Meeting My Guides

The roots of this particular story go back several weeks to when I was attempting to shoot a documentary about metaphysics. I had wanted to do a "follow-up" to my short documentary "A Parallel World" which consisted of me investigating a haunted house and communicating with an intelligent entity through knocks (go to my http://www.mattburnsproductions.com website to watch).

After "Parallel World", I became fascinated with the possibility of some sort of spirit world coexisting with our real world, and I wanted to further explore this phenomenon. I didn't know exactly what angle I was going to approach the subject from, but I knew I wanted to explore anything and everything metaphysical, especially the possibility of past lives and the existence of spirit guides (a concept which I'll explain in a minute).

Anyway, along came Liam Galvin, a renown medium who's written a couple of books and is so popular with people that it takes about three months to get an appointment with him. I actually met Liam through a female psychic friend whom I planned to initially focus my documentary on. Liam is my friend's "spiritual mentor" and I filmed him reading her at a place called "Women of Wisdom" in Easton, MA. And when I say he "read" her I mean he explored her past lives, her spirit guides, her health, her love life and her general future. Although I was skeptical at first, I must say that it didn't take long for me to be absolutely blown away with what I saw. Within minutes of the reading, Liam was talking to the girl's dead father like he was right in the room with us (which he supposedly was).

After the reading, Liam approached me (sitting in the corner of the room with my camera) and said I had "very interesting people with me."

"Really?"

He also told me I was "intense" and that I "got stuff done." I'm not sure what that meant but it sounded good to me. Then he said that there was "California energy" all around me and that I'd definitely be going there.

"Really? Interesting."

Needless to say, I was rather intrigued, but not necessarily sold on the idea that this guy was reading my future. I mean, maybe he just figured that since I was into making films that I obviously would want to go out west - to Hollywood - eventually.

I asked Liam whether he could do a reading on me sometime and he said "Sure! Absolutely! Just call and make an appointment!"

So a couple days later I called "Women of Wisdom" and was surprised to learn that Liam was booked for the next two or three months. I didn't really want to wait that long, so I made a few more phone calls, pulled a few strings and eventually managed to land a reading with Liam two weeks later at a place called "The Healing Moon" in Norwood, MA.

Like "Women of Wisdom", "The Healing Moon" is a "wellness center" where people do yoga and Reiki and engage in other holistic healing practices. There is also a small gift shop where they sell New Agey sorts of things, like crystals, rocks, minerals, angelic figurines and other items that would probably make the common Joe Six-Pack raise some eyebrows.

I met up with Liam in the gift shop and he led me into a peaceful room with dim lighting and an artificial fountain that sounded like a small brook running deep in the middle of the wintry woods. I don't know if it was because of the fountain sounds or maybe the good Feng Shui, but the room was seriously one of the most relaxing environments I had ever been in.

"All right, let's get started," said Liam as we sat down at a small table with cushioned chairs.

And so we began....

The session started with Liam introducing me to my main "spirit guides". In layman's terms, a spirit guide is basically like a guardian angel. The theory (proposed by meta physicists) is that these guides help us with our endeavors and also protect us from harm. Oftentimes, guides are family members who have died either far back in the past or during our lifetime. But many of our guides are also non-family members who help us with our work or hobbies. A musician, for example, is likely to have ex-musicians as guides, as well as writers to help them write lyrics, and maybe even philosophers who help them convey complex ideas through their music.

Anyway, Liam introduced my first spirit guide as being a "maternal" figure who didn't sound very familiar to me, though Liam ultimately determined that it was probably my great grandmother on my mother's side (whom I had never met). He said she was on the short side, had great skin, was very pleasant and uplifting, and also very religious.

"OK," I thought to myself. "I guess that could be true." But so far I wasn't very impressed. In order for me to take Liam as legit, he needed to talk about somebody I actually knew, not some person who may or may not be a great grandmother of mine. I needed something more concrete before I definitely took this guy for real.

Liam proceeded to skip over my second guide (whom he had trouble identifying) and went immediately to my third guide, whom he identified as my dead grandfather (my mother's dad)! And just as he started to speak with him my other dead grandfather (my dad's father) supposedly "came through" to talk as well! Yes, both of my grandfather's were supposedly in the room with us!

Needless to say, I was pretty damn shocked about all this, though still very skeptical. After all, Liam could have just taken a shot in the dark and guessed that one or both grandfathers could be my guides. Maybe he got lucky. I didn't want to feed into it too much, so I remained stoic and conservative with my reactions.

But then Liam proceeded to describe each respective grandfather's personality/physical build/interests/quirks in detail and with eerie accuracy. He told me one grandfather was more social and the other one was very military (true). One was bald and the other had a full head of hair (also true). The military one was surrounded by water (yes, he was the captain of a ship) and the other one liked the beach (true). He even described the different ways in which the two grandfathers passed. One "went the way he wanted" while the other had a "tougher passing".

Although I tried to maintain my composure, I was completely blown away by what I was hearing. Liam was dead-on with his descriptions!

Here is the video of this section:




After listening to my grandfathers speak for a while, another shock came my way:

"Who's John?" asked Liam. "They keep on saying, 'Say John. Say John. He'll know what we mean.'"

And, indeed, I did know what they meant...or at least I thought I did. See, for the past few months I had been thinking about the possibility of spirit guides and also thinking about who mine would be (if they actually existed). For some reason - and don't ask me why - I always thought the ex-filmmaker John Cassavetes, the so-called "godfather" of the American Independent Film movement, may have been with me. This was partly because I was so drawn to him as a filmmaker and also because I felt that we thought eerily alike. Now, of course I never told anybody about this. They would have thought I was nuts. But if I had to (I mean HAD TO) guess who one of my spirit guides was, I would have probably said it was Cassavetes...possibly.

So when Liam said "Who's John?" the first person to enter my mind was, of course, John Cassavetes. But I didn't want to admit it right away. I wanted Liam to describe this "John". And he did...with more eerie accuracy.

He said John was a young, good-looking man who died too early (Cassavetes died at 59), loved women and was very flirtatious (true, Cassavetes made women the main focus of much of his work), worked hard and played hard (very true), didn't take good care of himself (also true, as he died of cirrhosis), smoked like a fiend (he was a chain smoker, basically), and was an artist (of course). He also said that I admired this "John's" work and there were shades of his work in my own work (incredibly true).

Overall, it sounded a lot like Cassavetes. The only thing that threw me off was that Liam said he saw a lot of music with him and that he thought he might have been a musician. This was not true. Cassavetes was a filmmaker and an actor (you may remember his role as the husband in ROSEMARY'S BABY), though he loved music and listened to it all the time, which is what Liam may have been picking up on.

Whether it was Cassavetes or not, this "John" was ultimately identified as being my spirit guide number-two, right behind my great grandmother and in front of my grandfathers. Crazy stuff.

Here is the video for this section. There is more about Cassavetes in parts three and four where it is more definitively confirmed that the "John" is, indeed, Cassavetes:






After the introduction to Cassavetes, Liam started to talk about my future and my work and how he saw me in California. He also told me there was a beautiful actress with me as a guide, somebody from the 1920s or 30s. Apparently a book I had written (about Hollywood) attracted a lot of ex-Hollywood spirits to me and they helped me out with it. Why me? Who knows...

Oh, and apparently I was in California before. In a past life....


Here is the video for this section:





After discussing my future in California and Cassavetes some more, Liam gave me shock number three. All of a sudden - out of the blue - Liam said, "You have Alfred Hitchcock with you!"

"Alfred Hitchcock????"

"Yeah, he hangs out with you."

Of course it goes without saying that I was completely knocked on my ass by this (figuratively speaking). I mean, at least with Cassavetes I sort of had a tiny inkling that he may have been a guide of mine, but Alfred Hitchcock?! Legendary director Alfred Hitchcock?! The guy who made PSYCHO and VERTIGO and THE BIRDS and God knows what else??? This was pretty intense.

"You must be all about detail," explained Liam. "There are a lot of parallels between you and him. He's philosophical like you and you try to get messages across like he did. He's going to help you with Lighting and color."

"Yeah, well...I guess that makes sense," I said to Liam, but I wasn't really sure if it actually made sense.

"Wow, that one really shocked me," said Liam. "He's all around you."



Here is the video for this section:





The reading eventually came to an end and I told Liam I was incredibly impressed with what I had seen. I mean, this guy was so dead-on about so many things it would have been extremely difficult for me to call him a phony.

I subsequently left "The Healing Moon" feeling...well, incredibly weird. If what Liam said was true, I am not alone when I am alone. I am supposedly walking around with the spirits of John Cassavetes and Alfred Hitchcock (not to mention the spirits of my grandfathers and a bunch of other people) by my side. It's pretty hard to comprehend, but at the same time it's a really cool feeling.

And maybe it all sort of makes sense. I mean, what really happens to us when we die? If there is an afterlife, then do we just sit on our ass, like in a hot tub or something with tons of babes around us (or hunks if you're a woman)? Surely we would want to make ourselves useful in some way. So maybe this is what we do. We help others who are alive. Why? I'm not really sure.

Some meta physicists view life on earth as a sort of school where we constantly come down here (over the course of several lifetimes) to learn certain lessons, go through different types of experiences, all with the ultimate intention of growing into the most intelligent and wisest soul we can possibly be. In other words, the meaning of life is to learn and experience, so that in the greater scheme of things our soul grows to the most advanced level possible.

So maybe our "guides" help us with this growth. And we help our guides with their own growth. It's, like, something we HAVE to do if we want to progress on a spiritual level. After all, Clarence didn't get his wings until he helped George out with his problems on earth (allusion is to IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE if you didn't get it). Maybe we're both helping each other in a way. And we switch roles as the guides and the guided. And we grow in the process of playing both roles....

Anyway, this is all food for thought, but not necessarily something I one-hundred-percent believe in at this point in time. I feel the need to investigate further. In part three of the video, Liam told me I had been in California during a past life of mine. I'm curious as to who I was and whether I was there recently, like within the past 100 years when the film industry was alive and kicking. Was I a filmmaker or director? Actor? Musician? Or maybe I was a Mexican or Native American who was there a long time ago. Maybe a dude in the gold rush. Who knows?

...

On my way home from "The Healing Moon" I zoned out for a second in my car and took a wrong turn onto a web of side streets. I suddenly found myself on a street that looked very familiar. It was the street where my grandparents lived before they moved into a condo many years ago. In fact, most of the memories I have of my grandfather are products of the time he spent at this house. And the weird thing is that I had actually forgotten how to get to it!

Perhaps I'm being a tad melodramatic, but it's almost as though my grandfather led me to the house, as a sort of sign. It was a way of telling me that everything that had just happened with Liam REALLY just happened.

Response to Scott Brown's Win

Journalists are writing that Brown's win over Martha Coakley was an indication that people have a diminished confidence in Obama's agenda after his one year in office. But are they really disillusioned with the Obama Administration? Or with reality itself?

After such an energetic and exciting 2008 presidential campaign, we all expected Obama to surge into office with his "new hope" attitude, wave his magic wand and solve all the nation's problems with the drop of a hat. But we were disappointed when this didn't happen. We failed to recognize that Obama's policies needed more time to be put into action and work themselves out. After all, one short year isn't enough time to clean up after the Bush Administration's eight years of incompetence, nor is it enough time to deal with issues like Health Care, which has basically been a doomed issue for years now.

So along came Scott Brown and we were quickly swept off our feet by his celebrity-like charms. We were attracted to his energetic personality with the good looks and all-American attitude (so much more interesting a persona than Martha Coakley; I mean, heck, this guy knew Curt Schilling wasn't a Yankees fan!). With such hunkish, pick-up-truck-driving charisma, Brown certainly appeared to possess the magic wand...but ultimately he's not going to get things done any faster or any more effectively than any other mortal being.

The disillusioning reality of the matter is that NOBODY has a magic, problem-solving wand that can instantaneously solve problems, and switching from the political Left back to the Right - so quickly - is just going to be counterproductive in the long run. We need to choose one direction and stick to it...at least for a little while longer than one brief year.

If we elected Obama in 2008 because we wanted change, then we have to be accepting of the amount of time it may take for this change to occur, and also accepting of the risks that may come along with it (things like more taxation and more government control for health care reform). But maybe Brown's win over Coakley means we don't really want change. Maybe the idea of change sounds good, but the reality of change is much too scary for us to handle....

Lefty's Christmas

Yes, I also write children's stories.

This is a fun story to read at your Christmas party, especially if you have a lot of kids there. What you do is form a large circle or a couple smaller ones (depending on how many people you have) and you pass a small prize/gift of some sort around the circle (like some candy or a gift certificate or whatever). One person reads the story and every time you hear a 'right' you pass the prize one person to the right. Every time you hear a 'left' you pass it one person to the left. You also pass the prize when you hear words like "write" and "all right". The reader reads through the whole story and the person who ends up with the prize gets to keep it.



Lefty's Christmas
by Matt Burns


It was the night before Christmas and I was giddy as anything because Santa Claus was coming and I had asked for some really cool presents. I was particularly hoping to find a left-y pair of scissors in my stocking because I was left-handed and all I could find in the stores these days was things for right-handed people. I was convinced that the stores had all decided they didn’t like left-handed people and that made me feel very sad because, hey, I write with my left hand and I’m down-right proud of it, OK?

The clock struck ten and I realized it was probably time for me to get right into bed because it would be really bad if Santa came down the chimney and found me right there on the couch. He might get angry and not give me my left-handed pair of scissors. Maybe he’d be so furious that he’d actually have the nerve to give me a right-handed pair of scissors instead. No, I definitely didn’t want that to happen, so I figured I better get right to bed...and fast. But, first, I figured I better write Santa a quick note, reminding him that I am not a right-handed man, just in case he mistook me with another person somewhere out there who asked for a new pair of right-handed scissors. I also figured I’d tell him to go right ahead and help himself to some cookies in the kitchen that are located in the cabinet to the right of the refrigerator. Oh, and I’d also inform him that the milk was on the right side of the refrigerator, but give it a whiff first, as I may or may not have left it out for a about five hours straight earlier that day and it may have turned sour. Whoops.

So I went to write a quick note on a piece of paper, but I realized I had left the Christmas lights on and it wasn’t right to do that because the tree could catch fire and my Christmas would be ruined. So I went and shut the lights off and then finally went to write the note and then I had a glass of water and then I retired to my bed.

As you might expect, I didn’t fall right asleep because I was just so excited over the thought of waking up in the morning and finally owning my own pair of left-handed scissors. Oh, the thought of finally holding a left-handed pair of scissors in my left hand and cutting through all sorts of paper with my left hand...it was a thought that made my heart race with excitement.

After what seemed live ever, I fell into a deep sleep and dreamt about a world where left-handed people outnumbered right-handed people. Finally, the left-handed people could be left alone to appreciate the fact that God had made them left-handed. And the right-handed people could - for once - experience how it felt to be the oddballs of society. My dream then evolved into a scene where I made fun of the right-handed people. I knew this wasn’t right, but it made me feel good - after all these years of being ridiculed - to give these right handed people a taste of their own medicine.

Right before I was about to have another one of these awesome dreams I was suddenly awoken by a loud scream coming from somewhere in the right wing of my house.

“Oh the humanity! He left the fireplace roaring! Aaaaaaahhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhh! Oh!”

I jumped right out of bed, ran right down the hallway and realized the noises were coming from the living room where I turned on the light and couldn’t believe what I saw:
It was Santa Claus, hopping around the living room, nursing his right leg in pain.
“Santa Claus!” I shouted. “Are you all right?”

“Does it look like I’m all right? You left the fireplace roaring and it burned my foot!”

Oh no. He was right. I HAD left the fireplace running. How stupid of me!

“I’m so sorry, Santa!” I shouted. “I completely forgot about the fireplace. I should’ve put the fire out but I was just so excited about you coming, I must have forgot!”

“Just fetch me some water, will you?” shouted Santa.

“Yes, right away, Sir!”

I made a quick right out of the living room and another right into the kitchen, grabbed a mop bucket from the right cabinet beneath the sink and filled it with some water. Then I ran right back into the living room:

“Here’s the water!”

“Ouch!” yelled Santa. Pour it on my right boot!”

I did what he told me to do, and the boot steamed uncontrollably.

“Oh, that’s better. That’s better,” he said as he took a seat on the couch to rest.

“Again, I’m so sorry, Santa.”

“Oh that’s all right.”

“Where does it hurt?”“

“My right foot. It’s probably got third-degree burns.”

“Your right foot?”

“That’s right.”

“I thought your boots were fire-resistant.”

“Oh, they used to be. But the economy’s been hitting us hard in the North Pole. I had to go with a cheaper pair of boots this year. They don’t protect me against fire.”

“That’s terrible. It’s all my fault!”

“Yeah, it probably is. There’s no way I can deliver what’s left of the presents tonight with my right foot in the shape it is.”

“Does this mean I’m not going to get my left-handed pair of scissors?”

“You’ll be lucky if you get a right-handed pair of scissors,” said Santa. “You’ve been a naughty boy, leaving the fireplace roaring like that.”

“Well, how can I make this wrong a right?”

“I’m afraid there’s no way to make the wrong a right. Unless...”

“Please tell me, dearest Santa.”

“Unless you deliver what’s left of the presents...yourself.”

“You mean...be Santa Claus...for the night?”

“I’m afraid it’s the only way.”

“Tell me Santa...If I do this for you...will I get my left-handed pair of scissors?”

“Yes, my son....I’ll probably throw in some left-y golf clubs and maybe a left-y hockey stick as well.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

“If you save Christmas for me I will give you all the left-handed products I can possibly think of.”

“All right! Awesome!” I exclaimed.

So I gave Santa a bathrobe that he could change into so I could put on his Santa suit and, within minutes, I found myself on the roof to my house, right in the back of Santa’s sleigh, holding the reins to his reindeer.

“Who are you?" shouted Rudolph from the front of the pack.

“Sorry fellas...Santa hurt his right foot in the fireplace and he left me to finish the job of delivering the presents to all the boys and girls around the world.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Donner. “This doesn’t feel right at all!”

“Listen Donner, don’t give me any sass! I need your full cooperation tonight because I’ll be darned if I’m going to come home tomorrow and not have my own personal pair of left-handed scissors.”

“What do you mean?”

“Santa said the only way he would give me my own personal pair of left-handed scissors was if I made the wrong I did him a right. So I’m going to deliver all the presents tonight. All right? Sound good?”

“Whatever you say...I just want the children to be happy. That’s all.”

“Well, they will be, Donner. Nobody will be left without a present tomorrow morning if you follow my orders and play by my rules. OK?

“Ok.”

“All right now. On Donner! On Blitzen! On Rudolph! On whatever your name is up there! Make a quick right off my roof and then go right and then take another right and then take a right out of my street and then take a left at the train bridge and then a right at the Deli and then a right and then another right and I think a quick right will get you to the Atlantic Ocean and what do you say we start our journey in London, shall we?”

“Right away, Santa!”

Needless to say, I was rather excited. I had never been to London before and I thought maybe they’d have more left-handed people there than in America. After all, Europeans drive on the left side of the road, so it appears as though the people there generally prefer left to right. Yes, it felt like Europe was the best place to start the night. It just felt right.

Although I was a bit rusty at first, I handled the sleigh rather well and we got to London in no time. I delivered a bunch of presents to all the little girls and boys and everybody was left happy the next morning. All right, I have to admit (and please don’t tell Santa) that I refused to deliver any right-handed pairs of scissors to the children who asked for them. These were naughty little children who more than likely made fun of left-handed children on a regular basis and they didn’t deserve to receive any presents, anyway.

But, yes, to make a long story short, all the presents were delivered on time and the next morning I was delighted to find a pair of left-handed scissors in my stocking. Finally I could start cutting up loads and loads of paper with my left-hand! Thanks, Santa! Right on!

Burns' Statement on Tiger Woods

Since everybody else seems to be talking in statements these days, I guess I will too:


"I guess when a person like Tiger Woods is paid millions of dollars by a company to be a positive role model and sell products he is basically selling away his privacy. Consumers have a right to know that the spokesman for Nike or Gillette is a scumbag in his 'private life' because we buy these products with the thought in mind that Woods is somebody we look up to and whose opinion we trust. If we're denied information about the 'transgressions' in his private life, it's like false advertising."

-- Matt Burns

Regrettable Night at the Boston View Motel

Over the past few years or so I have shared many fascinating stories via blogging...stories of how I once made out with a woman almost old enough to be my grandmother and stories of how I once urinated dark-red blood and thought I was going to die...and stories of how I once barged in on a grown man dropping heat in a Starbucks bathroom (he failed to say 'I'm in here!' when I knocked)...and stories of how I was once convinced I had gonorrhea for a hellish period of three months but never did. Wait a minute...I never wrote about that latter story. Forget I ever said anything about that. It never happened. Well, yes it did, but I never got an STD test in the ER that involved getting a long Q-tip-type device jammed down my snake eye. All right, that happened as well, but I never got a thorough butt exam immediately after getting the STD exam for a reason I'm still trying to figure out, as it had nothing to do with the symptoms I was experiencing. I'm also trying to figure out why the "doctor" who did it wasn't dressed like a doctor. Come to think of it, he was dressed more like a custodian, and his name tag said "Chester"....

By the way, I'm clean.

Anyway, after the events of this past weekend, I have another story to add to the list: how I got drunk at a dive bar and ended up at the forty-dollar-per-night motel next door with a forty-year-old crippled woman desperate for sex. Yes, this is a good one, so pull up a seat and enjoy.

It was Saturday night and I started the evening off with a forty-ounce bottle of Mickey's, which is a Malt Liquor that has the tendency to mess me up something nasty. I met up with some friends in the "man-den", which is a term for my friend Russ' bachelor-pad basement that has everything from a beer fridge to four different video game consuls (PS2, Xbox, Nintendo 64 and Nintendo Game Cube). We drank, we laughed, I played a little PS2, and - after an hour or so - we headed out to the local dive bar: a place called Clyde's.

Clyde's is a claustrophobic little joint that usually gets uncomfortably crowded, but is a good place to go if you're looking for a mean between the "clubby scene" (i.e. hambone tool-bags and dance floors with dry humping), and the young professional scene (i.e. "classy" girls who you never have a chance with because they're looking for Johnny Professional who makes a secure living in the financial district, those friggin' skanks). Yes, at Clyde's you can get a beer, smoke a cigarette, not be judged, listen to some non-clubby tunes and maybe talk to a cute girl or two who isn't looking for the next Johnny Wall Street, those friggin' skanks.

Anyway, I arrived at Clyde's with two of my friends (Russ and Andy), already with a good, solid buzz in my system due to the Mickey's. I then proceeded to buy a beer. And another beer. And then another beer. Pretty soon, I was feeling mighty fine. And it was at around this point that a lady hobbled into the bar with a cane and - for some reason - immediately gravitated towards me.

"You look like you know how to party."

"You know it," I said, kidding around, and also incredibly stewed.

The lady wore a Patriots shirt and had whitish hair, palish skin, very red lipstick and smelled like a cheap deodorizer - kind of like what you would find in Kitty Litter - and it made my nose itch a bit. To be truthful, there could have been a urine-type scent mixed in there as well (maybe cat pee), but I don't want to elaborate on that too much, because I'm trying to be nice to this poor crippled woman.

"I have three hundred dollars and I'm looking to party," she said.

"What do you mean? You want drugs?"

"Well...drugs...and something else...."

I immediately told her that I couldn't help her out with the drugs, because I thought she may have been a cop or working for the cops or something along those lines (not to mention the fact that I don't do drugs and don't know where to get anything drug-related). She then proceeded to tell me how she used to be a mason and fell three stories off a building and has had several surgeries and is in an incredible amount of pain and needs something strong to take the edge off. I suggested she try extra-strength Tylenol or something like Advil with an anti-inflammatory, but she said she tried all that shit and it doesn't help her in the least.

My memory of our conversation from this point forward is a little hazy, what with the alcohol and everything. I know that more words were exchanged and more beers were sipped and she may have rubbed up against me a few times and then, at some point, she started telling me how her husband had died four years ago and that I reminded her of him and that "it's been so long" [since she's gotten laid].

"I'm staying at the motel next door. I have two condoms," she whispered to me.

Now, of course, if I was sober, my brain would have immediately registered the fact that this was an incredibly bad idea (well, I'm pretty sure it would have). But I wasn't sober. I was rather trashed and pretty much part-retarded. Drinking not only gives me the most amazing pair of beer goggles in the history of beer goggles, but it also makes me incredibly horny. Like, REALLY horny. Unnaturally horny. Probably no less horny than a man on Meth (from what I understand, Meth makes you want to hump anything in your path and take no prisoners).

So, instead of saying "I'm not interested" to this lonely woman whose husband allegedly died four years ago, I said...

"Um...I don't know...."

"Come on, it's been so long," she pleaded with me.

To be truthful, I'm not really sure what kind of thoughts were going through my mind. On one hand, I felt bad for this woman and wanted to do a Good-Samaritan-type-thing, go back to her motel, give her some company and try to make her less lonely. But, to be truthful, I think I was seriously contemplating having sex with her. Again, I was drunk, and when I'm drunk, my brain is located between my legs.

"I'm with my friends," I said.

"Well, bring them over. I have a box of wine and we can all party."

'OK, no harm in that', I figured to myself. 'Sure, we'll go over and party and hopefully give this poor woman a good time. And as far as anything sex-related goes, maybe it will happen, maybe it won't. I'm not gonna say it will. I'm not gonna say it won't.'

So, to make a long story short...I ended up going back to the motel with her, even though my friends advised strongly against me doing so. In fact, they had absolutely no desire to go over there for a drink. They wanted no part of this charade. So I told them to chill at the bar and I'd be back in a couple minutes. And, again, I'm not really sure what was going through my head. Maybe I DID want to have sex with her. Or maybe I simply just felt bad for her and wanted to give her some company...for a short while. Maybe a combination of the two.

Whatever it was, I know I definitely ended up in the "Boston View Motel" a few minutes later, which charges forty dollars a night for a room that smells like about thirty years worth of stale cigarette smoke and rotten sex. The motel derived its name from the fact that - on a clear day - you can see the tips of the Hancock and Prudential building in the far distance, as it is located on somewhat of a high hill. Not really much of a "Boston View", but technically, the name doesn't lie.

The crippled woman's room was accessible from the back of the motel, which was probably a good thing, just in case anybody I knew saw me walk into a place notorious for cheap prostitution and shady drug deals. With my kind of luck, one of my neighbors or aunts or uncles or grandmothers would randomly decide to go for a midnight stroll in their car, pass the Boston View, and catch a glimpse of me escorting a crippled woman into her motel room. That wouldn't have looked good at all. No way.

Before we entered her room, I helped the cripple hold her cane while she put her cigarette out on the pavement, intending to save the rest for later. She then took her keys out of her pocket and unlocked the door, which - she informed me - was directly across the hall from a family (with kids) who were paying $250 a week to live at the motel indefinitely. Maybe their house had been foreclosed and they were homeless. Such a thought depressed me. Crazy economy we're living in. Insane times.

The cripple creaked the door to her room open and the first thing I noticed as I walked into the place was that the television was already on and that there were a shitload of pain-killers everywhere I looked, especially on the night stand beside the bed. There were also cardboard boxes filled with clothes, a Pringles potato chip canister or two, and what looked like a brace for her leg. This poor woman had certainly seen better days.

"Make yourself at home," said the cripple. "I need to go to the bathroom."

"Uh...ok."

I sat at the foot of the bed while the cripple went to the bathroom and I pretended to watch the TV, but I don't remember a damn thing of what I was watching because my mind was racing with all sorts of thoughts. Whether this was all a big set up. Whether there was a boyfriend in the bathroom ready to jack my ass. Or a cop ready to arrest my ass (for no valid reason, but he'd probably come up with one). Whether I should actually have sex with this woman. Whether she was tainted with STDs. Whether I could catch crabs from just being inside the Boston View Motel. Whether I would get the cripple pregnant and have to explain the situation to my parents. Whether I should just run out of there as fast as I could.

But, then, my phone rang.

"Dude, bail!"

It was my friend Russ.

"This is not a good idea at all."

'Maybe he was right,' I thought, and for a quick moment I thought about leaving right then and there while the cripple was in the bathroom.

"I'll leave in a second," I said and then I hung up the phone.

At this point, the cripple came out of the bathroom, sat in a chair across from me and then proceeded to take her pants off.

"Is this OK?" she asked.

"Um...yeah...."

She removed her pants, only to reveal a really bruised set of legs and a bunch of scars from where she had her surgeries.

"See...look at this. And then here..."

She showed me each and every one of her scars, maybe to get sympathy, but it really just resulted in turning me off from her completely.

At this point, my phone rang again. I answered it while the cripple hopped out of her chair and scooted back into the bathroom.

"Dude what the HELL are you doing?!"

It was my friend Andy.

"Get the fuck out of there!"

"All right, I'll be out in a second," I assured him, not knowing whether I was actually telling the truth. I'm not sure why I wanted to stay. Maybe because, if I left, I knew the woman would feel like shit. The best thing to do, I figured, was to wait for her to come back out of the bathroom and then I would politely tell her that I had to go. 'Yes, that's the best way to handle this.'

So the cripple came back out of the bathroom and I stood up from the bed, took a deep breath and began to tell her I had to split...but before the words could come out, she handed me a box of (what turned out to be) Durex-brand condoms!

"It's been so long," she reiterated.

I analyzed the box and noticed that the condoms had 'vibrating rings', which is a feature I've never been privileged enough to experience. I also noticed that it was a five-pack with only two left inside. 'Where did the other three go?' I wondered. Either she was lying to me about not having sex for four years or she's had the condoms since her husband died, which - I believe - would mean they had expired long ago. Suddenly, I really wasn't feeling so good about the situation I was in.

The cripple hopped into the bed - still wearing just her underwear with a long, black T-shirt - and slid beneath the sheets. All I can remember doing is standing at the foot of the bed, staring at the box of condoms, feeling part-retarded and not really knowing what to do.

But, then, my phone rang again.

"Dude! What the fuck!"

"Who is it?" asked the cripple, who could hear the shouts coming out of the phone.

"It's...uh...um...my friends. They want me to go now."

"Let me talk to him!"

She snatched the phone out of my hand, asked who she was talking to, said she "was the owner of the household!" - whatever that meant, said something else, and maybe another thing...but the next thing I remember happening is hearing a really loud BANG! BANG! BANG! on the door.

"Jesus!" said the cripple and went to answer the door.

She opened the door and there was Andy.

"He's coming with us," he said, pointing at me.

"No, he's staying right here."

"No, he's coming with us."

"Get out of my home!" yelled the cripple and proceeded to slam the door shut, but Andy stuck his foot in the door to prevent her from doing so.

"I'm calling the cops!" she yelled.

"Yeah right you're gonna call the cops. You probably got all sorts of drugs in here."

It was at this point that I knew the situation was going very sideways and that it was only going to get uglier if I stayed. I basically meant well by "hanging out" with the cripple, but now I needed to go.

"All right, I better go," I told the cripple. "I'm very, very sorry about this. It was very nice meeting you."

More words were exchanged between Andy and the cripple, and they weren't friendly ones. All I remember are the last three things that were said:

"Next time I see you I'm going to stab you," said Andy.

"I know people who will have you killed!" yelled the cripple.

"Bring it!!!"

And that was that. We left the motel and went to get late-night bagel sandwiches at Dunkin' Donuts.

But, yes, what a disaster the evening turned out to be, and all because I was drunk and basically part-retarded. I probably never should have gone back to the motel, even to be nice. Everything turned to shit, and that woman's life is probably more miserable now after my attempt to make it less miserable. I don't feel very good about myself.

The bottom line, I think, is that you can't win with booze. You really can't. Alcohol turns me into a person I don't like and feel ashamed about when I wake up the next day. It brings out a Hyde-like personality, not that I get belligerent, but - in many ways - I get very sloppy and make bad decisions that end up doing harm to either myself or others.

In fact, it was only a few weeks ago that a woman said she "heard stories about me" and that "you're a pig, Matt Burns!" I think the "stories" she heard mainly involved an innocent make-out session with some girl in an atypical place, but let me tell you something: I never thought the words 'pig' and 'Matt Burns' would ever be used in the same sentence together. Being called a 'pig' by that woman flabbergasted the hell out of me, because I always saw myself (and was perceived by others as) a 'good' man. I mean, I did well in school and went to a decent college and took CCD classes to learn about Jesus and volunteered at a Mental Hospital and all that shit. Deep down I'm really NOT a pig (I think), but I guess, when I drink, I do display piggish behavior...often. So I can see why I could be labeled as such.

And, on some level, I guess I actually enjoyed being considered a pig...because for most of my life I've been 'good' all the time (i.e. what society considers good), whether it be in school or on a moral level, and I've always been kind of turned off by that. But, at the same time, I think I've gone too far towards the opposite extreme - become too 'bad' - and I have to maybe find some sort of a mean now. Yes, indeed. A mean.

Anyway, as far as the cripple goes...if you're reading this...I'm sorry for giving you a bad night. All I ever wanted to do was give you a good time. I never meant to hurt you in any way. Sorry. Honestly, I am. And I hope things get better for you.

As for me and drinking...it will most likely continue.