Chicago, Illinois.
August 16th 2003
8:37 PM
It's 90 degrees outside with 85 percent humidity.
My uncle is upstairs watching the History/War/Propaganda Channel.
I'm in the basement.
To my right; a half empty bottle of Kentucky whiskey.
To my left; a soon to be refilled tumbler.
In my breast pocket; an open pack of cigarettes.
In front of me is a shiny new laptop, its bright screen learing at me, daring me to write something clever.
I suppose I should.
You only turn 30 once.
I think of my uncle upstairs.
He half-sits half-lays on the couch.
It's an interesting study of precarious balance.
With his backend on the edge of the couch and his legs crumpled beneath him he lays with his head and shoulders against the back of the couch.
His huge distended stomach rises above his chest, seemingly at odd with the rest of his body which is thin and frail.
It's the body of a slob.
It is the posture of a defeated man.
I want so much for him to be a man of bearing and pride; someone who could at least hold some sort of sway with his manner or voice.
He was once.
A surgeon, who built a respectable practice over thirty years.
A handsome man even, with many loves and adventures and the pictures to prove it.
Now as a confirmed bachelor in his sixties, he stares incessantly at the television.
His medical practice up for sale and his license taken away, he has no other recourse but to revel in the exploits of history. He can recite the entire line of English Kings, categorize all of Napoleon's battle tactics, and name all the Generals of the American Civil War.
But sometimes he'll forget what day it is and stumble on his step, right before he pisses his pants.
I guess thirty years of drug abuse can do that to you.
As a child I used to look at him in awe.
Often when he's not looking I survey his crumpled body. I can't help but find a certain fascination with it.
After a while however I start to feel guilty and quickly look away.
Eventually I tell myself that he is still my uncle, and he deserves better than my pity.
Before I left home to take care of him people kept asking me what I wanted for my birthday.
Amidst the talk of parties and reveling, at the time I really couldn't even begin to think about what I could possibly want for myself.
So I decided to look back at all my other birthdays to see what I wanted for myself back then and was shocked to discover how petty they were.
A new toy, a bicycle, my own television, a car.
Some things i got, most I didn't.
But I realized that nothing I have ever received on my birthday has ever made that much of a difference in my life.
My trials and my victories have all been my own and at the end of the day it's only myself that I have to deal with and not a shiny new toy.
So here I am on my thirtieth birthday, alone except for my uncle. No parties with friends, no fancy dinner, and no presents.
Do resent my sentence here, and my added responsibilities?
No.
For I have decided that how one carries his responsibilities to himself and others is his measure as a person.
To resent one's responsibilites is to resent one's own life because ultimately it is only he who chooses what's important in his life.
And the fact is that I _do_ love the life that God or circumstance has given me.
I have been tremenmdously fortunate in this life and have no choice but to find joy and love in my family, my friends, and yes, even for all his bad decisions, I can still find love in my uncle.
It is on this day that I choose to take stock in my life.
I've made decisions both hard and soft.
I've taken some difficult paths and learned to deal with the shame of having taken some easy ones.
I've fought youthful hubris with painful humility.
I've faced uncertaintly and self doubt and learned that those particular demons only serve to make us stronger.
And with my childhood decidedly over and my future adulthood yet uncertain, I know how my experiences will shape my future.
I turn thirty today and I know what this boy wants for his birthday.
I want to be a good man.
~The Smoking Gun
August 16th 2003
8:37 PM
It's 90 degrees outside with 85 percent humidity.
My uncle is upstairs watching the History/War/Propaganda Channel.
I'm in the basement.
To my right; a half empty bottle of Kentucky whiskey.
To my left; a soon to be refilled tumbler.
In my breast pocket; an open pack of cigarettes.
In front of me is a shiny new laptop, its bright screen learing at me, daring me to write something clever.
I suppose I should.
You only turn 30 once.
I think of my uncle upstairs.
He half-sits half-lays on the couch.
It's an interesting study of precarious balance.
With his backend on the edge of the couch and his legs crumpled beneath him he lays with his head and shoulders against the back of the couch.
His huge distended stomach rises above his chest, seemingly at odd with the rest of his body which is thin and frail.
It's the body of a slob.
It is the posture of a defeated man.
I want so much for him to be a man of bearing and pride; someone who could at least hold some sort of sway with his manner or voice.
He was once.
A surgeon, who built a respectable practice over thirty years.
A handsome man even, with many loves and adventures and the pictures to prove it.
Now as a confirmed bachelor in his sixties, he stares incessantly at the television.
His medical practice up for sale and his license taken away, he has no other recourse but to revel in the exploits of history. He can recite the entire line of English Kings, categorize all of Napoleon's battle tactics, and name all the Generals of the American Civil War.
But sometimes he'll forget what day it is and stumble on his step, right before he pisses his pants.
I guess thirty years of drug abuse can do that to you.
As a child I used to look at him in awe.
Often when he's not looking I survey his crumpled body. I can't help but find a certain fascination with it.
After a while however I start to feel guilty and quickly look away.
Eventually I tell myself that he is still my uncle, and he deserves better than my pity.
Before I left home to take care of him people kept asking me what I wanted for my birthday.
Amidst the talk of parties and reveling, at the time I really couldn't even begin to think about what I could possibly want for myself.
So I decided to look back at all my other birthdays to see what I wanted for myself back then and was shocked to discover how petty they were.
A new toy, a bicycle, my own television, a car.
Some things i got, most I didn't.
But I realized that nothing I have ever received on my birthday has ever made that much of a difference in my life.
My trials and my victories have all been my own and at the end of the day it's only myself that I have to deal with and not a shiny new toy.
So here I am on my thirtieth birthday, alone except for my uncle. No parties with friends, no fancy dinner, and no presents.
Do resent my sentence here, and my added responsibilities?
No.
For I have decided that how one carries his responsibilities to himself and others is his measure as a person.
To resent one's responsibilites is to resent one's own life because ultimately it is only he who chooses what's important in his life.
And the fact is that I _do_ love the life that God or circumstance has given me.
I have been tremenmdously fortunate in this life and have no choice but to find joy and love in my family, my friends, and yes, even for all his bad decisions, I can still find love in my uncle.
It is on this day that I choose to take stock in my life.
I've made decisions both hard and soft.
I've taken some difficult paths and learned to deal with the shame of having taken some easy ones.
I've fought youthful hubris with painful humility.
I've faced uncertaintly and self doubt and learned that those particular demons only serve to make us stronger.
And with my childhood decidedly over and my future adulthood yet uncertain, I know how my experiences will shape my future.
I turn thirty today and I know what this boy wants for his birthday.
I want to be a good man.
~The Smoking Gun
