George was a major figure in the SF Spoken Word scene in the pre-slam days. Throughout the '90s, we performed a lot together. I have fond memories of doing a show at Shoreline together on one of the sidestages. He came by my open mike many times.
George and I shared a fascination with dirty, earth-bound angels as images in our work.
George and I also had a hard time with drugs and alcohol. If you're reading my blog you likely know I have 6 years clean and sober. George, like most, couldn't get away for good. Without getting into specifics, it was the demoralization from his drug use that pushed most of his friends away due to various acts of addiction.
I considered our friendship over after one incident that hurt another friend of mine into the point of panic attacks and depression. Some dumb junky shit I won't go into.
George is another example of a great writer who never gets where he's supposed to go because he pissed on his talent with drugs. Yet people still maintain that the drugs help them to create. What bullshit.
Listen here to his poem "just one more hit."
I always hoped he would show up at a 12 Step meeting. About a half dozen of us from the same circle, out of all of us who got high and drunk together, are 12 Steppers. But too many, like George, didn't make it past fifty. Fifty used to seem like forever away, back when 25 sounded old.
I'm leaving the computer now, I didn't want to post this and have to think about it at work today. I'm off to the garage now on Mission street where we have my homegroup AA meeting. I'm okay, I would like your messages, but I'll read them tomorrow.
George, you fat fuck, you tenderloin death star, you Oxycontin troll under a self-burned bridge. I used to be jealous of you. I've missed you for years.