2025: Chapter Ten

July 24th:

Comedian Bill Burr did a standup routine this one time — I don’t know when or where, or if it was on a late night talkshow — and it was more of a story than anything else. The best comedians can just say shit, and they don’t need it to be a whole orchestrated act where they pause in the right places and have their punchlines all set up. They can get away with simply talking about life. It’s funny not because of what they are saying, but rather that it’s them saying it. Bill Burr is one of those dudes.

Anyway, Burr told a story about how his sickly dog had to be put down, and every day he would find his wife in the kitchen, or in the restroom, in some private moment, and she would be crying. Every day for like two weeks (until the day his dog was to be put down) she would let it out. Little by little. And Burr thought this was a silly reality he had to deal with. Why was his wife so emotional that every day she would have to cry about the dog?

Then it arrived, The Day, and Burr said he woke up and went downstairs and his dog was wagging his tail and looking up at him with his tongue out and the dog ran over to show Bill Burr his daily routinely love, and Burr said he fucking snapped and started bawling out of control. Just crying hysterically over the reality that shortly this dog that he loved would be euthanized and he would never see him again. The punchline was something about the difference between how men and women deal with their emotions — one side doing it bit-by-bit and the other in one fell swoop — but that was the story.

I thought about that the other day. The story, I mean. Because one of my best friends — Sarah — is going to be moving to Arizona in the near future, and even though I know it is coming and that it will make me sad that she’ll no longer be around, I very much prescribe to the Bill Burr school of dealing with my own emotions. I will continue pushing it down, the reality of Sarah’s departure, until the point when reality smacks me in the face — which won’t occur until she is already gone.

Sarah has been an interesting character in my life. I used to be in love (albeit one-sidedly) with her best friend, and after she unironically moved away, Sarah’s best friend I mean, I kinda just started calling Sarah out of the blue when I was shitfaced because I needed somebody to talk to. I didn’t really know at the time what I was trying to get out of it. In retrospect I suppose it was out of some mutual relationship to her best friend, and our relative communal sadness of the time period, where I figured Sarah was best equipped to shoulder some of my misery.

At any rate, over the last couple years those periodic drunk phone calls of mine transmogrified into an open and healthy friendship. Between Sarah and I. Where almost every day of the week, or at least the four days when we worked together, we would talk on the phone on her hour-long drive home. And every night I would be on my back patio smoking my cigarettes and drinking my beers and we would fuck off talking about nothing in particular.

Much in the same way Bill Burr can turn anything into a something funny, Sarah and I grew close by conversing about nothing. I swear to god we would go for five or ten minutes reminiscing literally about shits that we took. Or comparing which waters tasted better than others. Or which snacks agreed best with our individual palates. Seemingly every night was an episode of Seinfeld, the self-described show about nothing, because the overwhelming majority of our talks were about that. Nothing at all.

But then in a very strange sort of way all of those conversations about nothing became something. Hidden within the cracks a foundation was built of immense honesty, and trust. We would go over the best strategies for eliminating credit card debt. We would talk about family, and all the complications thereof. We would agree on a great many things in spite of the fact that, on the surface, and even well beneath it, we have very little in common.

And she got to hear everything about my life. Sarah did. About the woman (or women) I was seeing at the time. Or the (losing) trips to the casino I took. She offered the sturdiest and least-enabling life advice I have perhaps ever received from anybody on so consistent of a basis. All the way until recently when she came up with the idea to start a piggy bank for me, or the fact that she was the person I first told that I would become sober. It was Sarah who was there with me during the wars I was going through with myself.

Sarah’s leaving is poetic in some ways. That we began our friendship after her best friend moved across the country. That we started out at such a low point in my life. That she was arguably the biggest contributor into helping me push the proverbial boulder back up the proverbial hill that symbolizes my life. That this journey she was on, with me, culminated in my sobriety. And that, now, she herself is moving. It’s kind of perfect when you think about it.

It is thus how I view Sarah as something of a guardian angel type of figure. One of those where she arrived when I was down and out, and she helped me on my feet. She walked alongside me on the road. Then I turned around and looked back to appreciate how far I’ve come, with plenty of it thanks to her, only to see that was no longer next to me.

July 25th:

One of the poker dealers I work with recently approached me and asked if I would be willing to teach her craps, and for a few different reasons I accepted. The first and certainly most noble is that I think it would be cool to benefit someone’s life — it’s a clear step-up financially moving from poker dealer to table games. The second reason is that she is attractive, and (to a much lesser degree) the third is that she is from Southeast Asia.

Now, the cynic who perhaps knows me too well might argue that in the past I have had a thing for pretty Asian women and therefore I am using craps as some diversion. I somehow haven’t yet managed to shake myself of such a reputation. In all seriousness, though, I find that sobriety has had a way of not necessarily making me an honorable man but rather making me want to be one.

It is nevertheless a fact that I would not have agreed to this undertaking — teaching craps, easily the most complicated game to learn — if she wasn’t attractive. Because part of the dynamic as it relates to me is a selfish one: Us craps dealers not only work together as a team but we share all of our tips. Attractive women, even if they might lack in technical or procedural dealing skills, are naturally better than their male counterparts at getting men to make the conscious decision to sit at their table.

Being from Southeast Asia might seem like a trivial detail, but from my experience it requires a level of street smarts that is difficult for many Americans to comprehend — being able to make it to the U.S. from a place like Laos and getting a job and earning a legitimate income without having a very firm grasp on the english language. It kind of forces you to know how to hustle almost as if was second nature. For a craps dealer, that matters quite a bit.

More than anything, though, I am really excited to teach. I can’t remember who I was talking to sometime in the last couple weeks, but I said (and genuinely believe) that if money was no object, then being a teacher or professor would have been my calling in life. I never would have thought such a thing in my teenage or early adult years. Not even factoring in that I viewed the whole field as a low-class venture, what for me made it a nonstarter was how dumb I saw most people and how frustrated they hypothetically would make me if I were to assume such a position.

At some point, though, maybe over the last 5-10 years, I realized that I actually have an incredible like uncanny amount of patience. Notwithstanding just how many dumb people do in fact exist, there are enough individuals out there who earnestly enjoy the process of learning and improving themselves that make up in restoring my faith in humanity. Even this poker dealer told me that she’s quote slow and that I’ll have to take my time with her, but I didn’t care. Learning craps is a delicate process, anyway. Her and I have no choice but to take it slow.

This is part of why I know I’ll be such a good teacher, because the particular ins and outs of craps only account for so much. What I’m really doing is managing her personality, and teaching her the proper mindset. The fact that she already got out ahead of it and described herself as ‘slow’ means she has the humility that is required. No bullshit: That is probably the most important aspect of learning, and especially so when it comes to craps.

I remember when I learned the game, back in like December of 2014, and one of the guys who helped me at dealer school was a veteran dealer at Pechanga Casino (in Temecula CA) named Vincent. The thing about Vincent is that he was a huge fucking asshole, and admittedly when I was a 24 year-old he intimidated the everliving shit out of me. One day he came in to dealer school to give a group of us a mock sort of audition — testing us on blackjack, baccarat, all the carnival poker games, etc. — and he made an example of me in front of the other students. He seemingly let everyone else off easily while he nitpicked just about every aspect of every game I dealt. My hands were shaking. Blood rushed to my face. I embarrassed myself and questioned for the first time if I was any good at what I was doing.

So when I went in one day to learn craps and I saw Vincent sitting there, waiting for me at the craps table, my heart dropped and all the so-called trauma from that day when I mock-auditioned in front of him came back to me. But being the guy I am, hardwired never to let anyone know they got the best of me — by being standoffish or coming across as some asshole myself — I shook his hand and asked him how he’d been, and so on, and the two of us got to work.

Then Vince kind of leveled with me and said he remembered that mock audition day, too. And that the reason he went so hard on me was because Peter (the owner of the school) told him I was the best in my group, that I was cocky, that I acted as if his (Vince’s) opinion didn’t matter, and that I reminded him of himself when he was my age. Then he told me he wasn’t going to be That Way with me on craps, because craps was different. That you really can’t be cocky when you are learning craps. That even wanting to learn the game shows some humility, and therefore it’s incumbent on craps dealers to help one another get the best education. That it’s the only game where even ten- or twenty-year vets can’ never’t say that they’ve seen it all.

I had already been in the business for about a year at that point, but it did mean a lot for Vince to tell me all that — even though he didn’t have to. Where I used to see him as one of the dealer gods who came to strike me down and humble me, suddenly on that day he expressed that we were now equals. We were dealers. And soon enough I would join him in the ranks of craps dealers.

The best compliment I ever receive, whether it be from a recreational $15 per blackjack hand weekend warrior or some serious thousand-dollar per hand hardcore high-limit player, is when they tell me that they really like the way I deal. Something about hearing that… It just never gets old. It makes me not even care whether or not they are tipping me. I mean, sort of. Within reason.

And I always respond the same way. I had really good teachers.

July 26th:

Driving home from San Bernardino CA on Thursday (24 July 2025) was legitimately the first time in my 39 days of sobriety that I thought, what the hell, what’s the harm in stopping by Burgers and Beer and having a couple drinks? I went back and forth with myself several times doing an invisible Pros vs. Cons chart in my head. It wasn’t until I remembered my last blog, and how counterproductively expensive those nights of drinking happen to be, that I thought better of it. I stopped at McDonalds instead and ordered a ten-piece chicken McNugget meal.

The funny thing is it wasn’t as if I was having a bad day, or that some unforeseen stress had found its way in my direction. I was in the mood for beers because I was happy. I was having a good day. I’d recently had my regularly-scheduled every-other-Thursday haircut before seeing my dad, and the thought of the rest of the weekend belonging to me and having no real obligations had me feeling all warm and cozy. But, alas.

I thought I already would have broken my sobriety after I crossed the one-month threshold, but, since I have yet to, all roads now lead to the night of my fantasy football draft, which occurs at the end of August. That becomes sort of the new There Is No Possible Way I Make It Past That benchmark date. Simply getting there is what ought to be most important, but the thought of that night has been omnipresent on my mind of late. Probably because it is arguably my favorite day of the calendar year.

The thing is, one of my good friends in the league is sober, too. He has been sober now for six or seven years. Unlike me, life forced his hand, and he was more or less issued an ultimatum from his significant other. He quit drinking and smoking. He found the upper-cased God. And there is no doubt that I have looked to him (lowercased) for inspiration, even years before I began on my own journey.

I actually still remember vividly standing next to him a few years back at an annual Christmas party we go to at the house of one of our coworkers, and I was asking him what it was like. Living a sober life, I mean. Everyone else was inside doing a white elephant thing. He and I were literally the only two people at the party who didn’t participate, which would make sense if you knew how we are. Anyway, he told me how liberating it was and how much it changed his life. And I told him how much I knew I wanted that, too. Someday.

But of course in that moment I had a cigarette in my mouth and like probably my fifth beer in hand while he was telling me about it. I just remember how measured and nonjudgemental he came across towards me. We have one of those relationships where we might only say three words to each other at work every week, but both us always know where we stand. Maybe that’s because we have similar backgrounds. He’s 20 years older than me but we grew up in the same neighborhood in San Bernardino CA and went to the same elementary, middle and high schools.

The point is, early on in my sobriety I consulted him and was very proud when I saw him at work to let him know what day I was on. And if ever I am to make it through the night of my fantasy football draft without having a drink I don’t think there is any doubt he will have a huge influence. Not feeling like I am alone, I mean. It might even be kinda cool to buy us, he and I, some non-alcoholic beers, so we can have our own party in the midst of such a special evening for all of us.

July 27th:

I tried to embed the video via YouTube but it says there’s an age restriction so I can only post it as a link. It’s from the podcast Pablo Torre Finds Out, and while I’d recommend listening to the whole conversation — a 4/20 episode that talks, naturally, about weed, but dives into alcohol and sobriety as well — what I’m highlighting here comes around the 40-minute mark, when journalist Pablo Torre asks comedian Dan Soder about what it was like performing his first show after he took a break from smoking weed.

Pablo Torre: For you, did you ever have a thought of ‘I am made better because of this?‘

Katie Nolan: I feel like something you said about alcohol is what you’re maybe getting at? Correct me if I’m wrong. When you quit drinking you were afraid that your talent was tied to drinking.

Dan Soder: I still feel that about weed. I still feel, you know, I just headlined my first show without weed in Omaha, and it was like —

PT: I could not be more fascinated as to how that felt.

DS: It felt, uh, I was nervous until I got on stage. And then I was like, oh, I’m doing standup. I gotta write better jokes. So that thought’s still here. I had fun, and what I found was that I didn’t lose my place in my set. I found, like, it was a little more concise. I kind of want to learn how to hit the baseball without using steroids. If I can hit dingers not on juice, then it means I got my swing back.

As silly as it sounds, I found that my biggest fear heading into sobriety was what it meant for, and how it related to, my writing. For 15 years drugs and (more recently) alcohol were my own performance-enhancing substances. I felt like I couldn’t have one without the other; I couldn’t write without an external force that catalyzed or like kickstarted my brain. I believed truly that I wouldn’t be able to do it without that little bit of extra inspiration.

To a lesser extent I questioned how I would fill my time, in general, but it didn’t take long for me to remember that I generally don’t like doing anything, anyway, so it was nothing. Once I figured out that drinking and writing were not a package deal I didn’t really care about the rest. I’ll allot the appropriate time to video games, and playing poker and chess on my phone, and here and there I’ll take a nap. In other words: Not so unlike how I spent my disposable time when I was drinking.

August 1st:

I don’t know whether the question came to me from a dream I’d just had, or if I was merely lying awake in one of those conscious dream-like states — where you feel almost, like, drunk in your creative/absurd thoughts that you don’t normally arrive at when your brain is active and fully there — but it’s been stuck on me for these last few days. I didn’t even know how to write about it until tonight. I still don’t know how to say it, really. But the question goes something like this:

Is Niña happy with her decision? Is she satisfied with it? Would she make it again, her decision to leave the world behind, if she could re-live her final moments?

The question(s), to me, felt very much in the present tense — as if she was somewhere watching life go by on a television screen. She’s eating a big bowl of pasta and she has some ice cream in the freezer and soon she will get a big spoon out of one of the drawers in her kitchen, and when she is finished eating her pasta she will grab the ice cream and prop herself up in bed and eat some more while she watches the world continue to turn. Is she enjoying the show? Does she wish she was still part of it?

It’s a juvenile image to have, I submit to that. I think at times the child in me, and the neanderthal blood that runs through my veins, naturally craves or like starves for these momentary glimpses that allow me to throw such forces as logic and overwhelming statistical probability out the window. In other words, eschewing my own belief system and the boring/depressing reality it entails in favor of something that makes me feel better. Even if it’s just for an instant.

I confess that I am happy right now. I think that’s why I wondered how Niña would answer such a question, about whether or not she would do it all over again. Because there is so much good in the world, so much to be happy about, and appreciate, and look forward to. And even when it’s bad, it always does get better. Most of us have to learn that the hard way just as Niña did — many times. Until she convinced herself finally that maybe it doesn’t get better.

As much as I wish she was still here, obviously, I actually hope if she were to answer such a ridiculous hypothetical question that she would say Yes. That she is happy with it. That she did make the right decision for herself. That, if she could, she would do it all over again.

I said it already in a Facebook post a couple days after her death, as well as in the blog post that revolved around her to close out my 2024, but what I found (and find) the most solace in is that she no longer has any pain. My own pain I can live with. My sadness for Niña’s departure and love for her I will carry and live with for the rest of my life. That is my burden to bear.

While my love for Niña manifests in such a pain, and such a burden, what I love most for her sake, for Niña’s, is that her pain is gone away. She might not be on a beach in the Philippines, where the weather is always perfect and the cocktails run free of charge, or loading up a Blaze pizza with bacon, and more bacon, and more bacon, or lying on her bed watching her favorite anime before she falls asleep, but every now and again that is how I will choose to see her. And in those brief moments that’s where she will be. Forever.