Is it a lie if you think you’re okay, but everyone else sees a shitshow?

The room was in Berkeley. It looked simple and clean in the video. I’d never even heard of an SRO before, but that didn’t matter. It was a start. After the divorce, things were divided up, and this was something I could pull off. For Berkeley, it was a good deal — probably the cheapest place in the city.

The building sat above a deli that sold more booze than food. Across the street was BART. From there, I could get into San Francisco easily, and I did. A lot. South of Market was usually where I got off.

South of Market had its own gravity. It wasn’t the Tenderloin, but it lived close enough to it to feel the spillover. Like the quieter twin — less famous, just as wired. You could disappear there without trying very hard.

At first, I thought this new chapter would be about creativity. About making money. About starting over. I bought a laptop and honestly believed that was where things were headed.

A little time later, I found myself pulled into something else.

I got a thrill out of doing illegal shit and being part of that world. Looking back, I didn’t just get a thrill — I got hooked on the movement, the access, the way the city worked underneath the version most people saw. I thought I was living a double life. Turns out, I was just living one really fast.

My using career turned into a science. I knew which BART train to take, which car to sit in, which station exit put me closest to where I needed to be. I knew when the dope man would show and when the cops wouldn’t care.

Most days, I’d score and be back on BART to the East Bay before anything had time to catch up with me. I took pride in never getting caught — until one day, I did.

And nothing happened.

I scored right in front of a cop. Then I did it again. This time, they laughed. That’s when I learned something important: the system didn’t care about junkies. Dealers got arrested and were back on the street the same day. Sometimes a few hours later.

Later on, a therapist told me something that stuck. He said I wasn’t just addicted to the drugs. I was attracted to the underbelly — the hidden systems, the routes, the rules no one explains out loud. Scoring wasn’t just about getting high. It was about knowing how to move.

I started scoring crystal on 8th Street early on, right as my addiction was being resurrected. I thought I was staying ahead of it. I wasn’t.

This blog isn’t the full story.
It’s just a glimpse into the world the book moves through.

More later.

On the burner — some projects closer than others. It’s a never-ending process, the constant evolution of my craft.

The shop has been touch and go. Eventually it’ll be up and stay up. It took a minute to figure out where that kind of merch actually fits into the bigger picture, and how I want to sell it without it feeling forced or hollow. For now, I’ve been doing short sticker-bomb runs with the Strum Life logo — getting the name out on the streets the old-school way.

Soon, I’ll be more aggressive — both on the ground and online — about pushing the brand forward.

At the same time, I’ve been deep in recording future releases and writing a lot. A lot. About the stretch of time when life went off the rails with drugs and alcohol, and how it slowly found its way to where it is now. That space in between mattered more than I realized.

I’ve also been paying attention — watching creators who didn’t just fix their lives, but learned how to translate their scars into something real, something they could stand behind and build from.

So sit tight.
Keep checking back.

It’s going to get good.

Hi Blog,
I haven’t forgotten about you. Honestly, it’s been getting under my skin that we don’t talk like we used to. Come to think of it, I don’t talk to a lot of people like I used to.

Life’s been heavy — but in a good way. Jesus has brought me through some dark times, and lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how to show my love for Him and His Father. That’s been the center of everything.

I’ve been playing a lot of guitar, recording more than usual, trying to capture every spark while I can. Content is the new currency, and I’m stacking up what I’ve got — not out of fear, but out of faith that it’s all building toward something real.

I’m heading back to work at the airport soon. I kind of missed it, even while I was taking care of things. It feels like another piece of life is falling back into place.

Anyhow, things are looking up.
What have you been up to?
Yeah, you — I’m still listening.

That's a powerful story and a strong message for your blog. It's a very relatable topic for anyone pursuing a creative passion.

Here is a draft of a blog post based on your thoughts, crafted with a thoughtful, motivational tone that focuses on the lesson learned:

Sometimes, the loudest critics are the ones struggling most with their own silenced dreams. I was reminded of this recently while digging through old press for a release I poured my soul into back in 2004.

I remember giving a demo disk of that music—my best work at the time—to a family member. I won't name him, but his reaction was a straight-up tear-down. His verdict? It was "boring." At the time, that kind of rejection from someone close to you stings deep, questioning every bit of time and passion you invested.

Fast forward all these years, and the contrast is glaring. Those initial professional press reviews I found were actually awesome, praising the album's uniqueness and depth. Meanwhile, the critic who dismissed it has done virtually nothing with his own life. I learned he once had big plans but walked away from them because of money pressure from a greedy, financially driven family member.

My point is simple, and it's a lesson learned the hard way: When someone tries to make you feel less than—especially when you are chasing something you want more than anything—run from those people.

They aren't motivated by love or constructive criticism; they are motivated by their own regret. It’s clear now that he was tearing me down only to avoid feeling bad about selling his own dreams short.

True friends and supportive family encourage your ambition, even if they don't fully understand your "Grunge Jazz." The people who weaponize criticism against your passion are not your people. Protect your art, protect your drive, and keep making the music you believe in, no matter what they call it.

In today’s world, being “smart” is treated like the ultimate badge of honor. Good grades, big words, technical know-how — that’s what people think will carry them to success. But here’s the truth: being smart doesn’t make you clever. And if you want to thrive — in business, in trading, in life — clever will take you further than smart ever will.

The Difference Between Smart and Clever

Smart is about knowledge. You can crunch numbers, memorize facts, and cite statistics. Smart knows the book cover to cover.

Clever is about application. It’s knowing how to use that knowledge in the real world, especially when the rules aren’t written down. Clever sees the gaps, spots the tells, and turns situations to advantage.

Think of it like this: smart people know how the game should be played. Clever people know how the game is actually played.

Why Smart Alone Gets Trapped

Markets, jobs, relationships — they’re all full of traps. Just because you know the numbers doesn’t mean you know the hustle. A “smart” trader can read charts all day, but if they fall for every headline and panic tweet, they get washed out like anyone else.

Being clever is what keeps you alive in the gray areas. It’s what helps you spot the mismatched numbers, the shady intentions, the propaganda designed to push you one way so someone else can cash out the other.

The Power of Clever

Clever is watching what people do, not just what they say. It’s studying mannerisms, tones, timing. It’s noticing when the hype doesn’t match the math. Clever doesn’t get dazzled by “what everyone knows.” Clever walks the opposite way when the herd stampedes — and finds opportunities no one else sees.

The Balance

Now, don’t get it twisted. Being clever without smarts is just winging it — and that won’t take you far either. The real edge comes when you mix both:

Smart enough to understand the rules.

Clever enough to know when to bend or break them.

That’s how winners are made.

When I was a kid, you were the boogie man.
My parents didn’t want me listening to you.
Idiots took your songs and thought they were a sign from Satan, and lazy white men used you as a scapegoat so America didn’t have to deal with the real issue: shitty parenting.

I was warned not to listen to your band because you guys were supposedly so satanic that your guitarist — Randy Rhoads — could make the guitar talk.
You were so evil, they said, you bit the head off a bat. Some claimed you threatened to kill puppies on stage.

But time passed — and you didn’t go anywhere.

The little kids who heard the legend of “evil Ozzy” grew up.
We formed our own opinions.
And the vicious pitbull in the junkyard? Turned out to be a friendly dog who sat down and shit like the rest of us.

You were the first celebrity I noticed who talked openly about battling drugs and alcohol.
You showed me there was nothing to be ashamed of in that fight.
You sat next to loved ones in sickness, not knowing what the future held — and still found the strength to go out, rock, and make people smile.

You gave the world many gifts.
You helped people escape their problems for a while.
But maybe more than anything — you made a lot of us dream.

Thanks, Ozzy.

From the scared little kid they warned...
to the grown man who knows better.

- Mike Glendinning
www.strumlife.org