Living The Lifestyle – Page 6

The Jackass Chronicle

By Mark E. Smith

The first and only time that I met Jacki, I ate a cigarette. Everyone else in the group knew me, but Jacki and I didn’t know each other, and I immediately recognized that the impression that I made upon her was the wrong one. See, I performed a vaudeville trick, where if the weather is just the right temperature, you can eat a cigarette, take a deep, warm breath, and blow smoke. But, of course, it’s not really smoke, just breathing “frost.” Everyone who knew me understood that it was me goofing off, that there are mostly serious sides to my life, depth to my character, but I can be hilariously over-the-top when appropriate. However, not discounting Jacki’s own gracious character, I got the impression that she only saw me as a cigarette-eating jackass – which in the moment, I was. And, that soon troubled me.

Firstly, for me, “legacy” is a life-driver, where if I can have even a small, positive impact on a stranger’s life, it’s really important to me. And, every time I thought about Jacki for months, I cringed, realizing that I was nothing more than the jackass who ate the cigarette – not very impacting.

And, secondly, I was admittedly smitten with Jacki, where her eloquence struck me – the way she carried herself, you might say. Have you ever met someone in passing, and just thought, wow. Well, that was my moment seeing Jacki – only I was eating a cigarette like a total jackass.

So, for some time, when it came to my one and only encounter with Jacki, I saw myself as the underdog in every teen movie: I was the goofy guy who the really attractive, popular girl only saw as a dork. But, life went on, and I reckoned that, at least to Jacki, I’d forever just be a jackass.

However, I recently ran into Jacki again while working a trade show, and I immediately had to ask her out to dinner with friends. In fact, I openly prefaced the whole conversation with the fact that I wasn’t the jackass who I may have seemed before, that I was a far more serious guy. It wasn’t that I had anything to prove, per se, but I just wanted the chance to be me – the real me, not some jackass eating a cigarette – and I wanted the chance to likewise get to know her on a genuine level. I mean, maybe after spending an evening with me and friends, she’d still see me as a jackass, but at least she’d see the real jackass in me.

Now that you know the back story, let’s fast forward into present tense….

So, we meet for dinner in Los Angeles, and become fast friends, chatting each other up with a lot in common. And, Jacki is an amazing woman – smart, funny, successful, compassionate, and beautiful – and, at some point, it comes out that she has a boyfriend. But, I’m OK that she has a boyfriend because I’m a grown-up, and I’m pleased to be getting to know an amazing person on a totally sincere level. We have a great seafood dinner, and Jacki is kind enough to feed me raw oysters, which are forever challenging to balance on a fork. We learn a ton about each other – admittedly ignoring our friends to some degree throughout the eve – and end the evening with a hug. And, I, the once-jackass, feel like I was able to be my true self, not a seeming jackass after all. And, Jacki was, of course, a remarkable person to get to know.

As I fall asleep in my white-comforter, king-size hotel room bed, I feel like I’ve done right by all, and slip off into a sound sleep.

However, around 1:30am, I awake with my stomach boiling over – and it’s too late. Even if I was the world’s fastest sprinter, I couldn’t have made it to the bathroom. In the pitch black, I vomit toward the side of the bed – and it just keeps coming. I’m praying that I’m targeting the dirty clothes between the nightstand and my wheelchair, that I’m not hitting the bed, the nightstand, or my wheelchair – but likewise knowing that I’m probably nailing all three at once.

Finally, through the dry heaves, I turn on the lamp, scared to see what I find. I glance at the night stand: clean. I glance at my wheelchair: clean. I glance at side of the bed: covered in vomit. Damn, I missed everything but the all-white bed!

Now, I’m kind of panicked because I’ve vomited seafood all over a white hotel bed, and it’s a horrible situation. I begin racing through solutions on cleaning this up: a wash rag and soap; I’ll strip the bed and take the sheets and comforter to the cleaners down the street; or, I’ll just live with it till check-out another day, and skip-out of town. But, none of these strike me as valid solutions.

However, I have being a bachelor on my side. See, if a woman was with me, it would require immediate action. I’d have to act embarrassed, strip the bed, brush my teeth, and fawn being sicker than I was. But, I’m alone, where the only action required is scooting across the bed, to the clean side, and promptly going back to sleep. This is where being single on the road totally rocks. No, I’m not getting drunk or laid, but the fact that I can vomit on my hotel bed in the middle of the night, and do nothing about it till morning, going right back to sleep, makes being single the best lifestyle ever. And, so, I just go back to sleep – winning.

In the morning, I shower and dress – and know that I have to do the inevitable. I have to march up to the front desk and declare, “I’m Mark E. Smith, in room 318, and I’ve vomited on my bed….”

However, I realize that I’m only partly to blame. See, Jacki has to have some responsibility in all of this. And, so with little more than shame, I roll up to April, the woman at the front desk, and spill out my heart:

So, last year, I ate a cigarette as a prank, and made myself look like a jackass in front of this amazing woman. And, so to show her that I’m not a jackass, I took her and friends out for seafood last night. And, the woman is totally smart, funny, and caring – but, she has a boyfriend, and I respect that. So, long story, short, I made a new platonic friend, but the seafood, not so much, and I vomited all over my bed. …I mean, all over – the comforter the sheets, running down the sides….

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Smith – we’ll get that changed for you,” the desk clerk said. “At least you were sleeping alone last night, from what it sounds like.”

“Trust me, April, when it comes to women and me these days, I’m glad to be sleeping alone every night,” I replied, and headed off to start my day.

The Wild Thing

Author’s Note: If your mind leads you down the path of twisting tasteful innuendos and a dose of cleaver sophomoric humor – all with a relevant message! – into your own biased views of “inappropriateness,” skip this piece, as it requires maturity (and a semblance of empathetic humor), to read.

By Mark E. Smith

In my 41 years, I don’t recall anyone asking me that question. I mean, people have asked me a lot of blunt questions, but I don’t recall anyone asking me that. Maybe someone did along the way, and I’ve long forgot. However, I think I’d recall such a blunt question, especially about that.

I’ve had friends with disabilities tell me that they’ve been asked that question, but in my experience, my relationships always unfolded naturally, where when a woman truly got to know me, any questions or apprehension that she may have had toward that was put to rest, unsaid. And, I suppose that, logically, the fact that I have a teenage, biological daughter these days says it all.

But, this time seemed a first. Right in the middle of a bustling restaurant, over appetizers, stone sober, she just blurted it out while dipping cocktail shrimp in sauce: “So, can you have…?”

Without missing a beat, I leaned over mischievously, and said, “You mean right now, here?”

Surely, anyone who knows me knows that in acknowledging the seriousness of her question, I’m going to playfully address it with some humor and charm – and a gigantic dash of complete inappropriateness. At 19, I would have been embarrassed or offended by the question – my insecurities at that age would have certainly warranted a serious reaction. However, at 41, after – let me do the math – 23 years of doing that, the question was among the most hilarious that I could be asked. As a gentlemen, I would never dismiss or mock the woman for asking it – ask away! – but if one asks me such a question, you can bet that I will push the subject as far as my wit allows, admittedly for the sophomoric entertainment value.

“Maybe we should at least sneak into the bathroom,” I had to add, purposely going way too far, 0 to 100 in an instant, just to see her reaction.

“No, really, can you have…?” she asked again, leaning into me with an intent look that was …well …more creepy than flirtatious.

“Why do you want to know?” I asked, taking a sip of Coke. ”Are you testing the waters?”

“It’s just something I’ve been thinking about,” she said, dipping a shrimp in sauce, and feeding it to me. “These are good, aren’t they?”

Damn, she had me – I hate ambiguity! Was she thinking about that out of creepy curiosity, or was she thinking about that with me, specifically? Was she a creepy chick, or was she just into me? Wait! There was a third possibility: Was she a creepy chick who was into me? I’ve had enough creepy chicks into me – I want possibility number two, a chick who’s just into me!

“Do you remember Tone Loc, the rapper from back in the day?” I asked.

“Of course,” she replied, taking a sip of her water.

“Well, Baby, if you’ll be my queen, I’ll show you what I mean, doing the wild thing,” I said, destroying the lyrics to the song as I tried to rap them.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, laughing.

“OK, let’s seriously think about this,” I said. “I have a 15-year-old daughter. I think that pretty much answers the question.”

“Really I wasn’t sure about it all,” she said, wiping her hands on her napkin.

“Heck, I can even show you how it works some time – it’s really not complicated,” I said, and she laughed, hitting me with her napkin. “If you’ve ever done it, you know it’s not rocket science. I saw on MTV that even teenage drop-outs do it – and have babies. Those silly teen moms….”

“I was just wondering, Jerk,” she said with a smile, going back to her shrimp.

We finished dinner, went to a dance club, and danced till 2:00am, and had a fantastic time. And, what I later learned was that her blunt question was based in very practical experience. She’d known of a married couple, where the husband was paralyzed to an extent that he could no longer naturally father children, so my friend attributed that to ruling out all possibilities. And, in a way, I think that her asking me the question so directly spoke a lot to her character, where even at such an early stage of our friendship, her honesty – and trust in me not to get offended – were really positive traits. (…Or, she’s just creepy, and my poor judgment in women continues!)

We went back to my house, and knowing that my daughter was at my sister’s house, I had every guy’s dilemma as we pulled into my garage: Should I call it a night, or use the sleaziest line ever, So, do you want to come in?

Nope, not my gig – I, of course, opted to call it a night. One, despite poor humor, I’m always going to honor my integrity after such a night, and keep all above board. And, secondly, why ruin the mystery for her? After all, as far as I know, she’s probably still trying to figure out exactly how that works – the wild thing.

Changing Like the Rising Sun

By Mark E. Smith

My daughter looks so cozy, curled up, under the covers on the sofa bed this morning as the sun rises over the Vegas strip, the full-wall of window glass framing her. She hated the thought of the sofa bed at first, preferring her own bedroom, but now she loves it – it is a tiny Vegas high-rise condo that she agreed after all is perfect for us, just the two of us, the way it’s been for some time. This is a week-long getaway, where I can visit my company’s western manufacturing facility and give a talk at the University of Nevada (UNLV), all while my daughter and I pursue some writing and photography in a town that’s a never-ending flow of story lines and imagery – and a sofa bed turns out to be just fine by her as a place to dream.

Glancing at my own bed, I wonder if I should make it or leave it for Housekeeping to change, but I can’t remember if it’s laundry day? I’ll wait till my daughter awakes, and discuss it with her – she knows the condo’s schedule better than I do, as she pays attention to such details. For now, I’ll sit quietly, watching the Vegas sun rise over my daughter, waiting for her to awake with a smile and a stretch, as she always does, and we’ll talk about whether to cook breakfast or walk to Starbucks or Denny’s, and she’ll tell me whether it’s laundry day.

After this quick trip to the Vegas condo, we’ll be back in Pennsylvania, on our usual schedules, celebrating our birthday that’s only three weeks away. Hers is March 3, and mine is March 2, so beyond the separation of midnight, it’s kind of a shared date, so we just call it our birthday. She’s turning 15, me, 41.

I always said that the joy of parenting is in seeing your child evolve and grow, where there’s no ideal stage, but that the entire process is awe-inspiring. However, as I sit here, I realize that I just want to stop time after all. She’s perfect the way she is – ideals, flaws, no matter – she is perfect, and I just want time to stop, freeze this moment forever, much as she does with her photography.

In three years, she’ll be off to college, and our relationship will evolve in yet more ways. Of course, I want her to move out, attend an ivy-league school, maybe in the northeast, maybe out west, but far from me – she needs to fly on her own, to soar on her own. And, I, too, will be on my own – an empty-nester at such a seemingly young age, likely lost for a while. Maybe I’ll have a live-in girlfriend, or it’ll just be me and the dogs. But, no matter what, I’ll still be lost for a while – and it will be OK. It will all be OK.

And, as I sit here watching my daughter sleep, I can’t help but already miss having her as the everyday center of my life. I was the first to hold her when she was born. As a toddler, she spent more time on my lap than walking. We moved across the country together, sitting side-by-side on the airplane when she was three. I still take her to school each morning. My weeknights and weekends are filled with her band and drama rehearsals. And, the big comfy chair that she sits in while talking to me at night in my master bedroom remains her safe place to let it all out when needed. Yet, as I sit here watching her sleep as the sun rises over Vegas, I know it’s all changing – it’s ever-changing, her, me, life, all changing like the rising sun.

I really should wake her up to talk about breakfast, laundry, and our day’s events. But, I can’t. For a moment, at least, I can just sit here, admire her perfection, and watch the sun rise. Indeed, time can stand still – if only for a precious moment.

Breakdown or Breakthrough?

By Mark E. Smith

Is your life a train or a boat? It’s an important question because the answer makes a huge difference. A train takes you exactly where you wish to go – it’s on rails, it’s smooth, it’s steady, it’s totally predictable. A boat, on the other hand, heads out on a meandering course, where its voyage is uncertain – it can get off of its bearing, it can encounter rough water, it can be unpredictable. I’ll ask again, is your life a train or a boat?

Of course, it’s a trick question, as no one’s life is an ever-steady course on rails. At points in our lives – it happens to all of us! – we can feel genuinely dissatisfied with the direction of our lives, where all hasn’t headed where we wish. Maybe our dream job didn’t prove as rewarding as we thought, or hasn’t materialized at all. Maybe the all-fulfilling relationship that we wanted never panned out. Or, maybe our financial goals were never achieved. The list goes on and on, but it all leads to a universal truth: When our lives haven’t met our expectations, we find ourselves discontent and dissatisfied at best, and depressed and feeling hopeless at worst.

Yet, when we find ourselves at such discouraging crossroads in life, all is not lost. Rather, we have three distinct ways to address discouraging periods, and the tact that we chose makes the difference between merely surviving and truly thriving, between feeling adrift and being on course. Therefore, when we feel like our life’s not going in the directions we wish, what approaches can we take, and what are their typical results?

I’ve been fascinated with this subject since I was 17. It’s a time I’ve spoken a lot about, where my family was a mess; a girl whom I adored went as my date to the prom, then refused to dance with me based on my disability (how could I ever find a woman to love me if one wouldn’t even dance with me?); my grades in school were mediocre at best; and, I was still in the throes of learning to physically care for myself, where every day was physically draining. With everything around me seeming so bleak – that is, life not living up to my expectations – I fell into a deep depression that summer, just thinking, If this is life, is it really worth living?

It was a heavy question for a 17-year-old, just as it is for adults who struggle with questioning the direction of their life at any age. However, as I pondered the question for days, weeks, then months, I had a realization that ultimately changed my life, a simple question that popped into my head: What could I do about any of it?

Although I couldn’t have verbally articulated it so well at 17, I realized that I had three distinct solutions to my dissatisfaction with my life:

Firstly, I could do nothing. It was that simple – do nothing, stay unsatisfied, depressed, distraught, whatever, and nothing would change. How’s that for an easy out? Do nothing, and just keep feeling as bad as you’re feeling! The problem with this approach – or, lack thereof – is that we’re merely allowing ourselves to drift in the sea of life, where without our fight or struggle, the next wave has every ability to push us under. Complacency is emotionally the most risky way to live, usually escalating dissatisfaction with our lives in the long run to destructive levels.

The second choice I had was to lower my expectations. If we feel life isn’t meeting our expectations, we can always lower them, and rationalize ourselves into a more comfortable place (clinically tying into the dreaded D-word, “denial”). I could just accept that I was a loser destined to lose, and be OK with all of the dysfunction in my life, lucky to just be alive, as my mother often told me. We see people take this approach all of the time – that is, if life’s not meeting their expectations, they simply lower their expectations. I’m not finding reward in my career, but at least I have a job. My relationship isn’t totally fulfilling, but at least I found companionship on some level. And, this approach of addressing life’s dissatisfaction by lowering expectations – as in finding ways to justify accepting less than you truly wish! – actually works. After all, if we lower our expectations, even bad aspects of our lives seem justifiably acceptable at some point. He’s a good man when he’s not drinking (how many times have we heard that one, where we just want to scream, No, you’re married to an abusive alcoholic – cut the denial!). However, here’s the problem: When we lower our expectations, we not only accept less than we deserve, but we compromise our core values within ourselves, we give away parts of who we really are and who we’re capable of being. And, of course, this lesser sense of self is hard to live with, usually catching up with us, crushing our spirit.

But, then, I realized that I had a third option to address life not meeting my expectations: I could change my life by taking responsibility for it. If no one cared about me, I at least had to care about myself. It didn’t matter what my parents did or didn’t do. It didn’t matter whether a girl would ever accept me. It didn’t matter that I had cerebral palsy. The only aspect that mattered was that I took full control over whatever I could control, and if that only made my life 50% better in the immediate, that would be a huge improvement in my life.

A few months later, I was called into the Principal’s office the first quarter of my senior year. He explained that in going through the honor roll, he saw that I was on it for the first time in my high school years, that he was wondering how I went from Cs to As over one summer? I wasn’t sure how to articulate what to say, and was intimidated by the situation, preferring to keep my challenges to myself, and simply replied, “It’s a long story….”

I had the good fortune of figuring out the life lesson at 17 that if we don’t like the direction of our life, change it. But, it’s not rocket science, and successful people practice it every day, where if you’re dissatisfied with your life, don’t just keep going down that road, or lower your expectations and accept it – but actually pursue paths to improve it. Is it easy? No. Is it scary at times? Yes. Does it take time and dedication? Sure. But, does it work every time? Absolutely.

See, life is a convoluted synergy of factors that drive our lives, but we’re ultimately the ones behind the steering wheel. There’s a lot that we can’t change, especially our pasts. But, there’s a lot that we can change, and most of it is based on decisions that we make today. Don’t settle or lower your expectations based on dissatisfaction; rather, raise the bar in pursuit of a satisfying, purpose-filled life.

Playing With Itzhak

By Mark E. Smith

My entire life, I’ve been in awe of violinist, Itzhak Pearlman, never having known music without him. My late mother was a childhood prodigy violinist, including having been among the youngest members of the San Francisco Symphony. What made her story even more remarkable was that her father was in prison, and her mother was a heroin addict and prostitute. My mother told me how when she came home from school on days when her mom was shooting up, she’d go in her room and practice the violin for hours, making any pain from her home life float away with each note.

However, as these stories too often unfold, by the time my mother was 19, she was pregnant and living in Germany with my father who was stationed in the army there, right before he headed to fight in Viet Nam. And, through my mother’s subsequent personal demons like alcoholism, she never picked up a violin again.

Still, her entire life, my mother loved the violin, and even in her darkest days decades later, she could shut her eyes, dazed on the couch from a pint of vodka, and astoundingly recall every note of an all-Beethoven program, humming it as though, in her mind, she was 15 again, in a beautiful gown, sitting upright on stage, playing every note on her beloved violin. As I grew up, it was undeniable to me even at a young age that my mother’s destiny as a concert violinist was tragically derailed – partly by uncontrollable circumstance, partly from her own horrendous decisions.

Still, among the greatest gifts that my mother shared with me was violinist, Itzhak Pearlman. For my mother and me, Itzhak represented our two worlds combined – that is, the violin and disability. See, as most know, Itzhak isn’t just among the greatest violinists of our time, but a polio survivor, relying on leg braces, crutches, and a mobility scooter.

I remember being in my manual wheelchair – maybe I was six years old? – meeting Itzhak back stage after a concert, a meeting somehow arranged by my mother. He awkwardly walked up to me in his cage-like leg braces, stopping directly in front of me. He seemed not just larger-than-life in spirit, but in physicality – a giant of a man, as if his head touched the sky-high ceiling of the auditorium.

Itzhak looked down at me, smiling, grasping my chin with his hand. “Handsome boy,” he said with an accent.

Then, Itzhak placed his hand on my forehead, closed his eyes, and said something in a language that I didn’t recognize. Was it a prayer?

I’ll never know what Itzhak said to me that day in a langauge that I didn’t understand, and what’s even more puzzeling to me today was how my mother arranged the meeting – I never thought to ask about that extraordinary event prior to her death. Nonetheless, what I recall most about meeting Itzhak was that his presence was easily defined through my eyes as a child: Greatness. Maybe it was the connection to my mother, or maybe I was at an impressionable age, but no other person has struck me with the true sense of greatness that I recognized in Itzhak – he has charisma beyond what can be explained. And, when witnessed in-person, his spirit is all-consuming.

With Itzhak being an astounding violinist and presence, his celebrity has made him iconic, worthy of his own urban legend. And, while the urban legend is, of course, completely untrue, it’s a worthy tale retold, no less – one that hits home a great life tenet:

On November 8, 1995, an entire audience got to witness Itzhak’s divine spirit first-hand. Like any other concert, Itzhak came onto stage with his crutches, took his seat, put his violin to his chin, and began playing. But, after the first few bars – strokes of his bow – a string broke on his 1714 Soil Stradivarius violin, the pop ricocheting through Lincoln Center’s Fisher Hall. In such a circumstance, a violinist must grab another violin or re-string the instrument, as such complex compositions can’t be played on three strings – or so anyone thought.

However, rather than stopping, Itzhak continued playing – the whole symphony – never missing a note. He re-modulated and recomposed each piece in real-time, in his head, redefining the arcs of his bow to eliminate the need of the fourth string. The mesmerized crowd leaped to ovation at the end.

But, Itzhak, in his humbleness, calmed the audience, and simply noted, “You know, sometimes it’s an artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”

Did Itzhak really play an entire symphony concert on three strings? No – again, it’s an urban legend. Yet, there’s absolute truth in the fact that it should be all of our tasks to find out how much we can accomplish with what we have left at any point in life. Maybe we face disability, an ended relationship, a job loss, or a tough business climate – the list goes on and on. During such circumstances, our only question should be, how much can we accomplish with what we have left? The answer, as we can each demonstrate in our daily lives, is: we can accomplish more than most can imagine.

Wino on a Bench

By Mark E. Smith

I know better than to answer a question with a question because it’s a sure sign of guilt to those trained on how to spot a liar. But, I couldn’t stop myself from replying to the cop, “Do I look like I’ve been drinking?” – namely because I really wanted to know if I looked like I’d been drinking?

This predicament started with the Brightree party at Medtrade, the semi-annual trade show for home medical equipment. Friends of mine were going to the big Brightree software company bash, and I’d gotten to know Dave Cormack, Brightree’s CEO, a bit, so I was on the party list. And, I rolled into the party with a splash – the only person using a wheelchair – and I immediately landed on the dance floor with Dave and countless lovely women, dancing the night away to a live band.

By 10:00pm or so, I’d had my fun for the night, and headed back to my hotel via the then-empty streets of downtown Atlanta. Now, Atlanta’s downtown is pretty safe, but sketchy characters pop-up from time to time, so I was on guard – full speed ahead – racing back to my hotel, alone in my power wheelchair. And, I was well on my way, no cars or creeps, when I made it to the main intersection crossing that separates downtown from Centennial Park, me from my hotel.

As I reached the intersection, cruising on the sidewalk with the direction of traffic, I caught the green light, and crossed the street, high-tailing it up, into the park, which allows through-traffic. But, there was no traffic; just me, racing up the dark sidewalk. And, then the flashing lights hit me, followed by an amplified voice on a loud speaker: “Stop where you are!”

You have to be freakin’ kidding me, I thought. I’m being pulled over, on the sidewalk, in my power chair, by a cop? Really?

So, I stopped, and the cop stopped beside me at the curb, and got out of his car – lights still flashing.

“Do you know why I’m stopping you?” he asked, walking up to me.

“No,” I replied, turning my wheelchair toward him.

“You illegally crossed that intersection,” he said, eyeing me up and down.

“No,” I said. “I crossed in the crosswalk, on a green light, with the direction of traffic.”

“But, the pedestrian sign was red,” he said.

“I didn’t see a pedestrian sign, but I clearly followed the light,” I replied.

“Where are you coming from?” he asked, pulling out his note pad.

“The Tabernacle,” I replied. “I’m in town for a sort of wheelchair trade show, and one of the companies had a party tonight.”

He wrote something on his pad, then asked, “Have you been drinking?”

“Do I look like I’ve been drinking?” I asked.

Surely, I now realize that it was the worst possible answer that I could have given the cop. But, it was my sincere thought in the moment, where I really wanted to know if I looked like I’d been drinking? Was my tie crooked? Had I weaved while driving my power wheelchair up the sidewalk? And, with my cerebral palsy, how could the cop, a stranger, know if I’d been drinking, anyway? My speech is always slurred, and I always look… well… drunk. I mean, sure, my wheelchair gives me away as disabled, but take away the wheelchair and set me on a park bench, and my posture, movements, and speech instantly appear every bit of a wino. Drunk? Cerebral palsy? Who’s to know? How could the cop know?

Then, in an instant, my instinctive curiosity turned to rational thought, and the devil on my shoulder said, You basically just told the cop you’re drunk – idiot!

But, I wasn’t drunk, and lucky for me, the cop actually laughed at my reply. Close one – dodged. I crossed on a green light, I rode on the sidewalk, and I wasn’t drunk. Winning!

“Where are you heading?” he asked.

“The Embassy Suites,” I replied. “My hotel.”

“Well, from now on, make sure that you follow the pedestrian signs,” he said.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

The cop walked back to his car, I headed toward my hotel, and he slowly followed me with his lights on for a block – presumably still looking for signs if I had cerebral palsy or was a wino.

This Dad’s Life

By Mark E. Smith

So, I continue on among the most remarkable paths of my life, a single, full-time father – or, as I like to put it, “I’m a 40-year-old single, full-time father with cerebral palsy, raising my 14-year-old daughter….” I love phrasing my life that way because it’s so absurdly over-dramatic, and what’s even better is that it pretty much sums me up as the last guy on Earth any woman would ever date. I mean, if you pull any part of that description out, it plays as a run-the-other-way alarm to any rational woman: A 40-year-old guy – strike one! A single, full-time father – strike two! A 14-year-old daughter (though, she is the best kid ever) – strike three! And, then add cerebral palsy – I’m out! Really, I’m the personal ad from Hell.

However, as over-dramatic as adjectives can make my life sound, the truth is, it’s anything but dramatic these days. See, much like my cerebral palsy isn’t the toughest of roads, neither is being a single, full-time dad. In fact, like my disability, being a single, full-time dad has directed my life in wonderfully grounded, content ways, where there’s a peace and joy in my life that I’m not sure I ever knew – and others may not expect.

The process of divorce, becoming a single, full-time dad, and all of the emotions surrounding it started out as little more than controlled chaos, where there was an initial physical shock to my life. While my marriage was disintegrating for years, my ex-wife still did everyday tasks like laundry and grocery shopping. So, upon her leaving, I was literally left with a pile of dirty clothes and an empty refrigerator, looking at my daughter, thinking to myself, OK, where do we go from here, kid? It’s just you, me, and one heck of a mess!

But, like any time when we’re on the ropes in life – scared, stressed, chaotic – the old standby to Just do something! came in handy. And, that’s what I did. I determined that the priority was to get our house in shape – clean clothes, and food in the refrigerator! – and go from there.

In the process, I learned that we can’t control everything (actually, I learned that a long time ago, per life!), so start small by controlling something. And, in such situations when we’re scared and life feels chaotic, simply finding control over one small aspect in our lives truly gets us moving in healthy directions.

For me, I started by spending a weekend cleaning my master suite while my daughter was at a friend’s slumber party. From there, I got a new bed, redecorated a bit, and got at least my “area” to my liking. I then had momentum to keep going through not just the house, getting all in order, but also addressing all of the emotions and realities that go with being a single dad.

And, it was insanely challenging, more so than most around me knew at the time (few knew the extent of the personal challenges that I was facing because, one, I keep my career and public life on track no matter what, and, two, because I just really felt the need to get my home life on track on my own, with utmost personal accountability). My mindset was, I don’t care what’s happened – it’s my sole responsibility to get things on track for my daughter and me, where I’m willing to tackle whatever it requires. (And, there had to be accountability on my part for the downslide of the marriage, as well — no, I don’t think I was the cause, but even in the best intentions, my codependancy and denial played ultimately destructive roles.) What occurred to me was that I wasn’t at an end, but a beginning – the opportunity to make things right, to get healthy in every way. I realized that when we’re in a bad relationship, we really don’t have much to lose – we’re already living in dysfunction, running on empty. However, once single – especially as a parent – we have everything to lose if we don’t get it right, as it’s truly our chance to live up to be all that we’re capable of being. (This realization especially hit home when I found myself at one point in my process of getting my personal life back on track, where I caught myself developing a relationship with a woman that clearly wasn’t in the best interests of my daughter and me [vulnerability, falling back into dysfunctional patterns, and ego can get the best of us at times!] – and I quickly recognized my poor judgement, hit the brakes, and put an end to it in real time.) Therefore, I wasn’t about to let any aspect of my life slip or any opportunity for improvement pass. I had to be accountable for the past, present, and future.

Every day, I got up long before dawn to get all of the morning chores done, dropping my daughter off at school, being at work by 7:30am. Then, I raced home after work to clean, do chores, grocery shop, run my daughter to her activities, and keep up on my writing, email, and after-hours work, getting to bed by midnight. And, for several months, I just kept going – 20-hour days – feeling like getting the house and our lives on track was a stress-filled, never-ending process. It was like the movie, Groundhog Day, where I went to bed every night hoping for some relief, only to wake up in the seeming blink of an eye the next morning, having to do it all over again.

Yet, I also knew from life experiences that when times are tough, short-term pain is a small price for long-term gain, that when you’re exhausted, you can’t slow down, but must actually speed up, even when you feel like giving up – and there was too much to lose to let even the smallest detail slip. Fortunately, as I had hoped, eventually each day got easier and easier, with the house – and our life together – dramatically in order. And, I could breathe. Finally.

What was poignant during the whole process was that my daughter and I weren’t just rebuilding our life; rather, we were rebuilding our life together. And, through nightly talks – which we call “check-ins” – we set-out to further define our life together, complete with our own mission statement: To share the joys of life, mutually respecting and inspiring each other as we go.

And, it’s worked – it’s all fallen into place. The scariness, stress, and chaos has been replaced with happiness, calmness, and tranquility. Weeknight evenings are no longer about surviving, but thriving, revolving around my daughter’s activities – singing lessons, drama rehearsals, and high-school football. And, I’ve mastered being Mr. Mom, balancing house chores with everything else that I need to do, keeping all on a schedule that allows comforting predictability and normality in our home life.

Every night, my daughter and I make dinner together – getting better at our cooking skills all of the time! – and we do the whole homework thing, keeping my daughter excelling in honors classes. Then, we always have some fun activity to share, from playing board games, to baking cookies, to listening to music, to editing each other’s writing. On the weekends, we’re off somewhere, doing something, enjoying life, the two of us, where the possibilities and adventures seem limitless.

As I’ve shared with my daughter, life isn’t fair, and there is a tragedy in the fact that her mother isn’t in her life. However, we always can make the best out of a bad situation, where at points in our lives we must choose to not crumble, but rise as the Phoenix from the ashes. And, we, together, have proven the title of the Hemingway novel on my bookshelf: The sun also rises.

Indeed, as a “40-year-old single, full-time father with cerebral palsy, raising my 14-year-old daughter,” I may seem every woman’s nightmare of a guy. However, when my daughter and I are curled up on the couch with our two dogs on Saturday nights, drinking homemade smoothies and watching the cheesy ’80s teen movies that we both love, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s been a bit of an emotional trek getting here, but the journey has been well worth any trials, as for me, just being Dad continues proving the truest blessing of my life.

Call Me Shallow, But….

By Mark E. Smith

When J.R. Martinez, known from his roles on “All My Children” and “Dancing With the Stars,” was in the hospital recovering from burns over 40 percent of his body, including life-changing facial disfigurement, his mother had a very straight talk with him, one that would guide him to the true depths of his character.

See, J.R. was an American soldier in Iraq, having enlisted at just 19, when his Humvee ran over a landmine, catapulting him to a path of 33 surgeries in 34 months, resulting in the loss of an ear, and permanent facial disfigurement. J.R. describes lying in the hospital, glancing in the mirror, seeing a monster looking back where he once saw a handsome young man – all sending him into a deep, dark depression.

But, J.R.’s mother, older and wiser, saw something else in the situation: The truest essence of her son. “People aren’t going to love you for how you look,” she told J.R. “They’re going to love you for who you are. And, that is a true blessing.”

J.R.’s mom was so right – and J.R.’s success proves that. I mean, the grace and humility with which he presents himself doesn’t make his disfigurement go away; rather, it makes his character shine brighter, where his facial attributes are part of him, but not the sum of him. J.R. is living proof that our exterior facades are just that – facades – and it’s our true character that matters beyond all else.

Yet, not everyone understands this concept. Surely, there are many superficial people in our culture who dwell on appearance alone – their appearance, everyone else’s appearance – and there’s a personal tragedy to it. Literally, when one dwells on appearance, not only can they never be seemingly good enough – after all, there’s always someone better looking by such shallow standards – but they never see others beyond an exterior facade, resulting in never developing deeply sincere relationships.

An acquaintance told me the story of her being a smoking-hot 26-year-old, living life in the fast lane in a Southern California beach community, where her friends and boyfriends were all from wealthy families. She drove nothing but Mercedes since the age of 16; she went shopping virtually every day to keep up with the latest trends; she had breast augmentation, a nose job, and routine Botox treatments; her girlfriends were the hottest of the hot, and they could cut the line at any club; and, she refused to date a guy who didn’t have a buffed body and a Porsche, no exceptions. And, all was moving along perfectly in her world of self-described perfection – that is, until she reached down to grab a CD off of the floor of her newest Mercedes, crossed the lane on a twisting road, and slammed head-on into a guard rail, the impact leaving her a quadriplegic.

But, the accident and paralysis were just the beginning of what she saw as the biggest tragedy of the time. Upon the accident, friends initially rushed to her bedside, and then slowly they stopped coming or calling. While she was in rehab, her friends hit the clubs as usual, and her buffed boyfriend who she thought was Mr. Right (after all, he had a Porsche!), promptly began sleeping with her soon-former best friend. Indeed, she learned that her relationships were as much a facade as her glued-on fingernails and sprayed-on tan. “When we place so much emphasis on our exteriors that we overlook the importance of who people really are on the inside, we take a huge risk,” she shared with me. “Trust me, when your identity and view of others is simply a house of cards, it crumbles fast.”

Going back to J.R.’s mother, she was absolutely right in the scope of her advice: Disability does allow us to have often times deeper relationships, a sort of interpersonal mechanism that protects us from the shallow people among us. Disability is a sort of barometer that gauges the character of of others, only letting the best of the best get close to us – and that’s a great opportunity.

Yet, like all opportunities, we must welcome others accepting us, as-is. J.R. could have used his unique appearance and initial self-consciousness to hide from the world, a way of judging himself and becoming bitter toward others, a presumed lack of acceptance. But, instead, J.R. chose to see the depths of his own character, not just the scars on his face, and he put himself in the world, trusting that he would witness the best in others, as well. Of course, as we now know, his self-acceptance has created universal acceptance by millions of adoring fans, all based on his demonstrating the depths of his character, not an external facade.

As for me, I strive to dress nice and present myself well, but the reality is, I’m a visibly flawed guy with cerebral palsy when viewed on the surface – and I’m OK with that, as the depth of my character hopefully shines through to some. However, when some don’t have the capacity to see beyond my lack of physical perfection, I’m fine with that, too, where I’m glad not to have those “emotionally blind” people in my life. Call me shallow, but if someone is more concerned about the imperfection of my physical appearance than the quality of my character, I don’t want that person around me – and I’m glad that my disability serves as a smoke screen to keep such people away.

What’s really wonderful, though, is that when we recognize the interpersonal value of being embraced for our true character, not our superficial facades, we instinctively return the gesture, being much more open toward others. And, we end up with an amazing exchange – where we’re both seeing each other on the most genuine levels – and that’s how the sincerest relationships are formed. If I accept you for you, and you accept me for me, now we’re truly connecting – and that’s where we all should be in our interactions with those around us.

Someone recently asked me what true acceptance of others really means? And my answer was coy but fitting: True acceptance is the sincerest gift that we can share with another person.

Staring at the Drapes

By Mark E. Smith

I lay in this hotel room bed – alone – thinking of Vic, who committed suicide almost 22 months ago to the day.

This evening, I spoke to a group of around 170 people, half-way across the country from my home – and I knocked ’em dead, as they say in show business. It was my kind of event – dinner and cocktails – where I have the liberty of really working a festive crowd. And, I hit it home with a theme of following the ramps in our lives – bridges of opportunity that take us to places we never dreamed – by interweaving stories from the humorous to the poignant. And, the gracious crowd was with me all along – an exchange of amazing energy – and then I rolled off stage to their flattering standing ovation.

At the time of Vic Chesnutt’s suicide, many chalked it up as the quadriplegic musician who was tired of living with the daily trails of disability, that the physicality of it all caused him to take a fist full of muscle relaxers, mix a dangerous cocktail, and check out for good – his fourth and final suicide attempt. But, as I wrote at the the time, there was more to the story than that:

…From what I knew of Vic, from what I’ve since learned of Vic, and from what I’ve witnessed and experienced in my own life, I believe that the unique pressures of living ultra-successfully with disability caught up with him, where he wasn’t able to cope with the extreme fluctuations in his life. See, when you have an exceptional level of success like Vic did while living with a disability, it can become a tale of two cities. On the one hand, publicly, everyone’s telling you that you’re a huge success and inspiration, putting you atop the world. Yet, on the other hand, you’re a real person, with real-life issues toward health, relationships, and finances. And, when all isn’t kept in balance, you can go from extreme highs to extreme lows in literally a matter of moments – in the time it takes to go from on-stage in front of a cheering crowd to a lonely hotel room where you’re left to face the realities of your everyday life. Truly, when you have such extremes in life – and you’re emotionally unable to center yourself – it’s just as easy to get consumed by the lowest of the lows as the highest of the highs, where the healthy middle-ground needed to survive doesn’t exist. And, that’s where the tragedy in Vic Chesnutt’s life occurred – not in his literal disability, but in his inability to find that middle ground of understanding and comfort in life as a whole, where, by all accounts, he lived a tormenting oscillation between the highest heights of elation in his work, and the deepest plunges of despair in his personal life, with no middle ground to just be at peace.

My colleague and I leave the banquet after the program’s finished. I thank our host for the engagement, and I convince my colleague to go across the street with me to an eatery for a late night snack. Again, going from a stage to an empty hotel room can be torturous – there has to be a bridge in-between to help one transition from the energy of a packed house to being totally alone. And, by getting something to eat, I’m stalling – buying my time, avoiding the empty hotel room in which I will inevitably find myself. But, I can get through it – alone, the hardest part of it all that Vic knew too well.

Eventually, I make it to my room like countless other nights on the road. I lay in this hotel room bed – alone – thinking of Vic, who committed suicide almost 22 months to the day. And, I realize that everyone’s assumptions of Vic’s suicide truly were wrong. See, as I stare at the shadow of the drapes in the dark, I know that the challenge for guys like Vic and me isn’t being alone in our disabilities; rather, the challenge is being alone in ourselves.

When the Drinking was Done

By Mark E. Smith

“Alcohol and I had many, many marvelous times together. We laughed, we talked, we danced at the party together; then one day I woke up and the band had gone home….” –Harry Crews

I wrote one of my all-time favorite pieces, a short-short story on my quitting sporadic drinking, about a year ago, and never published it. Why? The answer was because I didn’t think that I could live up to it – quitting drinking for good, that is:

When the Drinking was Done (Original)
I asked the hotel concierge – a woman in her 60s, no less – where I could drink in complete anonymity, and she told me to go up to Peachtree Street, hang a right, and look for the shamrock sign over the sidewalk. No, it wasn’t my normal mode of operation by any stretch, but we just have to be honest about these things – especially with ourselves. I didn’t want a party or dressed-up chicks like usual; I just wanted a night of quiet, having been on the road for days, speaking at a conference on one side of the country, then working a trade show on the other. The noise builds up in me – the retention of events and all of the introspection, where I just want quietness, the type I only get from writing in solitude. But, that night, there was to be no writing – just a drink alone, then bed. So, I headed up to Peachtree, hung a right, found the shamrock sign, and a homeless guy opened the door for me. The place was empty – just two guys and a “barman,” as the “bartender” is called in these types of pubs. With my power wheelchair’s seat elevated, I rolled up to the bar, picked up a stool, and set it aside. The barman and two guys just watched. My knees tucked perfectly under the bar – an ideal. “I’ll have a double shot of Southern Comfort, warm, please,” I said to the barman. He set a tumbler glass in front of me, grabbed the bottle, poured the drink to maybe three or four shots, and without thinking twice, grabbed a straw, placing it in my glass. He stepped back as if to see what I was going to do, and I could see via my peripheral vision the two guys just staring at me. I placed my lips on the straw, and downed the glass full, in a single, drawn sip. The barman grabbed the bottle of Southern Comfort, refilled my glass, and said in a strong Irish accent, “This one’s on me.” It was a fine night – they all are on such terms – and when I awoke the following morning, glancing out my hotel window, the quiet was gone, and I knew so had to be gone the drinking – for good this time.

I wrote that literal, biographical short-short story with the intention that my drinking days were done. However, in my public position, if you’re going to tell the world that you’ve stopped drinking – you’d better darn well give up drinking entirely, forever – or everyone will see you as the ultimate hypocrite. If you’re a closet drinker – even an alcoholic – and you vow to yourself that you’re giving up drinking, there’s no real consequence if you don’t live up to it (other than the consequences on your own life). However, if you’re a social drinker like me, and write an essay to thousands of readers that you’ve given up drinking altogether, you’d better do it – as people are watching when you’re out on the town or on the road. Based on this reality, where my written words are in blood, so to speak, I could never get away with publishing an essay on quitting drinking unless I really did.

For the reason of integrity, I never published a piece on quitting drinking because… well… I never quit drinking! That is, despite my truly wanting to give up drinking entirely a year ago, and writing the original piece, I knew that I wasn’t ready — good times on the road, and the occasional flirtatious woman at a party or bar were so linked to a drink or two that I wasn’t prepared to give up those fleeting good feelings that came with booze. But, I also knew that at some point I’d be ready, that I’d have to give up the booze entirely. I felt so much personal guilt about even rarely drinking, that it lingered with me for days, weeks, and months after even one drink – and that wasn’t healthy. I had to just give up drinking entirely at some point.

While my own history with alcohol is one of moderation – I’ve never drank at home, my daughter never saw me drunk, and so on – the history of substance abuse around me has always been present: My great-grandparents were alcoholics, my grandparents were alcoholics and addicts, my parents were alcoholics, my ex-wife was an addict, many of my friends have been alcoholics – and I’ve seen all of their lives harmed or destroyed. And, the question I’ve wrestled with is, How can I see so many lives destroyed by alcohol and addiction, and still touch a drop myself? It’s like playing with fire when you know it burns.

With that said, I’ve had a lot of mixed feelings about my best times drinking, where I look at them with both guilt and fondness. It’s a juxtaposition that I suppose most drinkers face when they stop. I grew up with parents who were Skid Row drunks, so I’ve always known the realities of alcoholism, right down to my family’s demise and my parents’ deaths. In fact, I didn’t drink until I was 33 – that’s how freaked out I was by alcohol. However, once I started drinking, my association with alcohol literally went from the horrific to the glamorous. In my mid 30s, drinking was no longer about Mom neglecting me as a child because she was drunk, or Dad drinking himself to death; rather, drinking was now about high society, where I was at lavish social events, with beautiful people – and drinking just made it all the better. A few shots of Southern Comfort added a glossy sheen to my vision, where I felt relaxed, suave – everything more engaging, like going from watching a movie to actually being in the scene.

But, then, there was always the next morning, then week, then month where I didn’t drink, but the guilt and hypocrisy of such nights stuck with me – too much so. There was always a haunting issue in my mind, where I always knew that I have to be either assuming entire sobriety, or be unrepentant about drinking – and to try to justify living in-between was hypocritical. Sure, I realize that lots of people drink socially, and it’s not an issue. But, for me, I could never roll that line: I was either stone sober or drinking – and I couldn’t be both. Again, if I wanted to keep drinking, then I’d have to learn to be unrepentant in it, not feel guilt, not relive pains of my past, not look in the mirror and see my father staring at me, not see the hurt of a child in my own eyes looking back. But, I’ve witnessed too many around me destroyed by alcoholism and addiction, and for me to glamourize drinking in my own life, knowing all of the hurt washed down with it, seemed not just hypocritical, but morbid.

Cartoonist, John Callahan’s, later years and death have also had a profound effect on my journey toward sobriety. John was a hardcore alcoholic – it’s what led to the car crash that caused his paralysis – and he sobered up some years later, not touching a drop for decades. Despite his in-your-face antics and work, he noted that sobriety added a peace and strength to his life, not the guilt and angst he felt when he drank. If John maintained sobriety – turning off the guilt and angst – so could I.

The catalyst for me to publish this piece – that is, to sign on the page in blood that I’m done drinking for good – is really just where I’m at in life. I’m a 40-year-old, full-time single dad, focused on my career and simply trying to do right by everyone, including myself – and I have to get it all right. I’ve seen too many lives around me destroyed by alcohol, felt too much guilt and pain in myself for too long in even having an occasional drink – and I’ve deemed, Enough is enough with the booze at any level – don’t want it, don’t need it, the drinking is done. Is it a bold declaration? Maybe. Will it remove all of my unsettling feeling surrounding alcohol in my past, dating as far back as I can remember as a child? Certainly not. But, is it a move in the right direction for me to make? Absolutely. It’s one of those situations where if something isn’t working – if it’s inducing guilt, pain, shame, and hurt – stop doing it! Sometimes we just have to man-up and take accountability in ways others may not fully understand, where we say, F- it, I’m going above and beyond simply because it’s the right move to make, and I don’t care what the world thinks. And, I’ve finally said in my own life, F- it, the drinking is done, and I’ve done it for me. …All alone – after all.

At this writing, I have a speaking engagement this week in Fargo, North Dakota. I asked someone from Fargo what’s there to do in town?

“Drink,” he jokingly said. “We have more bars than anything else.”

“Perfect,” I replied. “I’ll have time to read in my hotel room, then.”