Johnny Mac

I haven't drunk-typed in quite a while, but I'm doing it right now. There's drunk-dialing, drunk-texting and now, drunk blogging.

I caught up with my oldest cousin, Johnny Mac, who, other than being a relative and an all-around good guy, gives me a valuable lesson on Wise family history when I see him, which, honestly, isn't often. He was at my dad's funeral in 1992, and I saw him again at a cousin's wedding in 2003 before I moved up here in May. We've caught up twice here now.

Anyway, I tell the story about the night of my dad's funeral quite a bit.

Johnny's sister Sandy lived in Cincinnati, like I did, so she was able to drive me up to Cleveland for my dad's funeral in August 1992.

Two weeks prior, I had tried acid for the first and last time. I had a terrible eight-hour ride. Some friends would argue I'm still on that trip because I'm fairly freakish.

Anyway, on the ride up to Cleveland, I was hesitant to tell Sandy about my acid experience, but like I always do, I caved and told her, despite fearing some kind of judgmental reaction. She instead laughed her head off, telling me it was no big deal, that she and her siblings might have experienced some recreational enjoyments of their own over the years.

So two days later, there I was, in the cousins' basement, having a couple of beers with Johnny and Scotty. I don't think Sandy or Linda were there. It was night time, just a few hours after I buried my dad.

Is it a coincidence that the 1968 movie "Head" is on the TV right now as I type this?

So Johnny and Scotty walked me outside as I got ready to drive my mom's car home. It's at least a 25-minute ride, and unlike a lot of my friends, I could never drive high. Nonetheless, we smoked a joint and said our goodbyes. I was headed home.

I got fairly twisted around trying to find the main road -- Warrensville Center Road -- that by the time I got there, I was already baked out of my brain. I couldn't feel my feet on the pedals, so I parked the car and walked back to their house -- another interesting adventure. I was having a flashback just two weeks after my awful acid excursion.

I made it back to their house, and of course, Aunt Pat answered the door and I said, "Uhhh, I think I left my wallet in the basement; are Scotty and Johnny still around?"

So the boys, thank goodness, took me to some neighborhood bar and basically babysat me for a few hours until I was ready to drive back home. They stayed on with the beers, and I sat there drinking ice water, wondering if having Johnny drive was a better idea because he almost got us killed turning onto Belvoir.

"Hell, what do you expect? I was at an Irish wake all day," he recalled Thursday night.