Pain is relative

Turns out I had no idea. But at least I had the good sense to get my ass to an AA meeting tonight.

Took a couple trains to get there, and four trains to get back; I’m still a bit of a zoo when it comes to Houston’s Metro system. But never have I been so rewarded for knowing my triggers, so as I often text to the befuddlement of my friends: Saul Goode.

(Work it out. You’ll get there.)

I’d never been to this particular place, and crashing in on a cane well after the meeting’s start time certainly wasn’t the best first impression. But within about 16 seconds, I knew I’d made a surprisingly — for me — great decision.

The speaker whose message I briefly interrupted seemed to know I was coming. That happens to me a lot, mostly because AA messages are typically universally applicable to the messes I’ve made. But it still drops me, metaphorically, every time it happens.

“We all here ‘cause we in some pain, ‘cause we caused some pain, or ‘cause we already figured some shit out and just tryna make sure we don’t cause no MORE pain,” my man said. “Don’t matter which of them three reasons got your ass here. You here! YOU HERE, MAN! And for that I applaud y’all. And y’all need to applaud yourselves! ‘Cause by gettin’ your asses to this room, you’ve responded to whatever pain is poppin’ off in your life in the healthiest way possible.

“Y’all said, ‘I need more than me to handle this!’”

It gave me chills then, and it just gave me chills while recounting it for you just now.

And I’m gonna pretty much just leave it right here for you, because whether you’ve struggled with alcohol, drugs, family, ego, whatever … Hell, even if you’ve had a relatively peaceful, pain-free life thus far.

The message really is universal: Life WILL eventually throw you some wicked hooks. But as long as you don’t lunge at ‘em, as long as you don’t try to take ‘em on solo, but rather lean on something or someone that you know is good for you, you’ll be OK.

Two trains, four trains, no trains. You’ll be OK.

Saul Goode!

Yup. Again. This time without the promises

I’ve never been comfortable with having “fans.”

That’s not to say I’ve never coveted, cultivated or appreciated them. I have. Always. Big-time. They are, after all, the true currency of the industry in which I’ve worked the bulk of my life.

“Haters” are a lesser form of currency, but an undeniable form nonetheless. Show me someone in media/entertainment with a big name, a high profile, a widely considered successful career; I’ll show you quantifiable evidence that this person is reviled by at least 35 percent of his or her flock of followers.

I’ll use my much-younger self as an example.

Born at San Francisco’s St. Mary’s Hospital, quite literally a long-toss away from my eventual alma mater (see: Russell and Cartwright, Bill), I was a Chronicle Kid through and through. The Sporting Green was my bible, my best friend, and my first and most firm connection to my single father.

A former Dons hooper himself, then a high-school history teacher and raiser of three future Dons, my Dad of course was the first to devour the daily dispatches from our local literary luminaries. Ira Miller, Tim Keown, Ray Ratto, Bruce Jenkins, Lowell Cohn. Every one a titan in my young mind. Herb Caen himself would cross over on occasion to marvel at Montana or Humm-Baby himself to thrill on Will.

As the youngest of three boys, I got The Green last. And that was cool by me — I not only kinda dug the kaleidoscope of smudged ink that became of my fingers, but I got to KEEP The Green as long as I wanted. And I kept that bad boy until I’d devoured every word, stat, and agate Transaction.

The short-term benefit of my voracious consumption of All Things Bay Area Sports via those gloriously crumpled and messy pages was my ability to fill the occasional awkward silence that would accompany my Dad and I on the way home from a less-than-stellar BP session that he’d dutifully squeeze in for me between his 11 jobs.

“You see what Lowell Cohn wrote about the Warriors today?”

My Dad LOVED Lowell Cohn. Still does, in fact. Fast forward 20-30 years, to when my career had reached the point that I could call Cohn a colleague, and I watched my Dad turn into a fawning 14-year-old when I introduced him to Lowell.

Lowell got a pretty good kick out of it, too. So a year or so after the initial introduction, my friend Lowell was more than happy to call my Dad on his birthday, and it remains to this day the most memorable “gift” I’ve ever given the man who gave me the gift of The Green, of a love for language, of a fascinating future career.

What does this have to do with “fans” and “haters”? Well, let me let you in on a little secret. Back in the day, when I’d use Lowell’s latest to connect with my Dad? I HATED Lowell Cohn!

He wasn’t just “Lowell Cohn.” If my Dad wasn’t around, he was “Can You Believe That Lowell Fucking Cohn Guy?” I couldn’t stand his takes, I disagreed with him on virtually everything, and I generally despised his presence in The Green.

Now that I’m grown, I love the guy. I understand the method to his madness. I revere the guy. He’s a legend.

But back then? I was a hater. You know what, though? I never missed one of his columns. I absolutely HAD to see what this jackass had to say.

So was I really a “hater”? Or was I a “fan”? Does a distinction even matter? Not really. Certainly not these days. Both are regular consumers of the product on offer, which makes them both “followers.”

So that’s the real currency in this game I’ve played for much of my life. Love me or hate me. Fine with both. As long as you’re paying attention.

What’s the point of this post? I don’t really know, to tell the truth. It’s the first thing I’ve written for public consumption in a long time. And I’m quite certain that anyone who’s followed my mercurial journey likely expects me to make some sort of “I’m back!” proclamation, complete with an ultimately empty promise to post every day; to use this space as both rehab from another self-inflicted setback, and as a springboard to an inspiring comeback that’ll restore me to past glories.

Gross. I’ve done this several times now over the years, and it reminds me of a line I used to drop (with a half-shirt Schwarzenegger accent) from some movie I can’t remember when one of my friends would start to drone on and on: “Your story grows tiresome.”

Thus, no promises this time. Yes, I’ve been through some shit again. Like, some SHIT shit. But I’mma spare you the gory gories, the “message,” the pathetic please-root-for-my-broken-but-brave-soul.

I just felt like writing something again, and this is what came of that feeling.

And it feels pretty good, so I’ll probably do it again. And when I do, I’ll let you know.

Thanks for following along.

—Urb