No. 380 – Immigrant Song

Performer: Led Zeppelin

Songwriters: Jimmy Page, Robert Plant

Original Release: Led Zeppelin III

Year: 1970

Definitive Version: BBC Sessions, 1997

When Debbie and I went to Florida for spring training in 1998, most of our activities were in Fort Myers. Two teams—the Red Sox and Twins—trained there, and Debbie’s cousin lived there (providing us with free room and board).

We roadtripped one day—to nearby Port Charlotte, where the Texas Rangers trained. Port Charlotte was less than an hour away, but it might as well have been in the Everglades. Perhaps we missed the garden spot, but the only thing around the ballpark appeared to be swamp. There was nothing there.

But we weren’t going to Port Charlotte for the shopping but the baseball, and the park was fine. I don’t remember whom the Rangers played or even who won, although I think it was the Rangers. What I’ll never forget, though, is that I heard the greatest put-down of a heckler I ever heard.

We had box seats down the first-base line, maybe two rows from the field, and we could hear everything. Of course, you could have been in the left-field bleachers (if the park had any) and still heard this obnoxious toolhead, or OT for short, who sat to our left, one row behind us.

OT was a transplanted New Yorker and a Yankee fan, so that should tell you everything you need to know about the willingness with which he shared his opinions. Everytime a ball went into the stands, he’d holler “GIVE IT TO A KID!” lest anyone even THINK of keeping the ball for himself.

Actually, OT wasn’t too bad until the fourth inning, when John Wetteland came into the game. In no uncertain terms, OT let everyone in the ballpark—including the players—know how much he disliked Wetteland. Apparently, Wetteland had stiffed him on an autograph request when Wetteland was a Yankee, and OT wasn’t the forgiving type. He let Wetteland have it every pitch.

OT didn’t curse, but the whole park, including, most certainly, Wetteland, could hear every word. Wettleland pitched his inning, gave up a run, much to OT’s delight, and disappeared into the dugout.

In Port Charlotte, the clubhouse was down the right-field line. Players coming out of the game went into the dugout for a half-inning. At the next break in the action, they hiked to the clubhouse. This path would take the players right past us … and of course, past OT.

The next half-inning, Wetteland came strolling by. Like I said, OT was a New Yorker, so he couldn’t leave well enough alone, and he began to berate Wetteland again, helpfully explaining his little-boy slight (from two or so years ago). My favorite part was how he packed on the condescension by calling him “Mr. Wetteland” even though he was closer to being Wetteland’s father’s age. Wettleland walked over to the fence. The following dialog was verbatim:

OT: “MR. WETTLELAND, YOU’RE A BAD ROLE MODEL …”

Wetteland: (softly) “Do you have kids?”

OT: “YES …”

Wetteland (softly with a wan smile): “I feel sorry for them.”

With that Wetteland walked away, and the crowd hooted and applauded.

And it WORKED. OT didn’t say another word the rest of the game—not a single peep—and left long before it was over. Meanwhile, Wetteland signed autographs for the next two innings. You’d like to think OT learned a lesson in keeping his big yapper shut, but my guess is he was back to being his old obnoxious self the next day.

Anyway, at the end of the game, as the Rangers came off the field, I moved down behind the Rangers dugout and called out to manager Johnny Oates.

I’ll talk more about this later, but Johnny Oates was the only major league ballplayer I knew personally. I hadn’t seen him since Baltimore in 1991, and I called out my name and that I knew him in Columbus.

He smiled and came right over. “Oh, I saw that darned Reds cap in the stands,” he said with a smile. He asked how I was doing, and I had him sign my Rangers ball, which he signed, “To Will, Best Wishes, Johnny Oates.”

It was the highlight of my spring-training trip—Debbie was impressed that the manager of the Texas Rangers actually knew who I was—and to this day, I keep that ball in a place of honor on my Baseball Shelves.

Johnny Oates—MR. OATES, with no condescension whatsoever—was the man.

No. 381 – Hoedown

Performer: Emerson, Lake & Palmer

Songwriter: Aaron Copland

Original Release: Trilogy

Year: 1972

Definitive Version: Welcome Back My Friends to the Show That Never Ends … Ladies and Gentlemen, Emerson, Lake & Palmer, 1974

I kept my budding relationship with Beth a secret at the Fiji house in 1982 for a number of reasons, as I mentioned, but when I moved out, I no longer had any reason to keep it to myself. Everyone on my floor at Wolcott knew about it. I mean, when I was a late-night regular in the phone booth—after the long-distance rates went down—you just kind of knew.

In spring, back then, Wabash had an all-campus party called Pan-Hel. All of the houses were open, and a main bash was held in the basketball court where they had a stage set up for bands to play. Inside, each fraternity and dorm would have a stand set up where house brothers and residents could drink. It was free for Wabash students and $10, I think, for everyone else. It started on Thursday and pretty much rolled through the weekend.

It was amazing to see the students show up whom you hadn’t seen all year. Wabash is a school of about 800 students, so you really had to work hard to not be noticed at some point.

Pan-Hel wasn’t quite the good time I was expecting. For one, I wasn’t much of a drinker. For two, the music wasn’t as good as it might have been. My freshman year, the Wabash student government really tried to get the Go-Gos to play—the novelty being an all-girl band plays an all-male school. I guess the cash wasn’t enough; heck, David Letterman couldn’t even afford an appearance by them back then.

But the biggest reason was Beth didn’t come visit that weekend. We had talked about it the whole second semester, and her parents OK’d a visit to Wabash, but, of course, Beth was 15. She couldn’t drive herself, and even if she did, they weren’t going to let her drive to Indiana to see her boyfriend by herself—particularly at an all-campus party.

Instead, Beth’s whole family brought her over the next weekend. It was better than nothing. I wanted Beth to see the campus, so I was glad to have her come out at all and show her around.

Beth’s family stayed at the Holiday Inn at I-74 and U.S. 231, north of Crawfordsville. I gave them the full tour and we went out to dinner on Saturday. Sunday, I went to Mass with them at the nearby—I want to say only—Catholic church in town.

We did have some alone time during the weekend, not much, but enough, I guess, all things considered. As you might imagine, that time was spent in my room, making out as much as possible. It wasn’t the best time, but it laid the groundwork for future visits, all of which were better.

The next year, my sophomore year, the family stayed at a less expensive Holiday Inn farther away on I-65 near Whitesville. They liked that one much better, because it had a Holidome. I liked it much better, because it was farther away, which made for more alone time.

After that, when Beth came to visit—always chaperoned—it was just with Beth’s mom and one of her friends. They came twice a year, and it became as a much a getaway for them as it was a way for Beth to come visit. They’d spend the day in Indianapolis, and Beth would spend it at Wabash with me.

On those trips, it was almost as though Beth were my girlfriend from another school, like any other Wabash student. The only difference was I had to take her back to the Holiday Inn at the end of the night, like a date at home. But, safely away from prying eyes, we were able to act like real college students when left alone, if you know what I mean.

That was great, of course, but Beth’s visits to Wabash provided an added bonus. It made me aware of an alternate route between Columbus and Wabash that was so much better. Instead of going through Indy and taking I-74, I’d go around the top of Indy to I-65 and take Rt. 32 across at Lebanon.

I found it shaved a half-hour off my commute, which meant an extra half-hour with Beth before I had to leave home or that I’d be in her arms again a half-hour sooner than otherwise. There was no downside to that.

No. 382 – One Simple Thing

Performer: The Stabilizers

Songwriters: Dave Christenson, Rich Nevens

Original Release: Tyranny

Year: 1986

Definitive Version: None

This has to be one of the most obscure songs on this here list, certainly top three. The Stabilizers had a career that lasted about as long as a mayfly’s life cycle. The only reason I know this song is because Steve & Garry used to play it quite a bit in 1987. I liked it and taped it. (When Napster and iTunes came along more than a decade later, I had Scott track this track down for me.)

During the time, as I mentioned a long time ago, I was going with regularity to a Fifties bar in Lincoln Park called Jukebox Saturday Night. Cindy, as was her wont, tried to organize another office party there awhile after the time Sasha and I hooked up, but not a lot of people were available. I was game—what else did I have to do that night?

I took the L, and when I got off at Fullerton, it started to sprinkle. By the time I got to Jukebox, it began to rain for real.

Cindy and I danced a bit, and I hung out long enough to have a few beers and get a good buzz on. (Back then a couple beers was all that took.) It was starting to get late, and tomorrow was a workday, so Cindy and I called it a night around 10, I think. When we left, it was pouring. I could see out the windows, and it had been raining hard the whole time we were at Jukebox.

Because I was 23, it hadn’t occurred to me to bring an umbrella or jacket. The walk to the Fullerton L wasn’t far. I ran as fast as I could, stopping under tall trees for a breather, but I was pretty wet as I piled on to the L.

I don’t know whether it was the exertion or the alcohol or both, but when I got on the train and slumped in my bench seat, I fell asleep almost immediately. That’s not a good thing to do when you’re on the L: You’re an easy target, and you don’t know who might come up and hassle you. But, again, I was 23. All that concerned me was how tired and buzzy I felt. So I passed out on the train.

Howard—my stop—is the last stop on the red line, which wasn’t color-coded back then. I suppose I could relax, because I didn’t need to pay attention to where I was getting off. I’d get off when the train stopped. I must have slept the entire way, because the next thing I remember, the train was stopped, the doors were open, and I was the only one on the train.

And it still was pouring. By pouring I mean like someone turned on not a shower but millions of faucets. I had never seen a rain that was this hard and lasted for this long before. The only time I saw anything approach this was during a thunderstorm, but even then, the rain doesn’t come down in sheets for this long. On this night, there was no wind, and I don’t remember any lightning either. It was just water, water, everywhere.

Well, the run to the Fullerton L wasn’t a big deal, but the route home from the Howard stop was going to be a chore. First, it was much longer. Second, it was wide open—no trees to partially block the rain. Third, it wasn’t the best neighborhood to be in at night, but given the weather, I was the least concerned about that aspect.

I still was a bit tipsy when I pushed out of the station sprinting for the first doorway I could find that might provide a respite. I stopped for a breather, then made my way to the next one. I don’t know why I bothered, because I was completely drenched by the time I was a quarter of the way home. It took awhile, but I finally completed the milelong walk/run home. The rain hadn’t let up the entire time.

I went into my bathroom to dry off, and it was only then that I realized I didn’t have my glasses. When I hiked to the Fullerton L, it was raining hard enough that my glasses got streaked like a windshield with no wipers. I could see more clearly if I took them off. When I got off the train at Howard, I put my glasses in my shirt pocket. When I took my shirt off, they were no longer in the pocket. They must have fallen out somewhere along the way. Oh crap!

I had a backup pair, true, but they were a backup pair for a reason—they were 6 months old. They wouldn’t be good enough to read anything on a computer screen. I had to have my lost glasses, so there was only one solution, even though it was close to midnight, and I had to be up for my YMCA gig downtown at 6 the next morning—I had to go back out into the monsoon and look for my glasses. I changed into dry clothes, put on my backup pair, grabbed an umbrella and a flashlight, jumped in my car and headed out.

Considering my condition earlier in the evening—tipsy enough to have passed out on the L—going out in my car might not have been the best idea, but I was fine. I really was. I think from the running and the rain, I had burned up all the alcohol in my system (and there wasn’t much anyway). I felt fine and alert. Besides I wasn’t going to drive far.

I went down Howard close to the station and parked on the side of the road. No one, and I mean no one, was out that night. I put up my umbrella and shined my flashlight on the ground, walking slowly. I would do this the whole route home if necessary. All the while, the rain continued to fall.

Somehow, I found my glasses almost right away—close to the Howard L stop. Apparently, they bounced out of my shirt pocket almost right away, and in my tipsiness, I didn’t notice. They were just sitting on the sidewalk, and they seemed to be fine—intact, no scratches on the lenses. No one had been out, so no one stepped on them or took them. What a break. I climbed into bed feeling I really dodged a bullet.

When I awoke, it still was raining—not as hard and heavy as the last night but still steady. I turned on the Loop, to Johnny B’s show, as I sometimes did (I wasn’t as much of a fan of his), and people were calling in saying the Kennedy and Eisenwhower were shut down; they were swimming in the pudles under the viaducts. No one was able to get to work. I shut off the radio and went to work.

The L was running—It was the L, as in elevated—even though a puddle the size of Lake Michigan had formed INSIDE the Howard station. It didn’t stop raining until long after I arrived at work to find I had been about the only one there. The office wasn’t closed, but anyone who couldn’t take public transportation couldn’t make it. Chicago essentially had been shut down.

The final tally was 9.35 inches in less than 12 hours—a record that might never be approached. I remember that people were saying that if it had been snow, we would have had 9 FEET of snow, which is ridiculous. The snow couldn’t possibly fall as fast and heavy in the same amount of time. But it was a staggering total.

A month ago, we had a huge rain in Chicago that shut down the Edens and Ike and caused large amounts of flooding in the area. I was an hour late to work and got there only because I took the train. It was a mess, but at least I didn’t lose my glasses this time. The rain in that 24-hour period: a mere 5 inches.

No 383 – Lords of Karma

Performer: Joe Satriani

Songwriter: Joe Satriani

Original Release: Surfing with the Alien

Year: 1987

Definitive Version: Time Machine, 1993

Surfing with the Alien, as I mentioned, was the soundtrack of my desolation. Although I long before learned that the world wasn’t perfect, in the fall of 1988, I wondered whether it even worked out at all.

To sum up, I just had broken up with Melanie and still was feeling the after-shocks of that violent earthquake. Work was going bad with the whole Darlene mess. And summer was over, which meant winter was coming. It was like as soon as high-school football season started, the weather went from 90 degrees and no rain to 50 degrees and cloudy. A distinct chill was in the air.

So what would be just the thing to put the cherry on top of this poo sundae that had been created for me in Harbor Country? How about massive debt amid a meager salary? Coming right up!

I was driving on a Saturday to Michigan City on U.S. 12, only a few blocks from home, when my car, the once-Magic but now just Tragic Mazda, up and quit on me, which forced me to pull onto a side street.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened. I mentioned the problem I had with my alternator after the Joe Walsh and Steve & Garry show at Horizonfest. That was the second time my alternator crapped out. Both times, I had been driving and the car just died. Well, this will cost me a few bucks, but, worse, won’t be ready till Monday at the earliest, so this was bad.

One problem: I had power in the car. It just wouldn’t go anywhere. That can only mean one thing, as a friend said when he saw me pull over and get out of my car: It’s probably my transmission. Gulp!

I was able to get a tow truck, which took my car to a transmission shop near Michigan City that fortunately was open. The guy at the shop said he’d check it out and give me a call. A little while later, he confirmed the bad news: I needed a new transmission, and a rebuild would cost $900. He said he probably wouldn’t have the car back to me till Wednesday.

This was a major problem, not only for the cost, but the inconvenience. I had to have a car, because there was no other way to get the 20 miles to and from work. I didn’t want to ride my bike on U.S. 12 at night, and the train that went through New Buffalo and stopped close to the News-Dispatch went through town only twice a day. The only solution was I had to stay in Michigan City for the week.

I called Jim and told him of my plight, and he not only offered me the use of his sofa, he offered me the use of his apartment. His new romance was going very well, and he could stay with her while I stayed at his place. He said he could pick me up in the morning, take me to work and take me back to his place at night. It meant I couldn’t work as long as I might normally Sunday and Monday night, but I wasn’t in any position to complain. Jim was (is) a good friend, indeed.

So that’s what we did. Jim picked me up at about 6 and then I’d stay as long as I could until the shuttle left. But when I called Tuesday to inquire about the car, I was told it would take longer than expected, due to it being a foreign car—maybe Friday. I told Jim, and we extended my stay another night.

When Harbor Country News went out Wednesday, I wouldn’t need to be back in the office again until Sunday night, so I had the guy who replaced Bob as my photographer, pick me up in the afternoon after he dropped off some film and take me back to New Buffalo.

When you really have to have a car and don’t, it tends to make you edgy. I don’t know how many times I called the auto shop to see how the repairs on my car were going, but the news continued to be bad. I wasn’t able to get my car back until the next Monday, so I had to borrow Jim’s place again.

Finally, I got my car back and drove home by myself—$900 lighter and feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. I had to get out of here … now. I placed a call to Northwestern’s job-placement office and told them I was looking and please pass along the word. The woman with whom I spoke, and with whom I’d established a good relationship said she’d get right on it.

No. 384 – History Never Repeats

Performer: Split Enz

Songwriter: Neil Finn

Original Release: Waiata

Year: 1981

Definitive Version: None

When I made my Hawaii tapes in 1984, I pulled out Waiata from Jin’s record collection to add this song, much to Jin’s surprise. I thought you didn’t like new wave, she said. Some of it. It might have been the first time I surprised Jin with a song that I liked. It wouldn’t be the last.

When we went to Hawaii, with the exception of when we went to the Big Island, the day’s activities mostly revolved around going to the beach—sometimes more than one. It makes sense, right? (Actually, we did go to the beach on the Big Island one day—the now-gone black-sand beach near Kalapana.)

The first Hawaiian beach we went to was Waikiki downtown. It was fairly basic, which is why it became the first beach overrun by hotels, resorts and tourists. (I understand they all are like that now.)

The family beach was Ewa Beach, which is close to where the Naval vessels come in and out of Pearl Harbor. To the north on the Leeward shore are Nanakuli and Makaha.

Those were my favorite beaches, and we probably went to Nanakuli more than any other beach while we were in Hawaii. First, it wasn’t too far from the homefront. Second, it had the best waves. They were big enough to play in but not so big that you felt overwhelmed. Makaha was like that but a little bigger—and a little farther away from home.

Once while at Nanakuli, I got a different perspective about swimming in the ocean amongst the waves. A teen-age girl—an Islander—came to swim, but before she went in, she genuflected on the beach. Dad saw it, too, and said how it was a show of respect to the power of the ocean. It definitely is something not to be taken for granted.

One day, Dad wanted to take us up to the North Shore for shave ice at Matsumoto’s, which meant a trip to two legendary beaches—Waimea Bay, namechecked in The Beach Boys’ Surfin’ USA; and Sunset Beach, home of the world-famous Banzai Pipeline.

The shave ice was a disappointment—think: snow cone with the ice cut a bit finer (meh)—and the beaches were eye-opening. Both, of course, are known for their huge waves and surfing, but as we learned, that’s a seasonal thing. The Banzai Pipeline was more the Banzai Flatline. I mean it was as flat as Torch Lake when there’s no wind. Forget 60-footers, these were more like 60-millimeterers, at best.

Both beaches made for good swimming, if you like calm waters. At Waimea, people jumped off a big rock near the beach into the ocean. Apparently, in the winter, that rock is inaccessible because of the waves. The next day, we were back at Nanakuli, where we had a lot more action.

Laurie never has been to Hawaii, so at some point, I have to take her there. In all likelihood, we’ll go in the winter when the big waves are rolling in on the North Shore. I doubt I’ll do any swimming that day.

No. 385 – Incense and Peppermints

Performer: Strawberry Alarm Clock

Songwriters: John S. Carter, Tim Gilbert, Mark Weitz, Ed King

Original Release: Incense and Peppermints

Year: 1967

Definitive Version: Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery Original Soundtrack, 1997. The introduction on this version adds to the awesomeness of this awesome track.

When I told Scott about me and Debbie for the first time in August 1994, Scott made it plain that he didn’t like it, as I mentioned. I was OK with that response, just as I had been when Dad said the same thing a month later.

The big difference was Scott was willing to give me a chance essentially to prove myself. Trust me, I told him. I didn’t go into this lightly. We seem to be good together, so why not give it a shot? Just wait till you see us together. Then you’ll see.

About a month or so later, I called Scott and said Debbie and I were coming to Indiana. I think it was for an Eric Clapton show, as I mentioned awhile back, but I’m not sure now. It might have been just to see Scott.

Scott graduated from Ball State the previous summer but still lived in Muncie while Shani, who was a class behind him, finished up her studies and while he waited for his next move. When Debbie and I drove over, I didn’t feel any pressure of having to prove myself. It would be fine.

And it was. We started with a run to QL’s for some ribs and hits and then back to Scott’s to eat and hang out a bit. After that, we went out for some drinks.

The usual Ball State hang was to head down to the campus and most specifically The Chug (good college-bar name, right?) for ultracheap buckets of beer. That didn’t seem to be the right call that night, so we went to another of Scott’s favorite bars—Butterfields. It wasn’t a campus bar; it was a restaurant, so it was a bit higher class.

As per usual, Scott and I went to the jukebox to load up while Debbie and Shani grabbed a table and settled in. The selection at Butterfields wasn’t nearly as good as that of, say, BW-3 at Ohio State, but I spotted this song.

Awhile before our trip, this song was playing somewhere, and Debbie made fun of it, so I thought it would be funny to play it that night. When I got back to the table, I told Debbie I played something for her. When this song came on, she gave me a playful smack.

It was a good night, and when we postgamed a week or so later, Scott admitted that I had been right about me and Debbie. He had no problems whatsoever with it any more. If Dad and Laura had given me half the benefit of the doubt, who knows how that might have affected things?

Anyway, this song took on a little different meaning the first time I saw Austin Powers, of course. In fact, I thought the funniest part of the whole movie the first time I saw it by far was the scene that featured this song, when Mike Myers did his dead-on Beyond the Valley of the Dolls tribute.

The line, which, of course, is the intro on the soundtrack version, seems like a nonsequitur unless you’ve seen the older movie. I had, thanks to late-night video-rental watching in Flint, so it was hilarious. It’s still one of my favorite parts of the movie.

No. 386 – Wake Up

Performer: Mad Season

Songwriters: Barrett Martin, Mike McCready, John Baker Saunders, Layne Staley

Original Release: Above

Year: 1995

Definitive Version: None

I never was interested in trying drugs when I was younger. First, I knew that my parents would kill me if they found out; and second, I didn’t want to go to jail or overdose. I guess that viewing of Go Ask Alice in junior high worked.

That didn’t change as I got older and could imbibe in the very legal drug of alcohol. The thing that really put the brakes on any real experimentation was Mom. Being the child of an alcoholic, I knew I was susceptible, particularly as I started to drink more after I got to Flint. I got absolutely hammered a couple of times on beer and Jack Daniels where the next day, a Sunday, would disappear to sleeping off my hangover.

A funny thing happened when I got to Columbus: I found I didn’t need JD. I didn’t go out like I did in Flint, and I didn’t drink by myself at home. The heavier drinking that I did in Flint, it seemed to me, was more a result of the environment than any hereditary condition.

Then, slowly, over a few years, my drink became wine. When Debbie and I would go out to dinner, we always split a bottle of wine with dinner—same thing on our Sunday dinners at home. After Debbie and I broke up, I still would open a bottle of wine for my Sunday dinner, but now I didn’t have anyone to split it with. Well, no sense letting this go to waste, so I started finishing the bottle myself.

When I drink, typically, I have a nice off switch—my stomach. If I’ve had too much, and I mean too much beyond merely being drunk, my stomach tells me it’s time to stop or it’s time to start getting sick. I hate getting sick, so I almost always stop.

For some reason, one night in 2002, my off switch got stuck. I killed one bottle during dinner and wanted more to watch a spate of movies after The Sopranos and Six Feet Under. Before long, that bottle was empty, too. Still, wanting more, I got a beer. It was like I could hear myself say, you don’t want to do this, but I wasn’t interested in listening.

Finally, I did—probably out of boredom more than anything else—and I wasn’t too terribly hungover the next day. The next Sunday I was back to one bottle—and one bottle only. I figured my one binge was no big deal, because I didn’t drink every day. Dinner five nights a week was at work; no drinking there. Sometimes I’d have a glass when I got home; a lot of times, I didn’t.

When I left for Cleveland, I was concerned, because I knew that I’d have my evenings free and certainly the potentiality for loneliness and self-pity to trigger more binges. But then another funny thing happened: I stopped drinking wine. Well, not completely, but not like before.

My additional off switch this time was my wallet. In other words, I didn’t have the money I used to to buy wine. I had to nurse my collection, and anything new had to be cheap. Wine became a precious commodity. In my year in Cleveland, I might have gone through a full bottle in a single night once … maybe.

OK, so I’ve consumed mass quantities of beer, JD and wine, and I can take it or leave it. I’ve concluded that whatever my addiction is, it doesn’t seem to be booze. (And my recent discovery and love of tequila hasn’t changed my opinion.)

But … I know I’m an addictive personality. I can get locked in and do things like play games for hours to the detriment of other activities. It used to be video games, then Sudoku and now Angry Birds. But like with alcohol, it’s fairly short runs, and then when I’m done, I’m done.

So … what’s my poison? It’s out there; I haven’t found it yet. Maybe it’s absinthe. Maybe it’s prescription drugs. Maybe it’s street drugs. I’ve had far more opportunities to indulge in Chicago than ever before, but I haven’t. Part of that is I like that I have a reputation as a tee-totaler (when it comes to drugs) who’s cool with others doing them.

But part of it is, I’m not interested in “just trying” something and inadvertently finding the thing that destroys my life, like it did Mom. I have enough things that elevate me—music being a big one. No high can be worth potentially flipping the wrong switch.