The Bio Page

So, I've been thinking about trying to write some sort of biography for this damn website, just in case someone who DOESN'T know me might be reading it. I have no idea, of course, how to best accomplish this, but what appears before you is my best effort up until now.

Skipping the pre-high school garbage, I moved to North Branch, MN, in 1982 before I entered 6th grade. I stayed in school there until graduation (barely) in 1989, and then promptly moved off to Lombard, IL in order to attend DeVry Institute of Technology. That would have been a smart thing to do, I think.

But instead, I learned how to smoke a great deal of pot, and imbibe countless other chemicals, and going to classes just didn't seem like it was that terribly important. So, after just 1½ years, I dropped out of school and ran off to California with a couple buddies, intent on staying out west and attending a University in CA.

That didn't happen, either.

California lasted just a couple of weeks, actually. It was obvious to anyone that I had no means to support myself, and the people that we were staying with were nice enough to let us visit, but clearly did not want lasting houseguests. So I came back to MN, and that's when things got really weird.

When I got back to North Branch, I was clueless. No job, no classes to attend, no money. Just a burning desire to party. And party I did. This is the time period when I met some of the friends that I still hang out with today, and when I met some of the friends that, for one reason or another I no longer see.

We had no shoes, no shirts, no car (usually), no homes, and no jobs. It was great. We'd drift from party to party, sleep on people's couches and floors, eat their food and drink their beer, and occasionally sneak back into our parents' houses to wash some clothes or get a decent meal. The cops were always looking for us, and we were never where they were looking. It was myself and between 2 and 10 other bums, and we traveled in packs. The days were usually spent at Kost Dam or at Fish Lake drinking the 8-gallon keg that we ALWAYS managed to find enough money for — we once got a new keg every day for 19 days. Just writing this down makes me miss that summer. We called it the summer of the drugs.

It couldn't last, though. Times like that never can. Eventually things fell apart, mostly because the weather got cold. So I took a job. I decided to hop on a bus and go sell magazines on the east coast.

That didn't last long at all either. After only about 3 weeks, I high-tailed it out of New York City and came back to North Branch with my tail between my legs yet again.

Not long after that I found myself living with a new friend out in Brooklyn Center. We were soon facing eviction, and for about 5 days we sat in our cold-ass rental house listening to Jimmy Buffet, drinking Tequila and making Margaritas, constantly saying we should sell all our shit and move to Mexico.

So we kept drinking. And talking about Mexico.

Finally one morning my friend — who had been waiting for about 4 months for his driver's license to show up in the mail — proclaimed that if his license showed up that day, we were going to Mexico. And I'll be damned, it was there. So we sold all of our shit and we left. On a bus. All the way to Mexico City, where we hopped a short flight to Cancun, because we couldn't stand being on a bus any longer.

Cancun was something. I've never experienced being broke in an unfamiliar country before. It affects you, I think. Especially when you're eating beans out of a can, and sleeping in public parks, unable to speak the language of the other people who are sleeping in the public park.

Initially, we both found work fairly quickly. I became a bartender, and Amon (my friend, not his real name) became a DJ in the same bar — the Streguss Modé, located in the Holiday Inn Grande Plaza. We worked 6 nights a week, and we managed to have an awful lot of fun working there. We had so much fun that we lost our jobs within about 4 months, but I still maintain that it was totally worth it.

We also found an apartment to rent right in the Hotel Zone for pretty cheap, but I think that all the lizards that shared the room with us might have been paying some of the rent.

We took the bus everywhere, developed an affinity for Pico Rum ($1.67 US for a liter), and great big brown bottles of Corona, which we stacked pyramid style in the corner of the apartment. That is, until the night that we drunkenly decided to throw our empties into the stack and see how many we could break. By the end of that night we had broken them all.

The little corner store next to our apartment was run by a small family who would make empanadas every night to sell the next day. The lady agreed to let us run a tab and pay her on payday, assuming we left a leather jacket as collateral. We ended up still owing her money when we left, and I still feel bad about it to this day. She was far nicer to us than she needed to be.

Eventually our boss, Paul, decided that the amount of beer, liquor, and cigarettes we were taking from the bar every week was about equivalent to what he was paying us. So he quit paying us. We kept the jobs in exchange for unlimited quantities of beer, liquor, and cigarettes — and everyone agreed this would be a winning arrangement. Right up until we were dead broke and Paul fired us because he'd stolen a money transfer from Amon and didn't want to give it up.

Amon made arrangements with an ex-girlfriend to fly him home. I stayed in Cancun. I had $137 left from our security deposit, and bought the cheapest flight I could find into Miami — $136. Those of you with superior math skills will quickly realize that once I got back to the US, I was going to be screwed. But nothing seemed more comforting than being thrown in an American County Jail.

Goodbye, Cancun. It was really weird. Thanks for having me.

Checkout is a breeze, the flight goes well, and US Immigration isn't phased a bit about the fact that I have no documentation. The immigration lady said, "You're clearly not latino," and waved me past without so much as a blink. This is the only time in my life that my ponytail worked in my favor, instead of getting me searched for drugs.

Now I'm standing outside the Miami Airport with about $1.50 in my pocket, and no one knows I'm even back in the United States. I figure I have 2 options: (1) Call home and beg for money, or (2) stick out my thumb and see how long I can ride this weirdness out.

I can't believe I chose (2).

I started walking toward Alligator Alley and stuck out my thumb, and within minutes had gotten my first ride on the long trip home to Minnesota that would burn up the next month of my life — and perhaps change me utterly in regards to my ability to be self-confident in new and unusual situations.

After a few hours walking in the unholy Florida sun, I was picked up by some old dude in a van who bought me a sandwich, some cigarettes, and a soda, then dropped me at a major truck stop in Naples. It had been going so well. Easy.

Yeah, right. It turns out truckers won't give rides to hitchhikers anymore or they could lose their CDL. So I sat in the truck stop for about 8 hours. Eventually a little dark-haired girl who'd been sitting there for roughly the same length of time said she needed to drive, and offered me a ride. I agreed that that was an excellent idea.

When you travel for 6–8 hours with someone, you're bound to either grow to like or grow to hate your companion. We got along just fine, and she eventually told me she'd run away from her abusive boyfriend in North Carolina and was driving around looking for somewhere to be. She offered to take me all the way to Minnesota, and kept stopping to buy me things — cartons of cigarettes, food, new clothes, a new duffel bag.

This was hitchhiker's heaven. She liked to stop a lot, and it took a couple of nights sleeping in the car at rest areas before we found ourselves in Peach County, Georgia — where she got pulled over for speeding. After 45 minutes watching four squad cars' worth of cops search her vehicle, the officer came back and explained that I was under arrest for Grand Theft Auto, transporting stolen vehicles across state lines, possession of stolen firearms, and a whole host of other felony charges. It turns out she was not all that nice of a girl, and they thought I was her accomplice.

And so I got booked into Peach County, Georgia jail, where I was the only white guy without a gun. Fuckers.

So I sat. In jail. White and alone, desperately wishing I would just buck up and call home, but much too proud and obstinate to do so. The other guys kept teasing me about how I was going to end up in prison to meet the really scary ones. This only lasted for 3 days, thank God.

After 3 days, the sheriff called me into his office, informed me that my hitchhiker story checked out, and that all charges were being dropped. He then broke the law for me in a huge and wonderful way — took me to her impounded car, let me get all my stuff out (at which point I hurriedly stole everything of hers that might be useful), and gave me a ride to a truck stop with instructions to get a ride and get the hell out of his county. He also gave me his business card: if I got arrested for hitchhiking, which is illegal in Georgia, I was to have the arresting officer call him. I guess he felt bad about incarcerating me unnecessarily.

I only hitched for a couple of hours before reaching Macon, Georgia. And this is the part of the story where I actually get to live in a place with a great big neon sign that says "JESUS SAVES."

A Macon City cop found me sleeping in a park at 3 AM and, rather than giving me a billy-club beating, told me to go to the Macon County Rescue Mission. He gave me HIS business card and said they'd let me stay if I showed it to them. So I walked a mile through a seedy warehouse district and found a non-descript building with a GIANT neon sign on the roof. And sure enough, I ended up living there for the better part of a month.

You're not allowed to just live in a rescue mission — you either spend all day out looking for work, or the mission finds odd jobs for you in the community that pay by the day. Breakfast and dinner are served. Church service is required every Sunday. The Macon County Rescue Mission is also the reason I now think that grits and eggs are the world's finest breakfast, because that is what I had there every day, and I fell in love with it.

I learned there that small acts of kindness are never small acts, and I got to know myself better in that short period of time than I ever had before. Everyone should be forced to live in a homeless shelter for a few weeks. I think it's good for you.

After I left Macon, I had a little money, a lot of self-confidence, and the rest of the trip was fairly uneventful. I made it back to Minnesota in fine shape a week or so later, and the world once again settled into an easy routine of partying too much and taking the wrong kind of drugs.

For the life of me, I cannot remember what the heck I was doing for the next year or so after I returned from the hitchhiking adventure. As usual, I combated feelings of unease with an unhealthy dose of alcohol and non-prescription drugs. As boredom set in, I was offered the opportunity to make a break for the sun, the sand, and the evil.

A buddy of mine — we'll call him JK — and I loaded up my Pontiac Sunfire with so much stuff that there was literally only room for two people if we put all the blankets and pillows around us as we drove, and headed off for Fort Meyers Beach. The Sunfire had no heat, and no functioning alternator — whenever we drove in the dark we had to stop every 20 minutes and let the battery charge so the headlights would work. Also we weren't allowed to shut the car off, ever, or we'd have to push start it. This turned out to be a long drive.

We arrived (unannounced, having never told our friends we were coming to live with them) in Fort Meyers Beach. Within a week we had both found jobs and a house right on the beach. Life was looking good.

Most of Fort Meyers is fairly conservative and older, but it's a huge spring break destination for about 2 months a year. Our neighbor was the Lani Kai hotel, and our other neighbor was the only place to buy a case of beer on the beach. My smarter readers will now realize that we had a great deal of foot traffic through our yard, and quite often, through our living room. It didn't help that we liked to climb onto our roof in the middle of the afternoon and play the Pulp Fiction Soundtrack at full volume while dancing and drinking beer.

We became quite well known quite fast.

JK worked right outside our back door renting jet-skis on the beach, and I had 2 jobs both within 2 blocks of our house. While I lived in that place for months, I never made it more than 6 blocks from our house.

I probably would have stayed forever, except for the strange turn of events that led to my being run out of town by a local drug-dealer and thug by the name of Howard.

So everything went pretty well in Florida for a while, as it always seems to. We worked, we played, and we drank beer. On the beach. A lot. We also got to know the local law enforcement fairly well — friendly, nice cops who roamed the area on ATVs and horseback.

So we decided to have a PARTY. We asked if we'd get busted for a raging bash and were assured that as long as we remained on our own lot and weren't serving any minors, everything would be fine. PARTY was on, and everybody knew it.

The turnout was something — you couldn't even move. Not only did all of Fort Meyers show up, but all the Spring Breakers as well. We blew through 5 or 6 kegs in short order, and then we ran out of beer. Like most parties, that's when things got a little weird.

Several things happened very, very fast. Right after the beer ran out, everyone got very crabby. Then a bunch of freaks in cowboy hats showed up and decided to pick fights with the local beach rats. Within minutes, the beach rats were kicking the cowboys' asses, and the entire party had degenerated into a free-for-all. I distinctly remember one of the cowboys getting his face beat in with an empty keg.

The cops moved impossibly fast. Less than 2 minutes into the brawl, our house was surrounded by about 8 cop cars plus officers on ATV and horseback. Those of us who lived there started kicking everyone out as fast as we could. When I kicked open the locked bathroom door, I knocked a fairly serious amount of cocaine out of someone's hand, and it was now all over the floor — and in the toilet. The someone who used to be holding that cocaine was not at all impressed.

That someone was Howard: a fairly big-time drug dealer in the area, and he was incredibly violent. After being woken up to 2 guys in my room punching me in the face, I started to take things more seriously. It was suggested I leave Fort Meyers before I got hurt, and I decided that was a good idea.

Spring break was over, and for me, so was Florida. I hopped into a truck with some people I knew and skipped town with only a day's notice. I haven't been back since.

Life became drastically less fun to hear about after I returned from Florida. I slowly but surely became more and more predictable, both in my willingness to work for a living, and also in my propensity for drug use and abuse. So instead of boring you with the pointless details, I've chosen to share what I learned during the next several years, while I had various bartending jobs, various apartments, and various other experiences.

Have you ever noticed that there are certain people that just don't know when the party is over? Well, I learned that I'm that guy. And sadly, I'm smart enough and talented enough that I can usually keep a job while the rest of my life is a mess. Which is just like having permission to have a messed up life.

I had a few girlfriends during the next few years. Those ladies will not ever be discussed here. But I discovered that drugs and alcohol don't mix well with relationships, and I learned that my actions and conduct affect people around me as much as they affect myself. It took me a long time to figure that one out.

I also figured out that cops quit looking for you all the damn time if you quit doing things wrong. That's awesome! Why did no one ever tell me this before?

I realized that I was always broke, I always felt like shit, and I was always partying. That's not much of a realization, but the fact that they were connected was pretty eye-opening. I also became acutely aware that the clock would keep ticking — and utterly convinced that money is incredibly easy to get your hands on, compared with our ability to get back wasted time.

I also managed to pull off big vacations every year: Jamaica for a couple of weeks, kayaking down the coast of Belize solo (and foolishly brought no camera, so I can't prove it!), Costa Rica, and the Honduran Bay Islands. Travel, it seems, soothes me. I believe myself to be a much better and wiser man because of where I've been and what I've seen.

I also renewed a long-lost love. Until I was about 15 — when I discovered drugs, alcohol, and sex — I was a little computer geek. That fascination gradually began to rear its head again as I began to spend a little more time sober. I began to have something to work for. To have goals. And reasons to better myself.

Then I got my third DWI and got sent to treatment. Again.

And then I turned 30.

This was a double whammy. I was utterly convinced that I just stayed 21 for 9 years. Turning 30 kind of hit me hard, and the fact that I was in a court-ordered treatment program at around the same time had some pretty profound effects. Here was proof positive that the party was indeed over. I continued to abuse substances, but I also began to see what that abuse was doing to the lives of my friends and to me. And I began to understand why life is so hard when you're addicted. And only then did things begin to really change.

The changes have been good ones. I think that I've discovered that life doesn't have to be such a struggle in order to be interesting and fun. I used to think that the weirder my life and situation was, and the more I had to suffer along, the more I was getting out of life. I've changed my mind.

I can understand the joy of having, chasing, and achieving goals now. It's very empowering to want to accomplish something, work very hard at it, and then succeed after many failures. I enjoy challenges, and have discovered that life is full of pleasant and exciting challenges that have nothing to do with trying to conquer drugs or women. Actually, trying to conquer my own limits of knowledge is immensely more satisfying and fun than either of those two things ever were.

I also truly love the idea of seeing just what I can become. One of the many problems with drugs and addiction is the overpowering belief that life can never be any different or better than it currently is. Letting one's head clear with some months or years of clean living not only allows you to put some damn money away, but also allows you to begin to have choice about how your life is going to unfold. The burden of making choices in life is infinitely better than the burden of not having any. Someone once told me that "The opposite of change is stagnation and decay." I believe, brother, I believe.

Letting go of some of my worst habits has been difficult. It means letting go of lifelong friends and hang-outs. It means being alone sometimes. It means that when I reflect on my past, I don't always enjoy what I see, because everything has a taint to it — smeared and marred by the realization of just how damn high we were. But even with the lonely and the regret, life is better. Peace is easier to find. So is laughter and genuine contentment.

White Bear Lake has been very, very good to me. I can stay out of trouble (pretty much) and slowly but surely build my life up just the way I want it. I'm a technology geek once again, and it fits me. And now, when I need to escape this cold and miserable state every winter, I can just go on vacation like everyone else, and not have to sell everything I own and keep starting my life over. I'm pretty sick of starting over.

So not only am I more content and happier than I've ever been, but I'm pretty excited as well. I'm only 33 years old, and for the first time since high school, I can see a bright future that's full of possibility. I have great health, vitality, and a sharp mind, even after all I've been through. And while the story of my life that you've been reading is now over, I'm happy to report that the real story of my life is still in Chapter One. I'm looking forward to seeing how it all turns out. Perhaps I'll find that entertaining enough to write down, as well.