On To Christmas

I think that what I am most grateful for during this time of forced and artificial thanksgiving is myself: Horseface Steve. I'm grateful for all of the things that have been given to me, especially material blessings. For, as we all know, the path to true happiness passes down the electronics aisle at your local bankrupt retailer, skirts the Auto Mall, and ends at a big house in a nice suburb with good schools and attractive streetscaping. If you don't have all of these things, or at least a clear path to purchase or steal them, you are in a world of hurt.

I'm also grateful for those members of my family and friends that can do things for me: Horseface Steve. I'm not quite as grateful for people that don't make my material world more comfortable, and everyone else pisses me off. I'm not going to touch the topic of doing something for someone else with a ten foot pole. That's right off the table.

Finally, I'm grateful that I have been able to live a successful and gratifying life with no need to connect to a God, Higher Power, or Great Spirit of the Universe. Praying and meditating are joy-killers and unproductive. Spiritual principals take the focus off of me: Horseface Steve; and are consequently not worth my time.

On to Christmas.

What If Grandmother is a Mean Drunk?

Over the causeway and through the red light,
To Grandmother's condo we go;
The car is old,
My wife has a cold,
The kids are a pain in the ass, oh!

(Editor's note -- I'm not in the mode to try to come up with rhymes today -- I have to spend the day with my in-laws).

Over the causeway and through a stop sign,
To Grandmother's trailer we go;
She's a drunken hag,
My mother's a nag,
My sister's another no-show, oh!

Over the causeway and off of the road,
To Grandmother's nursing home;
She's throwing a fit,
My daughter's a bitch,
The turkey's under-cooked, oh!

Over the causeway and into a tree,
To Grandmother's funeral home;
It couldn't be worse,
Unless I get drunk,
On this Thanksgiving Day.

Actually, my day will be just fine. I hope that yours will be, too. But if it isn't that's OK. Don't get drunk. You'll get through it. It's just another day. Maybe if you're a Pilgrim or an Indian living in Massachusetts it would be different. Probably not. I bet there were Pilgrims sneaking off to have some moonshine.

What if Grandmother Lives in an Apartment?

Thanks: An expression of gratitude; grateful acknowledgement of something received by or done for one.

Thanksgiving is a time when loving families get together in a spirit of peace and unbelievable love for a great big Lovefest. Everything is wonderful because everybody loves each other so much. There is so much love in the air that the Love Boat spontaneously blows up. Those people only wish they could love as much as families on Thanksgiving, especially alcoholic families, who almost have the market cornered on wonderful family reunions, where everything is sure to go well. Relatives travel from far and near for joyous reunions and intimate sharing of all of our deepest, most profoundly personal affairs.

Sounds good, doesn't it? Unless you come from a family where nobody likes anybody else. Sometimes the distaste is right out in the open and leads to arguments and fistfights and cutting comments dripping with bitter sarcasm. Or a family that isn't that close, where nice people sit around uncomfortably pretending to have strong feelings for people who they would rather not be around. Forced love is almost worse than open warfare. Not everybody is close. That's OK. It's not a character flaw if you aren't crazy about your brother in law that you see once a year, on some day of Mandatory Cheer.

You're not alone during the holidays. Don't believe all of that happy go lucky horseshit that you see on TV. Better yet, turn off the TV and go take a walk. Burn off some calories and some edgy, angsty fear.

Take it easy. It isn't going to be that bad

Chronic. Progressive. Fatal.

Chronic: Suggests long duration or frequent recurrence and is used especially of diseases or habits that resist all effort to eradicate them (chronic sinusitis).

I think when I start up my heavy metal band -- the one that's going to be cheered by tens of thousands at Wembley Stadium -- I'm going to call it The Chronic Progressive Fatal Quartet. If I'm going to make my living playing death metal I better let everyone know what's coming.

While I'm sipping coffee at a meeting, my disease is out in the parking lot doing push ups. One handed push ups, with a pile of bricks on its back, while suspended over a pit of Indian spitting vipers. My alcoholism keeps on coming. It's very macho. It can take a lot of punishment. It does not discourage easily.

It's not easy watching the end game. All active alcoholics take a tremendous emotional beating. We all know fear, what it's like to be irritable, restless, and discontented. Most of us take a lot of physical punishment: hangovers and cirrhosis and drug overdoses and the like. Some of us take it all the way. We just give up and let ourselves die. No one can help us.

Slow Motion Suicide. Which would also be a really cool band name.

Routine: A regular, more of less unvarying procedure, customary, prescribed, or habitual, as of business or daily life.

Luckily for me, I'm a routine guy by nature. In fact, capitalization would not be inappropriate in this case. Call me The Routine Guy. I have been known to floss in the jungle, take ice cold showers if the hot water is out, and eat a yogurt every day. Would it kill me to not floss today? It might. Under duress, I would consider using a different brand of floss or flossing right before bed instead of right after dinner or trying a different flossing technique, but I will, I must floss. Do not get between me and my floss.

Fortunately, I have been able to translate these almost dangerously compulsive habits into a strength of sorts. There are no stray pieces of spinach stuck between my back molars, for instance. This is a good thing, particularly if you have to look at me for any length of time, which many people consider unpleasant even when they don't have to ignore the occasional piece of vegetation. My nickname is Horseface, after all.

I'm totally off track this morning. See what the topic of flossing does to me? The only idea was to talk about how important it was for me to develop a healthy routine in my recovery program, and I picked up the thread of flossing, so to speak, and I was off and running.

This will all make sense tomorrow.

I Need More Stuff

Stuff: Worthless objects; refuse; junk.

My skepticism with The Promises is burning with a white hot heat today. I'm choking on the idea that I can be happy by dedicating my life to the happiness and well-being of others and by continuing to foster a deeper, more profound relationship with my concept of a Higher Power. It feels like I have a big chicken bone stuck in my craw. Not a little stuck, either, but wedged in there sideways and caught on my epiglottis. I'm horking and hacking and it's not going anywhere.

Surely I can be happy by pursuing my own wants. Things. That's the key. If I just keep accumulating more things then I will discover the meaning of life. I will break through and experience nirvana. You don't have to do all of that yoga crap or experiment with transcendental meditation to discover where happiness resides. It's stuff.

I can see that in our society that the happiest people have the best possessions. A good indicator of satisfaction is the size and cost of one's automobile. You are very happy if you have an expensive car. You will become more miserable with a small car and the pain will increase as the thing ages. If you take the bus, you might as well give up and resign yourself to a life of misery.

Get more stuff!

Laser Beams of Ire

OK, I've established the fact that I don't like anybody but I want them to love me. In my opinion I've made a compelling case, with airtight logic and a simplicity born of an almost otherworldly intelligence, common sense, and insight. The general population is highly flawed and patently offensive, justifying my distaste. Other than that, they're OK. They just need to make some improvements.

Unfortunately, the vigor with which I pursue my vendetta against my fellow man almost always slops over into my own personal space, which is where it becomes a real problem. It is, as I hope I have made clear, all about me. The emotional energy that I expend shooting laser beams of ire against mankind ends up bouncing off some kind of force field and hitting me right in the eye.

I can't dislike people. It isn't right and it isn't fair. Everybody is fine, doing the best they can to maneuver through the minefield that's life. Just because I manage to get through a couple of days without stumbling onto a buried explosive -- despite my best efforts to detonate every bomb within a hundred miles of my current location -- doesn't mean that I know what I'm doing.

Clearly, I don't know what I'm doing.

People! People Who Need People!

Like: To have a taste or fondness for; be pleased with; have a preference for; enjoy.


Generally speaking, I don't like other people. While this may sound like a character defect, it is important to note that when I was drinking I didn't like any people. I wasn't speaking generally at that point. I was speaking specifically. It actually made my interpersonal relationships pretty easy. You didn't have to wonder whether or not I liked you. I didn't even have to know you. I could work up a great distaste by the car that you drove or the restaurants that you frequented.


In one of the great ironies of life, it was very important that you liked me. I'm a people pleaser with a tremendous need to be loved who can't stand anyone. I wanted you to draw close and show your love so that I could work up a bad taste in my life and push you away. I would immediately seek out someone else that I didn't like and rip you a new pie hole behind your back. I saw no contradiction in this kind of behavior.

Today I'm proud to announce that I only dislike about 85% of the human race.

I'm Sorry. Really, I Am.

Apology: An acknowledging and expressing regret for a fault, injury, insult, etc.; asking a person's pardon.

I'm not real big on the whole apologizing thing. The main obstacle is that I don't think that I do anything wrong, which would preclude apologizing for anything that I have done, which by definition would not require that I admit fault. If you have been harmed in some way, well, so be it. It's unlikely that I'm the cause of that injury. You can't prove a thing. Sue me if you think you can win in a court of law. Then try to find me. Try to collect. Lots of people have, few with any success.

I have to admit that my least favorite step would be the one that asks that I make direct amends to people that I have harmed. Can't I send a proxy to apologize for anything that I might have done? Can't I assume that you'll get over it on your own? One of my favorite slogans is: "Maybe if I pull my drapes and turn off the phone, it'll go away."

I think that the main reason that I try to act well is that I hate making amends. I don't like admitting that I'm wrong, even when I am. I harbor a sneaking suspicion that you are the real cause of any problems that exist. And to add insult to injury, sometimes people don't accept my apology. That's a crime against humanity. Off to the Hague you go.

Good behavior doesn't have any inherent attraction for me.

An Elaborate Scam

Promise: An oral or written agreement to do or not to do something; vow.


I was very excited when I first heard about The Promises. If I was going to give up my long standing relationship with my true love -- alcohol -- and quit cheating with my hot mistress -- drugs -- I had high expectations of a pretty dramatic payoff. Promises to me meant that I was going to get what I had always wanted to get. I was looking for big houses and powerful jobs, willing sex partners, and exotic Italian sports cars. I graciously agreed to accept a German model if it was absolutely necessary.


I couldn't believe the crap that showed up in the book. I had to read the text a couple of times. My jaw dropped. I groaned. I even drooled a little bit. I paged forward, scanning the book for the real promises. No more drugs and alcohol, and the reckoning is a sense of purpose? Lack of self-interest? Relationships with God and my fellow man?

Holy shit, what a scam. These people must be the greatest salesmen in the world. They think they can get me to give up drinking just so God can start doing for me what I can't do for myself. I didn't need God to do anything except start delivering the goods.

No Rest for this Wicked Drunk

Insidious: Characterized by treachery or slyness; crafty; wily; more dangerous than seems evident.

Today my alcoholism is looking for a foothold. It doesn't care that much about a big victory right away. It wants to start the process. I'm a big piece of granite and my alcoholism is a tiny patch of green moss hiding in a cold, dark, damp crevice, out of sight. I'm a pretty tough rock and I laugh at the insignificant moss. Each day, imperceptible to me, it grows just a little bit bigger. Then it catches a drifting seed which takes root. The seed grows into a tree, which one day splits me in two. "How the hell did that happen?" I think. "I sure didn't see that coming."

When I got to AA the fog machine was at full capacity. I couldn't see two inches in front of my face. I got sober and blew all the fog away with some big turbo recovery exhaust fans. But my alcoholism keeps blowing little puffs of fog back into the room, hoping I won't notice. It puffs at night or when I'm distracted. It never stops puffing. Every day I fan the fog away. Every day my alcoholism tries again. It never quits. It is inexhaustible.

Not today. Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

Alone Again, Naturally

Isolate: To set apart from others; place alone; in medicine, to place (a patient with a contagious disease) apart from others to prevent the spread of infection.

I'm going to assume that Webster's is talking about minor conditions like the Black Death or bubonic plague when it mentions contagious diseases. Alcoholism laughs at the Black Death. It eats the Black Death for a bedtime snack. It cleans its teeth with the bones of those who have died from typhoid fever. Alcoholism thinks leprosy is a board game. The Four Hideous Horsemen won't hang out with alcoholism. They don't want to catch it. They know a disease when they see one.

Alcoholism is populated with people who are inexorably drawn to aloneness. We like to steal away and think. We like to turn things over in our minds. We figure stuff out. We come up with solutions. Unfortunately, the most egregious shit starts to make sense if we can just dedicate enough time alone to figuring it out.

This isolation can take many forms. The best kind, of course, is when we are actually all alone, but many of us have developed the ability to feel apart no matter what the circumstances are. We can be in a crowd of people and feel alone. Alone is a state of mind for an alcoholic. It's who we are.

This is why we have meetings. This is why the telephone exists.

So You Wanna Be a Rock and Roll Star?

Dream: A fanciful vision or fancy of the conscious mind; daydream; reverie.


I am a dreamer. I live in a dream world. Fanciful images flit through my mind, coming and going like a thief in the night. I wish I could say I have no control over this process, which would make me conventionally insane, but I actually encourage these thoughts, which means I'm trying to make myself insaner. Reality is a drag and a bummer. I have no use for reality


People see me sitting quietly, my brow furrowed in concentration, staring into the distance, and assume that I am deciphering arcane problems or pondering the great mysteries of abstract philosophical theories. Actually, I'm imagining myself prancing back onto the stage at Wembley Stadium for my ninth or tenth encore -- a wold record -- as lead guitarist, singer, and songwriter of the Incredible Horseface Steve Rock and Roll Revue.

I bask in the glory that is Horseface Steve.

Worker Among Workers

Special: Unusual; uncommon; exceptional; extraordinary.


Today I feel special. I don't think that I should have to do all of the stuff that ordinary people do. I want to retire rich today, on my private island in some tropical paradise. It never rains there. The grass doesn't have to be cut and I can eat whatever I want without getting fat or waking up at 3AM, regretting my use of Dave's Insanity Sauce on my huevos rancheros. I am certainly not going to exercise, which is time consuming and boring and frequently painful. And I can assume everyone has a good idea what I think about work.

I still find myself frustrated from time to time about the general pace and tenor of life. I start adding up all the time I spend doing things that I have to do or should do, and it comes up to a hell of a lot of time. Almost all of the hours in an ordinary day, to be honest with you. This seems patently unfair. If I have to decide between lying in a hammock on my tropical island or cleaning out the cat litter box -- which I make my wife do, by the way, so I'm not sure what I'm complaining about in this particular instance -- the choice is clear.


It has never occurred to me that for most of us life is mostly fulfilling obligations. The trick is developing my spiritual being, my care and love for others, so that I actually take some pleasure in being one of the masses. Our literature suggests that we have never tried to be an ordinary person.


I'm so extraordinary.

I'm Not Sure This is Going to Work Out . . .

Optimism: The tendency to take the most hopeful view of matters or to expect the best outcome in any circumstance; practice of looking on the bright side of things.

The first few days after an election are usually marked by an incredible surge of pessimism in the folks on the losing end of any campaign. It's like Dawn of the Dead for politicos. People who normally behave pretty well rise from their graves, all glassy eyed and dyspeptic, dripping blood and brains, and start predicting gloom and doom. They dissect every comment. They analyze every phrase. They look for the Downside.


When I first walked into The Rooms I was sure that this wasn't going to work for me. Nobody could say anything to change my mind. I argued about everything. I debunked every possibility. I didn't listen to anything anyone said because my mind was fully engaged preparing my defense. I was terrified of change. I was sitting in my own poop but didn't think much of the suggestion that I get up and move. The poop might be deeper somewhere else, and stinkier.


Most of us find, of course, that we aren't very good at predicting the future. It's not part of our skill set. We find that things work out well in the long run as long as we try to do the next right thing. Sometimes we get unexpectedly good results. Sometimes we get what we want and wish that we hadn't.

Be careful what you pray for.

Winners and Losers

Election Day has come and gone. Time for the winners to sneer in the faces of the losers. Time for the losers to plot venomous acts of revenge. Time to put a human face on the concepts of Poor Loser and Arrogant Victor. Dance on the graves of the vanquished. Sabotage the plans of the triumphant. How could those idiots have voted for the other guy? How could they be so stupid?

I don't care which political party that anyone supports. The last twenty years of presidential elections have provided both sides plenty of opportunity to moan in despair and shriek in triumph. There hasn't been a lot of middle ground to occupy. It has been Them versus Us. I don't think, in my essence, that I'm any better or worse than the average partisan. I don't think I would behave any differently without the tools of my Twelve Step Program. I'm competitive. I hate to lose.

I came into Recovery awfully certain that your pathetic plan wasn't going to work. I argued until I was red in the face and steam was coming out of my ears and I fell to the ground, frothing at the mouth. You were simply wrong and I felt compelled to prove it. I wasn't interested in listening to the opinions or experience of anyone else. This was the place that I learned that if I listened to people that I disagreed with that I could learn some good stuff.

It's all going to be OK.

I'm Pretty Sure I'm Right

Compromise: A settlement in which each side gives up some demands or makes concessions.

Today I'm going to go ahead and assume that I'm right. I'm going to ignore any nagging little misgivings or concerns that someone else might have a better idea. It's just too implausible. It would be a waste of my valuable time. I might have to listen to someone else talk. Not pretend to listen, either. Actually listen. I think I did this once long ago in a blackout; but this might be euphoric recall or an LSD flashback. I seem to recall that Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin were there, which isn't a good sign.


Naturally I won't have to seek the counsel or advice of anyone else in the world. I can keep my thoughts to myself, unless I need to correct the mistakes of others, which I will have to do often and with confidence, aggression, and barely concealed disdain. If I'm right, they must be wrong. Middle ground is a myth. Compromise is for losers, people without the confidence to destroy the competition.

This tendency of mine becomes especially pronounced around election time, when I must suffer the opinions of the tragically misinformed.