The Mysterious Mr. Clark

My hangover was so horrific I ordered a Mt. Dew at Taco Bell. I hadn’t had a Mt. Dew since I drove across Yemen with two Yemen dudes and an AK-47. Meth in a can. Teeth be damned. 

Gay bars get the best of me. Every time. Joe Biden finally got enough electoral votes to be declared the new President Elect so I headed to Midtown in Atlanta to party in the streets. The party moved into one of the best bars in Atlanta, Blake’s. 

Anyway, it was the morning after and I was eating at Waffle House. Specifically, I was eating two waffles, eggs, bacon, hash browns, and an unsweet tea because sugar is bad for you obviously. As I scarfed the food down, I noticed an old man sitting at the counter. Alone. He was continually scanning the restaurant for people to talk too. He was so happy I initially thought he might be handicap. 

He talked to a black lady sitting in the table next to me. She was Facetiming with a friend. He didn’t care. He asked her how she was and chatted for a minute. At the end he told her he loved her. Then he turned and chatted with the staff. Then he saw a small child leaving and played peak a boo with his hands covering his face only to open them with a magnificent smile. The child smiled and giggled. 

He had white hair clinging to the sides of his head. The top was bald and shiny. He reminded me of Terry Bradshaw, the old Pittsburg Steelers quarterback from the 1800’s. An older man probably in his 70’s. He wore a flannel shirt and light-colored grandpa jeans. The kind with pleats. 

I couldn’t stop watching him. He was making everyone happy. Hell, it made me happy just watching him be happy. Contagious. 

“Bye Mr. Clark!” several people called out as he was leaving.

“I will see you tomorrow,” He smiled and waved as shuffled out to his little old, white truck. A tiny truck really. Very plain. Simple. 

Happy people make people happy. Ever noticed that? What is the key to happiness? Maybe it is being around happy people. 

I like Mr. Clark. 

If you want to be happy, surround yourself with happy people. If you want to attract happy people, be a happy person. It’s math. 

Trey 

Jamaica: Day 25

It is day 25. They are still driving me nuts. 

I drank two beers yesterday at 9 am. Red Stripe to be specific. It helped me edit the chapters of my upcoming book Love is Bananas. Buy one in December so I can buy more Red Stripe beer.  

My favorite thing about Jamaica is the patties. No, scratch that, is the sky. It is beautiful.  

The worst part of writing a book is writing a book. It is torture. Deciding whether a sentence, paragraph, or the entire concept is worth a shit scrambles my brain and flames the impostor syndrome. Hell, I can’t even spell. 

• How do you teach an adult how to have fun if they don’t know how? 

• What are goals? If you had to describe them to an alien, how would you explain goals? 

• Is it wrong to send nudes? 

Oh yeah, sorry, I got distracted. The mosquitos are driving me nuts. I spray my feet and ankles with Off spray every morning. I always wear long pants and a long sleeve shirt. They are inside the house, outside the house, and inside my dreams. Not a ton of them, just one or two. I watch them buzz around, landing on everything to determine if it is food. I am food. A year ago today I had Malaria. A fat bastard mosquito in Somalia gave it to me. The good news is I killed it. The bad news was that it was feasting on me for a half hour before I killed it. The malaria lasted for 10 days as I traveled through Angola, Djibouti, Sudan, South Sudan, and Libya. What a disaster. I should have taken the pills. Always take the pills. 

Living in Jamaica for the month has been interesting. There is a mandatory curfew at 8 pm across the island. They do not allow tourists to leave the all-inclusives. Jamaicans are struggling. The mosquitos are thriving.

“Don’t get caught on the streets at 8:01!” Andy said. Andy is Jamaican and has smoked weed since he was 9 years old. He is now 39 and hates Doritos. He is in shape and missing two front teeth. He taught me how to roast breadfruit. 

I am grateful there is no malaria in Jamaica. I am also grateful that these fat ass mosquitos are not carrying Zika virus, West Nile virus, Chikungunya virus, dengue, of malaria. I think.  

However, I found this on Google (Google is a website):

Here are 12 ways you can get an STI without having sex. 1. Mosquito bites. Zika — the mosquito-borne disease that impacts fetal brain development — has been shown to be sexually transmitted (making it the only known vector disease that can be transmitted sexually and via mosquitos).

As my friend text me this morning, I loathe mosquitos. 

I am excited to get back to Atlanta and launch into Quarter 4 of 2020, the year unlike any other year! Let’s figure it out. The next move. The next dream. The next adventure. Oh, and it is going to be fall season, which means cooler weather, haunted houses, and NO F*CKING MOSQUITOS! 

Let’s have some fun! 

If you are looking for something to do, jump in my 30 Day Adventure for October. It kicks ass, I promise. 

https://www.iamtrey.com/30dayadventure

Join 20 - 30 people from around the world convene to do interesting things.

Love isn’t Fair

I am sitting in Starbucks in the middle of Tulum, Mexico. I am trying to craft an enticing Facebook post to announce my upcoming book about love. LOVE. Yes, I said love.

I am staring at the counter where people order overpriced bean water. There is a blonde girl with tan skin and a cute smile. The goose next to her is grabbing her ass. Playfully. She brushes his hand away and giggles. They are in love. Or at least he is.

I loathe them.

Next to them are two guys in their early 30’s. They are hugging. Fawning all over each other. Smiling so hard it hurts. Totally in love.

I loathe them too.

I am single, old, alone, and writing a fucking book about love. Go figure.

I want what they have. Youth. Infatuation. Freedom. Bliss. The ecstasy of Fresh love. The stars and the universe. Country music songs and long walks on the beach.

More and more young, tan, sexy people parade through the Starbucks. Tulum boasts white sands, endless jungles, and perfect food. Pretty girls with pretty guys. Sun-kissed, muscles, youth, and good hair. Things of the past for me.

Every single human being ever born has craved the bliss of falling in love. There is no greater feeling in the world. The mind goes crazy and the rest of the world disappears. Chemicals and hormones dance through the body. Euphoric. An illness called lovesick.

Then the thought train starts in my mind.

What is love?

Am I too old to find love?

Will I ever find love?

Am I even capable of intimate love?

Am I tan enough?

Should I grow my hair long?

Love is the greatest feeling of your life. It is also the worst. Is there anything more powerful?

Trey

I would love your support as I painstakingly write my first book. I am pre selling copies to support publishing efforts. If you are curious, please see my video…

Mexican Coke

“Do you have Mexican Coke?” Garrett asked the Mexican waiter in Mexico.

“Yes”

There were three of us. Well, three of us and a half billion mosquitos. The thing is, between 4 pm – 7 pm in Holbox Isle, Mexico two things suck…the WiFi and the mosquitos.

We are living in Tulum, Mexico for the month. It is hot as balls in Atlanta and hot as balls in Mexico, so we choose to be hot as balls in Mexico. We also negotiated an unbelievable deal on a massive Airbnb house with a private pool for less money than a shitty apartment in Atlanta. Life is an adventure or it’s not. Más or menos.

This past weekend we decided to venture up to the small island of Holbox for a couple of days. Rumors suggest it is the next Tulum. There are no cars on the island and around 2000 people. There are dusty, small, lumpy roads overrun by 4-wheelers and golf carts with mudding tires. It has an artistic village feel with calm, white beaches. It is a beautiful paradise. Well, until it rains.

It rained. Hard.

I was working out at a basketball pavilion in the center of town when a massive rainstorm hit. Gale force winds blew through the city and the streets turned into muddy lakes. Motorbikes and golf carts trudged through 3 to 4-foot mud puddles I assumed were made of rain and sewage.

Later in the afternoon we ventured out to find some food. We skirted the streets trying to avoid the massive amount of water in the streets. Don’t drink the water.

We found a little rooftop restaurant up a long set of stairs. Nobody was inside other than the waiter and the cook. The menu was impressive. Grilled meats and fresh fish. Under normal circumstances I assume it is a popular, high-end restaurant. However, the island has been closed for the past four months due to the Coronavirus. It opened on July 1st. It was July 9th. Needless to say, most of the businesses were still closed and there were very few tourists, the only revenue for the island.

The waiter, who I assume was the owner as well, was delighted to see us. Finally, some business! We were the only people in the restaurant. We asked what he recommended. He said the steak and fish of the day. In excitement, he brought us the fresh fish in Saran wrap to preview in hopes we would order it.

Ilene ordered first. Empanadas. I was searching the menu for something light as well. I have a rule, albeit a terrible rule, that I never eat fish when I travel internationally. It scares the shit out of me. So, I ordered the empanadas. So did Garrett.  

 “Tres?” the owner asked.

“Sure,” we replied.

He brought us some free bread. I swear to God it was the best bread I have ever had in my entire life. A naan type grilled bread with buttered cocaine or something. Red Lobster biscuits be damned.

Clearly, I asked for more.

Eventually he brought us our three empanadas. Total. Not three per person like a full order for normal humans but three total. In other words, one order split three ways. Ilene had a water, I had a water, and Garrett, well, had the Mexican coke. We had ordered the cheapest thing on the entire menu. By accident.

The waiter thought we only wanted three total. I felt like an asshole.

We had just ordered the cheapest thing on the damn menu plus asked for extra free bread. The man had been without business for four months and here we are ordering 152 pesos worth of food. That is $7.

SEVEN BUCKS DIVIDED BY THREE PEOPLE.

In an effort to save face we left a sizable tip.

I still feel horrible.

Many people think it is reckless for me to be traveling right now during the pandemic. They might be right. However, it’s what I do. Travel. I am also spending money in a country that doesn’t have stimulus checks and PPP loans. A country where if you don’t have money, you don’t eat. I am hopeful that I am putting money in the hands of suffering people. It is not much but it is something.

If you are ever in Holbox, Mexico please go visit our friend at La Parrilla de Juan. He has the best bread in the entire world and I’m sure some delicious fish.

Trey

 www.iamtrey.com

F*CK THE POLICE

I woke up at 2:30AM. This is where my darkness lives. At 2:30 in the morning. The darkness is my mind thinking about how I have ruined my life. Some call it anxiety. We all suffer.

I wake up depressed most mornings. I don’t know why. I usually go for a walk and then drink strong coffee which releases some dopamine. My mood changes to a normal human being, thank God. The life of a four on the Enneagram.

I couldn’t fall back asleep and stayed in bed until 4:00 AM watching people dance on TikTok. Once I realized there was no more sleep to be slept I decided to go to Waffle House because they have waffles.

The first Waffle House was take-out only. Horseshit. I wanted to eat and write in my journal at the same time. So, back in the car. I pivoted and decided to ride by the 24-hour McDonald’s for a biscuit and iced tea. Closed. I drove to another 24-hour dinner. Closed. Fucking virus. Another McDonald’s. System down for an hour. After two more places I found a McDonald’s open and ordered an egg and cheese biscuit and iced tea. It was gross.

While driving home from the Waffle House/McDonald’s scavenger hunt I rode past an electrical box on the side of the road near. Someone had spray painted “Fuck the Police Forever” on it. It caught my attention.

Who wrote that? I wondered.

I wonder if that person really hates the police or was trying to be cool. I wonder if they are filled with anger or love the rush of adventure. I wonder if they are a girl or a boy. I wonder too much. I wonder if I wonder too much.

What caught my attention was the addition of the word “Forever” at the end. Bold. Permanent. Interesting.

When I was in high school, I used to do ride-alongs with the police in downtown Atlanta. I got to see what they see. Once we were called to a dispute between a woman and a man. When we pulled up the woman ran over to me and begged for help. The man had stolen her cocaine and she wanted it back. So, she called the police.

Another time I was attacked by a dog while the officer went inside and took a knife away from a man hiding in the attic hopped up on meth. I also saw a decapitation from a motorcycle accident and had to clean piss off the back seat of the police car because some dude got pissed. Literally.

I remember experiencing the tension between the police officer and the public. It was a very interesting dynamic. Both scared. Both trying to figure out what the next move would be. Fascinating.

I don’t know who wrote Fuck the Police Forever, but I would love to meet them and grab a beer. I bet they have an interesting story.

Trey

---

RIOTING

Milk!” a tiny Asian girl yelled as she handed me a half gallon jug of milk.

I had just been shot in the leg with a tear gas canister and was choking on smoke. My eyes were on fire.

I was in a riot. It was 11 pm in downtown Atlanta. The milk was to kill the burning sensation from the tear gas. I was wearing flip flops.

It was my first riot.

There were cars on fire. Buildings destroyed. Cops wearing enough protective gear to outfit the next Star Wars movie. Hipsters, delinquents, and idiots like me running around like chickens. The energy was electric and the crowd…well… was having fun.

There were around 500 protestors, 150 police, and 25,000 journalists. Everyone was videoing it on their phones. Some yelled at the police, some drank booze, some ran around looking for things to break or light on fire. Most were laughing. A few were dancing. I was bewildered.

The police had the roads blocked. The protestors kept inching towards the police line and the police would shoot tear gas into the crowd to push them back. I joined. We all choked, retreated back until the burn stopped, and then moved forward again. I had no idea what was drawing me in. I just kept going in.

After five rounds of tear gas, I decided to head home. As I was leaving, I noticed two young guys jumping up and down on the roof of a police car. Another guy threw a Molotov cocktail in the busted out back window. It never lit so he went back to the car to try and get it and light again. It failed a second time. He looked confused and down on himself. The perils of rioting.

I went back the next night around 7pm and it was happening again.

Same deal. A crowd of protestors and a crowd of police facing off for hours. I was in the front positioned perfectly next to a lady screaming at the cops about everything under the sun. She reeked of booze and was wearing a horrific sports bra and half shorts. A scrawny white guy behind her held a sign that said, “Fire All Cops”.  Everybody on their phones hopping for something to go off.

Young protestors would showboat in front of the police. Troublemakers from deep in the crowd would throw water bottles at the police. The front-line protestors would then scream at the people behind them to stop throwing the bottles. The police would get hit by the bottles and remain motionless, hot and aggravated. I never said a word. I am not very good at protesting.

What I found the most interesting about the experience was the kindness.

I never thought about protests before, but I think they are working. The destructive ones with burning cars, Darth Vader looking cops, and multiple rounds of tear gas draw the most attention. That is the goal. Draw attention. Peaceful ones don’t get the same media attention as the destructive ones. Burning cars and fools dancing on destroyed police cars tell a compelling story.  A man quietly sitting in the street with a flower, not so much.

As I entered the crowd of protestors what I discovered was amazing. Everyone was being kind to each other. Whites, blacks, Asians, weirdos, and non-weirdos. Every time the police shot tear gas, people started sharing water and helping their neighbor. Milk stations were set up to help people. I saw people walking around with trash bags to pick up empty water bottles and trash in the streets. The overall climate in the crowd was one of laughter and fun. High energy fun.

It didn’t seem like anybody was trying to hurt anybody. The police were not trying to hurt the protestors. The protestors were not trying to hurt the police. Yes, objects were destroyed, spray painted, lit on fire but humans were not destroyed, spray painted, or lit on fire. There was kindness. A kind of respect for each other even though there is no respect for the injustice that seems to continue in our country.

My heart goes out to the police. Men and women, black, white, blue, and green required to do their job protecting the very people attacking them. My heart goes out to the oppressed men and women crying on the front lines. Tired of being tired. My heart goes out to Americans locked in their homes full of fear and anxiety because the only thing they see on their Instagram feed is the most sensational images of the chaos. My heart does not go out to the dude that invented tear gas because that shit burns like hell.

I went to the riots to try and understand a little more. To listen, see, and feel. What I learned is most people are good. The protestors, the cops, the people at home, and the people in charge. We are all trying to do our best and none of us are perfect, or even good sometimes. When a pandemic, virus, economic shut down, unemployment, racial violence, murder, and shear boredom hits society none of us have the perfect plan. But, I didn’t see anyone attack each other. I saw kindness, passion, dedication, and a shit ton of things on fire.

I thanked the girl for the milk and passed it to the guy beside me rubbing his burning eyes.

An Asian girl, black guy, and me sharing a container of milk.

Trey

DATING IN QUARANTINE

I hosted a Zoom call for my 30-Day Adventure group Wednesday night. We raised a glass and toasted to life. Then we talked about dating for an hour. Everybody hates dating.

Well, except for my buddy Garrett (not his real name, well, maybe his real name) who LOVES dating. He went on around 150 dates in one year. The thought of 150 dates in one year makes me want to cut off my feet.

There were ten of us on the Zoom video. Oddly, only the singles from the group joined last night. Noticing it was just singles, I decided to sip on bourbon and talk about love. I love talking about love. I also love bourbon.

One girl explained she doesn’t want to deal with a relationship right now. Another said she is about to go nuts and is working her Hinge account to death. One guy is terrified and others had mixed feelings. A few got really quiet.

Dating is a funny thing. It is scary and exciting, fun and not fun. It can be as awkward as ocean worms or as easy as sneezing. The first date is full of uncomfortable feelings and anxiety (unless you are a complete narcist and lack human emotion). We are forced to be vulnerable, risk rejection, and potentially suffer through hours of a boring conversations and below average jokes. However, sometimes sparks fly and the conversation is effortless. That’s the bee’s knees.

I think the quarantine has been the greatest thing to happen to dating. It cuts out the bullshit and forces us to do what we are supposed to do on a date, talk.

In quarantine, we have been forced to date digitally via Facetime, Zoom, or the old fashion phone call. That leaves us with one option. Talk to each other.

We have to learn about each other and figure out if there is chemistry. We get to determine if we share values, hate the same things, and make each other snort when laughing.

Digitally dating allows us to focus on the conversation instead of the fear of spaghetti spilling on our skinny jeans. It eliminates the showmanship of showing up in a velvet lamborghini instead of the back of an Uber Pool. It saves money, reduces anxiety, and gives us a perfect out if needed. All these benefits and can be done from your couch or toilet.

The Netflix of dating has arrived.

Let’s date!

Trey

My next 30 Day Adventure program starts June 1st. If you want to meet some new people, learn about yourself, and try a few weird things…join…

Link: https://www.iamtrey.com/30dayadventure 

MCDONALD’S MAYHEM

June 29, 2018

I stopped at McDonald’s for a coffee this morning and what I saw blew my mind…

Every morning I go to a coffee shop to drink coffee and journal. I usually go to Starbucks or some other overpriced hipster café with beanie wearing baristas adding whip cream to blonde roasts. Not today. America.

I walked in McDonald's and tried to find the back of the line. The mix of random landscape workers and auto mechanics formed 12 incomplete lines for a single cashier. Most were pissed waiting for their McSomethings and other useless foods. I slid in behind the guy with face tattoos.

A random stocky dude in a thick hoodie leaned over the counter and told the cashier to change the coffee filter. She looked at him confused. He explained she needed to change the coffee filter because he almost choked on the coffee grinds. She still looked confused. I was confused.

A tall dude in a white shirt, white shorts, and white shoes started yelling at the entire kitchen staff. He was mad that his shitty $1 McBiscuit was talking over one minute to cook.

I got to the front of the line and ordered a medium coffee. I always order medium drinks. Always. I never want a small and never want a large. Medium. Always.

I took a seat in the corner next to a skinny homeless guy wearing a trash bag on his head. He was grunting. Seemed like a good dude.

I added a pack of Bulletproof MCT oil and butter to my coffee like a true yuppie who listens to self-help podcasts.

A short white dude with a monster beard and long straw hair sprawling out of a vintage trucker hat came in with a skateboard tucked under his arm. He made his way to the counter. The next thing I know he yells “F*ck off” to the cashier. Then he yells “F*ck Y'all” to the entire McDonald’s staff. Then he yells “F*ck McDonald's” as he walks out the door. Very thorough. 

My homeless buddy gets up to scurry around the restaurant when all the commotion starts. The 11-year-old girl working the cash register just stares at everybody like she doesn’t give a McShit about McAnything.

My coffee is burnt.

The dude in the white shirt yells “Hey, where the manager at? I almost slipped on this water, y'all better clean it up, that’s a lawsuit.”

The place finally settles down a bit. I want to give the register girl a hug, buy a hat for my homeless friend, and check on that coffee filter.  

Just as I am packing up to leave, a normal looking dude comes in at sits at the table next to me. He starts fumbling around with his phone. He turns and asks me if I know how to connect his phone to the WiFi.

I take his phone to look for the setting and accidentally hit photos instead. That was a mistake.

A folder of unattractive naked women in horrific positions emerges.

I hand him back the phone and tell him it is connected

33 QUESTIONS: ELIZABETH HOMELESS & HURTING

October 24, 2018

I found her on Facebook. Actually, Ilene found her. She was in a picture holding an ugly lizard. Huge smile. Possibly Mexican. Possibly not.

A homeless girl in Nashville. The Facebook post was from Rick. He found her in a park and raised money to get her a motel room. Ilene, who has the innate ability to find anything on earth, found her. Of course. The next day we drove to Nashville. We had to meet this girl.

“Do you like Coca-Cola?” was the text Ilene received as we drove up from Atlanta. “I can walk to the store and buy you something to drink.”

Said Elizabeth, the 28-year-old homeless girl.  

We arrived after dark and stopped at a Starbucks where I jotted down 33 questions to ask her. She called Ilene and told her that Ty Ty, a drunk homeless woman, would be passed out on the bed. Danny, a homeless man, was there but would leave us alone. She said they were her “street parents”. She also said she was an alcoholic, but never gets out of control. Things were shaping up horrifically.

When we arrived, there were strange people lingering outside the hotel which did not ease my nerves. Ilene was unfazed. Of course.

We found Elizabeth’s room.

She answered and immediately shut the door on us. So far so good.

She opened it again with a huge smile. She wore a tank top and sweat pants and looked fit. I hugged her to try and break the ice. The guy in the corner stared at us with a broken face. A lump of a woman lay motionless on the bed. The room was the size of a closet.

We sat down at a rickety table with a huge vodka bottle in the center. She took a swig and started telling us her story. I thought about taking a swig. Seriously.

Every other word out of her mouth was “all the way”. Her accent sounded slightly Jamaican and partly British. She is half Mexican and half something else.

Elizabeth Ann Langham was born in Indiana and adopted when she was five weeks old. She has five siblings. Her oldest brother is a priest, her oldest sister is missionary, the next sister is in the Peace Corps, one of her younger brothers is autistic, and her other brother is gay. That is a well-rounded family.

She found it difficult to be non-white in a Catholic high school. She competed in track and field and won awards. She started her own marketing company at the age of 16. She loves to sing and writes her own music. She loved her grandmother, but won’t talk about the rest of her family. She said almost nothing about her parents.

Rick found her sleeping in the park across from his condo. She has colon cancer, throat cancer, skin cancer, and is HIV+. She is an alcoholic and suffers from seizures. The manic depression doesn’t bother her too much, she claims. She has overdosed six times and been to rehab or detox 23 times. She has been engaged three times and been abused by those same three men. One caused her to lose her baby, one knocked out her tooth, and the other infected her with HIV, drugged her, and locked her in a van for six months. She doesn’t like to cry and is very matter of fact when describing the horrific events she has survived.

After high school, she tried to focus on her music and moved around a bit and spent time in California and Minnesota. She took a vacation to Detroit and met a man who’s mother had recently passed away. He asked her if she would give him a ride to see his deceased mother’s house. Instead, he drugged her and took her to a gang initiation. She was the bait. She would not talk about what happened, but said that the drug paralyzed her body but not her mind. She remembers everything that happened to her that night. They filmed it.

I would take a shower forever until the water went cold trying to feel clean, but I never felt clean. I still don’t feel clean.

#13 What is the biggest lie you have been told?

             He loves me.

#24 Do you believe in love?

I used to. I lost my child…hold please…(shot of vodka)…I got pregnant. I got engaged to a man who came back from Iraq. His wife and child were killed in a car wreck. He would get all the way angry. One time, he got mad and slammed me against a bookshelf. He started punching me in the abdomen. I lost the baby. We were going to name him Michael Anthony.

I believe this was fiancée #1. Fiancée #2 was a pill popper and all the way mean times ten. He came home one day for lunch and couldn’t find his phone. He blamed her and hit her in the ear. He busted her ear drum and she is now deaf in her right ear. The police were called. For the third time. “Never date anyone you meet in rehab,” she joked.

#10 Who is your hero?

My Grandmother, but do you want to know why? Fuck…(cry)…y’all are getting me here. She is the only human that never had to raise her voice to get respect. So poised. So kind.

Every time she mentioned her grandmother, she would start to cry. Start, but not actually cry. She would bury her face into her hands, take a deep breath, and mumble “toughen up, soldier” before regaining her composure.

After the gang rape, she took the morning after pill. Her strict Catholic family disapproved, and would not allow her to attend her Grandmother’s funeral.

#5 Do you like pancakes?

             No.

What hurts most in your body?

           My colon. When I go #2 it is unpleasant. Embarrassing. Frustrating. Obnoxious.

At one point in our three-hour interview, she told me to turn off the tape. She had to go to the bathroom and didn’t want the recorder to pick up the noises. A beautiful 28-year-old girl…worried about the noises from a diseased colon.

The most recent guy she dated looked like The Rock. He said he would take care of her and protect her. He locked her in a van for six months. He reversed the locks, installed cameras, and hid the van away from populated areas so nobody could hear her. He rolled his own cigarettes and cut them with meth. He gave her the meth-laced cigarettes and watched her have seizures all alone in the van. He eventually dropped her off at a hotel. He is now in prison and she was relocated to Nashville through the court system.

#4 How many times have you been in love?

            Clearly many times with the wrong person. Does it include puppies and animals?

 Do you still believe in love?

50/50. Do I think I will find it? No. There are far too many issues. PTSD, manic depression, seizures, cancer, and HIV. I try to make people not fall in love with me because I would only be a burden to them.

It took her almost an hour before admitting she was HIV+. She said it softly and then said she had hand sanitizer if we wanted it.

That was the third time she broke my heart.

 #17 What is your favorite flower?

The sunflower. It grows so tall. It grows so strong. And, no matter the weather, it still blooms.

Fourth time she broke my heart.

Have you ever done heroin?

No. I hate that stuff. My friend died in my arms with a needle stuck in her arms. The paramedics took 33 minutes and 23 seconds to arrive. They told me to shoot cold water into her vein with the needle. I don’t know how to do that! They told me to put her in a cold shower. The people at the party told me to put her body in the alley in the back. I couldn’t save her. Her mother looked me in the eye and said “she trusted you”. It was after my Grandmother died and I was all the way fucked up. I can still see her face. I should have saved her.

(Shot of vodka) Probably shot number ten. Elizabeth took a break to smoke a cigarette outside. Danny stared at us from the corner. Ty Ty snored on the bed. Happy Friday.

#21 Ilene’s question – Are you afraid of dying?

To be honest, I was at first. I’m not gonna lie. I’ve been right with the Lord. Every time I lay my head on the pillow or the cement, I know I’ve done nothing but try to be the best I can be. So, I’m no longer afraid. Every once in a while, I get scared with my health issues…to be alone. I try to be the best I can be and pay it forward. Overall, I’m not scared. It took many months to overcome it, but I’ve got this.

#18 What scares you the most?

Bugs. I hate bugs. I can whoop anybody’s ass, but I hate bugs. A boy put a cicada on my shoulder on the bus in elementary school and I freaked out. I all the way hate bugs.

#19 Hug

Number 19 just said “hug”. I put it in there hoping it would help in some way. I was nervous because all of the men in her life have been abusive. However, I gave her a big hug. I poured every ounce of love I had in my body into that hug. For better or for worse. And then Ilene hugged her.

We were about two hours in and I could tell she was getting tired. How could she not? She held her side the whole time as we talked. I am not sure if it was from the cancer or her liver from the booze. She said it hurts all the time.

She said she wouldn’t change any part of her life. It has been hard, but she wouldn’t want anyone else to have to go through it. At that point, Ilene just put her head in her hands.

At the end, I told her I had one last question.

 #8 What do you love the most about yourself?

She couldn’t answer. She buried her face in her hands again. We all sat in silence. Tears ran down her face.

I hate these questions. When you’ve been told you’re a piece of shit all the time, it gets embedded in your brain. I’m all the way disappointed in myself. You want an honest answer? I don’t know anymore. The only thing I love about myself is I still have the ability to care about other people. I don’t want to see anybody hurt or suffer. I still have that quality even though I should be all the way bitter.

This was the only time I silently cried in the three hours we were together.

At the end, she asked why we dropped everything to go see her. Ilene gave a brilliant answer. I stumbled over my words. I told her I want to learn how to live. In a soft and comforting voice, she asked if she could give me one bit of advice.

Mind over matter. Even when you are all the way hurting, there is always somebody that has it worse that you. That should be the mentality and the motivation for you to overcome it. You are all the way a goofball, and funny, and kind, and have a great smile, and great laugh. Don’t dwell on the cards you have been dealt in your life.

Damn you girl.

I asked how she always smiles.

She said it hurts worse to cry. Crying doesn’t take away the pain, or the tumor wrapped around her colon, or the sexual assault, or the people who have hurt her.

I do gain all the way from being a total goofball and being all the way and what the poop and all of that, and jumping on her, and doing a frontward somersault on the bed, and just being silly. I don’t like taking anything serious anymore. I’m tired of it.

I don’t know what is going to happen to Elizabeth Ann. I don’t know how long she will live. I don’t know if she will ever fall in love. I can’t save her.

We took her to the store to buy some cigarettes and apple juice when we were done. She asked for the receipt so she could pay me back.

She texted Rick the following message after we left:

We all just want to be loved. All the way.

 Trey

33 QUESTIONS: 101 YEAR OLD MAN

October 7, 2018

On my last 30-day-list, I added something about meeting someone over 100 years old. I wasn’t sure how or what, but I knew I could learn a lot from someone who has seen that much in one lifetime.

Ilene set up a meeting with Ralph and we met him in the lobby of his senior living center, the Renaissance on Peachtree. He was well dressed in a nice multi-color knit shirt perfectly tucked into fitted pants. He has almost as much hair as I do and an impressively strong handshake.

After a bit of awkward conversation in the lobby, we went to his apartment for the interview. We started with small talk and I learned he was born in Canada in 1917. He met his wife of 50 years when he was a teenager. She waited for him during his four-year deployment in World War II. After the war, they moved to Atlanta. They shopped at Sears, which is now Ponce City Market or where I buy overpriced coffee. His wife, upon seeing colored and white fountains, didn’t understand what that meant as she remarked both of the fountains were white. 1996 was the worst year of his life. His wife died after suffering a stroke at a Hawks game and he was in a car accident on his way to the hospital to see her. He doesn’t have a favorite number or color.

I wrote a list of 33 questions on a legal pad and figured I would let him pick a number and ask the question associated with that number. He wasn’t quite sure why some strange guy was in his apartment with a bunch of questions, but he sat quietly with perfect posture, and answered me. With quick and succinct responses. No superfluous words. I don’t know what superfluous means.

#5: What is the key to happiness?

Luck.

That was it. No explanation. No other response. Just luck. He answered and sat there with a smile on his face.

#14:  What is the last time you cried?

Oh, I don’t know. I’m a crier. I cry during sad movies.

#21:  If you could do anything in the world, without any limitations, what would it be?

Walk. I used to love walking, but I had a heart attack in 2011. I now have six stents in my heart and get tired too easily. All I can do now is push-ups.

Push-ups?

Yeah. I do 75 push-ups every morning when I wake up.

What? This man, who is 56 years older than me, does 75 push-ups in a ROW every morning. I can do approximately 10.

#8:  Who was your favorite president?

Hmmm…let me see. Probably Kennedy. Kennedy was a rascal; Carter was not my favorite.

I asked a few more questions. I learned he loves peanut butter, makes his own breakfast and lunch, and reads four hours a day. He just stopped driving at the age of 100, but has a driver’s license that is valid through 2025. His favorite place to visit was the Galapagos Islands. His favorite hobby is painting. He goes to sleep every night at 11:30pm after watching the news and wakes up every morning around 8:00am. He has a drink every night before dinner. He prefers Seagram’s VO, H&H, or Vodka. He also enjoys the happy hours at the Renaissance on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. Maybe I’ll go back and work as the bartender. Actually, I will go back and work as a bartender.

#24: What is the meaning of life?

Oh…I’m not a philosopher. I have no idea. To live?

 #13:  What is the definition of love?

There’s not one.

I asked him questions about how to have a happy marriage. He said you have to think of the other person more than yourself. He also said his marriage was 95% ups with only 5% downs. He misses his wife every day. That is a lot of days. 8,032 days to be exact. He loved her cooking – especially her meatloaf. They always went on one dinner date a week. For 50 years.

I asked him how he deals with aging. He said some people are optimists and some are pessimists. He said people can always find things to complain about if you look for them, but nothing is perfect. His advice was to take what you get and make the best of it.

Not bad.

He doesn’t have children and said he doesn’t have a best friend.

Ilene asked him what keeps him going.

I’m deteriorating. I’m slowing down. My time is limited, so I’m hoping to hold on for a little while longer.

My final question…#18:  Is there a God?

I have questions.

Silence. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a smile.

I followed up and asked if he thinks there is a higher power or something greater than us that created existence.

I keep hoping that’s true.

Another smile.

While he didn’t say a lot, his words had a profound effect on me. Quit overthinking things. Life is pretty simple. Don’t complain. Make the best of what you’ve got.

Bonus question #4:  What is the best gift to give someone?

Love.

Well, Ralph…I love you.

 Trey

A BRAZILIAN WAX

July 20, 2018

I woke up in a healthy panic. It was today. At 11:40 am. My appointment. 

As dumb as I am, sometimes I impress myself with my lack of intelligence. Take my adventure today. Adventure is a terrible word to use for the gift I was given today. 

I Am Trey has been an amazing roller coaster and experience. When I started I Am Trey as a brand and lifestyle business I had no idea it would lead to these crazy experiences. However, the real message behind I Am Trey is for everyone to figure out Who They Are! I Am Trey and you are ______. Through these experiences I am finding out who I am.

Number six on my list of 30 things to try in 30 days is get a Brazilian wax. I got a Brazilian wax. I am not Brazilian.

Do you know what they do to a dude during a Brazilian wax? Neither did I. Now I do. 

My friend set up an appointment for me ensuring I would follow through with the mutilation. She set it for Friday in case I needed to spend a couple of days in the hospital. I assume. 

For some reason, I was curious what it would be like to get a Brazilian wax as a dude. I have heard the horror stories from women and wondered why all the fuss. I also wondered how it would work for a man with oddly shaped parts and sacks. 

I reached out to a few gay friends I know to see if they had done it for some advice. Nope. I was too scared to Google it. 

Do they do the whole area? 

What actually constitutes the whole area?

Do they do the actual penis?

Will I get an erection and be humiliated?

Will the waxer take one look, get sick, and leave the room?

Plenty of women gave me advice. Of course.

·       Take Advil before

·       Take Tylenol before

·       Don't take Advil before

·       Drink lots of water

·       Take Xanax

·       Don't shave

·       Ask for numbing cream

·       Get the sugar wax

·       Don't get the sugar wax if the first time

·       Don't do it

·       Get a job

I showed up at the fancy beauty salon 15 minutes late. Sweating. Regretful. They were waiting for me.

A kind young lady with devil eyes showed me into a small room with a doctor's table covered in that loud wax paper that sticks to everything. She told me to take off my clothes and lie on my back. With a smile. 

I was wondering if they would give me any sort of genital covering garment for the show. No. They don't. Soft porn. A man and a table. I should have tanned. 

Ol' girl put on some latex gloves and started moving my junk around like she was cleaning up scattered toys in a playroom.

She said don't scream. 

Really?

Yes, if you scream they will kick you out. 

No problem. Pass the fentanyl. 

She started in the northern district. The land above the male reproductive organ. The bikini triangle. First, the sides and then the middle. I swear on your mother's life there's no other feeling in the world as lovely as a foreign lady tearing a shoe size piece of molten wax off the middle section of your northern forest with the force of a thousand mules. It was like being attacked by 24 cats. 

By the grace of God, she would immediately apply pressure to each area after tearing my skin off as if to hold in my internal organs or put out a fire. This provided a split-second of relief before the mind started focusing on the next section. There were a lot of next sections. 

Have you ever had a woman paint hot wax on your balls then tear it off like box tape? 

I have. 

She moved to the valley area between the scrotum and leg side walls. This area did not pose too much pain. Not pleasant, but bearable. 

What was not bearable was the shame I felt by some random gal tossing around my good guys like a game of whack-a-mole. Plus, I was laid up in some odd yoga position wearing red socks and fighting tears. 

Sex in the City was on the TV.  

Next she fanned out my scrotum like that Jesus Christ lizard that runs across the water. I figured the skin on the scrotum would be too thin to wax on, wax off. I was wrong. Very wrong. 

She did. I blacked out for a moment. 

Then she applied a coat of the death wax to the area where the scrotum meets, well, fine, to the penis. My brain froze in terror. 

I blacked out again. Harder. 

Do you want the back?

What? 

It's included in the price.

Well, I'm here. 

She instructed me to pull my legs up near my head like a dead beetle. Gentlemen, if you want to practice the art of vulnerability and ego dissolve, I have a phone number for you. 

And here I was...a grown man...on a doctor's table...red socks floating in the air...staring at the ceiling while a stranger applied boiling hot wax to my ass. This is living.

A few strips of hot wax were applied to the most unsacred area of the human body. The area that no man or woman should ever have to encounter. The area that I have literally never seen on myself in my entire life. 

Then she pulled. 

They gave me a punch card. Fifth one is free. 

Trey 

TURKEY & SERBIA

March 30, 2018

You ever been on an airplane that still has the cigarette ashtray in the armrest? Built around the time of Amelia Earhart? Or Jesus? We just took one from Amsterdam to Istanbul on Turkish Airlines.  

Mid-flight, they served a meal. Now, every intelligent human being on earth knows that airplane food is complete garbage. How could it not be? Well, I always eat it. It’s free. And I am usually Bored.

It was some half warm, half cold pasta mush with a side of tomato and cucumber salad soaked in oddly smelling vinegar juice.

I ate it. All of it.

So did Garrett.

We landed in Istanbul, Turkey and ventured off to the Grand Bazaar. It was very grand. As was the food poisoning that hit Garrett the moment we walked into the Bazaar. He looked like the ghost of death and misery. With poofy hair.

We sat down at a little café and Garrett immediately disappeared to find a toilet. He vomited 4 times, per his report when he got back. If there is one thing I hate, it is vomiting. I will also say that the word “Vomit” is a horrible word in general. Vomiting is a terrible experience but you do feel like an amazing angel directly after. I digress.

I sat and tried the Turkish tea excited about the possibility of the same food poisoning destroying me in a matter of time.  

Garrett found every bathroom in the grand bazaar as we went from stall to stall which was selling the same 4 things: Colored lighting, Gucci belts, fabric and spices. After a few hours, we headed back to the airport to venture off to Serbia.

We passed on the meal offering.

Lesson: Never, for the love of God, eat airplane food. Unless you are hungry and bored and love market toilets. 

Later that night we caught a flight to Belgrade, Serbia where we checked into the most whimsical hotel on earth, Mama Shelter, and begged the cute gal at reception to find us a guide to show us the city the next day. She did.

His name was Peter.  

The next day Peter arrived at the hotel to tote us around the city. He looked like a skinny version of the Brawny towel man. Bushy hair and a solid Eastern Block beard.

For the next 5 hours, Peter took us to a fort, a coffee shop atop of some hill, through every street in the entire city, past a gypsy village and to his very own bar called Bukowski’s.

He never stopped talking. Ever.

He told us about no less than 10,000 dates in history.

My brain was completely fried as I tried to attentively follow everything he was saying. Garrett was comfortably asleep in the back seat. The entire time. Lucky bastard.

To break the history lesson bombardment I finally asked him why he smokes hand-rolled cigarettes.

I had noticed he would roll a cigarette about every 2 and a half minutes. I promise you he smoked at least 36 cigarettes in 5 hours. Easy.

“I have been smoking for 10 years and this tobacco is the best”.

10 years.

He is 27. 

Now, let’s do some simple math here geeks. 10 years x 50 cigs a day = a billion cigarettes. No filters.

Here it he thing I noticed about Serbia. Everybody smokes cigs. They smoke them Everywhere. Outside, inside, restaurants, bars, shops, malls, taxis, buses, showers, While sleeping. Everywhere.

Peter mentioned a study was done that showed areas of low economic status generally have a higher rate of smoking. No money, buy cigarettes. Like me, no money, buy travel.

He also said, in the world history bash, Queen Margrethe of Denmark chain smokes and thus Denmark has the lowest tobacco tax in the world. Get it girl.

We finally landed at Peter’s bar at the end of the tour for a beer. Thank God.

Here is what struck me the most from the entire 5-hour lesson on earth history. Belgrade, which is a very desirable piece of real estate in European history, is in the Guinness Book of World Records for being destroyed more than any other city in history.

44 times.

That bitch has been destroyed 44 times.

Peter would laugh every time he mentioned there are really no historical monuments, buildings, or structures left in Belgrade because it has been crushed so many times. Like my relationships over time…I digress again.

Lesson: If you get knocked down, well, get back up just like Belgrade has over and over and over and over. Also, stay away from cigs, Turkish Airlines mush and destructive relationships….

Trey

THIS IS AFRICA

March 23, 2018

I am 45 years old, today. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a career. I don’t have a wife. I don’t have kids. I don’t have a dog. I don’t have a home address.

It’s my birthday.

I’m not rich. I am not famous. I’m not tall.

I’m at a big, fancy hotel in Senegal, Africa drinking poor coffee at a buffet I am avoiding to save a little money. I am thinking about all the people who live in this country, in West Africa, and in the world that are having a birthday today, like me.

For many of them, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because they live in suffering, poverty, ill health, whatever. Some don’t even know when they were born.  

I wonder about those people.

Yesterday my buddy and I hired a worn out taxi to drive us to a pink lake that wasn’t pink. Well, it was kind of pink. I thought it was pink. He went to Harvard and didn’t think it was pink so I guess it wasn’t pink.

We wore pink sweatpants. And pink hats. At the pink lake. Like idiots.

We pulled up to the lake to have a look and grab a few pictures. A guy on make shift crutches with a few teeth hobbled over to us as quickly as a guy on make shift crutches with a few teeth could hobble. He had an oddly swollen foot, ragged t-shirt and decent smile. For a minute.

He started saying this and that in French until he realized we are idiots. He then shifted to broken English. Still smiling.

He begged me to let him take us out on the lake in a small wooden boat for a few dollars. I said no. A lot. We argued. He kept asking. I kept saying no. He kept asking. I got pissed.

I told him I didn’t  want to go out on the pink lake in a boat.

Exhausted, he finally said something to me I will never forget.

In his broken English with a thousand years of suffering he said…

“This is Africa”

Those three words and the sadness in his voice hit me like a mountain of hell.

“This is Africa”

We have nothing. All I ask for is something.

We are all born and then, I suppose, we all die. As my buddy Garrett says, it is the dash in-between those two dates on your tombstone that really matter. Your birthday and your death day.  What happens in the dash?

Who do you become? What do you do? How do you live?

How do you treat others?

This coffee really sucks.

The poverty here is remarkable. The challenges these folks deal with every day is mesmerizing. Yet I see smiles. I see laughter. I see dancing. God I love dancing.

My life has been a hell of a ride. I have done some interesting things. I have done some stupid things. I have healed and I have hurt. I have hated myself and finally, loved. Is that the journey we all are on? Or is it just me?

Today I celebrate. I celebrate simple happiness. Life. Love.

I have learned, the hard way, it can be a choice. If Africa can be happy, we can be happy. I send love to everyone today.

Except the food and beverage manager of this hotel who decided to serve shitty coffee to the uppity guests.

Happy birthday Thomas Henry Humphreys, III, you sexy bitch! Here is to 45 more…

SNEAKING INTO NIGERIA

December 4, 2017

“Princess”

That was her name.  She was 22, skinny, and had a sophisticated wig.

It was Thanksgiving night and I was in a shady nightclub in the capital of Benin, West African. I was with my buddy Garrett. There were exactly zero other customers. Princess wasn’t a waitress, but rather a guest relations ambassador. I guess. She sat down, ordered drinks on our tab, and stared at us. 

Before the nightclub, we had dinner with a blond nonprofit worker from Washington DC who was bored out of her mind and thankful she met us.  She wouldn’t shut up about a Pangolin in Zimbabwe. Do you know what a Pangolin is? Hell no you don’t.

The Pangolin is a scaly creature that looks like a, well, Pangolin. It is the most endangered animals on the planet apparently. All news to me. 

Side note: she informed us there is a man assigned to a Pangolin in Zimbabwe that must carry it around in a pouch every day visiting various ant hills so it can eat. This dude covers something like 50 miles a day carrying a scaly anteater looking varmint. Every day. 50 miles. To eat ants. I bet he hates that Pangolin. And ants. 

Where am I going with this? To Lagos, Nigeria of course…

I was sipping Whisky on the rocks because the local beer tasted like bile and nobody in Africa could make a vodka soda. Princess drank whisky as well.

Garret told Princess our story about arriving in Ghana and making across West Africa to Nigeria.

Princess told us she was Nigerian. This was good news.

Princess informed me that she had two brothers; One is a bottom and the other a top.  As dumb as I am, I finally realized she thought I was gay and was trying to pawn me on one of her brothers.  Flattering. Happy Thanksgiving. 

Fast forward to the Nigerian border with Benin…. actually, no, let’s not.

I woke up the next day with a decent hangover and no idea how to get to Lagos, Nigeria.  To add to the situation, nobody in the hotel spoke English. Nor did they like English speaking white skinny guys.

Princess and one of her brothers showed up in the lobby as I was checking out. She wasn’t wearing her wig. Her brother had the greatest teeth I have ever seen. I felt like hell. Garrett had apparently given her our Hotel name and Whatsapp number the night before.

Long story longer, I negotiated a deal with the brother to take us into Nigeria and guide us around for the weekend.  Nigerians love money. Gay guys love me. I love not getting kidnapped in Nigeria. Synergy. 

I had read, regardless if you have your visa in order, everyone at the border wants a bribe. If not, they will search you for hours, detain you, yell at you, plant drugs on you, search your phone for incriminating photos, and simply make your life a living hell. No worries, I had a gay Nigerian guide who I gave a stack of money to make those who needed to be happy, happy. His job was to prevent us from ending up in a Nigerian prison or duct taped in the back of a van. 

Garrett, myself, Princess and her brother loaded up into a taxi and headed to the border.

First stop, money laundering.

In order to exchange some cash, we stopped and were escorted into a concrete office that felt like the inside of a microwave. After about 20 minutes of arguing about the exchange rate, we had a deal and could leave the excruciatingly hot makeshift office. 

We headed outside where two scooters were waiting for us. All of us. Well, minus Princess who headed back to wherever she hides. So, 5 grown men, 4 sets of luggage and two scooters made their way into the abyss. 

We rode through some hell hole of a town on a war-torn dirt road to a wooden shack where a guy in a lab coat checked our yellow fever cards. He also asked for some money and screamed at our guide.  Then, as if God himself was shining upon us, it started raining like hell.  Garrett, in his Sunday best, was starting to have a series of panic attacks.

After bribing that guy to do what he is supposed to do anyway, we walked a few paces through a ricketed wooden shack the Benin passport office.  A couple dudes in vintage military outfits took our passports. It took them a billion years to stamp us out of Benin. They wrote our info into a ledger they had been using it since Jesus was a kid. I don’t think they extorted us for money.

Wait, they did…sorry.  

At this point, it was raining like balls so we huddled up under a tin roof with our scooter drivers and a bizarre West African man in a dirty one-piece African man-robe he had been wearing since the earth was formed. He had long wooden-looking teeth and oddly inverted legs which caused him to walk like an Ewok. I have no idea how an Ewok walks or what an Ewok is but it is the first word that popped into my head.

He also liked 2pac.

After 20 minutes of uncomfortable conversations with the Ewok guy, the monsoon died down and we jumped back on the scooters. Mine broke. 

So, I walked across the border which was only a rope being held up by a homeless man. I think everyone within a 22-mile radius was homeless. I got on Garrett's scooter and we slid through a few mud lakes making our way to the Nigerian officials.

We arrived at the Nigerian passport control, customs, yellow fever checkpoint and immigration. All of which were random dudes in random booths wearing random clothing asking for random bribes.  

Finally, we got back in the car and headed out of hell until a guy in plain clothes told our driver to pull over for an inspection. After a few moments, some aggressive arguments, and  a $15 bride, the inspection was complete.

We hit the road, again, and breezed through over 25 police checkpoints. Our guide said that the government was cracking down on people bringing goods in from neighbouring countries in an effort to force people to buy Nigerian products. For example, rice in neighbouring Benin is currently 50% cheaper than in Nigeria and some people were smuggling it into Nigeria. 

We finally made it to our hotel after 6 hours of miserable roads and complete chaos, which was fascinating. As we arrived at our hotel the driver pulled to the side, popped the hood and removed two huge sacks of rice he had been smuggling the whole time. He smiled.

GHANA, WEST AFRICA

November 21, 2017

We arrived in Ghana for the first part of our trip across West Africa a few days ago. We were only there three days but drank local beer, wandered through the slave dungeons of Cape Coast Castle, and I got hit by a man on a horse. At the Beach.

I am traveling with my buddy Garrett who spontaneously dances, wears loafers, and wants to visit every country in the world. There are 196. I want to avoid getting hit by horses.

Oh, and catch a Python.

There are two spots we visited, for the most part, aside from an overpriced, shady nightclub and even worse, a dingy dive bar full of odd ladies dancing to African beats.  

The first was Cape Coast which is home of the Cape Coast Castle. Said castle sits on the ocean and is where they used to gather up the slaves to sell and ship to the new world. There are five dank dungeons that held up to 1000 slaves from three days to three months. They are about the size of a small bus. I got nauseous. It was horrific.  

The second was Labadi Beach.

The beach was like a circus with touts selling everything from sunglasses to puppies. Shanty bars piped out reggae and hip-hop music through huge busted speakers. Just my speed.

At one point, I was standing near the water’s edge taking everything in when a dude on a horse ran into me.  

He looked at me, I looked at him and we both paused for a moment. I was shocked then thrilled as I had never been hit by a horse.  He looked shocked that he hit a white guy with his horse. The horse didn’t give a shit.

Then, in a flash of genius, he hopped off the horse and grabbed his knee like he was injured. He also grabbed his neck and started shouting in some bizarre language. Time to lawyer up.  

I stood there for a moment realizing he was literally trying to extort money from me and then said “bullshit”.

That didn’t work.

He got a little louder and a little more animated.  I got a little louder and more animated. Stalemate.

Finally, I grabbed my neck and wrenched with pain.

He paused, looked at me, and smiled. He shook my hand and said, “I like you” in perfect English.

Friends forever.

Then he asked if I wanted a ride on his beat-up horse for $5 bucks.

Trey

HATE MEDITATION

August 18, 2017

Guess what?

I am obsessed with figuring out the human mind and why we do, say, act and think the way we do. Why? Because I have suffered from depression, sadness, anger, pity and relentless negative self-talk most of my life. That shit sucks.  

Daddy issues.  

This morning, as I listened to yet another self-help podcast, I realized how to meditate if you hate meditation. 

Now, we all know meditation is the new Kale and is about to be as cool as yoga pants and coconut coffee here in the US. If you are not on board yet, get ready. It is coming. Just breathe and think of nothing. Easy. What? 

I was delivering Meals on Wheels this morning and listening to a podcast that I will not mention for fear of being called a pansy for the rest of my life and it hit me... 

The guest was Tony Robbins who is simply the greatest human being alive. I won't tell you who was interviewing him for fear of being called a pansy for the rest of my life as aforementioned. What a great word, aforementioned. I probobly used it wrong. 

Now, I have seen Tony a few times now and am a full-fledged cult member. I have heard him explain his meditation practice multiple times. However, it finally clicked this morning. 

Like me, and you, and normal humans, he can't sit still and "quiet the mind" for more than 3 seconds. He is also 12 feet tall and couldn't cross his legs if you broke them. I am 5"10" with the legs of a 9-year-old girl. No idea why I just included that info but feel closer to you now that you know.

What he does, and I do, is "Meditate" for 10 minutes in the morning. He calls this priming. You can YouTube "Tony Robbins Priming" and watch a half billion videos about it. 

Or read the next three sentences.

1) He thinks/focuses on three things he is grateful for the first three minutes.

2) He focuses on and visualizes three goals he wants to complete or accomplish in the next 6 to 12 months for three minutes.

3) He thinks about how he can love more for the next three minutes. 

4) He goes out and makes billions of dollars. 

Well, I guess that is 9 minutes so he is a liar. I'm leaving the cult. 

Here is the small print:

3 minutes of gratefulness/gratitude - you can't be stressed, depressed or angry and grateful at the same time. Try it.

3 minutes on goals - you visualize having completed your goals in your mind and make it as real as possible so you feel it in your body and then say thank you as if it has already happened. This tricks your subconscious and your body into thinking it is real. This pulls you towards the goals because the universe is one crazy unicorn and when you are in alignment the magic woo woo just works. 

3 minutes on Love - Love is actually an action. You have to actually put effort into "loving". So you think about and visualize ways you can love more.  Your friends, your wife, your self, your parrot, your feet, your librarian, your President (whoa...).

There you go. Welcome to ultimate happiness. You are welcome. 

Hire me as your life coach. Email me at trey@iamtrey.com if you need help. We all need help.   

Trey 

MARIJUANA OVERDOSE

Oct 16, 2016

I am sure the four folks that read my blogs (by accident) are well versed with the #1 killer of human beings, Marijuana. If not, let me explain. Marijuana is a plant, is grown in HELL and contains chemicals that MAKE YOU WANT TO DIE. It is illegally and legally grown and consumed by roughly 103% of all teenagers around the world. Now that you are an expert, let’s talk about my overdose at the Coachella music festival, the single worst day of my life.

Let me begin by stating that I do not do drugs. I am not against drugs, but simply too much of a pansy to try them because I think I will die under a bridge or wake up with a missing spleen. However, I have experimented with Vodka and once smoked Marlboro Reds when Joel Darby and I went to prison in Mexico (different story for a different time). Yolo. Grown men. 

Side Note: Pathetically, I didn’t try alcohol until I was 24 years old. Therefore, I didn’t meet any girls until I was 25. You know that loser friend you had in college that didn’t drink? 

Onward…

The first time I experienced this highly deadly narcotic (which kills 89% of all first time users) was in a small and colorful beach town in southern Costa Rica called, well I can’t remember. However, I do remember a bunch of gay cowboys riding horses as our shitty 1967 coach bus arrived in town. We had traveled for about 9 hours from San Jose and covered 30 miles. As the crow flies. 

I was traveling with two girlfriends. Unfortunately, these two  "girlfriends” would: A) not make out with me (another story for another time) and B) roofied me with Marijuana. These broads held me down (my strength was waning) and blew smoke in my face until I was “stoned” as the kids say.  

Let’s fast forward 6 months to Southern California. I found myself at Coachella, a music festival somewhere in California that hosts 800,000 bands and 2 billion people who looked like they robbed Urban Outfitters. And Brad Pitt. Keep reading….

I was staying in a deluxe Hampton Inn RESORT (arguably one of the nicest 5 star hotel chains in the entire world) with four girls. There were two 21-year-old hippies, the hippie coordinator and my friend from LA, Jakie, whose name I purposely misspelled to protect her identity. All four girls were hot as balls. Four to one odds...I lost.  

On Saturday we were getting ready to leave our non-expensive hotel room and head to the music festival. The hippie chicks (who had brought somewhere in the ballpark of $25,000 in every form of marijuana on earth) whipped out a “Medicinal Medical Marijuana Brownie”. It apparently had a warning label. I bet you thirty dollars you can’t guess what happened next?

Exactly, I ATE THE WHOLE F*CKING THING. 

Now, let me remind you this was the third time in my pathetic life I ever tried marijuana.  Also let me inform you this was the only time I had ever tried “edible” marijuana. Bet you can’t guess what happened next…

I remember feeling very relaxed once the toxins started invading my bloodstream as we lounged around the hotel room prior to leaving. Then I remember LOSING MY MIND in the backseat of the car as we drove to the show. The next several hours were to be the worst 8 hours of my entire life.

From what I remember, there were about 200 of us in the backseat of the hybrid car but was told later there was only 3. Regardless, the POT was working.  A lot.

At one point, after staring out the window for what seemed like 4 weeks, I mustered up the courage to say words. I told my friend Jakie that I needed something to “kick me out of this state of overwhelming paranoia and despair”. I needed Vodka, a medical helicopter or a Gun to make it stop.

She gave me Adderall.  

Now, for those of you who don’t know what Adderall is, ask anybody in college or your closest friend who NEVER STOPS BUILDING THINGS. The medical community claims it is an A.D.D medication that can help you focus. I think it is Crack Cocaine soaked in LSD then cooked in METH and topped with Anthrax and Asbestos.  I took it. 

Before we go any further (and closer to my death), let me explain a few things you should never do when you are overdosing on marijuana. 

You should never:

·       Speak

·       Look anyone in the eye

·       Tell your friends how much you loved your dad that died when you were 21

·       Go anywhere in public

·       Be around human beings

·       TAKE ADDERALL

Just about the time we arrived at the festival, the Adderall kicked in full force which allowed me to focus 100% on my completely overwhelming paranoia. As a bonus, the medication intensified the “high” a few thousand fold and increased my blood pressure by infinity.  Things were looking good...

My guess is we entered the venue (a massive polo grounds) around 4 or 5 pm. I walked approximately 18 steps and gently sat down in the grass. And stared at my feet. For the next 8 hours. Suffering heart attacks every two minutes.  

A few things I remember from my 8 hour sit-down were:

·       Brad Pitt staring at me for 4 hours

·       Deciding it wasn’t Brad Pitt staring at me 24 times

·       Telling myself “Marijuana can not kill you” over and over

·       Telling myself “Marijuana combined with Adderall can kill you” over and over

·       Thinking about standing up

·       Being too scared to stand up

·       Losing feeling of my brain

·       Trying to remember to breathe

·       Wondering why all 30,000 festival goers were staring at me

·       Wondering when I would be able to verbally communicate with others

·       Wondering how many other 40 yr olds have died on weed at 18+ music festivals

·       Praying the paramedics would give me a hug

·       Trying yoga breathing exercises to bring my heart rate down to heart attack levels

·       Trying to explain to my friends we were all going to Prison

·       231 consecutive panic attacks

·       The hippie girls looking at me like I was literally the dumbest human being they had ever met

After 5 or 6 hours, my friend finally convinced me to stand up which was terribly dangerous and easily the scariest idea of the last 24 years of my life. I hadn’t felt my legs in hours and figured they were done working for the rest of my life. However, I did finally stand up and decided to walk in the opposite direction of people. And away from Brad Pitt. 

My anonymous friend convinced me we should get a drink, possibly vodka. This, I though was a good idea.  There was one problem…

In order to purchase a drink (and by purchase I mean have her purchase because I was still scared of human beings) I had to go show my ID to the authorities. Two things that don’t mix well are 1) Authorities and 2) Weed overdoses.

Now, I can’t even begin to explain to you how scary this was for me. I had to:

a) Walk up to a table of humans
b) Confidently and effortlessly determine where my ID was
c) Seamlessly pull it out of a pocket without falling down
d) Hand it to a huge security man who wanted to kill me
d) Fight crying the whole time

Thankfully, the effects of the marijuana started to fade after 8 or so hours which was the single greatest feeling in my life. I had missed every single band at the festival. I also now hate Brad Pitt. 

I would like to thank the following people who saved my life that day:

·       My friend Jackie, who now knows how my dad made me sad when I was young

·       The two hippie chicks who never said a word in 3 straight days and introduced me to marijuana food

·       The fashion designer hippie coordinator who brought the hippie chicks and never showered

·       The Hampton Inn maids who we left $5000 worth of marijuana

·       The entire security personnel at Coachella who stared at me for 8 hours but never put me in prison

·       Brad Pitt