The Man, The Machine, The Maelstrom
My journey? Let's call it a full-throttle sprint from chaos to some semblance of clarity. This is why I hit "record." This is why we talk.
From Prairie Dust to Dim Bar Lights
It all kicked off in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it town of 500 souls, way up in North Central North Dakota. Think wide-open spaces and not a whole lot else. After high school, I chased a diploma from a radio vo-tech school and, like many a young fool, followed a girlfriend to Fergus Falls, Minnesota. A year later? Fargo. Yeah, that Fargo. And no, for the last time, we don't all talk like they do in the movie – though the winters are just as brutal.
It was in Fargo, slinging drinks behind a bar, that my dance with the bottle truly began. That's where the machine started to grind.
DJ Booths and a Descent into Darkness
Life became a blur of different towns, different bars. Somewhere in that haze, I stumbled into DJing. Man, I loved it – the music, the energy. But the booze? It had its claws in me, deep and unyielding. My world started to fray: a marriage in Utah crashed and burned. A gnarly accident delivering appliances left me physically battered. Emotionally, I was building walls, brick by painful brick.
The drinking wasn't just a habit anymore; it was a full-blown siege. Resentment became my closest companion. Even when love found me again, I torched it with infidelity and a talent for self-sabotage. I was a one-man demolition crew, and my life was the condemned building.
The Crash, The Clarity, The Rebirth
Then came the night the whole damn charade imploded. One too many DUIs. One too many promises shattered. But this time, it was the raw, undeniable pain in her eyes – the woman I'd betrayed – that finally sledgehammered through my defenses. Staring at that heartbreak, a switch flipped. This couldn't be it. This couldn't be my legacy.
After a stint in jail that felt like a lifetime, I walked out, went home, and every last drop of booze in that house went down the sink. The next day, I walked into an AA meeting, a broken, terrified mess. Two months later, stepping out of another meeting, something felt... different. The grass – man, it was so impossibly green. The sky, a blue I hadn't seen in years. I sat in my car and wept like a lost kid. That wasn't just a moment; that was a goddamn rebirth.
Still Standing, Still Talking: Arizona & The Airwaves
Fast forward fifteen years. Life's different now. I'm based in Arizona, holding down a decent job, and channeling the lessons, the pain, and the hope into two podcasts:
- Spartacus@themachine: This is where we get raw. No-holds-barred conversations about the brutal lessons learned in the war against addiction, the ongoing fight for recovery, and the critical, often overlooked, battle for men’s mental health.
- Under The Covers With Spartacus: My other passion. Every week, we dive deep into the world of cover songs. I break down the original, explore the new interpretation, and, of course, we listen to the tracks. It's a celebration of how music evolves.
Look, I'm not claiming to have all the answers. I'm not perfect – far from it. Life still throws punches. But here's the thing: I’m still standing. I'm still sober. And I’m still talking, putting my story out there on the airwaves, hoping that something in my mess resonates with someone else's. Hoping it helps another warrior out there stand a little taller, feel a little less alone in their own fight.
That's the mission. That's the machine.