to my loyal fans and family

I would just like to take a second to thank everyone who reads and comments on my work. I hold a great affection for everything I post on this site.

but deeper is my affection for those who read and check it time and time again.

comments are always appreciated but for those that don’t leave their words, that is fine too.

by this Saturday I will have a new post up, a third memoir to my collection. I would also like to say that there is a new Doug in the works.

so hang tight, I know my posts aren’t often enough.

since most of my readers are family, I love you guys.



Published in: on January 30, 2009 at 1:35 am  Comments (5)  

Memoirs of a druglord, part 2: Motorcycle daydreams.

Motorcycle Daydreams

He told me it was a Harley and I guess it could have been; in retrospect I question its branding altogether, along with a slew of other facts and stories that I still cherish relentlessly. What I do know for a fact is that he bought two of them at an auction in Wisconsin for five dollars a piece. One was sold back at double its profit before we ever stepped off the lot. He told me we were to restore the old bike. Father and son breathing life back into machine.

Once we got it home it came to rest in the garage, almost instantly deteriorating. After weeks of begging my father to show me what I could do to begin the resurrection process, he came up with my first task. He told me he would give me instructions when he got home from work that day. I raced home early from neighborhood mischief, overly enthusiastic in anticipation of getting started. I sat on the bike in the garage waiting to hear the grumble of his work truck ascend the driveway. I imagined the pride he would feel completing such a project with his son. Sitting on the bike, stretching to reach the handle bars, I fantasized roaring down the street for my first test run upon completion. I closed my eyes and a soared into a vision of open throttle glory. I felt the freedom of rip-roaring down the road, disrupting man and nature with the rattle of my exhaust. I conjured tattoos and stubble onto my self image and began to feel intoxicated inside my own world. My day dream was interrupted by my father’s entrance into the garage. I was struck with déjà vu staring at my father after just imagining my future self.

I was radiating beams of excitement that seemed to set my father into annoyance. Despite his obvious stolid emotions about beginning this project after a long day, he appeared playful. Switching his cigarette from fingers to lips, he picked me up off the bike placing me back in reality. I watched intently as he removed the seat from the bike and secured it into a vice. He began instructing me on how to sand and smooth the ancient metal. Watching my technique closely from over my shoulder, I could smell the bitter alcohol protruding from deep in his lungs and a cigarette threatening to burn my ear. Restoration would begin and finish that night.

Manic Spaghetti

I walked into the humid kitchen and was hit the smell of boiling marinara. That old kitchen reminded me more of a laboratory for low budget scientists than a place to cook. Yellow tile that belonged on a bathroom floor spanned the wall over the counter. A florescent light stained into glowing yellow from years of smoke hummed like thousands of insects in harmony above the stove. My father was bent over his bubbling concoction, spoon in his right hand, cigar in his left. There was a boom-box sitting on the counter hidden by a barrage of wine bottles and spices. The small speakers blasted Steve Miller Band and my father danced across the tiles managing noodles and sauce in intervals between riffs. My father did not hesitate to cook when the inspiration struck. His specialty was spaghetti with wine sauce.

I sat down on the old bench of our kitchen table and prepared to watch my father’s culinary ritual. I loved watching my father cook. It made me realize that he was a true renaissance man; the type of dad who could fix the car with the tools from his garage and tantalize your senses with the spices from his cabinet.

The truly captivating part about watching my dad cook was how it seemed to make him act. Lip sinking the words to his favorite song while he waltzed around the kitchen. My mother tried to creep by the commotion on her way to the basement but was suddenly, and with out warning, swept up in his clamor. He was magnetically manic in his hour, deep in his own happy world that I so desperately wanted to be apart of.

When the production was finished we sat down to eat as a family, my sister and me on the bench and my parents in their chairs at either end of the table. The pasta was warm and delicious, but what I truly enjoyed was the somber peace that came after manic spaghetti and before life picked up where it left off.

Bedroom Window

I pressed my nose hard against the screen pushing the grid deep into my flesh. The thick breeze wafted the aroma of burning leaves into my nostrils; that smell that defined small town fall weather. My bare feet clinched and flexed against wood grain of my bedroom floor, stretching to reach window level. I had been listening to their fight for hours. Staring up at heaven’s stars I tried to imagine what life must have been like for astronauts, and the future children that would live on space stations. Surely their parents would not fight and bicker about such trivial things. I wanted to be a space child, fearless and immune.

It was completely dark in my room, only the shadows of thoughts racing patterns between clutter, illuminated by moonlight, hiding from evil lurking in dark corners.

My eyes were closed when I heard the door burst open and the sound erupt into my front yard. My father staggered out into the lawn, yelling profanities and pointing with chilling authority back towards my mother. “That’s it, I’m leaving tonight! I’m going to get on a Greyhound bus and be halfway across the country before you wake up… and I’m taking Nick with me.”

I thought I saw a glance up in my direction from my father upon completing his expulsion of intent. It frightened me away from my window and I collapsed onto my bed. The weight of the world buckled onto my chest.

Published in: on January 12, 2009 at 11:18 pm  Comments (10)  

a poem.

by and by, we’re contact high

ridding the wave of the

collective cry.

everything melds but nothing touches.

Nothing separate but intentions


Let your brain be the reducing factor,

perception is free and your the


No solo judgments tonight,

the struggle is over,

its a collective fight.

Published in: on January 12, 2009 at 10:44 pm  Comments (2)