This post is partly about Tim Yap and the Ultimate Orgasm, but it's also about other things.
When I think about how much of my youth I wasted – how I practically threw away my twenties aimless and wandering, dreaming but not doing, I want to kick myself a thousand times in the ass. And sometimes I really wish my foot would reach back that far.
When I think about what I have achieved – and how I got to where I am today, I want to kick myself another thousand times, not because I’m not in a good place, mind you – for my here and now is something I’ve always wanted – but because it took me so long to realize what it takes to get here.
Many people might call it initiative, others may call it being proactive – there are disciples of the gurus from Og Mandino to Steven Covey that will call it their own special name.
I call it finding your balls, and grabbing hold of them.
Knowing what I know now about how people get to where they are, I can now truly say with authority that I squandered a large amount of time hiding in my baggage and waiting for that one big break to come along, waiting for the opportunity to show the world my stuff. With that shot it would all begin and I’d be world famous. No, I was not on drugs; it’s just that my thought process was just a tad…how do I say this…warped?
It was a catch-22 situation – I wanted the break but I wasn’t doing anything to catch enough attention so that someone would notice and give me the break that would catapult me to cult status. I was too busy lamenting my inability to please my father, always looking for his approval with every little thing that I did. Some of you know what I mean; some of you have had fathers just like mine. For those of you who grew up with a more encouraging home atmosphere, you have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. Allow me to illustrate:
You are in a bike race for the first time in your life – you just learned how to ride a bike the day before the race, and by your sheer willpower and determination, you still come in second place. It’s an amazing feat, but the first thing your father asks you is why you didn’t come in first.
Or else, how about this – you break your ankle before the race and STILL come in second. Your dad asks you the same question.
I’m sure there are a few of you out there sniggering and nodding your head.
I had a full twenty-odd years of this mind-fuck; and it really stuck me in this place where everything seemed so out of reach – so beyond my powers. Until one year, thanks to my wife Cindy, I discovered THE wisdom of my life. And talk about a kick in the crotch – this was the steel-toed version.
I’m a living example of the adage, “you can’t change overnight.” Ask my wife; she has been the silent witness to my transformation over the past 9 years, but the important thing is that I realized that the one thing that could save me from myself was myself.
No, it’s not a sad cliché – it’s only a cliché to those who have not felt the power of that realization come over your like an orgasm the size of K-2. And you don’t need drugs for this trip, baby – this is the ultimate.
Here’s another non-cliché: YOU make yourself who you are. YOU have the power to create opportunities; YOU have the power to change; YOU have the power to break free of that crappy baggage you are chained to; YOU have the power to seek help if you can’t do it alone.
Think about it – look at the number of people in history and popular culture who have made themselves, from nothing.
I’ll go out on a limb here and use Tim Yap as an example. Five years ago, who was Tim Yap? The guy came out of fucking nowhere, and now, despite his regular appearances at the top of the lynch list of the socially conscious, he is TIM YAP – you all know him. Love him or hate him, the guy invented himself. Now if that’s not the quintessential illustration of the power of the YOU, then bite me.
The truth is, there are no limitations except those you set for yourself. How about that K-2 sized orgasm? YOU know you want it.
And this is my message to all of you who are still young and in a meandering, carefree mood: get the fuck off of your asses and make things happen for yourself.
It took me a while to get off my ass, but I did it, and it was the best thing I ever did for me.
I can trace back my journey to now from that one moment when you just get it all of a sudden. I remember I was in my room one night, right after an argument with my father (part of the daily routine) – I think I was about twenty six then – when it just dawned on me. I can still remember my thoughts almost verbatim.
“No matter what I do,” I said to myself, “I will never measure up to his standards, so why should I keep living my life to please him?”
And with that, I was free.
K-2, baby…K-2.
Since the spirit was strong in me then, right after the initial clarifications about what exactly was being substituted for the good old Virginia tobacco that previously occupied the cigarette, I politely declined the offer to partake of the tea leaves, and decided that the spirit would have much rather preferred that I smoked some of that good old Virginia tobacco that I had brought with me. It turned out that it didn’t matter much whether I smoked the joint or not – because I was seated right in front of him, I was going to see the new rising sun at midnight whether I liked it or not.
I learned one thing that night – that being in close proximity to someone smoking marijuana can sometimes be a good thing. Namely, you can share a good trip without necessarily upsetting the spirit.
I guess what can most commonly be referred to as a “session” began with the lighting of this very sophisticated joint. Hempy, into his third puff, began talking about life on his farm. His family owned huge tracts of land in the south (I won’t say how far south), and he had these really vivid memories of growing up on the farm. He talked about what they would do as kids (he was ten years older than I was) and how it was back in the day. He talked and talked; he told stories about playing baseball in the fields, and exploring the vast expanse that they owned. So there he was, talking about his past, and there I was, listening, breathing in the secondhand smoke, and suddenly feeling like his stories were some of the greatest stories I had ever heard in my life.
I still remember the feeling – every story he would tell would be interpreted in so much detail in my head that I felt I was actually there.
I could feel his nostalgia, man. I could feel it like it was my own…and it was spectacular.
I saw the kids spread out in the field, with the batter swinging and the ball connecting with the wood, making it’s way up into the sky with paisley clouds and all those things the Beatles saw when they were writing Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. In my mind I was there – the spectator looking down at an oblique angle on that baseball game he was describing, and seeing everything as clear as day.
When we went our separate ways that night, I was still steeped in the feeling of nostalgia – deep into the night, I was lying in bed thinking what a fantastic place his farm must have been, and what a spectacular time it was to have grown up there.
If that was the only trip that I ever had in my life, then it was a good one. Given that I’m now past thirty and not too eager to make up for the lost recklessness of my youth, I will probably never be able to relive that moment. But I think it will always be one of those interesting memories that I will probably tell my kids when they are old enough.Call me deprived but I have never actually smoked marijuana; but that doesn't mean to say that I have not gotten high in my life. The closest I ever came to actually putting a joint to my lips, but was too full of the spirit back then to actually take the plunge, was on a diving trip to Solana way back in 1998. It seems like ancient history now, but it's been well-chronicled with a fair amount of detail in my head.
It was on one trip when I was jobless and aimless and making a meager living as a diving assist to Gigi Santos, Diving Instructor extraordinaire. I had taken to assisting her every chance I could get because that job function accorded me with a few small perks – one of which included 100% free accommodations for my ass every time we were at Solana, and a near endless supply of leche flan that was so good it was definitely way past bad and heading straight towards evil.
So it happened that we were there one weekend with an acquaintance of Gigi – a prominent fellow who was extremely wealthy but very low key. Ok, let’s give him a name and call him Hempy – which is a clue because one of the letters in Hempy is also one of the letters in his name – so you should be able to figure out who it is in no time.
We were there one weekend, and it was a slow weekend for Solana. We had just finished dinner one night, and were sitting around chatting. After everyone else left to get ready for bed, or to lay on the deck chairs – everyone else being Gigi and this other couple who were there – Hempy turned to me and said, “would you like to partake of some tea leaves?”
There I was, a tea lover, being asked if I wanted to partake of some tea leaves. I was always up to trying tea – that is, assuming we were referring to the type of tea that is picked from Ceylon and put into little white porous bags and dipped in boiling water three thousand miles later. So I said “sure, why not!”
About half an hour later, on the porch of his cottage – Hempy produced a pack of cigarettes and gingerly extracted the tobacco leaves from one stick. Then, from a film canister (digital was not on the horizon just yet), he shook out what I suspected was marijuana. My face must have betrayed my puzzled ignorance, because he stopped for a moment, as if he knew what I was about to ask.
“Is that marijuana?” I asked in a casual tone, hoping not to betray my naivete.
“Yeah,” he answered. Then he paused shortly, smiled, and I could read the amusement in his face as he laughed.
“Oh, you thought I was actually referring to tea!”
I laughed a nervous laugh… In my ignorance, I actually thought it was.
