Apple Pie and Chevrolet

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I saw this guy in an older Chevy Pick-up this morning. He’s about my age, wearing a John Deere hat, big wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth. I’m left wondering Red Man or Levi Garrett.

The truck had some Trump bumper sticker’s,  a “Stop Planned Parenthood” bumper sticker, a flag,  America flag. I was pretty sure his radio was to set to some country music station…

I’m hoping there would be Hank Sr. or George Jones. Those guys were goddamn poets. Maybe some Earl Scruggs. I don’t think you can really appreciate music until you have immersed yourself in Foggy Mountain Breakdown. I’m serious about this. All of this. Continue reading Apple Pie and Chevrolet

Guest Blog from Rachel Taylor – What If The Tables Were Turned?

 

This is not mine, I wish it was, it was written by a FaceBook friend, Rachel Taylor, and shared with her permission. It highlights the hypocrisy. I think back to the infamous Bill Clinton BJ in 1995. What a roiling waste of time and money that was.

We are in a constitutional crisis now, not politicizing blowjobs. Continue reading Guest Blog from Rachel Taylor – What If The Tables Were Turned?

We Are All We Have

All day I’ve been thinking about the mix in my family and friends. It’s a pretty even mix,

Hispanic, African, Eastern European, Northern European, Mediterranean,  Middle Eastern, Caribbean. It’s been that way all my life. Unintentional, just how it happened.

I don’t love everyone, I hate a few people. That has always been based on who they are or what they did to deserve my hatred. I seriously don’t understand the bullshit that is tearing this country apart. If I love you I love you. If I don’t there’s a reason, that reason has nothing to do with your skin color, or where your ancestors came from. Continue reading We Are All We Have

I am so fucking done loving the addict and hating the addiction

 

I found out this morning the little girl – the who we can’t name or share her picture, the one born addicted to heroin, the one born blind, the one born deaf in one ear, is now “profoundly brain-damaged.”

I am so fucking done loving the addict and hating the addiction. This little girl and her story have tested my belief system about as far as it can be tested.

I was up last night thinking about a rant on child protective services and how they are doing everything in their power to keep us from raising money for this little girl, but you know what, fuck that.

I am an addict, but one day in 1993 I was able to dig down underneath the layers and layers of self-pity in denial and bullshit and touch, for one brief moment, what was left of my humanity. You cannot be a bigger addict or a bigger asshole than I was or am, for that matter. If I can anyone can.

If you are using and pregnant you need to do one of three things: you either need to pull your head out of your ass, walk away from your denial and get into a program and work the fuck out of it, or you need to abort that baby, or you need to load up that spike with enough dope to kill five motherfuckers and take care of the problem now.

 

 

My Mom’s Doctor is a Scary Muslim

LOS ANGELES, UNITED STATES – FEBRUARY 4: Demonstrators against President Donald Trump’s Muslim Ban come together at Los Angeles International Airport, in Los Angeles, California, United States on February 4, 2017. (Photo by Mintaha Neslihan Eroglu/Anadolu Agency/Getty Images)

 

My mom has Alzheimer’s, a brutal disease. Her doctor is a Muslim. His name is Islam, actually, Mahbub Islam. I have his cell number, he has mine. He’s answered my call at 1 AM on a Sunday morning.

He calls her “Mama” and hugs her when he sees her. He calls me “Billy,” actually BEELEE. I’ve seen him have tears of frustration in his eyes as we try to work together dealing with congestive heart failure, kidney failure, pain management and a whole slew of elder care challenges. We have had many heart-to-heart talks about palliative care and exactly that means and what we are dealing with here.

“This is not the place for heroics, Beelee, this is about caring and comfort.” Continue reading My Mom’s Doctor is a Scary Muslim

Fish Whispers, Opiates and Other Opining

The Fish Whisperer

Saturday I did something completely out of character… I went fishing. I don’t fish. I’d not gone fishing since I stopped drinking and taking any chemical I found laying around (many years ago).

I’m way to busy for fishing and such things. I spend most of my life wondering where all my time goes. You find out on a boat, on a lake, completely disconnected.

My friend and fellow author, Mike Hoard, took me. The dude can fish. I swear to God he’s the fish whisperer. I mean it was spooky. On a nine mile long lake he knows where the fish are. He knows. I never have ever seen anything like it. He doesn’t know the general area, he knows on what side of the log and how deep. Seriously spooky stuff.

The fish must be terrified when they hear Mike Hoard’s pickup driving up to the lake…

I spent a few hours with my phone in his truck glovebox. That was the closest to withdrawal I’ve felt in almost twenty-four years.

It was nice, it was freeing, once I stopped sweating. Other than pondering how the hell Mike could possibly know the location of every fricken fish on a thousand acre lake…

“Bill, we are going to find some crappies here…let’s fish for some Walleye here… some rock bass over there.”

I pondered what life was like before I was married to this device in my hand right now.

I remembered acid and amphetamine laced trips into the backwoods upstate where I’d disappear for a week or more with no outside contact, just a verbal agreement for someone to pick me up at an appointed place, at an appointed time.

Somewhere between those days and now is a better place to live. Thanks Mike, it was an eye opening Saturday. And damn, Sam, them Louisiana boys can fish!

Opiates…

Some days I watch the news and I have to get up and walk away.

Montgomery County in Ohio is on track to have 800 fentanyl deaths this year, 10,000 deaths in that state this year – more that the entire US in 1990…

Drug overdose is the #1 cause of death in Americans under 50.

Attorney General Sessions wants to ramp up the “war on drugs,” while it is generally understood it has been a dismal failure. Meanwhile, Congress has their hands out for more money from the pharmaceutical cartel… Let’s not even go into the CIA’s role in importing drugs into this country.

I love it when they talk about El Chapo or Escobar or Blanco. They never mention George Bush Sr. but, hey, whatever…

We need answers and education, not stupidity, Sessions, and rhetoric.

I talk to people every day who can tell you all about ISIS and terror… I’m terrified of opiates. To hell with ISIS.

Want to read more from author William Lobb? Start reading THE THIRD STEP now… And don’t forget to leave your honest review!

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Meeting at the Nursing Home

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m called into meeting at the nursing home this morning. Care plans and insurance problems and the fact I smuggle Ma whiskey… why not? Absolutely seriously why the fuck not? She hasn’t started any fights. Ma was always the happy drunk, the fun drunk. She took a real, pure joy from her drink. Something that always made me a little envious. I was the mean drunk, the one begging for a fight, I’d fight with anyone. If I found no takers I’d storm out and find another bar. I was the one who, when someone looked up and saw me come through the door would say, “not this asshole again…”

Pretty funny scene, me, the ultimate drunk, the drunks drunk, smuggling his 88 years old crazy mother booze. Again, why not? What exactly are we preserving here? That’s the answer no one can give me that one. Continue reading Meeting at the Nursing Home

The Black Dirt

Black Dirt Onion Field, Pine Island, NY

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday I was driving through the Black Dirt, it was ninety-five degrees.

The temperature coming off that dried muck had to be near one hundred, if not more. I’ve never felt hot like that particular and peculiar hot coming off those goddamned fields.

In Orange County, in the 1970’s, to have worked out in the Black Dirt is a rite, a passage, it is something you did so that forty or fifty years later you could tell the stories with authenticity. Continue reading The Black Dirt

War On Drugs Hidden Victims

The war on drugs has hidden victims, babies and kids pushed under the rug, in hopes they will just go away. Tiny babies born addicted to heroin and Percocet, Oxy and Fentanyl.

I know one. She came into this world sick. Dog sick. Dope sick. You’ve never seen sick until you’ve seen dope sick. I can hardly imagine being born that sick. I’ve seen grown men in tears and puking and shaking, near death, from being dope sick. It’s hard for me to fathom this happening to a baby. Continue reading War On Drugs Hidden Victims

Its Not About Hillary or Trump… Never Was…

 

 

 

 

 

It is not about Hillary or Trump, and for what it’s worth it’s not about Bush II or Clinton or Bush I or Reagan or Carter or Ford. The accumulated clusterfucks of these past administrations have now come here to haunt us. The recent election is long over so please stop talking about Obama to me. Stop talking about Hillary to me. They are no longer relevant to the current conversation.

The situation today is desperate. It is not about Russian spies and American cowards. These are all simply symptoms of the disease that is killing us, all of us, quickly.

It’s tragic what I’ve seen in my lifetime. I’ve watched a complete fall from grace. Continue reading Its Not About Hillary or Trump… Never Was…

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