Soda Cran and Dream Lab Mag Launch Weekend
Friday morning started the way it usually does for me—an early drive out to see an old wise farmer.
He's my counselor, but I call him that because he speaks in parables and wears worn-out boots. I rubbed my eyes, heavy and tired, so much so that even the gray morning light stung.
I’m so tired I can’t even listen to music or podcasts. I listen only to the low hum of the car engine and my own thoughts. The music from Thursday night’s jam session in Old Town still rings in my ears. I fell asleep last night to the high-pitched whistle of tinnitus—a nightly lullaby.
The old wise farmer and I have been talking about sobering up for about two years. I’ve had some good stints that faded out. At the time of writing this, I’m ten months sober—the longest streak I’ve had since I was 18. I look forward to his weekly sobriety check now, where he congratulates me and shakes my hand. His calloused hand pulls me in for a bro-hug.
“Proud of ya.”
This is a special weekend for me. My friend Derek has come up for a visit. I’ve been talking to him and a close circle of friends/artists about starting the digital magazine and the “Soda Water With A Splash Of Cranberry” or #SodaCran blog for months. This weekend is supposed to be the weekend we kick it off.
We’re going to be playing music, streaming on Twitch, recording reels, hitting the studio for a photo shoot and more.
What could go wrong?
Maybe just a few psychic panic waves.
They’re never far away.
“Are you playing basketball today?” the old farmer asks me.
“Yeah, I’m meeting Derek there at noon,” I say.
“Good,” he replies. “That’s your medicine.”
Derek and I met playing basketball in Portland, bonding over hoops, cards, music, and our kryptonite: women.
The night before, we had jammed out at the club in Old Town. A sonic bath nearly split our skulls open. We could barely hear each other talking on the ride home. But I nostalgically looked out the window and said:
“You know what the best part about this drive home is? I’m not drunk.”
I could feel the waves of anxiety washing off me. That’s the thing I kept coming back to these past ten months. The panic waves still came—so intense they could catch my breath in my chest—but as soon as I remembered I wasn’t drinking, that I was slowly getting farther from that last blackout, day by day, the anxiety would lift. For the moment.
We talked about the “Let Them” theory on the way home—that if someone isn’t vibing with you, doesn’t want what you’re offering, you’ve got to let them walk. Wish them on their merry way—and mean it. It’s the only way to operate that the universe respects.
We talked about music—Dope Lemon, Goth Babe, Palace. Somehow those guys had figured it out.
We talked about relationships and how if you’re thinking about arguing with your girlfriend, you’ve already lost the argument.
“A wise old farmer told me once—if you’re defending yourself, you’re done,” I said.
“The same old wise farmer?” Derek asked.
“No, a different one,” I laughed. “My father.”
“Damn, you really be collecting wise old farmers.”
“I’m always seeking the wisdom of old wise farmers.”
The point is, when you’re in an argument and anxieties are flaring, you’re not hearing each other. You just move farther apart. Take a deep breath and think about what you want to say. Then, before you say it, think again. And probably don’t say it.
Our initial emotional reactions are usually not the answer.
“When you’re arguing with her, you should probably just say the opposite of what you’re thinking, if you want any chance of success,” we agreed.
The next day, laying on the gym floor panting after basketball, it sunk in deeper than ever—what my counselor had said that morning:
“This is your medicine.”
That’s the whole point of the #SodaCran lifestyle. Realizing what you’re gaining when you choose health over anything else. When we quit drinking, we spend so much time thinking about what we’re giving up, what we might be missing out on. But day by day, we start to realize what we’re gaining.
We’re gaining ourselves.
Instead of hitting the town that Friday night, like we’d done so many times before—until oblivion knocked on our door—we stayed in at my house and drank soda waters with lemon, lime, and a little splash of cranberry.
We got gluten-free steak pizza, chicken pizza, and an order of hot wings.
High Protein. High Testosterone. High T.
High Cranberry. High C.
A weekend of hilarity ensued.
We pressed the stream button that night. We passed around the acoustic guitar and told stories. We played Tony Hawk Pro Skater 2 on N64 and created a Bob Burnquist chatbot. The cyber revolution was beginning.
We woke up feeling refreshed and enjoyed a Saturday of coffee, trace amounts of thc, and activity.
#CaliforniaSober #ActiveChilling
The studio session modeling vintage #MoneyPieces from my closet had us ready for the runway in Paris. We laughed. We strutted. We spun. We filmed. We got silly. We recorded with J3K and hit some more wings with the boys.
A sober belly laugh rocked my stomach—almost as much as the habanero hot sauce did the next day.
A blog was born.
Pull up a seat at the digital jam table.
If you're rocking the #SodaCran lifestyle or just curious about the journey, drop a comment, tag me on social, or send a message. Let's share the vibe and keep the conversation rolling.