people what I felt they wanted to hear.  I wanted to say what I wanted to say.  Sure, some of the group members gave me awkward looks or turned their heads.  I don't blame them (as I am sure you may feel the same way).  But at the end of the meeting, two people came up to me and thanked me for my honesty.  They admitted to having similar feelings, and one even said he wished to own a flame-thrower for similar reasons.  We laughed about it.  I was comforted.  They were comforted.  The AA spirit was at work.That is what alcoholics and addicts get out of these meetings: support, comfort, and understanding.

          The Bad

Yet, that's not always the case.  AA meetings are not all warm and fuzzy.  Your newly recovering alcoholic/addict still faces some challenges within the rooms.

Tony, you believe this fuckin' guy?!

Some meetings are like cliques. Everyone knows each other and they don't open up to outsiders beyond a cursory level.  I went out for a smoke break during a meeting and saw a group of guys having their stoges in one particular area.  I figured that was the place least likely to piss off people that didn't smoke, so I went over there.  As soon as I did, one of the group, in his satin contractor jacket, tight jeans, and Paulie-Walnuts haircut asked me, "What are you doin' over here?"  I told them that I thought this was where the smokers could go. "No, kid.  This is where WE go to smoke.  Hey, Timmy, can you believe this fuckin' kid?"  It was like my third meeting, so I didn't know any better. I wanted to punch him in his fat Roman nose, but I stayed shut, skulking off to have my cigarette elsewhere.  I did not feel welcome.  I did not feel that this meeting would be a safe place.  I wanted to go back inside and throw tables at at everyone. It wasn't high school; this was my life, my survival.  I returned to the meeting and scowled at everyone there, especially Jimmy Bobalooch.  I also decided that I would never return there again. If I continued to go to that meeting, I would have built up enough resentment to say, "Fuck it" and go out drinking again.  Thankfully, I realized it was a dangerous place to be.

Other meetings are just places to hook up.  I went to one location where all the good-looking girls were cared after, their coffee and cookies brought to them, chairs pulled out, etc.  The less attractive girls were left to fend for themselves.  They were ignored for the most part, unless any of them could bake or would give people rides home. And the pretty girls fed into it.  They loved the attention and the fawning.  I didn't want to throw chairs or tables.    I wanted to piss on the floor.  But I didn't. I just left. I would find no help in that type of meeting unless I had big tits, a tight sweater, and played the role of a cock-tease. I saw the practice of "12th Stepping" in full effect.  12th Stepping is when one member (usually a male) preys on a newer member (usually a female), feigning a caring and wise ear just so they can bump uglies. It's fucked up and pathetic, but hey, how is that different from the rest of the human race?

Another meeting, I was chastised for using "coarse language". I was new there and was asked to share.  No problem.  But I'm not there to mince words or spout recovery poetry.  I tell my story based upon the mood I am in.  On that night, I was kinda pissed off, so sure, a few f-bombs made their way into the mix.  "Group conscience has decided to end your share there because the use of offensive language is not accepted."  That's what I heard the group leader say in the middle of my sharing. I was a tad embarrassed, but whatever, I'd get over it.  Fine, except, after me, several long-standing group members dropped f-bombs and the like, each one of those pompous pricks sneering at me as they did so.  My immediate thought was "You think you're better than me?!"  But having been to enough shitty meetings, I knew better than to let the stupid high school mentality get to me.  By the way, "Group Conscience" refers to rules and regulations set up by the ever-changing committee that runs the meetings. Mostly, it helps keep people focused and sets clear expectations and order to the meetings.  Other times, it can be a group's license to act like dicks. 

I've saved the best for last: the Nazis. I'm in now way going to go for any cheap WWII jokes (yet) or even remotely make them out to be remotely wicked as their WWII inspirations, but they can be bad for a newcomer in AA.  Most AA members don't like to talk about them, but I don't care.  They're out there.  These people and their meetings may have their hearts in the right place, but they treat the Big Book like it's Mein Kampf. and they will attack your sobriety and every single choice that you make the second you open up to them in the group.  Here's EXACTLY what my first experience with the AA Nazis was like...

Me: Hi, I'm Nick and I'm and alcoholic.
Himmler: And just how long you've been sober?
Me: A year and 4 months and...
Himmler: And you think you think that's long enough?
Me: Well, each day is more time than I had yesterday and I'm doing pretty good so far-
Himmler: You're stuck on time, aren't you Nick?  Don't you know you can just crawl back into that bottle the second you leave this meeting?  I've seen it happen.  You're no better.  Time means nothing. You don't know what you're talking about. You may be sober, but seem like a dry-drunk.
Me: I just wanted to share, but you know, if that's a problem...
Himmler: YOU have the problem.  You need to get real with yourself, Nick.  You need to work the steps.  You need to get a sponsor.  You need to put your sobriety first.
Me: But I'm working the steps. I have a sponsor.  I'm here at a meeting, putting my sobriety first.
Himmler: Don't convince me.  You need to convince yourself.
Me: Whatever. Can I just fuckin' share?
Himmler: No. You're time is up. And your use of offensive language will not be tolerated. Who's next?
Me:  You're dick, you AA Nazi.

Man, my last comment sent that dude into a tizzy.  He stood up, flinging his chair back, heaving with hatred like an angry jock in a room full of helpless nerds.  I was promptly asked to leave, and I happily obliged.

**Briefly, I'd like to mention Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meetings.  NA follows the same principles and steps as AA, but they focus on ALL drugs (aka dry goods).  These places I have found to be a crap shoot.  Either you'll get a really intense meeting that will scare the shit out of you for your own good or you get a tough-guy contest with a bunch of dudes bragging about who they know, what they used, and just how horrible they are.  It's like they were competing for a trophy.   

Sure, I may not have handled all these situations well. I may have added fuel tot he fire.  But I didn't let that deter me from my sobriety.  And newcomers need to know that these places exist and that they can just go find a meeting that best suits their needs and personality.  I'm not slamming the rooms of AA, but I won't lie about them, either. You just gotta look for the good ones and bail of the meetings I described above because you may endanger you sobriety by going there.  Not every room has what a struggling alcoholic or addict needs, and that's a damn shame. They just might expedite a relapse into abuse.

  


People's Reactions

People have no clue how to react to newfound sobriety, especially your friends and family.  You might as well have pulled up in car made of dildos while wearing ass-less chaps crafted from old newspapers from 1934.  You're different and everyone knows it, anonymous or not.

My immediate family was real cool with my decision to clean up.  My other family and close were weirded out by it.  Their initial reaction when I told them was "Ohhhh" accompanied by the face somebody makes when they smell a fart and try not to acknowledge the methane nastiness.  And then the condescending  "I had no idea..." sputtters out to compliment their awkwardly assembled face of support.  

My close friends KNEW I had a problem.  They were first-hand witnesses to my slow suicide of self-destructive behavior. Their initial awkwardness stemmed from the fact that we drank and got smashed together.  Now what?  We obviously cannot drink together any more. Would I try to convert them?  Was I secretly blaming them for enabling me?  People sincerely felt at fault for my abuse.  Did they now have to take into account their behavior? Does this mean that they now have a problem?

I told you I'd slow down.  This is slowing down.

Thankfully, we all reached a quick understanding:  this was MY problem, not theirs.

Then came the adjustment period .  What was sober Nick like?  Is he really not brooding in a corner planning to hit somebody with a chair?  He's not strangling me with his death grip telling me he loves me?  You mean his skin color is naturally healthy and not that sickly pale? 

Getting sober is about getting to know who you really are.  And friends need to do that as well.  I did not judge them or make them feel strange for drinking (once I felt comfortable enough to be around people drinking).  I appreciate their support, but I knew this was my problem to deal with and no one could keep me sober but me. When I was newly sober, they would start drinking, then they suddenly noticed me right next to them.  They would panic and say, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! Is this ok?" I get it.  They didn't know if my will to drink may cause me to tackle them and lick the spilled beer off the dirty bar floor.  It was nice to know they acknowledged my decision and showed their support in a way I can only describe as cute. I don't mean that sarcastically.  It really was cute because it showed me that they cared. Eventually, it became a non-issue with my friends.  I played with them in beer-pong tournaments (my poor partner had to drink for both of us).  And they know when I need to leave, I NEED to leave immediately and no one gives me shit about it.  Plus, I love how vigilant they've become over the years.  I've been told by a multitude of friends, "I swear Nick, if I ever see you start drinking again, I'll fucking kill you and beat the shit out of you."  They love me.  With a vengeance.

Don't expect co-workers to give a shit.  Very few do.  Their reactions to you getting sober are more like, "Well, it's about time."  It tries to get passed off as tough love, but in reality, I think they're being dicks. But I can't judge.  I know when I was drinking, I was King Rectum of the Assholia.  Newly sober folk need to take it with a grain of salt and move on. If one of your co-workers decided to get help and you don't know what to say, say nothing. You want to help?  Let them adjust and stick that tough love up your ass.      

Sometimes. when I'm out in public or hanging with some one new, I get offered a drink.  I politely decline.  Usually, it's not an issue.  It may smoothly transition into a discussion about why I don't drink and how I'm in recovery.  Our discussion briefly leads to me answering some questions and dispelling rumors about AA.

Other times?  Not so much.  I get the incredulous face, as if my decline to drink is the equivalent of admitting to practicing bestiality. Then comes the, "Oh, is this for health reasons or do you have a problem?  What? You can't handle your drink?"  Oh, I can handle my drink.  And yours, and probably the next section over.  In fact, God designed me to be a drinking machine that is pure rage fueled by alcohol and whatever else you got.  Then I get looked at again, but this time as if my response is rude. Hey, fucktard, why not ask a barren couple why they don't have kids?  I've heard other members say things like, "I'm allergic to alcohol.  I break out in handcuffs." Clever, but I've never been arrested, thus it doesn't apply. Generally, I feel people that react this caustically to my decision to not drink have a problem they may need to deal with.  But that's not my place to say anything. I'd rather antagonize them because, at heart, I can still be a dick.

When dealing with an alcoholic or recovering addict, be supportive or be quiet.  Be polite and don't make a big deal. They're dealing with a freak show in their head.  And don't say it's not a disease for whatever stupid reason you can come up with (like that dick bag whole sports that Malibu cure). Let'em sort it out because it's not your problem.  



The 9th Step

Ah, the dreaded and often-ridiculed 9th step.  Essentially, after making a list of how alcohol has ruined their lives (an arduous and emotional task I foolishly took lightly at first), the alcoholic must make amends to those parties wronged (unless that shit will get you shot or put in jail.  That type of stuff, you keep to yourself and make an anonymous donation somewhere...).  It's more than saying "I'm sorry."  It's unburdening your soul and "cleaning your side of the street". It's about being a decent human being.

I joined AA and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

One thing that is rarely mentioned is that making amends does not mean that someone is going to accept the apology.  Seriously.  I was told that it is perfectly normal for people to tell you to fuck off when you try to make amends.  And that happens.  One person I made amends to told me that he'd slit my throat the next time I saw him.  Can't say I'd blame him. Others accepted my apology and acknowledgement of wrong-doing, nut asked me to never contact them again.  Can't say I blame them either. I was not the nicest person when using, and I have long ago come to peace with it.

So what should you do if you find yourself on the receiveing end of a 9th Step amends?

Be honest.  Let the person know you've been hurt.  Don't be like, "Oh no, it's ok, you don't have to do this."  Shut up.  The addict MUST do this. It's part of their program. Your being passive about it comes across as dismissive.  They are admitting responsibility for the first time in a long time.  Let it be.  And for God's sake, don't start crying.  This is not the time for you to unburden your soul.  Speak your peace and move on.  

  

Unexpected side-effects (good and bad)

What have I been drinking tonight? Nothing but awesome! 

Well, sobriety has it's perks, I will say that. Do you know how good it feels to drive through a police chekpoint or get followed by a cop and not have to worry about blowing a breathalyzer or having illegal stuff in you car?  When a cop tails me, i start thinking, "Yeah, copper, c'mon, pull me over.  I got nothin', ya hear me, nothin'! I'm clean, biotch!"  Ah, they'll still probably write me a chump ticket for a taillight or some other BS infraction.  At least it won't be a DWI or felony possession.

No more hangovers.  Sure I learned a way to beat them (vitamin B complex and water while and, especially after, drinking, and electrolyes), but now there is no impending need to.  OK, I admit that I gloat over my friends the day after a wedding or a bachelor party.  But I enjoy the little reminder of why I no longer party hard.

You know what else is awesome?  Getting out of parties, bars and social functions.  All I have to say is, "Hey, I'm uncomfortable with all this booze around" and everyone understands my early departure.  It's literally my passport to escape dreadful functions.  I rarely use it, and never on my friends.  But it's a nice card to play when you get dealt a shitty hand.  

Any guess who always gets ponied up to be the designated driver?  Yep.  Me. I suppose this is a perk for my friends.  They know I'm not drinking, so I'm always good to drive.  It's cool.  In a way, I look at it as making up for the times I was less-than-perfect friend.  I also know that my friends get home safely, making me a righteous bro.

A sucky aspect to sobriety is realizing how much the world revolves around booze.  Where do people meet to hook up and hang out?  Bars.  What's sold at almost every sporting event?  Beer.  What do most people have to drink with dinner?  Wine?  It's at barbecues, weddings, christening, reunions, concerts, everything.  I can't help but feel somewhat left out. But again, that's my fault.

The worst thing about sobriety is the advice or help-seeking that appears at the most inopportune moments. As a recovering alcoholic/addict, I am dutifully bound to help anyone that needs my help.  My wife knows that if one of my AA buddies calls me up at 3 a.m. and needs me to meet them and talk some stuff out, I'm going.  I'll be cranky as hell, but I'll be there.  Many friends (and friends of friends) have reached out to me to for advice regarding a loved one.  I'm on it.  I'll talk to you for hours and put you in the best direction that I can.  I've even been asked to take people to meetings and I was willing.  But you know when the wrong time to talk to me about this stuff?  When you're piss faced drunk.  You're not serious.  You can't be.  But Nick, when people drink, they lower their inhibitions and their true feelings come out.  Sure, sometimes, that's true.  I'll concede to that.  However, is that the right mindset to make a life-changing decision?  It's not.  I can't make that call just because they asked me in an inebriated stupor.  I want to help, but I can't.  It's not the right time (in my opinion anyway.  I'm sure some other AA member will vehemently disagree.  Your program, not mine). That's why I wind up saying: "Talk to me tomorrow when you're not as drunk and I'll help you out."  I've said that on at least 10 different occasions.  And you know how many came to me for help the next day?  None.

  

Constant Temptations and Reminders

I am in no way cured.  Everyday is a a struggle for any alcoholic/addict. I know that I can pick right up where I left off if I am not careful.  That shit keeps me up sometimes, but I get over it.  This disease is always present, whispering in my ear on some days and screaming in my skull on others. 

Some people call this partying, Alcoholics and addicts call this "Monday".

All alcoholics and addicts live in that constant fear and temptation.  If they don't, they're fooling themselves. I see a beer add on TV and think, "Wow, I want to swim in beer and live in a beer pool for the rest of my life."  And do you know how hard it was to watch The Wolf of Wall Street?  I had to watch it in parts so I wouldn't lose my mind.  Hell, if you want an accurate portrayal of alcohol and drug abuse, that's your movie right there.  One of my friends in recovery told me he had to leave the theater, and I don't fault him for that one bit. 

Being an alcoholic/addict is no easy task.  Getting to AA or rehab is the easy part.  Living in sobriety is the struggle.  It's a strange and fucked-up road to travel.  And it's nobody's fault but our own.

And does that make us weak, to have a problem with abusive substances and addictive behavior, relying on 12 Step programs to get us through?  Here's my short answer: fuck you.

Hopefully you'll be a bit more understanding when you come across somebody first-hand that is trying to turn his/her life around and not be a dick.  Maybe you'll walk with more compassion and not make it more awkward..  Or maybe you got that morbid glimpse into a world that you were curious about.  If you're questioning whether or not you have a problem, that's not me.  That ideas has been in your head long before you read this.  You need to sort that out. 

And if you need help or have questions, feel free to ask me.

Just make sure you're not drunk and pissing on yourself.  


Best regards,

Nick Marv


Nick Marv is a recovering alcoholic/addict that is just as crazy  than when he was out there partying like a beast.  He knows that each day of sobriety is a gift that can be pissed away with one bad decision, which is why he spends his time punching things with his fight team, Muay Thai Nation.Oh, and he lied.  He's actually crazier now than when he was drinking.