Tres Mojados a Wagon Burner and a Gringo - The St. Mary's Days

Tres Mojados, a Wagon Burner and a Gringo

I began to attend St. Mary’s school in 1974.  It was an “old school” Catholic institution.  St. Mary’s is located in downtown Albuquerque; within walking distance of my home.  It was a typical Catholic institution that you’d see in the 70’s.  We all were required to wear the cheap blue, short sleeved uniform.  There were angry old nuns milling about, wearing their required nun-gear.  There was the occasional priest who’d usually have grey hair and weathered face but generally much easier on the eyes than his female counterparts.  The classrooms all were complete with wooden desks; each seemed to have nasty words carved in inconspicuous places and the usual blob of Bazooka Joe bubble gum stuck under the seat.  There was the generic clock on the wall behind the teacher that almost seemed to be placed there to torture the children and of course the cross on the wall with poor old Jesus nailed to the wood.

The culture at this school could be very brutal.  In later life, I’ve often wondered if the nuns had such a nasty disposition as a result of a lifetime of no intercourse, not even the occasional oral pleasure amongst each other.  I also wondered if the priests seemed more relaxed and happy because they had the altar boys to play with.  If a student did something wrong at St. Mary’s, the consequences could be rough.  I’d often find myself being pulled about the room by my side burn while the nun lectured me.  There were also whacks on the knuckles with a ruler and the occasional spankings.   Of course, we were all damned to hell and if we didn’t follow the nun’s wishes, God would punish us horribly.  As a child, I always thought of God as the nun’s personal enforcer.  It’s a thought that’s stuck with me to this day, only it’s much more refined, broad and researched.  


“Of all religions, the Christian should of course inspire the most tolerance, but until now Christians have been the most intolerant of all men” – Voltaire. “I was raised Catholic until I was old enough to say no” – John Cusack

To complete the picture of the above paragraphs, I need to tell a short story about one school morning.  I must have been no more than eight or nine years old.  I’d gotten ready for school, despite trying everything I could to stay home; the sick routine, too tired and need a break, I think it’s a no school day, I love you so much grandma – just want to spend the day with you, etc.  Just before it was time to walk to school, I felt that there was just no way that I could go.  I didn’t understand what was going on at the time inside my mind and body but now know it was depression and anxiety.  I decided that I was going to jump off the roof so that I could break a bone and not have to go to school.  This wasn’t a fantasy or an “I’m going to show you”.  This was a very real decision by a very confused and scared child.  Looking back, I’d rather jump off a roof and damage my body than leave the safety of my grandparents’ home and go to school for the day; something was very wrong.  Just as I started to climb up the roof to jump, my beautiful grandmother came out, looked at me inquisitively and said that it was time to go.  It took me over 30 years to understand this day.  

Looking back at myself, I feel pretty damn sorry for that kid.

One of my very original memories of St. Mary’s was the day I met John Alonzo.  I was sitting in one of the first classes, the first day of school.  I could feel somebody staring at me from behind.  When I turned around, there was a Native American kid with intense green eyes, Laguna Indian to be exact.  He was staring at me with a wonderfully mischievous look, more accurately, a “shit eating grin”.  We were thick as thieves from that day on.  Shortly after that, three Mexican kids by the names of Donny and Ronny Gutierrez (brothers) and Adam Chavez joined the gang.  We did almost everything together for many years to come and it was fun.
 

There was a very cute girl at our school by the name of Lesley Gallegos; we all had a crush on her.  Lesley had great hair and a great smile and I had an especially great crush on her.  I decided that I wanted to marry her and of course, my friends egged me on.  I went to the local TG&Y at the corner of Central Avenue and Rio Grande Boulevard with my grandmother to buy Lesley a necklace for our pending engagement.  I didn’t know to marry you were supposed to have a ring and my grandmother didn’t coach me, she just went along as I’m sure the scene was pretty damn cute.  Then the next day, with my four friends watching and giving me little pushes, I did the deed.  I asked the glorious Lesley Gallegos to marry me!  The magnificent Lesley Gallegos gave me a smile to die for, gently took the necklace and looked at it with adoration.  Slowly she took her gaze from the necklace and deeply looked into my eyes with such love and kindness that I felt an army of butterflies in my body.  Lesley then said to me through her beautiful red lips in her young angelic voice… “No”.  Lesley got up with the necklace in hand and ran off with her friends.  She left me sitting in the playground not knowing what just happened, nor what to do.

Now to make matters worse, Lesley had a friend who followed her around quite a bit.  This friend, I’m sure, grew up to be a hairy, Harley riding, butch man hating bull dyke professional wrestler.  After Lesley walked away with my .99 cent TG&Y imitation gold necklace, I got up to walk over to my friends who were already giggling at the scene.  The next thing I know, the hairy, Harley riding, butch man hating bull dyke professional wrestler girl walked up to me and said “she doesn’t like you”!  She then proceeded to kick me in the testicles so hard that to this day I still believe that she split my left ball in two.

On the spot, I projectile vomited all over the hairy, Harley riding, butch man hating bull dyke professional wrestler’s pants.  She ran away screaming and I was down for the count, gazing up at the St. Mary’s steeple with the world spinning around me.  I could hear my friends mercilessly howling with laughter in the background.  When I was able to get up, it seemed that the entire school was standing in a circle around me gawking at the boy who just had his gonads assaulted.  And yes, my friends were not only still howling with laughter but the jackasses were now reenacting the scene for everybody’s pleasure.

I never, ever, ever asked Lesley Gallegos to marry me again.  Didn’t even ask her out when we were attending high school together.  To this day, every time I see Lesley Gallegos, my left “balls” throb as if I were an old man whose joints were hurting from an oncoming storm. 

One our favorite pastimes was to seriously fuck with people.  The five of us had a way to taking it to new levels.  At St. Mary’s, we had some pretty horrible food.  I think that’s why they gave us all the milk we could drink.  The milk came in small red containers and was placed at the end of the food line.  John came up with the brilliant idea of sneaking a bunch of the milk containers out of the cafeteria.  Then, we’d take the containers home and put them somewhere, well hidden, in our yards.  We’d leave them there for at least a week, then sneak them back to school.  At lunch, we’d put the rotten milk containers back in the cooler but would be sure to place them in the very back so nobody would drink them that day and they’d be nice and cold the next.  On that day after when the lumpy milk was cold and in front of the cooler, we’d rarely be able to eat.  The five of us would be sitting in the expensive seats so that we had a clear view of the entire cafeteria.  Whenever some poor innocent kid would take a huge gulp of thick rotten milk, we’d tremble with laughter.  There was always snot blowing from our nostrils and tears flowing down our cheeks.  I can remember Adam falling out of his seat laughing when one of the kids began to vomit all over his tray.  I don’t know how but we never got caught doing this.  I’m sure the milk company, whom by the way my great grandfather was one of the founders of, got an earful from those nasty uptight – under sexed nuns!!!

I’m just now realizing that some of the most brilliant ideas that got us in terrible trouble came from John.  Early on at St. Mary’s, he somehow talked two of our female classmates into getting into one of the huge tractor tires in the playground.  He then convinced them to lift their skirts, drop their panties and show us their lovelies.  I think it was the first time in my life that I’d felt that special tingly feeling down below as my little friend popped to attention.  I’d entered the world of vaginas!   Anyway, as I sat there in awe at the wonderful sights in front of me, I was shocked into reality as a stream of hot liquid hit me in the side of the head.  There was goddamn John, with his pecker out and in hand, hosing all of us down with urine!  The little bastard became so aroused that he peed on us!  I’m sure that being so young and seeing those little girls’ hoo-has, he became instantly aroused but had no idea what to do.  So my damn friend just started peeing on everybody in his excitement.

Well, it was tough as hell to get out of that tire.  The girls and I were pushing, shoving and scratching our way out of there while John giggled as he squirted the last shots of pee on us.  Unfortunately for all of us, one of those nasty old nuns saw the ruckus as we scrambled out of the tractor tire.  When she came running over, she could see that we (me and the two girls) were all wet, and then she smelled the urine. I think that was my first time ever in detention.  It was a bad detention.  I had to sit after school as my grandfather waited outside in the car, watching the pruned face of an old nun as she glared at me and the three others.  To make matters worse, as I sat in the hard wooden seat, reeking of John’s urine, I was still feeling the butterflies in my stomach from what I’d seen in that tractor tire.

Almost every day, I’d walk home with Donny, Ronny, Adam and John.  Those four lived to the north of St. Mary’s in a barrio called “Wells Park”.  Wells Park was and still is a gang territory and predominantly Hispanic neighborhood.  I lived to the west in the Albuquerque Country Club neighborhood which had no gangs, other than frequent groups of golfers roaming the streets. I’d walk home with my friends because I enjoyed them.  I enjoyed the culture and the freedom.  And of course we had a lot of fun.  Usually being the only white kid in the group, I often found myself in some precarious situations but I’ll save that for a later chapter.  We’d always walk by my grandfather’s office which was located half way to John’s house.  It became a wonderful ritual to knock on his window.   No matter what he was doing, he’d come to the window and wave to us.  We’d then be off some sort of adventure. 

Before our teens, our adventures were usually pretty innocent.  We’d listen to lots of Monty Python and Cheech & Chong on vinyl and do our best to memorize the skits. We became masters at the art of firecracker making and marksmen with our slingshots. John came up with the idea of making a gross mixture of eggs, flour, dog-food and jelly.  We’d then mix it and roll it into a wet paper towel and form it into a ball. We’d go out after dark and throw the goo balls at passing cars and hope they’d chase us.  If we were lucky, we’d hear a loud thud/splat, then tires screeching and lots of cursing.  Now and then, after we’d throw our ordinance, we’d realize that our target was a cop car or worse, a lowrider!  This generated the most terror and fun imaginable as the police officer or Chicano chased us through the neighborhood.  It was our neighborhood; we knew it well and never got caught.

One afternoon, we came up with the idea of bottling farts.  One of us would hold a jar and its cap while another would drop his drawers and fart in the bottle.  It was very important to quickly cap the bottle after the last bit of fart was squeezed out.  Now and then, somebody would push a bit too hard and some unwanted results would shoot out.  Of course we’d laugh like Hyenas.  We’d then hit the neighborhood to find some unsuspecting victim to sniff our home made cologne. 

We loved to have sleepovers.  Back then, there was no internet, cable TV, XM stereo or cell phones.  After midnight all the TV channels would go off the air.  We had to be creative to entertain ourselves.  One night the entertainment scheduled was competition fart lighting.  We were all pretty good at it if I do say so myself!  Deep into the competition, there were 5 boys in their fruit of the loom underwear, taking turns dropping on their backs, lifting their knees to their shoulders, placing a match to the general area of the butthole and letting it rip.  The key was to only let a small amount of fart out at a time.  This way you’d produce a large and long lasting flame.  Well, John won the competition hands down.  He shot a massive flame out of his ass, it was impressive, and we all cheered and whistled.  Then the mayhem began.  During Johns’ gold medal performance, he actually lit his underwear on fire.  We all started laughing hysterically.  Unfortunately for John, he thought we were laughing at the fart he’d just let when we were laughing at the flame that had already spread from his anus to his upper testicles.  Johns’ anal region was already hot from the fart he’d lit so he didn’t immediately notice the heat from the underwear fire.  The fire had created a hole in his underwear as it spread and just about the time one of his balls fell out of the opening, John realized what was happening.  I’m not sure if I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life at the scene of John flopping around the floor like a fish out of water while smoke and sparks came from his behind.  It’s a sight that I’ll never forget.

911 @ Freeway Liquors - Albuquerque, New Mexico

When my blood father and pregnant step mother were killed in 1982, something unexpected happened.  A guy by the name of Eric Corbet showed up on my doorstep the day after their deaths. I'd never met Eric before, we went to the same school but he was many years ahead of me.

Eric introduced himself to my grandmother and me and told everybody that he thought I could use a friend right now.  He then asked if he could take me for a drive.  When we jumped in his car, he pulled out a six pack of Löwenbräu and told me that he thought I could use a beer.  Eric and I became best friends on that day. 

In 1985, Eric landed a job at the “Freeway Liquors”.  This is one of those places where you can buy liquor for your drive while you gas up your car.  Eric was on the night shift, he worked the cash register.

One night, Eric called me up and told me to come by and have a few drinks.  They had some expired liquor that he was told to throw out and thought I’d like some.  When I arrived, Eric wasn’t too busy so I stuck around and visited with him.  It was a lot of fun; I was there for a couple of hours.  Just before I decided to go, I went into the bathroom to take a leak.  As I was going into the bathroom, a customer was coming out.  I thought nothing of it.  I was in the bathroom for about a minute.  When I came out, the customer was positioned directly in-between Eric and me.  He had a pistol in his hand and it was pointed at Eric.

I seriously startled the robber.  I don’t think he saw me when I walked into the bathroom so he thought that part of the store was empty.  When he saw Eric take his gaze off of the gun and onto me, the robber spun around, yelled some sort of profanity, aimed the gun at my head and fired.

When I saw the robber whip around, all I could think of was to hit the ground.  I think this is what came to mind because in all the movies, books and stories about robberies, everybody is told to “hit the ground”. That is for the exception of Pulp Fiction where they say “Everybody be cool this is a robbery! Any of you fuckin' bitch move and I'll execute every mother fucking last one of you!”. 

Well, just as the robber aimed the gun at my head and shot, I dropped to the floor.  The bullet missed my head by a hair; literally.  I could feel and hear the bullet zip by my left temple and bits of the gunpowder residue peppered my face.  Because of the timing and the shot, the robber thought he had hit his mark and that I was dead. Unfortunately, so did Eric.

As I lay on the floor, face down, I could hear Eric screaming my name over and over.  He then started to tell the robber to take everything and get out!  I heard Eric say “no, no, no, no”, I waited to hear the shot.  Then everything got quiet.

I was still face down on the floor.  I could hear somebody come over to me.  I was sure it was the robber coming back to make sure I was dead.  Next thing I know, Eric is turning me over.  He had a wild look in his eyes and tears were flowing down his cheeks.  He thought I was dead.  When he turned me over and saw that I was alive and looking at him, he frantically started looking for the bullet hole.  When none was found, my good friend Eric gave me a huge, long and much needed hug.

We were kept at the liquor store until sunrise.  We had to give statements, again and again, sketch artist drew the gunman’s portrait and forensics came to look for evidence.  Just before I was allowed to go, one of the officers said “I found it”!  He had found the bullet that was meant for my forehead.  Then to my surprise, he started laughing.  He called me and the others over.  The bullet had found an unlikely target, a worm in a Mescal bottle.  The damn robber had literally shot the tequila worm in two. 

The office looked at me and said “What in the hell were the odds of this?!”.

Eric was a wonderful man, extremely kind and gentle.  He had some physical and mild mental issues.  I don’t know what he was officially diagnosed with and I never asked him.  He looked a bit like he possibly had extremely mild downs or some other neurological disorder.  Eric died in the mid 90’s of phenomena, I was one of the last people he talked to. During our final conversation, Eric didn’t tell me he was sick.  He only told me that he really wanted to get together and missed me.  He died the next day.

Booze, Guns, Vietnam Vet and Mayhem in Mexico Part 1.

After high school, I rented an absolute dump on the west mesa of Albuquerque with two friends.  This shack was smack in the middle of some serious gang-ville and we were the only gringos stupid enough to live there.

One night, I was drinking with two good friends, Ray and Damon.  Ray decided that he wanted to go up to the mountains to shoot guns.  Being young and drunk, we agreed that it was a great idea.  We started loading up Ray's old turquoise Ford Bronco with booze and guns.  Just as we were getting ready to leave, my next door neighbor, who I'd never met came out and asked us what we were doing.  He was an old guy with scraggly long white hair and a beard that covered almost his entire face down to his chest.  We told him what we were up to and he quickly invited himself along.  The old guy ran into his house, grabbed a 357 magnum, gallon of vodka then jumped in the front seat of Ray's Bronco to join our late night adventure.

As we got onto the highway, the old guy started telling us about himself.  He was a decorated Vietnam Vet who was on lifetime disability from injuries he received in the war.  I could see some of the damage to his face that he'd received when a phosphorous grenade exploded next to his head while he was in a tunnel chasing Vietcong soldiers.  His stories were amazing and absolutely terrifying, it was a miracle he was alive.  

All went well on the drive to the mountain, that is until we came onto a portion of highway in Albuquerque called "the Big I".  The old guy started asking us why we were going shooting in the mountains.  At first, I didn't understand why he was asking this because we'd already told him, he was in the truck, with his weapon.  Then things went horrifically wrong.

In order to correctly convey the entire picture of what was happening, I have to go back to less than a year earlier.  My old friend Ray, who was driving the vehicle and sitting right next to the old guy, had been shot several times in a robbery.  He was working at a convenience store at night when 2 robbers came into the store and robbed him at gunpoint.  After Ray gave them everything they wanted, they made him lie on the floor where they commenced to shoot him multiple times.  Ray was shot in the back, hand and face.  He survived but was still nursing his injuries the night we took to the road for some target shooting in the mountains.

As I said above, we reached the Big I and things went horrifically wrong.  The old man started repeating over and over, “why we were going shooting in the mountains”.  He then hit a high octave as he was saying "you mother-fuckers aren't going to kill me".  Next thing I knew, he had pulled out his 357 magnum and put it in my face.  I was stunned.  It was not the first time I'd had a gun pointed at me and I'd already been shot at several times.  But this was bad, seriously bad.  We were barreling down the highway at 90 miles per hour, crammed in a small Ford Bronco, with an armed man who we now knew was very very sick in the head.  

I was frozen with terror.  It's a feeling that's really hard to describe to somebody who's not experienced it.  I believe it's like the stories you hear from solders who've been in close proximity battles and had to kill others.  I could hear Ray, almost as a distant faint voice, begging for my life.  His voice sounded hysterical and almost resigned to what was about to happen to me.  I couldn't look away from the old man's face, not because it was an inch above the pistols barrel or because the barrel was pushed against my face. It also wasn't because of some horseshit Hollywood machismo nonsense.  It was because in moment, I felt that my only hope was to connect with this guy in some way.  Everything got really quiet as i watched him put his finger on the trigger.  I could see his knuckle whiten as he started to pull the trigger.  In reality, things were not quiet.  I could see Ray's mouth moving, pleading with him.  I could see Damien doing the best he could as well.  Then he removed his finger from the trigger.  Everybody stopped talking.  I was hoping that this ordeal was over, but I was very wrong.

The old man began his crazy talk again but this time, he focused his rage on Ray.  He shoved his pistol deep into Ray's temple, and then cocked the gun.  Now I found that Ray and I had switched places, he on the verge of a horrible death and me pleading for his life.  As I was saying every word that came to mind to calm the situation down, all I could think about was how sorry I felt for Ray.  He'd already experienced the horror of being shot less than a year before.  He knew the confusion, terror and pain of such a violent event.  For the rest of my life, I'll never forget the look on his face and how his body reacted to the gun cocking; it was surreal.  

I started trying to convince the old guy to let Ray stop the car and let him out; nobody needed to be hurt.  I told him that we didn't want to hurt anybody and we should all just go home.  I know much more was said but it's really a blur.  You have to remember, this all happened in less than a minutes time, plus or minus, but it felt like hours.  There were tears, everybody was sweating.  I remember saliva flying from Ray's mouth as he pleaded for my life.  I also remember smelling urine, I don't remember if it was mine, Damon or Ray's.  Then, all of a sudden, with the gun cocked and now pushed into Ray's right cheek, so hard that Ray could not close his mouth, the old guy instructed Ray to pull over.  Looking back, I should have felt some sort of relief but there was none.  My first thought was how quickly could Ray slow down the old Ford going at 90 miles per hour before the old guy changed his mind.  Then I began to realize that he was telling Ray to pull over because he couldn't shoot any of us while the vehicle was moving without risking his own life.  This revelation was almost as terrifying as his putting a gun against my face.

I was spot on with my fear; he did intend to get the car stopped then shoot us.  Almost the moment the old guy told Ray to pull over, Ray had hit the brakes as hard as he could.  We were in the fast lane so Ray had to merge across 2 other lanes to get to the side of the road.  He did this so fast and with so much velocity that he almost rolled his vehicle.  Ray jumped the truck over the curb and onto the embankment and slid sideways to a stop.  The old guy opened his door and as he was getting out of the vehicle, he started to turn back towards us, cocking the gun as he raised it to shoot us.  Luckily, Ray popped the clutch and floored the gas.  The jerk was enough to pull the old guy off balance because his free hand was holding the door handle still.  I can't say how many times the old guy shot at us as we sped away but we were very lucky that he didn’t hit one of us.  As ray sped away, he violently pulled back onto the interstate highway.  He caused numerous vehicles to slam on their brakes and swerve to miss is.  I believe this is part of the reason the old guy didn't get the chance to get off a couple accurate shots.  He was first distracted by Ray jerking him off balance, then distracted by the numerous vehicles swerving, honking and screeching on the highway right next to him.

We got away unharmed.  We literally got a second chance at life.  Ray drove about a mile up the road before he pulled over.  We all got out and sat down on the ground.  It was all I could do to keep from vomiting as we sat there.  I remember looking at Ray and seeing his hands tremble as he smoked a cigarette.  I was again thinking about how horrible this must have been for him being the second time in a year that he almost lost his life to a gun.  Damon sat with his hands in his head saying “fuck, fuck, fuck” over and over.  It was a nightmare that I hoped to never re-live again in my life.  As fate would have it, our journey had just begun and we’d see more violence in the days to come.  

Ray is alive and well and has not been shot at, gun pointed at or threatened by somebody with a gun since 1987.  He has enjoyed a very successful career in the avionics industry and remains one of my oldest and dearest friends to this day.

Damon was killed in a tragic auto accident not long after this story took place.  The accident was more than 10 miles east of the spot where we dropped off the old guy, on the very same highway.  I think of Damon often and still miss him very much.

My Insane Family - Sleeping With Sharks

Sleeping With Sharks

My family, going back many generations, has always spent a part of their summer at the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club in California.  During one of those summers, when my mother was a teen, she was having lots of trouble with my Uncle Tommy.  As a typical younger brother, he was being a real pain in the ass to my mother and she’d had enough. My mother decided that she’d find a way to teach Tommy a good lesson.

One night during a walk on the beach, my mother found a dead shark that had washed up. The shark was big, real big.  She knew that this was the golden opportunity to “get” Tommy.  She picked up the shark which was not easy; it took both of her arms to carry it.

Tommy had gone to bed and was sound asleep. Mom quietly crept into his bedroom, dragging the shark behind her.  She very slowly pulled Tommy’s covers down and placed the shark on its back with its head on the pillow right next to Tommy's head.  Both the shark and Tommy appeared to be in a deep sleep with their mouths wide open, teeth exposed and snoring. She pulled the covers up just below the shark’s mouth and Tommy’s chin. It was really a very cozy scene. My mother then tiptoed out and went to bed.

The next morning the shark was found out in the middle of the street. There was a crowd of people examining it and trying to figure out where the hell it came from. My mother looked up to the second floor where Tommy’s room was.  She saw that the bedroom window was wide open.  Tommy, in his shock and anger had somehow chucked the shark out the window and into the street!

The worst part of this story is that Tommy went on to sleep with much worse creatures than that old dead shark.

Juarez Booze Run

I met Laura when I was 14.  Her father, Tony was my blood father’s half brother.  He came into my life when my father was killed and began to take me down to Ruidoso on a regular basis to spend time with his children.  This was incredibly kind of Tony, not to mention it was a lot of fun, he had 3 kids, Laura and her two brothers, Nathan and Corky.  

In the beginning, my visits to see the cousins was relatively innocent, the occasional cigarette or can of beer.  But within a short period of time, we had escalated to large quantities of alcohol, then cocaine.  This was a very dangerous time for me as my cousins were lacking their allocated amount of the common sense gene when in utero; as did I.  When I was with them, we did the most unimaginably stupid things. Whether it be driving around town shooting out windows, stealing golf carts and driving them off cliffs, seeing how high and far we could jump our vehicles over cattle tanks, all of course while cross-eyed drunk.  But the grand daddy of our stupidity was an afternoon excursion to Mexico to buy booze.

We got it in our heads that Laura, my brother Tom (who was about 8 at the time) and I should drive to Juarez Mexico to buy cheap booze.  Juarez was about 2 1/2 hours away.  We told Laura's parents that we were going hiking and then camping out overnight.  When we arrived in Juarez, we bought enough booze to take care of Jim Morrison for a month.  Once we loaded up the car with rot gut alcohol, I had the bright idea of having a drink; or two.  So off we went, with my eight year old brother, to a seedy Juarez bar to drink like adults.  4 hours later, there we were, absolutely shit-faced drunk and a two and one half our drive ahead of us.

Laura was the only person with a driver’s license, Tom was too young and mine was revoked for reason that I can no longer remember.  Although Laura was the drunkest of the three of us, she’s the one with the license, so off we went drunk driver and all.  We got across the border with no problems but an hour down the highway, a State Police officer pulled us over.  When he pulled us over, I was passed out; he had to shake me to wake me up.  The officer let us know that he'd stopped us because Laura was going 35 in a 55 mph and weaving in and out of her lane.  The police officer asked if we'd been drinking, of course, I belched and said no.  Laura told him that she was just very tired.  He instructed me to drive but when he discovered that I didn't have my driver’s license, he told Laura that she'd have to drive and to stop at the next filling station to buy a coffee.

Minutes after pulling away from the cop car and back onto the highway, Laura started to pass out.  No matter what I did, I couldn't keep her awake.  It was very dark out, we were on a crowded 2 lane highway and the police man was directly behind us.  

I managed to reach over and set the cruise control for the posted speed limit.  Then as quickly as I could, I dragged Laura out of the driver’s seat and into the passenger’s seat.  She was not much help by that point; she was down for the count.  A couple of times while I was pulling Laura out of the driver’s seat, I remember reaching over, grabbing the steering wheel and make sure we kept on a straight course; just in the knick of time.  Once I finished moving Laura, I slid into the driver’s seat and took over as captain.  All of this while we were rolling down the road at 55 mph, in a pitch dark night and a police officer right behind us!  There was still a major problem, I wasn't able to see straight so I had to keep one eye shut and do the best I could to keep the other eye focused so I’d stay on the road.  I couldn't pull over or slow down because the cop was right behind us, must have followed us for at least 60 miles. 

We did eventually make it back to Ruidoso, in one piece but less millions of brain cells and decreased liver functions.  We did continue to drink through the night with our eagerly waiting cousins.  Who by the way were furious with us for being 5 hours late.

This is how we lived our lives in our early and mid teens.  Laura

later in life took it to a level that only by the grace of God I didn't go to.  Laura used and subsequently became fatally addicted to heroin.  Laura looked like the all American small town girl.  She lived on a small ranch, had a father and mother who loved her, they were worth millions.  She was a cheerleader, rode and helped her mother coach/train hunter jumper horses and riders.  When she died, she was virtually estranged from her family and certainly penniless.  She was found all alone in a cockroach infested Arizona apartment.  She still had the syringe stuck in her arm.  She left behind a habitual criminal of a husband and two infant children whom she passed on fetal alcohol syndrome and hepatitis c.  

Something to Wash Those Pills Down With?

About the time I turned 14, my grandparents got the travel bug.  They decided that it would be ok to leave me alone in the house for extended periods of time.  I obviously had no problem with that!  I do have to say that the timing was bad. My father and pregnant step-mother had just been killed; I was a LOST kid.

Before my grandparents would leave, they would have me make a budget based on the number of days they'd be gone.  What I'd do is get the newspaper, go to the Walgreens or Furr's liquor ads and calculate how much booze I'd need. That was my budget!  Once they were gone, I'd hit up Morie's liquor store in downtown Albuquerque.  It was one of the few bars in town that would sell to minors at the time.  It's now gone and a Federal Court building sits where my favorite bar was.

I had many, many fun and crazy parties during my grandparent’s vacations.  One party though stood out from the others, and here is what happened.

My cousins, John-O and Jamie were up from the beautiful town of Socorro, New Mexico.  They lived in an old trailer that was virtually held together with bailing wire and duct tape.  Their mother, God bless her, had to work constantly to make ends meet so John and James were mostly on their own.  John-O was particularly a vile young man.  He always had his fingers in his nose or crotch and seemed to have an endless supply of mucous.  In fact, he was so mucousy that he prided himself on having hundreds of mucous stalactites hanging from his bedroom ceiling.  I'd go into further detail but I'll save that chapter for later.

So John-O, Jamie and various other pasty skinned, long haired drunk pubescent boys were sitting around my grandmother’s dining room table drinking Mad Dog 20/20, Rainer Ale and Popov Vodka.  Part way through the afternoon, a friend of mine who lived in the neighborhood showed up with some people we didn't know.  His nickname was "Deuce" and he was being extremely obnoxious.  I'm not sure what had gotten into him, I bet it was his way of showing off to the uninvited friends he brought to the party to drink my booze.

About an hour into Deuces arrival, I'd had enough.  I decided to teach him a lesson that he'd never forget.  John-O, who had been sitting next to me all afternoon, had a can of 7-UP that he'd been using as a "spittoon" for his chewing tobacco spit. As usual, John-O was mucousy but on this day, he was a snot factory.  His 7-UP can was filled to the rim with saliva, tobacco and thick snot.  I slyly grabbed the can, took it to the kitchen, cleaned the top and placed it in the ice tray to quickly chill it.  About 20 minutes later, we were in the middle of a drinking game.  I turned to Deuce and asked him if he wanted to pop a couple of my Valium pills.  I obviously knew that he'd jump at the offer.  I told Deuce I'd go get them for him.  I walked into the kitchen, grabbed the chilled can of mucous and returned to the table.

Deuce never knew what hit him; he fell for it hook line and sinker.  He reached his hand out for his pills, I obliged him.  I nicely handed him an icy cold can of "7-UP" to wash them down with, which he grabbed.  The next scene was virtually in slow motion.  Deuce threw the two yellow pills high in the air.  He then leaned back in his chair and perfectly caught them in his mouth.  While still leaning back in the chair, he held up the can and slowly began to pour it into his mouth from about a foot above his mouth.  The look on his friend’s faces, who knew nothing about what I'd done, was absolutely priceless.  Their jaws fell open as the frothy tobacco spit and thick mucus slid out of the can into Deuces mouth.  It was so thick that it was one long string of gelatinous looking slime from the can to his mouth. It literally was one, slow giant blob of gelatinous horror that nicely hit his palette.  It was such a large glob of tobacco laden slipper secretion that it went over his tongue and straight down his throat from the weight.

Before the last mucous tentacles had reached the back of Deuces throat, every single boy in the room was scattering from the table like the cockroaches they resembled.  We all knew, including his friends who were innocent, that when Deuce figured out what happened, there would be hell to pay.  The problem was, those of us "in the know" (John-O, James and myself), were laughing so hard, we were literally crawling across the floor looking for safety from the "Wrath O' Deuce".

I vividly remember Deuce rushing to the sink and tilting the can to see what the hell he'd just ingested.  When the mucous and tobacco spit fell out of the can, he began belching, then vomiting.  It first exploded from his nostrils, then his mouth.  It was unbelievable how much of John-O's fluids came back out of Deuce mouth and nose.  It was equally shocking just how much additional material came out of his skinny body.

This of course just made me laugh harder, I couldn't move.  I was laughing so hard; my body was convulsing and not responding to my commands.  This became a real problem when Deuce finished vomiting, wiped his mouth, turned around and spotted me on the floor in hysterics.  He knew, there was no doubt; it was Donnie, that mother-fucker!

Deuce jumped on me and began to punch me as hard as he could.  I was still laughing so hard, his blows didn't cause much pain or damage.  This frustrated him, especially when he noticed his friends laughing like hyenas.  Deuce stopped punching me.

Deuce and I remained friends and continued to socialize on a regular basis but he never crashed another one of my parties again.

My Insane Family - The Special Dinner

My uncle Tommy, uncle Timo and a friend by the name of Steve all went on a hunting trip to the mountains of southern New Mexico. They took an old truck that only allowed for 2 people in the front, so their friend Steve had to ride in the back of the truck. 


When they arrived to their camp site, my uncle Tommy realized that his friend Steve had eaten the vast majority of their food during the drive. There were no towns nearby and nightfall was coming soon.  My uncle Tommy and Timo were furious. Timo had to forcibly keep Tommy from physically assaulting their friend Steve.  When things calmed down, my uncle Tommy told his longtime friend Steve to go off with Timo and hunt for some turkeys before it got dark. Uncle Tommy said that this would give him some time to cool off. Timo and Steve left while Tommy set forth to his plans of retribution. 

My uncle Tommy gathered the food that remained and put together a dinner for everybody. The only difference is that the dinner he prepared for his friend Steve was just a bit different. Tommy took a small baguette, cut it down the middle. He then dropped his pants and carefully took a shit within the bread as if it were a sumptuous bratwurst. Once he had completed the mission, uncle Tommy then placed mustard, Sauerkraut and onions on the top of Steve's dinner to hide the true occupant of the baguette.  He then garnished the plate with vegetables and cheese. 


Steve and uncle Timo arrived back at camp. Tommy had a warm fire going, camp completely set up and a big dinner ready for everybody. Tommy gave Timo his dinner, then Steve. As he handed his old friend Steve his plate, Tommy told him "Steve, I over-reacted to you eating all the food. I'm sorry and I hope this dinner makes up any stress I caused you".  Steve told uncle Tommy he accepted his apology and proceeded to begin dinner. As Steve was garnishing his dinner with salt and pepper, he was advising Tommy that he should control his temper, be more accepting of other people and if Steve wanted to eat all their food, he should let him. As he completed this sentence, Steve took a man's size bite of Tommy's Pièce de résistance. 


I don't think Steve's life, or palate, was ever the same after this legendary bite. It was a greedily taken bite that only the most unrefined, hungriest of men would take. To describe the look on Steve's face is difficult.  It only took several good chews for Steve to realize that there was something terribly wrong.  Steve's face went from the look a deer gives when it's caught in a headlight to utter confusion and slowly to a horribly painful grimace.  It was a look of somebody in terrible pain while crazily smiling.  To add to this portrait, there was a pungent sickly odor wafting throughout the mountain air and what could have been confused with pâté encroaching out of the corners of Steve's mouth.  The more Steve grimaced, the more his spittle covered lips stretched and the fecal material pushed through his teeth like toothpaste out of its tube.

Life is calmer now, Steve is alive, sane and a successful businessman in New Mexico.  My uncle Tommy has not served a special meal since; that I know of.  

This bizarre bit of pandemonium was such a commonplace in my life that to me, it was normal.  It was not until my late 30's that I began to realize that our sense of humor was not only incredibly rare but evoked fear in those around us.  In a way, that worked well in my life but I do feel sorry for some who have nervously waited for me to focus my odd humor on them.

26 Years Late

In 1976, my blood father decided to return to my life.  He did this in part because my moms new husband took the official steps to adopt me.  It was this notice of adoption that jolted my father into this communication.

This is the letter I received from my blood father. I found it in a file in 2008.  It was the first time I read it, 26 years after his death.

Never Fuck With The Cook & His Assistant!!!

When I was a teenager, I went down to Socorro, New Mexico to spend some time with my cousin John (John-o). On Saturday morning, we got up, with massive hangovers (as usual) and started making breakfast. John's little brother, James, was sitting on the couch being his incredibly obnoxious self, screwing with us to no end. I got tired of it and went over to John, who was just finishing up the breakfast sausages. I took one of the sausages, got a paring knife and proceeded to hollow it out. I then went to the cat box, got a nice fresh turd and stuffed it into the hot sausage. When I was done, I plugged the end with some of the meat I'd taken out, put it on James's plate, along with a nice pile of eggs and hash browns.

It took James a couple minutes to take a bite of the special sausage. Up until that glorious moment, John and I kept our noses in our dishes so he couldn't see us laughing. James was continuing to antagonize us and obviously thoroughly enjoying being a pain in our ass. Just before the "big bite", we watched James cut a slice off the sausage that just nicked the feline poop and eat it. There was only a smear on this bite but it was enough for James to say "something smells like shit". Then it happened, he speared the entire sausage with his fork. While raising it to his mouth, we could see the warm fecal material squeezing out of the end of the sausage like cheese from a burrito. It only took one good chew for James to realize something was terribly wrong. I'm sure it was a combination of foreign taste, horrific odor traveling from his mouth to his nasal cavity, the crunch of cat litter and John and I on the floor howling with laughter. I'll never forget the confused and horrified look on James face as he looked at us with a grimacing smile that showed what could have been mistaken as "chocolate pudding" in between his teeth and on the corners of his mouth. Needless to say... James never fucked with me again.

Here we go, hold on!

I'VE HAD AN INTENSE LIFE... NO REALLY... IT'S BEEN FUCKING INSANE!! 

I was bounced from home to home as a child. My parents came and went, depending on the circumstances in their lives at the time. 

I was drinking by the age of 9, coke by 14, crack by 17. I've ingested almost every mind altering substance available and frequented the most incomprehensible and demoralizing places imaginable.

I attended 7 different schools by the time I'd graduated high school. 

I watched my father and pregnant step-mother killed in a balloon accident. I I held both my great-grandmothers when they died and I was with and holding both my grandmothers when they passed on. To date, I've lost 8 friends from my youth. 4 of them from drug and alcohol related deaths.

I served in the NAVY, worked on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. I participated in all things one would imagine a sailor would in the 80's throughout numerous countries.

I've created and produced Emmy winning television shows, had numerous companies.  Some successful, more not.  I've made millions and I've lost millions. 

I've raised two beautiful little girls, one of which has cerebral palsy. I've dedicated my life to them without a second thought.

I've made unimaginable mistakes, ripped through peoples lives like a tornado. I've stopped my life to help people in need and given my last penny to help another.

I've battled anxiety and depression my entire life and only recently became truly willing and able to take the massive steps towards peace.

This blog will be a journey through my past, present and future.  In a way, it will be a way for me to purge events, free memories, humble myself and move on with my life.  I'll have the regular comedic and political breaks to remind myself and friends who I am now.

I'm going to be brutally honest, so if you're a judgmental person, this isn't the place for you.

Welcome to the life of Brainard.