Thursday, December 24, 2015

Back in the silk saddle!

Daaang, you ain't too bad at fillin' out some briefs, Ray Smuckles—

Oh! Hey there! Merry Christmas! Caught me in my reverie, you know? For those of you unfamiliar with my reverie—which is hopefully all of you— that's when I do the full-length in the morning and check my complete regalement before I step out for the day. Brushed, shined, tucked and peaked. Brushed, shined, tucked, and peaked. Don't know what peaked means? Check out a photo of me. That's peaked. I'm always peakin'. 

Oh dang, there's the phone. It's gotta be Roast Beef. Hey, Roast Beef! (I'm gonna take this call. He probably wants to know when he can drop off my portion of Christmas moussaka. Damn does he do it up creamy and lamby, and I KNOW he smokes that eggplant all gentle, subtle, American Greek boy makin' moussaka his own, dig.)

(It was actually Pat, reminding me not to park across the sidewalk when I drop off his present this year. Reminds me, I got to get him a present. Hm. What do you get for a ass hole? Answer that. I need help. Every year. Set your calendar. Don't say toilet paper. Tried that once. He didn't get it, and said he didn't use the kind I got anyway cause of bleach or whatever. If you ask me, Pat's like the one dude ever who needs an anal bleaching...of the soul.)

Hey, I'm back. Now I'm sittin' here with a tusky mochacchino, blissed on a Razzberry jammer scone and slice of chive and ham frittata, finally writin' this blog again after a few little while.* Sharp chilled strained OJ and still Perrier at the side. Don't do bubbles in the morning. Bad for the lining.

Phew. Whew. Here goes. 

So at first I was like, how do I tell my story of where I been? I feel like I should relate all that has passed, since much people got their hay up askin'. Problem is, it was all big and heavy and shit and every time I wanted to write it out and get it all off my chest like my therapist said to—be all honest and dispel my tensions and move on and all that—I felt bad about draggin' everybody down. Couldn't do it. Too much to relate, and all of it too pity-party soundin'. It ain't Smuckles to crybaby on stage. So I was stuck not sayin' anything, and you were stuck not readin' my blog. It was hopeless for us all. A vacuum. I left the world blogless, and without form, and darkness was on the face of my MacBook Pro.

Then a miracle happened. Stone cold. Completely unexpected, like all the most classic miracles.

The miracle was that I saw a YouTube interview with my boy Dicky Valentine. (You know Dicky, right? Lead singer of Electric Six? They do that Down At The Gay Bar song? Best band ever, probably, and that song is up there with The Star Spangled Banner and Fuck Tha Police**. Love those guys, love me that Dicky Valentine.) Anyhow. I was lookin' at a YouTube interview with him (he even had a Santa hat on! True story!) and he was all like, "I don't know what I'm singin' about most the time. I'm just havin' fun." And you know what? I heard him say that, and I was like, that's me! I ain't a main dude of suck times. I'm just bein' Ray to have fun, you know? If you want to read some tear-jerker of a blog about a dude who almost died and lost it all and had to learn how to walk again and tell people he didn't remember what they did together in recent years, and eat all his pride on dry grain toast, well, google most of that sentence. It ain't gonna lead you to this blog. 

What am I talkin' about with all these bad-times references? Okay, real brief. As you may remember, I basically keeled over dead when I tried to quit boozin'. Disappeared blank from my own mind a couple weeks, then went all inpatient for a good long while, then hit the road and met some characters. MANY characters. I'll get to those stories here, 'cause they fun some of 'em (except Altimeter Tim, that guy was just goddamned brain dead from bein' on acid and weed his whole life, and I have NO idea how he paid for that little apartment of his, or any of those dumb Japanese figurines that were always showin' up in the mail). But not today. Today's about movin' on, bein' in the present, and bein' damn happy that of all the molecules in all the gin joints in all the infinite universe, I got a set to call my own. (They teach you how to think this way at inpatient, minus gin references.) I'm seein' the silver lining of everything, and I'm thinkin' of havin' a signature coat made this way besides. Could be a thing, like how Prince wears purple, or Donatella Versace looks like she could eat Hell and shit raisins. 

So this is me breakin' the silence. I hope you ain't been worried. I'm off the trouble shrub now, and stayin' that way. When you were on the donk 24/7/365/20+, you don't get to go back, or it's curtains. Yellin' and cryin' at bus stops, filth in the hair, huge Reeboks popped from shufflin'. Ain't judgin, just sayin'. I get all blissed on some early wake-ups now, or fine red chili and a handshake down at Curtis Smallfield's, or even just installin' a Hollywood smoke cannon where the tailpipe on a Tesla would be and drivin' around while the boys GoPro that action and we do up kind of a viral thing with a four-figure targeted social media ad spend and closed-loop ROI tracking. Group trip to Cabo with the proceeds. The simple things.    

Okay, I'm off to do some last minute Christmas stuff. Thaddeus gonna just puddin' up my hair today, for the group photos I'm havin' done tonight, and I'ma treat myself to a sick Purple Label black cashmere turtleneck I had my eye on down at the Hidden Hills Ralph. It's gonna look ill as the devil on film with my Bally camel hair 2-button. 

Merry Christmas, one more time! 


* Seven years

** If anyone ever needs to remind me who I am—like if I get hit on the head real bad—I just need these three songs on a mix, and a glass of (still) water.