September 15, 1998

I had an epiphany at 5:00 a.m. on Sunday. Jack was with me.

We were out walking so that he could make a package, when I started to reflect on all the things going on in my life. Perhaps I should not say "started to think"; it was actually a continuation of a thought process I'd had the night before; which, I suppose, was a continuation of a thought process that's been going on for most of my life.

On the pre-dawn pavement of Bloomfield Street in Hoboken, I thought about my excesses. I drink to excess, I spend to excess, I am lazy to excess, I use vulgarity to excess, I talk to excess, I pursue sex to excess, I write run-on sentences to excess.

I felt the squeezing fist of self-hate tightening its grip on my mind and guts. Mental anguish translated into physical pain and I started to feel faint and nauseous.

But I couldn't stop thinking.

I thought of the rotten things I'd said and done to Andrea. Mean things. Horrible things. Things I am too ashamed to write here. I thought of the way she loved me with all of her good heart and how I couldn't be satisfied with that love; how I couldn't return that love except when it was convenient for me.

The fist tightened some more. But again, I couldn't stop thinking.

I thought of all the friends I'd let down by making promises I couldn't keep. "Unreliable," "self-centered," a "real selfish prick" is what they surely, correctly think of me. My friends have always given me so much of their time and their spirit, but I've never done the same for them, except when it suited me.

The fist was now crushing my ribs. I was sure I was going to collapse on the sidewalk.

But I couldn't stop thinking.

Then I thought of the pain others have inflicted on me. Taunting kids then. Sneering girls now. A family of Dobermans always.

The fist of torment squeezed so hard that my heart felt like a stone. A cold stone. The pressure was so intense. My mind was spinning. I had lost a sense of where I was.

It was during that moment of maximum pain that I realized I had no core. Or, more accurately, self-loathing was my core. All of my words and deeds germinated from the stinking planter of self-hate that hangs in the black empty space bounded by my rib cage. The words and deeds grow like weeds, choking me and anchoring my soul to the gutter.

Some of the weeds are pretty, like a dandelion. My sense of humor, often caustic and jaded, is praised by my peers. Kindness is regarded as boring; a sign of intellectual weakness. Wickedness is hip. This has always been the case. St. Augustine, in his "Confessions" remarked:

...amid my fornications from all sides there sounded the words, "Well done! Well done!"

The sharper I grind my tongue, the more popular I become.

But making others laugh is a short-term high. There is no sustained peace. And after each show, I am left cold, naked, and alone on the silent, dark stage of my mind.

Men I admire--men like Fitzgerald and Kerouac--lived out lives of excess. Jack Kerouac snickered, "Nobody believes that there is nothing to believe in" implying that those who believe there is a higher purpose in life than the pursuit of immediate gratification are fools. But in "On The Road," he confesses that "I have nothing to offer the world except my own confusion." Perhaps that is the price one pays for having nothing to believe in. Again, a quote from St. Augustine fits here: "and so it is, that every disordered mind should be its own punishment." Like F. Scot Fitzgerald, Jack Kerouac died a drunk. Like Jim Jenkins, it was obvious that Kerouac was searching for something substantial to cling to; a solid foundation on which he could build his life.

Kerouac was probably doomed the day On the Road was published. From then on, people expected him to play the role of the eternal malcontent. It is what made him famous; and fame is quite a thing to give up.

I see the same thing in myself. In my pursuit of popular acceptance, I have become a caricature. A piece I might write about love and understanding would never be remembered, nor rewarded. But, to borrow one last time from S.A.:

"But if they would describe some of their lustful deeds in detail and good order and with correct and well-placed words, did they not glory in the praise they got?"

Have I not gloried in the praise I've gotten for my Broadway Jim column? I am guilty of too-often appealing to the lowest common denominator so that readers will find me amusing.

So what do I do? Do I give up my sense of humor? In many ways it is the only useful skill I have. While it has often gotten me into trouble, it has also gotten me where I am. Then again, where am I? Perhaps I would be in some better place, both mentally and physically, if I were to make a change.

But how? How can I undo the stinking tangle of weeds that is Jim Jenkins? How do I untie the Gordian knot?

Then I remembered the details of the story of the Gordian knot. It cannot be untied by surgically trying to unravel one strand from the next. Rather, it took one swift, decisive blow from a sharp sword to solve the puzzle. What human hands cannot solve, an outside force can.

It was then that I spoke aloud these words, words that surprised even me:

"I need your help God. I want to be better. But I can't do it alone."

It was the first time I'd ever called upon a higher power in my life.

Upon saying those words, I felt like I'd been lifted up. I could breathe again. The fist released it's grip.

I stood there quietly, shiftlessly, fully comprehending I was on the edge of a life moment.

Now what? Do I live a life of piety and end every conversation with "God Bless You!" That didn't feel like the right answer. I don't know why, but I just know that is disingenuous. I needed to make a fundamental behavioral change that I could stick too. I needed something that didn't feel fake, but that would turn my stinking hanging planter of a heart into a bouquet of roses.

Again, I called upon God. I asked him to give me a sign. And this time, he did, without a doubt.

I felt a tug at my wrist, which snapped me out of my daze. Jack had just pulled on his leash. In the soft light of a street lamp, he sat there staring up at me. His eyes were bright and his tail was wagging gently along the sidewalk.

That's when it struck me. I had to remake myself into Dog's image. My dog is non-judgmental. He is always affectionate. He sniffs many people, but when it comes to sexual relations, he has a very monogamous relationship with my futon. His whole existence is about making others feel good.

That's a foreign concept to many, especially around here. New York is a city of romance, but not a city of love. In this place of sneering billboards, sleazy Russians, and cynical SARAHs, Jack is the only thing that consistently makes me feel complete joy and love. I am never as happy as when I'm wrestling with Jack on the floor. He is love incarnate. Since it is said that "God is Love", it follows by the transitive property of love, that dogs are gods. Or--so as not to sound like too much of a heathen--dogs are the bearers of God's love.

So I guess what I'm telling you is that I've had a spiritual awakening of sorts. I believe in God and I think bringing some religion into my life might make me a better person. To make any real gains, I'm going to have to make some real sacrifices. I'm going to have to choose the harder right over the easier wrong.

I don't want to become a humorless Jesus Freak, but I should hold my witty tongue until I assess who I might wound with it's sharp edge. And I need to confine my lusting to my heart and not let it spill out onto the 1:00 a.m. corner of 47th and Broadway.

I can still do what feels good. Drunken evenings and casual sex are fun, but they don't have lasting positive effects. In fact, the bad usually ends up eclipsing the good. On the other hand, helping others and speaking kind words never stops feeling good.

Thank You For Listening,

Broadway Jim Jenkins