Lot of crazy thoughts bouncing around in my head today. For one, it’s Jim Morrison‘s birthday. Had he not died of a drug induced heart attack at the age of 27, he’d be 72 today. For another, Stone Temple Pilots’ former frontman, Scott Weiland, passed away from a drug-induced heart attack on December 3rd. He was 48. Also churning away inside my cranium is that today marks 45 weeks since my buddy Brent passed away, also at 48.
I just deleted a meandering 5,000 word blog about my drug excesses throughout the late-eighties and nineties.
You didn’t need to read any of that, but I think I needed to type it all out.
Look, I did drugs. A lot of drugs. It’s no secret. I don’t do drugs now and haven’t for a long time. That’s no secret either.
I do not regret the the things we did. I have this funny way of looking at regret. I don’t. See, when I look at the person staring back at me in the mirror, I like that guy. I like him a lot. He’s a good husband, a good father, a good friend. I also know that that guy wouldn’t be the man he is today if it weren’t for the crazy things he did when he was a young.
I don’t doubt that I’d still be a good person, but the path I walked introduced me to a bunch of friends I could never replace, a wife that I cherish, and a son that I all but worship.
So, I’m sitting here and typing this and I’m still trying to wrap my head around Brent not being here. I’m thinking about all the stories I’ve shared here with you and the thousands more I never can.
Not yet anyway.
Not because I regret any of it, but probably because I don’t.
They are waiting to take us into
the severed garden
Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful
comes death on a strange hour
unannounced, unplanned for
like a scaring over-friendly guest you’ve
brought to bed
Death makes angels of us all
and gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven’s
— Jim Morrison
A Feast of Friends