Homeless - Part 1 City Paper Article - International Vagabond Overview
Category: Life

Bam, bam, bambam! Jesus, what the hell is going on? It was like hearing a banging sound in the far off distance. The twelve Heinekens I drank earlier were the cause of the far off distance. Showing absolutely no consideration for my alcohol-induced fatigue, the sound wouldn't go away. In fact it became more intense and persistent. The constant banging was forcing me out of my drunken slumber. As my eyes began to open, I immediately jerked my hands upward to cover them. I was momentarily being blinded by a bright light. It was a flashlight being shown into my face by the hands of one of LA's finest. It took me about thirty seconds to get my bearings.

"Sir, are you destitute?" A stern voice, one rich with bass and used to being heeded asked. What does the word destitute mean and how do you expect me to know at two in the morning on a Saturday night when I am obviously severely mentally impaired? "Sir, step out of the car." The car was a black 1991 Nissan Maxima. With the aid of a very strong, very thick rope the front bumper was clinging for dear life to the rest of the vehicle. The tires had been run down to the point where the tread and road were in regular conversation.

My arms felt as though atrophy had set in and my movements were lethargic at best. With great effort I pulled myself into a state of awareness and dragged my weary body out of the car. At that point I noticed there were two officers instead of just the one who was flashing the light in my face. "Sir, I asked you are you destitute?" Now that my brain was beginning to function on a half-way cognizant level it hit me. Destitute, impoverished, he was asking if I was homeless. "No officer, I'm not." The officer walked over to my front left tire and pointed to the obvious urine stain adjacent to it. "Then what is this?"

You know those times when you realize there just isn't a reason to lie? Whether it's because you are tired of lying so much from before or you just know the lie won't fly, well whatever the reason I had hit it, rock bottom. I sheepishly threw my hands in the air. "Officer, I was just tired and I needed a place to sleep for a bit." "Sir you can't rest here. This park is closed at night. Do you have a home sir?" The sound of defeat resonating clearly in my voice I answered, "No." "There are homeless shelters in the city sir. You will have to find one." 

The time was the early March of 2003. I had been living in Los Angeles for eight months, five of them in my Maxima. It never really hit me how bad my situation was till the officer said the word destitute. There is something about that word and that moment that will stay with me for the rest of my life. He might as well have thrown a bucket of ice cold water in my face. Roman, get your shit together! Accept the fact LA has kicked your ass. Pick up your crap and do the thing you've been avoiding for months, crawling back to DC with your tail tucked squarely between your legs as a failure.

For months I had been fighting the reality my move to Los Angeles was unsuccessful. Residing in failure as I was sooner rather than later will put your mind in a debilitating state. You'll begin thinking the world owes you something. The only thing the world owes a person is a chance and it doesn't even have to be a fair one. I had it, it didn't work, time to tap out.

I returned to Washington a shell of man, I had no bank account, no real place to call home and less than a hundred dollars in my pocket which represented my entire financial worth. I spent my first three weeks back sleeping in a friend's spare bedroom. Knowing I required long-term lodging, I retreated to the one place I dreaded above all, the residents of the woman from who's womb I emerged.

My mother and I had been estranged for years. In the last seven, I had seen the woman only once and that was at my grandmother's funeral. My parents were divorced the summer of my sixth grade year. Now, as a thirty six year old adult viewing through the all seeing optics of time, I realize a portion of our dysfunction rest in the blame I heap upon her for not propping up a father's psyche incapable of triumphing over alcohol and the unfulfilling of his dreams.

Growing up, I was disciplined by what would be defined today as serious child abuse, a wide and heavy black leather belt to a bare and naked soft behind. It was the way my mother was raised and the way she saw fit to raise. That wasn't so bad, many of my friends were disciplined the same. What I did mind was the collar of restriction she clamped so firmly around my neck. Only in retrospect do I understand the collar was secured so tightly for my protection. Without it I surely would have impregnated some young woman or placed myself into some perilous life altering situation. The ignorance of youth blinds the young mind and like many I raged against my restraints and the woman who held them. Sadly to this day, I'm such an unforgiving bastard the old wounds do not heal as they should. The final origin of our discontent is simple. We are two people too alike to function in close proximity of the other. When two strong willed personalities such as ours occupy the same household one of them has to go.   

My mother in this early spring of 2003 resided in a quaint three bedroom house in NE Washington, off of Jefferson Street. To any other reasonable human coming off a five month stint of living in a car, this home would have represented an ideally safe and comfortable haven, to me it was a prison. I dreaded every day I walked up those steps and placed my key in the door. To her credit, she tried to give me my space. At least as much as a mother who wants to reconnect with her son can. They say you can always come home, I disagree. Sometimes the wounds run too deep and for me, when the door was shut it was not meant to be reopened. It's not that I don't love the woman, for I do, but my ability to express sentiment of any kind towards her left many years ago.

A thirty-one year old man living under his mama's roof, I was unhappy to say the least. Where I was able to grasp a measure of joy was in the pursuit of a dream I had taken up shortly before relocating to Los Angeles and somehow found time to pursue while living in the Maxima, the profession of storyteller. I spent the majority of the summer jobless, a frequent seller in pawn shops and diligently re-writing a novel I decided to self publish chronicling my time tending bar in the DC Metropolitan area. 

1:58 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

A Critique I Just Received From a Man Who has Read 2/3 of the Book
Category: Life

JUST finished the whole thing last night!  Your timing is eerie.  I want more!  Where is the rest?!  What a story, what a life you've led!  I have been telling people about it, you really have something here!

Now, for the critique:

As I've said before, I think as you edit and re-edit, you should decide if this will be a journal, a novel, or an autobiography.  Right now it's got parts of all three and therefore it's messy, even confusing at times.  I think you could write this as a script and/or sell your story to Hollywood.  You could also write this as a novel (which later is turned into a script).  I think if you publish this as a journal or autobiography, it may not sell as well b/c you are not yet famous (i.e., your name on the cover of an autobiography probably won't sell as well as Marlon Brando's autobiography).  Also, if you make it a novel, you can change names (which I personally recommend), dates, places if necessary.

The stuff I want more of is the stories that change you, that make you realize what is important in life, that open your eyes and heart.  Your time in London with Luca was riveting, parts made me cry.  The last pages I read last night you were starting to talk about your own personal "hell", you were wondering what you had gotten yourself into with Tanvere and this lifestyle and how hard it was to go between living at home and living for Tanvere.
 
What I find so interesting is how I personally change while reading your stories:
I might get frustrated at your decisions and all the drinking (I also am amazed at at your capacity to function despite the alcohol) and all the hookers.  Then I wonder if part of me is jealous at what you've seen and done (do I long for my glory days growing up in Georgetown, chasing women, etc?).  Then I feel sorry for you and want to reach out and give you a job, a wife, a family--a life!!!  All these things are what a reader or movie go-er should experience-a wide gamut of emotions!  That's why I think you really have something here.

When do I get the rest?

8:14 PM - 7 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

High Priced Hookers - Excerpt from the Book International Vagabond
Category: Life

When I arrived to the hotel Kyland was already there. While we were in Abu Dhabi Tanvere had mentioned he was a huge Bruce Lee fan. As a way of expressing my thanks for the trip, I bought him a copy of Bruce Lee's Jeet Kune Do. I felt kind of embarrassed by only giving him a book but it's all I could afford. Plus, what the hell do you get a guy who can afford almost anything he wants? Surprisingly, Tanvere greeted me with a gift. I was totally shocked when I was handed a brand new Sony Ericsson P900 in the box. At the time the P900 was the Cadillac of mobile phones, carrying an eight hundred dollar price tag.

I've never met anyone who's more of an electronics geek than myself. I read all the tech magazines and somehow always managed to have the latest gadget phone or organizer. While we were in Abu Dhabi, I scoured the stores searching for the P900. I achieved not an inkling of success in locating it. Don't ask me how but I managed to have the eight hundred dollars placed in my checking account to purchase the phone. Here, this guy that I barely knew, bought it for me out of the blue. I was shocked an amazed. Carrick on a much smaller scale is a gadget nut himself. Later on he was playing with some of the phones functions. "I can't believe you got this," he said. I started feeling a little guilty. I didn't want Carrick thinking I bought the phone when I knew it was a gift. "Carrick, I didn't buy it," I confessed. Carrick let out a small chuckle. "Roman, I know you didn't buy it. He bought it for you because you were going to buy it for yourself."

While I was figuratively ejaculating over the idea of having this phone I so craved, I was informed a special guest was flying in to join Tanvere for two days. I had become very familiar with our soon to be arriving guest. She was a young lady Tanvere had emailed Kyland and I a picture of a few months back. Tanvere was always sending out pictures of beautiful women. It just so happened I thought so much of this specific young lady's beauty I kept a picture of her on my cell phone and laptop. She worked as a model for an agency in Florida. The owner of this particular agency made known to her employees, if they were so inclined to make extra money, she could provide financially prosperous clients who would appreciate their beauty. Tanvere had shown me the company's website before and I was amazed by some of the nationally recognized faces who according to him moonlighted as prostitutes.

While Kyland and I were talking Tanvere emerged from his bedroom holding two neatly rubber band stacks of hundred dollar bills in each hand. "Five thousand for the girl! Five thousand for the Madame!" he said boastfully. My mouth dropped. "Come on man! Are you serious!?" A smile of pure satisfaction came across his face. "It's my birthday." I never received any birthday presents like that. Then again, I didn't have ten thousand dollars to shell out either. Was the girl beautiful? Yes. But what struck me more than anything was how her attention never wavered from Tanvere's person.

During an excellent birthday dinner in the private dining room of the Ritz, I made a discovery I suspected was always the case. I drank Cristal for the first time and concluded Cristal at eight hundred dollars a bottle, is no better than Veuve Clicquot at one hundred dollars a bottle.

After dinner we went to Ozio's nightclub on M street. It was at Ozio's where I saw first hand what ten thousand dollars was really paying for. A woman who could make a man feel special, hanging breathlessly on his every word as if he were reciting doctrine written by Cicero himself. Her every action designed to make a man think he is the most important person in the room. She accomplished her task admirably. Her eyes never left his figure and she was the perfect companion. She knew when to be noticed and when it was time to be reserved and at his side.

2:22 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

London and My 1st Meeting with Luca - Excerpt From The Book International Vagabond
Category: Life

On the evening of the next day, I was riding in a vintage black taxi wagon heading over to Sabrina’s. I love the taxis in London, they are so nostalgic. Sabrina lived in the southern part of London making for a rather lengthy drive. On the way over, I could feel my heart rate picking up. I started taking deep breaths to try and slow the pace down. I was getting nervous. This was a big step for me. No, scratch that, this was hugemongous. Not only was I moving in with a woman in another country, I was moving in with a woman who was mother to a son of a year and a half. I’d never seriously dated a woman that had a child. The few I casually went out with never really exposed me to their children. Up to this point, for some reason, Sabrina’s son never fully entered the picture to me. I can’t explain why. I was so focused on her the thought of him hadn’t materialized. The closer we got to her place, the closer the idea of being in the house with a year and a half old boy scared the piss out of me. As the taxi driver pulled in front of Sabrina’s, I began to question the wisdom behind my decision. Maybe the naysayers, Kyland and Faisal, were right.

Sabrina lived in a quaint two bedroom house with a small front lawn on a long block atop a hill. This had to be the right place because there was a pub right next to her house. At least I knew if things with her son didn’t go well, I could at least get a drink. The taxi cost thirty-three pounds. I gave him forty and wondered how the hell I was going to make it in a country where a taxi cost seventy plus American dollars. I had two large tennis travel bags, one slung over each shoulder, an army duffle bag strapped to my back, and my laptop bag in hand. Dessert Storm troopers don’t travel with as much. I struggled past the gate and up to Sabrina’s door. The moment of truth. I rang the bell and heard footsteps approaching. Sabrina opened the door, her face beaming with a smile. "Hiya, woooo!! You’ve got a lot of stuff. Let me help you." I brushed her hand aside. "It’s all right. I’ll be okay." I twisted myself sideways to get in the door. I didn’t want to put my bags down outside to make more than one trip. The second I was in, I unloaded. Those bags were heavy. Two seconds hadn’t ticked before she got me. "Come on, I want you to meet someone." "Luca…, come here," she called out.  And there he was sitting on the couch watching television. The person who placed his stamp on my heart and his footprints on my life, but it didn’t happen all at once.

Luca jumped off the couch like a fireball of raging energy and grabbed his mother’s leg. He came up a little below her waist. He was a big boy with a full head of blonde hair. His smile was both large and genuine; it could have brought light to Alaska in the winter. "Luca, this is Roman." If I had a diaper on, I would have crapped in my pants. I was mortally terrified. For a man who believes the greatest joy in the world is drinking and going to a good party, the sight of an adolescent does not engender paternal feelings. My face displayed a half smile that should have translated my terror more than my goodwill. It’s not that I didn’t like him. I didn’t know what to think of him. This was new territory for me. Finally, I forced some words out of my mouth. "What’s up big guy?" My voice box sounded much lighter than usual. Boy, was I nervous. Luca walked over to me extending his arms in the air. "Opa, opa," his little voice squeaked out. I froze. I didn’t know what he was saying or what he wanted. "He wants you to pick him up." No way! Now I was really in for it. "Oh nooooooooooo. Sabrina I have never picked up a kid in my life." Sabrina’s face smiled proudly as she encouraged, "Go ahead." I raised my hands to my chest in a defensive posture and stepped back. "Pretty Lady, I’m going to have to let this one go." Sabrina’s smile had melted away. She replaced it with a look of disappointment. It was not my intention to hurt her feelings but I was totally unprepared for Luca. "Uh, where can I put my bags?" I asked. "Put them upstairs in the room off to the left at the foot of the stairs. Do you want something to eat?" I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since lunch. "Yeah, that would be great."

8:21 PM - 8 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

New Years Eve 2003 Abu Dhabi - Excerpt From The Book International Vagabond

Kyland, Carrick and I were dressing in our best for the evenings events. Mo came by and dropped us off at the Marina. Unfortunately, once arriving, Kyland began to get a little frazzled because he realized we had forgotten our VIP passes for the upper level. By this time I felt I had a pretty good handle on how things were running in Abu Dhabi. I placed my hand on Kyland's shoulder and told him to relax, "We are the pass." As we approached the stairs to the upper level, two large security guards dressed impeccably in black suits stepped in front of us. I told them we were guests of Masoud Hamidi from America. A gentleman further up the stairs saw the three of us and told the security guards to let us pass. I explained to Kyland, "Listen, at this point, believe me, these guys know who we are and who we know."

From atop the Coliseum we could see everything. The man knows how to throw a party. The entire marina was a spectacle of grandeur filled with beautiful people. For his private guest, I am happy to say I was one of, Masoud had a fifteen yard long rectangular table filled with exquisite fare of all kinds. Placed in a centered position every yard down were bottles of Moet chilled in buckets. A dedicated waiter was also assigned to the table. The night was designed to exceed one's every desire.

T-Bone from London was spectacular. He expertly blended Arabic, Hip Hop, R&B, and House into melodious synchronization. There were four cages suspended in the air above the party on the lower level. Inside were beautifully exotic dancers flown in from London. I found myself talking to a striking Canadian Masoud introduced to me shortly after we arrived. She seemed mystified, to the point of being impressed that I would not refer to Masoud in reverential terms. To me, he was just another guy to hang out with. A good guy but still no one I should bow down to. In her words, "He was the man to know in Abu Dhabi." The fact I did not get weak in the knees at the sound of his name and I kept her glass full at all times, via our dedicated waiter, was enough for the young lady to ask me back to her place for the night. Though has seemingly been the case in many of my travels, I preferred the company of libations and revelry with my new found cohorts to that of simple sex.

Three times I was asked the question, "Do you want to go now to my place?" My answer was the same each time, "Can we just wait a bit? I want to drink some more." It's not that I didn't want to go, I just wanted to party as much as possible. The event Masoud had put on was the best New Years Eve celebration of my life. The fact it was occurring in the most unexpected of places -- a country which borders Iran and Saudi Arabia -- added to its extreme appeal. Mo, who later joined us, Tanvere and countless others I met from the nights before, kept shoving packs of condoms into my pocket on the idea I was leaving. When I finally had the inkling it may have been time to go, I turned to where my Canadian beauty was sitting and she was gone. I guess my appeal was not worthy of a two hour wait. She chose wisely. I proceeded to bombard my body with its absolute limit of alcohol intake. But was that enough for me? No, not for the man who thinks he's Superman amongst alcoholics.

Two of Tanvere's friends, Zale and Benny, Canadian expats living in Abu Dhabi, came over at eleven o'clock in the morning. We had previously agreed to play a game of tennis. Problem was, I didn't stop drinking from New Years Eve night until an hour before they came. Like the king of morons, I went out with them and got pasted all over the court. Before this day, I was easily able to beat Zale and Benny but not on that day. I could barely function.

As I was walking up the stairs returning back to Tanvere's apartment, I started to see tiny stars in the air. They seemed to be specks of golden glitter dancing a few feet in front of my face. I opened the door to the apartment and Kyland, Tanvere and Carrick were ready to depart for a New Years day get together. I wanted no part. "Guys, I got nothing in the tank. I can't go anywhere." Believe me, I looked exactly like the words that were coming out of my mouth. Mr. Party had met his match. As they watched me stumble along I collapsed onto the tile floor of the apartment. I lifted up my shirt and let the coolness from the tile settle my combustible stomach. After an hour of being incapacitated on the floor, I dragged my close-to-limp body into the bathroom where I stayed fixed on the toilet. I alternated between throwing up within the porcelain temple to releasing massive amounts of liquid out of my bottom orifice. For three solid hours, I was in that bathroom. I have never and hope to never experience anything like that again.

10:41 AM - 15 Comments - 34 Kudos - Add Comment

The Trip That Started It All - Excerpt From The Book International Vagabond
Category: Life

Sunday nights at the Camelot are more subdued than most. Kyland, Carrick, Tanvere and I were sitting with a round of drinks on the second floor at what I'd come to learn was the guys' usual table in the deep right corner next to the stage. As the cool suds of a Heineken on ice, were traipsing down the sides of my throat - an erotically attractive woman came and rested her hand on my shoulder.

"You are so beautiful," she said. The rubbing of my shaved head whose surface temperature had suddenly risen came next. "I love your eyes," she continued. I was a caught off guard. The guys were looking at me as if to say, "Who is this guy we just started bringing around?" My first thought was, "I'm in a strip club. This ridiculously sexy woman who would never speak to me in the light of day is trying to butter me up for money." Thing was she pulled a seat over to our table and went on and on about how good looking I was. Seeing that a sliver of good fortune was attempting to pierce the abyss which was my life, I asked this seductress of the dance if she wanted to go out for dinner tomorrow night. She said yes. A man can walk into a strip club a thousand times and this will never happen. When it does you have to go all in. Sometimes I just fall into stuff.

Tanvere asked me again about Los Angeles. "I'm going tomorrow; Kyland and Carrick are going to come on Thursday. Why don't you come?" I was starting to think he was serious. I would have loved to go, I had been talking to Sahar almost daily and I wanted to see her but I had no where near enough money to travel. "Tanvere, I can't go with you guys." We closed the Camelot down that night. The lights came on at 1:30 and it was time to go. Once again I had stayed too late and it was looking as though I was going to have another ten mile walk ahead of me. As we came outside of the Camelot and I started off in the opposite direction Tanvere asked where I was going. I lied. "I'm going to take a cab." "Why don't you come back to the hotel with us?" "I appreciate it but I'm okay. I'll take a cab." With the slightest hint of force in his voice but just enough to catch my attention Tanvere issued a final request. "Dude! Just come." It was going to be a long walk and I didn't want to see another dead dog on the side of the road. "Okay, thanks."

The hotel was the Ritz Carlton on 22nd and M St, fortuitously only three blocks from the Camelot. In 2001 I worked as a service bartender for the restaurant of the hotel. I absolutely hated the job. It was terrible, far too stuffy and pretentious for my laid back attitude. It didn't take long to realize I would never function well in an environment where I was required to provide exemplary customer service. The whole, "Yes sir, no sir" thing is beyond my verbal repertoire.

To this point I had never seen the rooms of the hotel. I had drinks at the bar of course but never to the rooms. Tanvere's room was impressive, a double suite with a moderately sized living room separating two adjoining rooms. A large master bedroom which was Tanveres occupied one side, the other, another bedroom with two twin beds for Kyland and Carrick. Tanvere went into his room, Kyland and Carrick immediately collapsed on their beds leaving me with the couch. Couch of the Ritz Carlton, ten mile walk home, somehow I think I was making out well. As I was getting comfortable on my couch Tanvere called me into his room. "Roman, seriously, why don't you come to LA with us?" "Tanvere, I can't come to LA. Believe me I would love to but I just can't." He was standing over a nightstand where a two inch folded over roll which seemed to be comprised entirely of hundred dollar bills was resting. Tanvere reached for the folded money pulling away a thin pile of hundreds and tried to place them in my hand. "Listen, just come." I backed out of the room. "Trust me, I appreciate it but I can't take your money." As if not hearing my refusal Tanvere attempted to part with the money again "Roman, its no big deal." For a guy that has less than ten dollars in his pocket it is a big deal. On top of that I didn't really know Tanvere, definitely not well enough to take money from him. I started to get comfortable on the couch again. It was a little small but a couch is better than some of the places I've slept. Tanvere came out of his room and laid a thin stack of hundred dollar bills on the table next to the couch. "I don't have time for your crap. I'll see you in LA, the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills on Thursday." Fuck it, I gave up. I looked at him reluctantly, "Alright, I'll be there." A constant drop of water can burrow a hole through wood.

I woke up early in the morning and left the hotel before anyone else was awake. Once I got outside I counted how much Tanvere had given me. It was a thousand dollars. Immediately my mind recognized I wouldn't need a thousand to get to Los Angeles. Probably five hundred tops and that was because of such short notice. It was already Monday. I went home and called Sahar and told her I was coming to LA. I think she was as excited as I was. When Sahar asked where I was staying and I told her the Four Season's in Beverly Hills she almost went into shock. More than anyone Sahar knew how hard I had it in Los Angeles. I could almost read her thoughts as the barrage of questions followed. "Who is this guy? What does he do? Why did he give you the money? What does he want you to do?" Sahar was pretty suspicious and to be honest I totally understood but I had no answer for any of her questions. She found me a ticket online for three hundred and fifty dollars meaning I was left with a good chunk of change. I wanted to keep the extra money. I surely needed it but I just couldn't sell myself on the idea. A guy just gave me one thousand dollars to fly to Los Angeles, stay at the Four Season and have a good time. How do you try and swindle someone who does all that? I called Darwin and told him what happened. "Go have a good time," he encouraged. "Believe me I will, but Darwin he gave me a thousand. I found a ticket for three hundred and fifty." Darwin cut me off. "I already know where you're coming from. Don't think your going to be gaining any points with him by giving the money back. He would take it as an insult." "Seriously?" I questioned. Darwin seemed sure answering with a distinct, "Yes!" You don't have to tell me twice. I was happy to accept Darwin's version of what should be done, plus I had a date that night, six hundred and fifty should cover it.

2:21 AM - 16 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

Intro To The Book - International Vagabond
Category: Life

A good friend once expressed that he had great respect for me as a person because my convictions remained resolute even though my life situations oscillated through various extremes. He gave me too much credit.

I am going to tell you a story, a special story, my story. One may ask, "Why would anyone want to hear such a story?" My response, "I didn't know only famous people lived interesting lives." Are all the most intriguing lives lived by the rich and famous? Because if they are the ninety eight percent of us who are in neither category might as well call it quits now because our lives are a waste. My intention is not to act as though I know more than anyone else. These are simply experiences and lesson I've learned that I am arrogant enough to think can be valuable to others. For a time now I've believed I have lived one of the truly special lives. A life filled with varying experiences that few would ever encounter nor imagine and in some cases that would be for the best. I've been poorer than anyone should ever be and I've been exposed to more money than any prince would ever need. The disparity in these experiences I believe few have truly tasted and trust me for better or for worse I reaped the most out of both of them. Both almost killed me but for very different reasons. I heard a man say, "There is nothing stronger than the human soul. Its resilience is all powerful." At the time I believed the words carried about as much weight as a strippers promise to meet for lunch the next day. As life began to happen I found those words to be eerily true even when I didn't want them to be. There were days when the most prevalent thought in my mind was how I was going to kill myself. I thought about jumping off of a building, buying a gun and blowing my head off, walking out into the ocean, I can't swim so that would have definitely done the trick. At one point I even set a deadline. I told myself by the end of the year if I didn't see light at the end of the tunnel for a better life then I was going to check out. Well at the end of the year I'm not sure if I saw the light more than that human spirit part started to kick in. Life has a way of extending your want to see what the rest of your existence holds.

Very much the same as a man lost in the wilderness I became lost in life. I remember a time when I thought the most important things in the world were a good party and a ten thousand dollar a night hooker. All absolute rubbish and I learned the folly of these thoughts from the most unlikely of sources but one who would leave a colossal footprint on the rest of my life. Somewhere along the way I allowed a person and a lifestyle to rob me of a belief in myself and my dignity but I was never a victim, never. A victim is a person deceived or cheated by their own ignorance. I wasn't ignorant. I saw what was occurring. I was simply to lazy and comfortable to do anything about it, at least for awhile anyway. I allowed myself to be taken advantage of, not by bad people, simply those lost a little more than I.

I right this in the knowledge that I've made more mistakes than most.
Part of my time I spent homeless.
Part of my time I spent in London learning the most important lessons in life.
Part of my time I spent in the Middle East chasing fools gold.
Part of my time I spent partying my ass off.

I've been low sometimes. So low there were days when I never thought I'd rise again. I've been high to. Sometimes so high I thought the euphoria was permanent. Sometimes when I was flying high I was really riding low but my mind was in such a delusional state I couldn't tell the difference. The high feelings that were real, concrete, so often came right after times were at there worst and I was sure couldn't get any better. But that's the beauty of life. Success really is one step after failure. It usually never comes exactly how you want it or when you want it but if you persevere it does come. That's what makes life worth it, the voyage itself. It's all a learning process with everyone learning at a different rate. The low times make the good times taste so sweat. Instead of relishing only one I say enjoy them both because they are equally rewarding. How can a person experience true joy without knowing utter defeat? Defeat, pain sorrow, these are what drive us to be better, to recoup success from failure. I would even argue that there is no such thing as true failure. Failure is simply a check mark on an inventory of possibilities that won't make us better. The sooner you check one off the list the closer you are to achieving your goals. I have numerous checks on my list but this is the ecstasy and pain of real life and I find enjoyment in both.

So if there's ever a question why I'm telling this story, it's for the regular guy, not all of us are going to be rich. So bare with me a little in the retelling of my story. I used to consider myself a writer till experience taught me I was merely a storyteller. There is a difference and it took some time to figure this out.

2:18 AM - 13 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Letter to a Little Boy - Excerpt from the book International Vagabond
Category: Life

Dear Luca,

By the time you read this you will probably have no recollection of who I am but I can never forget you. Your entrance into my life is now and will forever be marked. When we first met, that day your mother opened the door with you at her side, I was truly lost. I was so lost I didn't even know. But you brought me back. It was your innocence, your zest for everything new and beautiful about life which pounded through the multiple layers of stupidity that surrounded my head. You put on display the responsibility required and the joy it can be to influence one so young and in the process you taught me a new found appreciation for those who raised me.

I wanted to be your father, I dreamed of raising you as my son and even though it did not come to pass you are my son in ways that supersede blood.

I remember clearly when you would wake up at 6:30 in the morning and stand up in your crib and say "Opa". Or the times we would toast our drinks together, you with your bottle of milk, me with my Strongbow Super and say, "Gasur." They say that the Star of David led the kings to Jesus. While I liken myself in no way to a king I do liken you to the Star of David leading me to something greater.

There is a basketball player named Kobe Bryant. In my thirties he was one of the greatest in his era. He had a daughter. I heard him once say, "A child puts everything in perspective." The minute I heard the words come out of his mouth I thought about you. There were times when your mother and I would get into an argument or I would question what direction my life was taking and I would see you kicking your ball around in the backyard or you were begging me to take you to the park. During these times the burdens that weighed upon my mind suddenly didn't seem so important. That is the greatest gift you gave me, the ability to put everything in perspective. If I never get married, if I never have a child, my time spent with you, even though only a few months was enough to last a life time.


Thank you

I sit here humbled before you.

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