So I lived through and survived what was quite literally the worst six month period I have endured in sobriety with the exception of my first six months. I felt like I was being fed through an emotional meat-grinder, a psychological wood-chipper, a mental sausage-maker. I stayed the course because I believed I would come out the other side. I knew I would survive.
Remember: What doesn't kill you can still fuck you up pretty good.
Part of my epiphany has been an ever-increasing sense that I'm at peace with the past. I've been pretty peaceful as far as my past is concerned but the meat-grinder, wood-chipper, sausage-maker period helped me to look at a lot of relationships - with people, with places, with The Dead - that were troublesome, in ways that I didn't fully grasp. There were some endings, some remembrances, some rekindlings. I often forget to appreciate the helpful nature of pain, motivating me to do the work to get better.
Remember: It's always the darkest right before it goes totally black.
Here I am in lovely Vacation City, with a lovely life and a lovely group of friends who are DRIVING ME CRAZY at the moment.
Remember: When you shut the door on an old way of life you're kind of stuck on the other side of the door that you just shut, maybe impulsively, a little irritated even, so make sure you want to be in the next room before you exit the room that you're currently in. It may be a perfectly good room. The grass is not always greener in the next room. There may very well be no grass at all in there.
I had a Pissy Seaweed moment today. In most of my old recovery life the phone was a big tool that I used every day. I had lots of guys that I called and a bunch of them called me regularly, too. I made more calls than I received but that's OK - that's part of who I am: Phone Guy. I will say that people returned my calls without exception. I'm an ex-salesman who has absolutely no patience with people not returning my calls - I put up with that bullshit from prospects and I'm not going to put up with it from friends.
Vacation City is not a phone city. Maybe people don't use the phone as much as they used to. Maybe they use the phone a lot but they aren't calling me. Maybe they say: "Jesus Christ, when is that guy going to get the message and quit calling me?" It's not unusual to leave a voice message and get a text in return. People seem to be comfortable with not returning calls. Texting is sort of bullshit in my book - it's fine for letting someone know you're going to be late or to add something to a shopping list but it's a bullshit form of higher communication.
Remember: The light you see at the end of the tunnel might be the locomotive coming at you.
So I got some minor resentments working right now, directed at people who aren't behaving badly at all.
Remember: Don't go to a football game and bitch that they're not playing baseball.
I have this little group of friends that kind of hangs out together as a little group. I call them but they don't call me and are a little dicey about returning received phone calls. They like to do things face-to-face. So do I but not all the time and you still gotta return phone calls, for chrissake. So at the meeting this morning they approached me about going to dinner tonight, including one guy who texted a response to a phone call I made last week so he was already on a low-grade, minor shit list of mine. They all live near downtown and I live on the eastern periphery so most of the time we eat dinner downtown, but tonight we decided to eat at a really nice little Japanese restaurant right down the road from me.
(Ed Note: in the interest of not being caught lying I do have to say that we're talking about a ten minute drive instead of a twenty minute drive. Not a significant chunk of time for people like me who literally don't have anything important to do).
"I don't mind being called a liar when I'm lying or about to lie or just finished lying but NOT WHEN I'M TELLING THE TRUTH!" Homer S.
During the course of the day the location of dinner was changed to accommodate one of the guys who lives and works downtown, the new location being downtown. Well, this pissed me off unduly and I passed on the meal, like the small, petty, churlish child that I am. My history to screw myself - either by foregoing something pleasure or ladling something undesirable onto my plate - just to make some vague point that no one picks up on anyhow, unable to comprehend that I'd pitch a bitch over something so insignificant, but at least I'm listening to my own twisted inner self, goddammit!
It's hard to believe that I've made a ton of progress in not being as intolerant, impatient, aggressive, and prone to fits of anger that I used to be. I'm better now than I've ever been!
"It angries up my fists!" Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Rapacious Seaweed
Rapacious: Given to taking by force or plundering; excessively greedy; subsisting off live prey.
"Alcohol, now become the rapacious creditor, bleeds us of all self-sufficiency and all will to resist its demands. . . . Then, and only then do we become as open-minded to conviction and as willing to listen as the dying can be. We stand ready to do anything which will lift the merciless obsession from us." 12 & 12
First of all, Bill W, who wrote most of this book, is such a ham-bone. What a flair for the floridly dramatic that guy had when he was writing this stuff down. Thank god we also had humble Dr Bob to offset his rapacious attention-seeking. Truthfully, they made a good team - without Bill's relentless salesmanship the word would have struggled to travel far and wide, and without Bob's quiet reflection Bill would have pissed everyone off.
"Alcohol - the source of and solution to all of my problems." Homer S
And let's not pretend that alcohol was our friend. Alcohol was trying to kill us. Alcohol was trying to eat us. Alive. That is no friend. Maybe a friend will kill you and then eat you, but eat you alive. I guess that's why florid Bill adds the expression ". . . as willing to listen as the dying can be."
I did not enter The Program to quit drinking. I liked to drink. I came around because I was tired of feeling like shit and I hoped to be shown some kind of loophole that would allow me to drink while escaping the consequences that were becoming increasingly dire. It was the consequences that sucked, not the drinking. Or the drug use. I maintain to this day that if I could have the quality of life that I have now and drink alcohol and smoke drugs that I'd be typing this while driving to the liquor store.
Loophole: A method of escape, especially an ambiguity or exception in a rule that can be exploited to avoid its effect.
Yes! I wanted to exploit an ambiguity to escape the effect of the alcoholic bludgeoning.
I always laugh when I hear the phrase "half-measures." As in: "Half-Measures Seaweed." I came into The Program and I did a bare minimum of work until I drank. Then I did a teeny, tiny bit more work, and drank again. I kept adding little, minuscule bits of work onto my scrawny agenda, but never adding enough, always drinking, eventually drinking again. Finally, I came in and said: "Whatever I gotta do." I just did everything I was told - I bitched privately but I did what I was told to do. I was finished. I was cooked.
"Alcohol, now become the rapacious creditor, bleeds us of all self-sufficiency and all will to resist its demands. . . . Then, and only then do we become as open-minded to conviction and as willing to listen as the dying can be. We stand ready to do anything which will lift the merciless obsession from us." 12 & 12
First of all, Bill W, who wrote most of this book, is such a ham-bone. What a flair for the floridly dramatic that guy had when he was writing this stuff down. Thank god we also had humble Dr Bob to offset his rapacious attention-seeking. Truthfully, they made a good team - without Bill's relentless salesmanship the word would have struggled to travel far and wide, and without Bob's quiet reflection Bill would have pissed everyone off.
"Alcohol - the source of and solution to all of my problems." Homer S
And let's not pretend that alcohol was our friend. Alcohol was trying to kill us. Alcohol was trying to eat us. Alive. That is no friend. Maybe a friend will kill you and then eat you, but eat you alive. I guess that's why florid Bill adds the expression ". . . as willing to listen as the dying can be."
I did not enter The Program to quit drinking. I liked to drink. I came around because I was tired of feeling like shit and I hoped to be shown some kind of loophole that would allow me to drink while escaping the consequences that were becoming increasingly dire. It was the consequences that sucked, not the drinking. Or the drug use. I maintain to this day that if I could have the quality of life that I have now and drink alcohol and smoke drugs that I'd be typing this while driving to the liquor store.
Loophole: A method of escape, especially an ambiguity or exception in a rule that can be exploited to avoid its effect.
Yes! I wanted to exploit an ambiguity to escape the effect of the alcoholic bludgeoning.
I always laugh when I hear the phrase "half-measures." As in: "Half-Measures Seaweed." I came into The Program and I did a bare minimum of work until I drank. Then I did a teeny, tiny bit more work, and drank again. I kept adding little, minuscule bits of work onto my scrawny agenda, but never adding enough, always drinking, eventually drinking again. Finally, I came in and said: "Whatever I gotta do." I just did everything I was told - I bitched privately but I did what I was told to do. I was finished. I was cooked.
Monday, November 27, 2017
Sharing Seaweed
We had a "tag" meeting this morning. For the unwashed and uninitiated this is a process where an individual calls on someone else once they've finished sharing. It was a great meeting because we heard from a lot of people who don't normally share. The only drawback was that no one called on me, probably because I talk all of the time and constantly recycle the same small selection of tired, fairly obvious observations. I've quit saying "stop me if you've heard this before" because I'm offended when people stop me. I have to assume that they've heard this before.
There were maybe 50 people at the meeting and I'd guess that 25 people shared which means that I was in the bottom 50th percentile in popularity. This galled me despite my inner resolve that it really would be better for me to listen than to talk, although I say this with no conviction and a wry, sarcastic tone. Obviously everyone would be better off if I shared. I notice in the tag meeting that most people look at the ground, believing that eye contact invites an invitation to share. Maybe these people really don't want to talk or they're being falsely modest like me. Sometimes I stare daggers at the person speaking, daring them not to call me. This general technique of looking away, with a vaguely menacing air, reminds me of how I dealt with cops and parents and other people I was lying to when I was drinking - namely, if I can't see you then you don't exist. Sort of like hiding your face with your hands when an infant is around and suddenly pulling them away. The infant is like: "Wow, he was gone and - just like that - he reappears! Amazing!" This was my general mindset as a grown adult dealing with law enforcement.
Share: To give part of what one has to someone else to use or consume.
I'm not sure what I'm doing is "sharing." I think I'm just talking about myself.
Anyway, a lot of people who don't normally speak spoke. It was great. I don't know people who people who usually talk think they have such great things to share and why the quiet folks stay quiet.
Still, I can't believe no one called on me.
There were maybe 50 people at the meeting and I'd guess that 25 people shared which means that I was in the bottom 50th percentile in popularity. This galled me despite my inner resolve that it really would be better for me to listen than to talk, although I say this with no conviction and a wry, sarcastic tone. Obviously everyone would be better off if I shared. I notice in the tag meeting that most people look at the ground, believing that eye contact invites an invitation to share. Maybe these people really don't want to talk or they're being falsely modest like me. Sometimes I stare daggers at the person speaking, daring them not to call me. This general technique of looking away, with a vaguely menacing air, reminds me of how I dealt with cops and parents and other people I was lying to when I was drinking - namely, if I can't see you then you don't exist. Sort of like hiding your face with your hands when an infant is around and suddenly pulling them away. The infant is like: "Wow, he was gone and - just like that - he reappears! Amazing!" This was my general mindset as a grown adult dealing with law enforcement.
Share: To give part of what one has to someone else to use or consume.
I'm not sure what I'm doing is "sharing." I think I'm just talking about myself.
Anyway, a lot of people who don't normally speak spoke. It was great. I don't know people who people who usually talk think they have such great things to share and why the quiet folks stay quiet.
Still, I can't believe no one called on me.
Friday, November 24, 2017
Everyone Is Above Average
Service: An act of being of assistance to someone. (Ed. Note: And possible loophole. I'm someone, technically, so if I act to assist myself then that qualifies as Service. Note to self: check with sponsor).
I've been thinking some more about the concept of service, the idea of giving back instead of using my grubby little hands to seize additional stuff for my own personal use. It's such an amazing concept. It's as fascinating to me as someone asking if they could stop by to show me their new flying car. I see myself standing outside saying: "Dude, that is a fucking flying car." This is roughly equivalent to me giving of myself. Maybe it can be done but it's so outlandish that it strains credulity.
"Let me get this straight," I say, struggling to maintain composure, choking back peals of laughter, tears of joy. "You want me to do something nice for you with no guarantee that you'd do something at least as nice - preferably a lot more nice - for me?" At this point I'd collapse in a paroxysm of guffaws. I might not survive, unable to get enough oxygen down a windpipe totally obstructed by laughter.
Surveys of people often show that most of us feel like we're giving more than we're getting. This, as you can easily see, is not possible. It violates the laws of nature. As an example . . . one of my favorite surveys attempts to quantify how we view the act of driving a car - the result is that most of us think that we're very good drivers while simultaneously holding the belief that almost everyone else sucks. Again, statistically not possible.
Let's go to Vacation Town, where everyone is above average!
Part of my trouble is that I'm a Big Splash Guy - if my actions aren't amazing, earth-shattering, universe-bending, then why bother? It has to be huge or I'm not interested. No one will notice if it's not huge and the whole idea of doing good things is to be noticed. It's like those people who give money anonymously. WTF? Really?
Go Big or Go Home.
So there I am, breaking my arm patting myself on the back as I wheel my shopping cart back to the cart corral at the grocery store, making life a little easier for someone that will never be able to acknowledge my part in this act. Pick up a piece of garbage and toss it in a can. Say hello to every service person you run into. No glory, no acclaim, no notice, not doing it.
I've been thinking some more about the concept of service, the idea of giving back instead of using my grubby little hands to seize additional stuff for my own personal use. It's such an amazing concept. It's as fascinating to me as someone asking if they could stop by to show me their new flying car. I see myself standing outside saying: "Dude, that is a fucking flying car." This is roughly equivalent to me giving of myself. Maybe it can be done but it's so outlandish that it strains credulity.
"Let me get this straight," I say, struggling to maintain composure, choking back peals of laughter, tears of joy. "You want me to do something nice for you with no guarantee that you'd do something at least as nice - preferably a lot more nice - for me?" At this point I'd collapse in a paroxysm of guffaws. I might not survive, unable to get enough oxygen down a windpipe totally obstructed by laughter.
Surveys of people often show that most of us feel like we're giving more than we're getting. This, as you can easily see, is not possible. It violates the laws of nature. As an example . . . one of my favorite surveys attempts to quantify how we view the act of driving a car - the result is that most of us think that we're very good drivers while simultaneously holding the belief that almost everyone else sucks. Again, statistically not possible.
Let's go to Vacation Town, where everyone is above average!
Part of my trouble is that I'm a Big Splash Guy - if my actions aren't amazing, earth-shattering, universe-bending, then why bother? It has to be huge or I'm not interested. No one will notice if it's not huge and the whole idea of doing good things is to be noticed. It's like those people who give money anonymously. WTF? Really?
Go Big or Go Home.
So there I am, breaking my arm patting myself on the back as I wheel my shopping cart back to the cart corral at the grocery store, making life a little easier for someone that will never be able to acknowledge my part in this act. Pick up a piece of garbage and toss it in a can. Say hello to every service person you run into. No glory, no acclaim, no notice, not doing it.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Taker Seaweed
Take: To seize or capture; to get into one's hands, possession, or control, with or without force.
(Ed. Note: I like the implied threat of violence that hangs about the definition with the inclusion of "force." I'm coming to get your stuff, man - you can give it to me or I'm . . . going . . . to . . . take it).
Today is jury duty day, a day where the pride of civic duty, of doing my best to support the excellent structure of our society, mixes with the outrage that someone as important as me has to waste his time sitting in a stinking jury corral. No one is very happy about jury duty and it's only the threat of a big ass fine or arrest that compels us to be there. I'm sure if I had suffered some civic wrong or alleged criminal violation I'd want an engaged group of my fellow citizens to step up and do their part. The irony that I can expect this engagement from others while simultaneously groaning at having to spend my precious time just being considered for such service for someone else is not lost on me.
One of the judges comes in and takes ten minutes to explain the theory behind a jury trial, emphasizing how rare this kind of open legal system is in the world. It made me proud to be there but unfortunately didn't do anything to lessen my annoyance at having to be there. I spent the entire day hoping that I didn't get selected. When I received my jury summons the first thing I did was request a deferment as far into the future as was allowable. When my reminder summons arrived - the one reminding me that I wasn't getting out of this - I specifically selected the day before Thanksgiving, calculating that if there was a day when most people wanted to get the hell out of a government building that would be one of them.
In retrospect this was a brilliant move on my part - there were 23 potential cases requesting a jury trial and precisely none of them moved far enough down the system to actually impanel a jury, resulting in a dismissal two hours early. When the jury coordinator announced this, a big cheer went up in the room. I was appalled and overjoyed. I took my Proof of Jury Service paper and got . . . the . . . hell . . . out of there.
One jury summons from the ages of 18 to 58 - two jury summons in the last three years.
Not In My Backyard.
(Ed. Note: I like the implied threat of violence that hangs about the definition with the inclusion of "force." I'm coming to get your stuff, man - you can give it to me or I'm . . . going . . . to . . . take it).
Today is jury duty day, a day where the pride of civic duty, of doing my best to support the excellent structure of our society, mixes with the outrage that someone as important as me has to waste his time sitting in a stinking jury corral. No one is very happy about jury duty and it's only the threat of a big ass fine or arrest that compels us to be there. I'm sure if I had suffered some civic wrong or alleged criminal violation I'd want an engaged group of my fellow citizens to step up and do their part. The irony that I can expect this engagement from others while simultaneously groaning at having to spend my precious time just being considered for such service for someone else is not lost on me.
One of the judges comes in and takes ten minutes to explain the theory behind a jury trial, emphasizing how rare this kind of open legal system is in the world. It made me proud to be there but unfortunately didn't do anything to lessen my annoyance at having to be there. I spent the entire day hoping that I didn't get selected. When I received my jury summons the first thing I did was request a deferment as far into the future as was allowable. When my reminder summons arrived - the one reminding me that I wasn't getting out of this - I specifically selected the day before Thanksgiving, calculating that if there was a day when most people wanted to get the hell out of a government building that would be one of them.
In retrospect this was a brilliant move on my part - there were 23 potential cases requesting a jury trial and precisely none of them moved far enough down the system to actually impanel a jury, resulting in a dismissal two hours early. When the jury coordinator announced this, a big cheer went up in the room. I was appalled and overjoyed. I took my Proof of Jury Service paper and got . . . the . . . hell . . . out of there.
One jury summons from the ages of 18 to 58 - two jury summons in the last three years.
Not In My Backyard.
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
Tramping and Stomping and Such
Pivot: Something or someone having a paramount significance in a certain situation.
Tell me more about this "certain" situation.
In retrospect I see that my trip back to my home region was a huge pivot point in my life. Well, maybe not huge - but pretty big. Larger than small but not so large that it's monstrous in appearance. Anyway, I was moving in one direction and then I changed direction. At this point, obviously, I was moving in a totally different direction. Not radically different, but the direction change is definitely noticeable. You can see it from pretty far away.
Funny how many varieties of pivots that there are. I was able to re-establish myself in a few relationships of long-standing importance to me. I love the friendships that spring back into shape immediately despite long absences - these are real friends and I treasure them. The kind where you feel like you're continuing a conversation that began yesterday, as if years and years hadn't passed. Sometimes we need to see people face to face, I think. Even a voice over a phone wave isn't enough - the person has to be seen and touched, but not torched.
These were powerful, strengthening experiences for me.
I saw some people and was able to confirm a status quo in those relationships. You know, sometimes we're just done with someone or we see that a comfortable, agreeable distance is fine. This is okay. We don't have to be best friends with everyone. Relationships can fade away without leaving a sour taste in your mouth. They were good and now they're in the rear view mirror.
I made a bunch of tramps through old stomping grounds. I enjoyed the memories and was pleased that all of the tramping made me even more certain that where I am is where I'm meant to be. No regrets. I've moved into another phase and it's a good one. This is tremendously reassuring as was the joy I took in reliving past memories associated with the tramped upon places. These places were good and appropriate for the time and now they aren't and where I'm making memories now is really very nice.
All of this moved my brain around in a good way. It wasn't as if I was walking in the weeds far from any path - more like I was wandering down a path slightly oblique to the one I need to be on, and now I'm on that path.
Pretty cool.
Tell me more about this "certain" situation.
In retrospect I see that my trip back to my home region was a huge pivot point in my life. Well, maybe not huge - but pretty big. Larger than small but not so large that it's monstrous in appearance. Anyway, I was moving in one direction and then I changed direction. At this point, obviously, I was moving in a totally different direction. Not radically different, but the direction change is definitely noticeable. You can see it from pretty far away.
Funny how many varieties of pivots that there are. I was able to re-establish myself in a few relationships of long-standing importance to me. I love the friendships that spring back into shape immediately despite long absences - these are real friends and I treasure them. The kind where you feel like you're continuing a conversation that began yesterday, as if years and years hadn't passed. Sometimes we need to see people face to face, I think. Even a voice over a phone wave isn't enough - the person has to be seen and touched, but not torched.
These were powerful, strengthening experiences for me.
I saw some people and was able to confirm a status quo in those relationships. You know, sometimes we're just done with someone or we see that a comfortable, agreeable distance is fine. This is okay. We don't have to be best friends with everyone. Relationships can fade away without leaving a sour taste in your mouth. They were good and now they're in the rear view mirror.
I made a bunch of tramps through old stomping grounds. I enjoyed the memories and was pleased that all of the tramping made me even more certain that where I am is where I'm meant to be. No regrets. I've moved into another phase and it's a good one. This is tremendously reassuring as was the joy I took in reliving past memories associated with the tramped upon places. These places were good and appropriate for the time and now they aren't and where I'm making memories now is really very nice.
All of this moved my brain around in a good way. It wasn't as if I was walking in the weeds far from any path - more like I was wandering down a path slightly oblique to the one I need to be on, and now I'm on that path.
Pretty cool.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
ODAT
I was pondering the idea of One Day At A Time during my Quiet Time this morning. I am on - for the time being anyway - the sunnier side of the dark time that bedeviled me for a good five or six months. This morning I was sitting there, relaxed, content, grateful that the heavy pall of anxiety has drifted away. I enjoyed the lightness of being, the freedom, the optimism.
It is much easier staying in the minute when I'm feeling fine. I believe that staying in the minute is a great idea no matter what kind of mood I'm in but it's a lot easier when I'm in a good one. It's probably better for me to learn how to be with myself, quietly, when things look dark. Nonetheless, it's more unpleasant. I hang on to shit. When I'm in a good place I want it to last - when I'm in a bad one I want them to change. And I don't get either of these with enough regularity to suit myself.
An alcoholic is someone who changes his goals to accommodate his behavior.
Living in reality 24 hours at a time is the most bad-ass act we will ever accomplish.
It is much easier staying in the minute when I'm feeling fine. I believe that staying in the minute is a great idea no matter what kind of mood I'm in but it's a lot easier when I'm in a good one. It's probably better for me to learn how to be with myself, quietly, when things look dark. Nonetheless, it's more unpleasant. I hang on to shit. When I'm in a good place I want it to last - when I'm in a bad one I want them to change. And I don't get either of these with enough regularity to suit myself.
An alcoholic is someone who changes his goals to accommodate his behavior.
Living in reality 24 hours at a time is the most bad-ass act we will ever accomplish.
Sunday, November 19, 2017
The Jesus Nut
Humility: Commonly used to mean modesty or lack of pride.
Pride: Inordinate self-esteem; an unreasonable conceit of one's own superiority in talent, beauty, wealth, rank, etc., which manifests itself in lofty airs, distance, reserve, and often contempt of others.
Wow, that pride definition is a bitch.
The 10th Tradition is commonly referred to as the one that establishes that humility is the spiritual foundation of all of our traditions. Everything is predicated on humility. That, my friends, is a heavy load to carry.
Foundation: That on which anything stands, and by which it is supported.
Wow, that's one hell of an important concept. Capstone or cornerstone or linchpin are other interesting sounding words, of unclear origin, that come to mind.
Linchpin: A pin inserted through holes at the end of an axle, so as to secure a wheel.
Wow, you don't want a linchpin failure when you're driving a Very Expensive Car at 97 MPH. It would seem that the wheel might come off. A very bad thing.
Helicopter pilots call the linchpin that holds the rotor to the helicopter superstructure a "jesus nut." That sounds important, too. I would imagine that it would a very bad thing to have the rotor come off when flying a helicopter.
The Jesus Nut would be an excellent name for a hard rock band.
I'm constantly amazed at how often humility comes up in our Steps and Traditions. I take it to mean that humility is an important concept. Being an alcoholic I only absorb a concept if it is screeched at me repeatedly, at high volume. Italics are nice, too, as is putting the concept in the title of the Step or Tradition. I have a short attention span and a thick head so I need things to be emphasized.
I guess when if I'm anonymous I'm not drawing attention to myself.
Try giving someone money anonymously. It is not easy. There is no glory in anonymity. In The Fellowship we are learning not to strive for glory. One drunk - one vote. You and I are no better or no worse than anyone else. There is no perching atop a soap box.
"We try to give up our own desires for personal distinction."
Pride: Inordinate self-esteem; an unreasonable conceit of one's own superiority in talent, beauty, wealth, rank, etc., which manifests itself in lofty airs, distance, reserve, and often contempt of others.
Wow, that pride definition is a bitch.
The 10th Tradition is commonly referred to as the one that establishes that humility is the spiritual foundation of all of our traditions. Everything is predicated on humility. That, my friends, is a heavy load to carry.
Foundation: That on which anything stands, and by which it is supported.
Wow, that's one hell of an important concept. Capstone or cornerstone or linchpin are other interesting sounding words, of unclear origin, that come to mind.
Linchpin: A pin inserted through holes at the end of an axle, so as to secure a wheel.
Wow, you don't want a linchpin failure when you're driving a Very Expensive Car at 97 MPH. It would seem that the wheel might come off. A very bad thing.
Helicopter pilots call the linchpin that holds the rotor to the helicopter superstructure a "jesus nut." That sounds important, too. I would imagine that it would a very bad thing to have the rotor come off when flying a helicopter.
The Jesus Nut would be an excellent name for a hard rock band.
I'm constantly amazed at how often humility comes up in our Steps and Traditions. I take it to mean that humility is an important concept. Being an alcoholic I only absorb a concept if it is screeched at me repeatedly, at high volume. Italics are nice, too, as is putting the concept in the title of the Step or Tradition. I have a short attention span and a thick head so I need things to be emphasized.
I guess when if I'm anonymous I'm not drawing attention to myself.
Try giving someone money anonymously. It is not easy. There is no glory in anonymity. In The Fellowship we are learning not to strive for glory. One drunk - one vote. You and I are no better or no worse than anyone else. There is no perching atop a soap box.
"We try to give up our own desires for personal distinction."
Saturday, November 18, 2017
It Is, Of Course, All About Me
Anonymous: Of unknown name; whose name is withheld.
Today we read Tradition Eleven, the one that reminds us that anonymity is the spiritual tradition of . . . well, just about everything. My sponsor always told me to place "principles before personalities" whenever I started to gripe about someone else. I was too embarrassed to admit that I didn't know what that meant. It took me like fifteen years to screw up the courage to explain to me what the hell he was talking about.
Some people talked about anonymity - the kind that adheres to us personally and the kind that pertains to others. I always have to laugh when I ponder my own anonymity - I used to come home at three in the morning, all of my windows down, summer or winter, didn't make any difference, with the hope that the fresh air would keep me awake while I was driving . . . weaving down the road . . . , Black Sabbath blasting at Volume Eleven, then park up on the grass or four feet out into the street, depending on my mood, but god forbid anyone know that I was an alcoholic. When I started making my amends I expected to hear people say: "You? An alcoholic? Get outta here." What came out was more along the lines of "Thank god you're finally getting some help."
But I think we all need to be respectful of the anonymity of others. Admitting that we're in recovery is a personal matter. Some of us have good reason to protect our anonymity - society can indeed be a harsh judge when they find out someone is a drunk. I get this. I can see some folks might be uncomfortable hearing their open-heart surgeon say: "Hey, today is my first day in recovery! Feeling a little shaky but I'm really going to do it this time. Now . . . breathe deeply into the mask and count backwards from ten . . . ."
I've gotten to the point where I don't hide my membership any more. I did when I was working - I saw no need for customers and colleagues to know this very personal information, although I got more and more open the longer I was sober. But today? Who gives a shit. I don't lead with my sobriety - although sometimes I even do that - but I bring it up all the time. I don't think it shocks anyone. Most people are not that interested in the excruciating minutia of my life. I could be saying that I'm going to take a walk. And a lot of people are supportive. A lot of them have some connection to recovery, either personally or via a close friend or relative. I got tired of saying I "know someone from church" or some such bullshit. I was at a cocktail party recently - I appreciate the irony here but I had a pretty good time and cocktail-free - when the host complimented my writing in the presence of someone I didn't know.
"Oh, what do you write about?" she asked.
Too much work and too great a chance that some elaborate deception would come back to confound me so I just told her what my general topics are.
Actually, that's not true. If I was brutally honest I'd say: "My topic is ME!"
Today we read Tradition Eleven, the one that reminds us that anonymity is the spiritual tradition of . . . well, just about everything. My sponsor always told me to place "principles before personalities" whenever I started to gripe about someone else. I was too embarrassed to admit that I didn't know what that meant. It took me like fifteen years to screw up the courage to explain to me what the hell he was talking about.
Some people talked about anonymity - the kind that adheres to us personally and the kind that pertains to others. I always have to laugh when I ponder my own anonymity - I used to come home at three in the morning, all of my windows down, summer or winter, didn't make any difference, with the hope that the fresh air would keep me awake while I was driving . . . weaving down the road . . . , Black Sabbath blasting at Volume Eleven, then park up on the grass or four feet out into the street, depending on my mood, but god forbid anyone know that I was an alcoholic. When I started making my amends I expected to hear people say: "You? An alcoholic? Get outta here." What came out was more along the lines of "Thank god you're finally getting some help."
But I think we all need to be respectful of the anonymity of others. Admitting that we're in recovery is a personal matter. Some of us have good reason to protect our anonymity - society can indeed be a harsh judge when they find out someone is a drunk. I get this. I can see some folks might be uncomfortable hearing their open-heart surgeon say: "Hey, today is my first day in recovery! Feeling a little shaky but I'm really going to do it this time. Now . . . breathe deeply into the mask and count backwards from ten . . . ."
I've gotten to the point where I don't hide my membership any more. I did when I was working - I saw no need for customers and colleagues to know this very personal information, although I got more and more open the longer I was sober. But today? Who gives a shit. I don't lead with my sobriety - although sometimes I even do that - but I bring it up all the time. I don't think it shocks anyone. Most people are not that interested in the excruciating minutia of my life. I could be saying that I'm going to take a walk. And a lot of people are supportive. A lot of them have some connection to recovery, either personally or via a close friend or relative. I got tired of saying I "know someone from church" or some such bullshit. I was at a cocktail party recently - I appreciate the irony here but I had a pretty good time and cocktail-free - when the host complimented my writing in the presence of someone I didn't know.
"Oh, what do you write about?" she asked.
Too much work and too great a chance that some elaborate deception would come back to confound me so I just told her what my general topics are.
Actually, that's not true. If I was brutally honest I'd say: "My topic is ME!"
Friday, November 17, 2017
The Wheeze, Reprised
I'm not sure how this story pertains to recovery but I'll wedge it in somehow. I'm a master with a hammer. There is no problem that can't be fixed with a good hammer. There is no hammer that can't be fixed with a big sledgehammer. And don't get me started on jackhammers . . .
I really embrace the idea that pain is part of life, that loss is part of life, that death is part of life. Most people aren't exactly thrilled with the concept of pain but are still understand that it visits everyone from time to time. Alcoholics, however, are on an eternal hunt for a pain-free existence. It's a fallacy that alcoholism and drug addiction center around a pursuit of pleasure. In my mind it's much more about the avoidance of discomfort. I don't care if I feel good as long as I don't feel bad. At the end of our drinking and using most of us weren't having a good time - we were trying to keep the demons outdoors. We were watching TV by ourselves, in a blackout. That isn't fun by anyone's measure.
Anyway, we took our cat to the veterinarian today and the good woman agreed that it was time to set the animal free. She wasn't doing well and the treatment plans weren't providing anything but a temporary fix. Sometimes animals get old. Getting old is different than getting injured or sick. A doctor can set a broken leg or cure an infection - a doctor can't make an old cat young.
Whenever The Wheeze (and you can bet that's the last time I get to name a pet) would falter SuperK would tell her to let us know when she wanted to go. She'd been pretty sick the last few days - not eating, not drinking - and we figured she was getting close to the end. This morning she pushed open the screen door and wandered outside, into the sun and fresh air. She walked down the front steps and started off down the street like she had someplace important to go - not in a hurry but walking with purpose. I followed her all the way to the end of the road. She would stop from time to time and look at me or wander off into a side yard before I corralled her and got her back on track. This was an indoor cat, mostly afraid to be outside so the whole trip had a strong sense of finality. I could hear her say: "You're still here? Go back inside - I've got it now."
I picked her up and took her to a park near our house that has a small pond with a fountain in the middle. She hadn't been drinking anything at all so she walked falteringly to the edge of the pond and lapped up some water. I wasn't all that sure was a good idea but figured it was better than her dying of dehydration. Then, she stepped into the water, front paws first, finally submerging all four feet. She moved into water deep enough that her belly got wet. Every now and then she would pat at something that she saw on the water's surface, or maybe a minnow on the bottom. She never looked back - she looked out into the water. I was transfixed. When she was a kitten I would punish her by flicking water in her face. I had never seen her get anywhere near water.
"I've got 50 feet high neon lights here," she was saying. "I've got shills with amplified bullhorns screaming at you. You're aware that I can't talk, right? Can you please open your eyes and see what's going on?"
After a while I carried her to the path leading back to the house and set her down - she stopped and laid down in the dirt. I moved her a few yards onto the concrete; again, she flopped down. She was done - she was out of juice. I brought her into the house, dried her feet, and she snuck behind a piece of furniture. I know cats like to hide when they don't feel well. I've heard they like to go someplace to be alone when it's time to die, but I was still resisting the message.
I could almost hear her say: "OK, how about that piece of performance art? Tell me you're going to forget my last day? I went wading in a pond, for chrissake. Now will you PLEASE leave me alone because I feel TERRIBLE."
At the vet's office - once we had made the decision to euthanize - we had about 20 minutes with The Wheeze while the staff prepared the drugs that would anesthetize her and then stop her heart. She sat quietly in my arms. She seemed to know. No fidgeting, no crying, no purring, eyes half-open. She seemed to be letting go a little already. I expected her to say: "Are you guys going to be alright? Because I'm ready to do this thing."
We told her we loved her. We told her she was going to be missed, that she had been a good pet. We thanked her for being with us for almost 19 years.
SuperK was holding her chin as the vet injected the first syringe of anesthesia. Her whole being relaxed almost immediately and her head sank onto the blanket, her eyes widening. She looked . . . like my cat. She no longer appeared to be grimacing in pain. The second syringe held the medicine that stopped her heart, and it worked quickly. I could almost feel her soul being released. There was a spark of life and then there wasn't, just like that, just like flicking a switch.
"OK, mom and dad," the vet said. "Her heart stopped beating. She's gone." The vet called her "little friend," which I thought was a good touch. We appreciated the fact she agreed it was time for our cat to pass into the next dimension. She excused herself and quietly closed the door.
I was struck by the incredible stillness in the room. Death seemed to me to be characterized by a lack of motion so profound that it was hard to understand. It looked like she could get up and move at any time. It was disconcerting. I had to fight back an urge to ask the vet to come back in and make sure that the medicine had indeed worked. We sat together for a while and looked at her lying there, slumped in a beautiful posture of repose. She was beautiful and she was resting comfortably - it was clear then how much pain she had been feeling. We could see, in death, how free she now was. It was a good feeling. It made us feel like we did the right thing. She looked like a sleek, antique racing car, sitting quietly - we could almost hear the engine roaring and the whine as the car flashed by. Her eyes were wide open, but cloudy, opaque. Her fur was flat and she looked groomed. Her ears stood upright. She looked like she was beat and it felt so goddam good to lay down for a while.
Here's the thing about love and companionship: it's wonderful but it's going to end. I'm so afraid of pain that I'm tempted to forgo years of wonderful times.
I WAS tempted to do that. Not any more, my brothers and sisters. Not any more.
Here's another thing about death - it makes you sit up right straight and ponder your relationships with the non-dead. Not zombie non-dead but those who are still, at this point, technically alive. I get pissy about people not doing exactly what I want them to do exactly when I want them to do it, and I end up irritated. When I'm mad at my friends and family it's usually about the most inane crap. Whatever I'm mad about is not worth it.
Here's another thing about me: I don't learn shit about shit when I'm getting my way. I don't learn anything valuable when I'm on vacation - the best lessons come when I shoulder my way through some unpleasantness. At my Step meeting yesterday we read Number 9 - the direct amends Step - and a lot of people talked about how scary the amends process is and how wonderful the results are. We do it because we need to do it - it's the right thing to do - not because it sounds like a lark. The famous Promises come into play after we're well into saying we're sorry. We get 'em when we do the hard stuff.
After our cat had gone to The Big Sandbox in the Sky we sat with her for a while. I couldn't get past the stark beauty of her corpse. It was like looking at one of the space capsules that had actually been on the surface of the moon, reconciling the stillness with what had gone before. We were able to think: "I know she isn't going anywhere ever again but, man, where she has been."
The vet offered a personalized cremation service which we declined. Neither of us are particularly sentimental so the thought of The Wheeze's ashes on our mantle was unappealing. I have trouble walking through the house without knocking something off a table so we both knew where an urn of ashes was going to end up. I felt guilty making the decision - I spend a great deal of time worrying about whether or not I'm acting the way I'm supposed to be acting, whatever that is.
I had my camera phone with me.
"Would it be weird to take a couple of pictures?" I asked my wife.
"Oh, god, yes," she said, clutching my arm. "I was hoping you were going to suggest that."
They're our favorite pictures. They're better than shots of our failing cat stumbling around.
So we turn on an old sitcom last night. The episode centers around two brothers - one tasked with delivering the eulogy, the other with disposing of - you guessed it - an urn of ashes from an aunt who had passed away. In the scene that was sent to us from above, the eulogy brother is in the car, discussing his speech with his father, while the ashes guy is in the background, struggling to get the lid off the urn so he can spread the ashes. He twists and turns, he bangs it on a tree and against a rock, he falls into the bushes, and when the lid finally releases with a jerk, the remains fly out and cover both of the brothers.
A message from god delivered by a 20 year old episode of "Frasier." Priceless.
Thursday, November 16, 2017
The Wheeze, Euphemistically
Euphemism: The use of a word or phrase to replace another with one that is considered less offensive, blunt, or vulgar than the word or phrase that it replaces. (Ed. Note: E.g., replacing the phrase "eat shit" with "I'm sorry but I'm not going to be able to do that.")
People form incredible bonds with their animals. Lots of people seem to love their animals more than they love their humans. I get this - animals are incredible and people are idiots. People are the worst. The thought of an animal dying is so distressing to me that I've been a lazy man's vegetarian for many years. Vegetarian in that I don't often consume the flesh of a once living animal - lazy because I do eat meat from time to time. What can I tell you - I'm ethical but flawed, a common argument to an unethical person trying to pass himself off as ethical.
I enjoyed the years we had The Wheeze but I learned more from the decline and death of that animal than I did from all the preceding years, as full of life as they were. It was sad and it was poignant watching her fade into the black, into nothingness, into something else. She wanted to go before we were ready to let her go - common in pet owners. I hope that we didn't make her suffer unduly in our selfishness.
Ed. Note: I like the euphemisms people use to describe death. "To Go" is particularly ridiculous. The cat isn't going anywhere. The location of the dead cat is the definition of a fixed position. There is no locomotion involved, now or in the future, despite the huge body of locomotion work that occurred in the past. I'm going to add one of my favorite death euphemisms because - as you can see - this is a topic that I could pursue right up to the Gates of Insanity or Death. Here it is: "To assume room temperature."
You can be on your Death Bed or you can be on your Regular Bed. If I die of a lingering illness and someone asks, in hushed tones, if I'm on my Death Bed, I hope the response is cheery: "No. He's on his Regular Bed." I have shopped for mattresses and I have yet to see "Death" featured in any of the advertising circulars.
"This weekend only! Big President's Day discounts!! Death Beds at 20! 30!! even 40% off!!!"
Part of the problem for an old animal was that we were in a transitional state of great flux - there was tremendous fluxing going on - during her last year. She had to endure being stuffed into a cat carrier as we made a two day, eighteen hour trip to and from our vacation stay in - you got it - Vacation City. I think this was stressful as hell on an old cat, as was adapting to new digs when we moved from vacation rental to hotel to vacation rental, and back again. Then we stuffed her back in one more time for the final trip to our new home. She lasted about a month here. I wish it could have been longer because the sun shines, shines, shines, heaven for a cat who would have been staggering in ecstasy from one patch of heat to the next.
An indication of what was to come happened one night not long after we moved into our condo in The New City. The cat had spent several stressful hours stuffed in a cat carrier stuffed under a seat stuffed into an airplane fuselage. I have no idea what she made of all the noise and jolting around, the change in air pressure. How does that affect a cat's ears? Did she know to swallow or suck on a Tic Tac? I had to take her out of her cat carrier to pass through airport security. She seemed pretty calm while we made the transit - not a peep - but then again cats are famous for their poker faces. She did not set off the metal detector. She walked back into the carrier without prompting. She hated to be embarrassed - I bet she was trying to convince everyone around her that she was a frequent flyer, used to first class and priority lounges.
Suddenly and without warning, The Wheeze jumped up and settled in at the foot of the bed. This was beyond weird. This was a cat that, if you picked her up and put her on the bed and held her down, would bolt the second the pressure was relieved. Beginning that night and forevermore she made the move onto the bed. We had to fix a sort of access ramp so that she could scramble up, having lost the ability to make the big jump on her own. And once she settled in she settled in - you couldn't dislodge her from whatever position she assumed at the foot of the bed. It was like having an iron anvil down there - I could kick and push but she wouldn't budge an inch, despite a stream of grumbling and huffing in what must have passed for feline cursing.
People form incredible bonds with their animals. Lots of people seem to love their animals more than they love their humans. I get this - animals are incredible and people are idiots. People are the worst. The thought of an animal dying is so distressing to me that I've been a lazy man's vegetarian for many years. Vegetarian in that I don't often consume the flesh of a once living animal - lazy because I do eat meat from time to time. What can I tell you - I'm ethical but flawed, a common argument to an unethical person trying to pass himself off as ethical.
I enjoyed the years we had The Wheeze but I learned more from the decline and death of that animal than I did from all the preceding years, as full of life as they were. It was sad and it was poignant watching her fade into the black, into nothingness, into something else. She wanted to go before we were ready to let her go - common in pet owners. I hope that we didn't make her suffer unduly in our selfishness.
Ed. Note: I like the euphemisms people use to describe death. "To Go" is particularly ridiculous. The cat isn't going anywhere. The location of the dead cat is the definition of a fixed position. There is no locomotion involved, now or in the future, despite the huge body of locomotion work that occurred in the past. I'm going to add one of my favorite death euphemisms because - as you can see - this is a topic that I could pursue right up to the Gates of Insanity or Death. Here it is: "To assume room temperature."
You can be on your Death Bed or you can be on your Regular Bed. If I die of a lingering illness and someone asks, in hushed tones, if I'm on my Death Bed, I hope the response is cheery: "No. He's on his Regular Bed." I have shopped for mattresses and I have yet to see "Death" featured in any of the advertising circulars.
"This weekend only! Big President's Day discounts!! Death Beds at 20! 30!! even 40% off!!!"
Part of the problem for an old animal was that we were in a transitional state of great flux - there was tremendous fluxing going on - during her last year. She had to endure being stuffed into a cat carrier as we made a two day, eighteen hour trip to and from our vacation stay in - you got it - Vacation City. I think this was stressful as hell on an old cat, as was adapting to new digs when we moved from vacation rental to hotel to vacation rental, and back again. Then we stuffed her back in one more time for the final trip to our new home. She lasted about a month here. I wish it could have been longer because the sun shines, shines, shines, heaven for a cat who would have been staggering in ecstasy from one patch of heat to the next.
An indication of what was to come happened one night not long after we moved into our condo in The New City. The cat had spent several stressful hours stuffed in a cat carrier stuffed under a seat stuffed into an airplane fuselage. I have no idea what she made of all the noise and jolting around, the change in air pressure. How does that affect a cat's ears? Did she know to swallow or suck on a Tic Tac? I had to take her out of her cat carrier to pass through airport security. She seemed pretty calm while we made the transit - not a peep - but then again cats are famous for their poker faces. She did not set off the metal detector. She walked back into the carrier without prompting. She hated to be embarrassed - I bet she was trying to convince everyone around her that she was a frequent flyer, used to first class and priority lounges.
Suddenly and without warning, The Wheeze jumped up and settled in at the foot of the bed. This was beyond weird. This was a cat that, if you picked her up and put her on the bed and held her down, would bolt the second the pressure was relieved. Beginning that night and forevermore she made the move onto the bed. We had to fix a sort of access ramp so that she could scramble up, having lost the ability to make the big jump on her own. And once she settled in she settled in - you couldn't dislodge her from whatever position she assumed at the foot of the bed. It was like having an iron anvil down there - I could kick and push but she wouldn't budge an inch, despite a stream of grumbling and huffing in what must have passed for feline cursing.
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
The Wheeze, Tormentor
A dog is a real pet. A cat is an animal that you are feeding, bedding down for the night, and disappearing their feces. If something bad happens to you a dog will take a crash course in human linguistics so that he can use a telephone to call 9-1-1. A cat will keep an eye on your corpse. Maybe. If it's in the sun and she doesn't have to move. Dogs are always happy to see you, they're very sorry when they do something wrong, and they never, ever hold a grudge. Yesterday is here and gone and let's go for a walk! A cat is merely tolerating your presence and with a pained expression on her face at that.
Ed Note: Why are dogs male in my mind and cats female? Conspiracy? Check this out later.
So one really fascinating thing about cats is that they sense who doesn't like them, then use this intuition to torment that person. A good example is my mother who professed to be allergic to cats - I remain dubious that this was the case but that's a matter for another day. Mom didn't like to come to our house - no drinking and no grand kids - so she played the cat allergy card all the time, slapping it down like she was filling an inside flush - my sister's two cats, standing between mom and her granddaughters, didn't seem to have the same effect. The point here is that as soon as mom took a seat The Wheeze would be on her lap in a flash. I didn't care that much one way or another where the cat sat - Mr. Antsy prefers to be free to get up and move around at will - so she sought me out as the next warm refuge, and she wouldn't jump up on her own, either, preferring to sit at my feet and stare at me until I reached down and picked her up. What a princess.
My wife who wanted a cat to sit in her lap and purr? She couldn't hold the cat down even if she employed a Full Nelson. When SuperK wanted to take a nap The Wheeze - always in search of some good heat and my wife is a human furnace - would jump up and lay on her lower legs, just out of reach of any grabby hands.
"User," my wife would mutter. It wasn't that The Wheeze didn't want to be touched. It was that she wanted everything to be on her terms. Man, cats must all be alcoholics.
The Wheeze would remain in my office all day, lying in the sun in the summer and wedged underneath the radiator in the winter. The Wheeze would saunter in to my wife's office, look around with a bored expression on her face, and then saunter back out. It was almost mean-spirited. It was almost malevolent. You love me? Tough shit.
That cat could purr when she was content which she almost never was. That cat never spoke unless she was annoyed - which was often - and then she screamed. She shrieked, she howled. If she saw another cat walking through the yard she would throw herself against the window, yelling like a banshee. Originally I thought this was the bravado of an animal talking shit from a position of safety until I saw her get outside a couple of times and chase the offending animal away.
Ed Note: Why are dogs male in my mind and cats female? Conspiracy? Check this out later.
So one really fascinating thing about cats is that they sense who doesn't like them, then use this intuition to torment that person. A good example is my mother who professed to be allergic to cats - I remain dubious that this was the case but that's a matter for another day. Mom didn't like to come to our house - no drinking and no grand kids - so she played the cat allergy card all the time, slapping it down like she was filling an inside flush - my sister's two cats, standing between mom and her granddaughters, didn't seem to have the same effect. The point here is that as soon as mom took a seat The Wheeze would be on her lap in a flash. I didn't care that much one way or another where the cat sat - Mr. Antsy prefers to be free to get up and move around at will - so she sought me out as the next warm refuge, and she wouldn't jump up on her own, either, preferring to sit at my feet and stare at me until I reached down and picked her up. What a princess.
My wife who wanted a cat to sit in her lap and purr? She couldn't hold the cat down even if she employed a Full Nelson. When SuperK wanted to take a nap The Wheeze - always in search of some good heat and my wife is a human furnace - would jump up and lay on her lower legs, just out of reach of any grabby hands.
"User," my wife would mutter. It wasn't that The Wheeze didn't want to be touched. It was that she wanted everything to be on her terms. Man, cats must all be alcoholics.
The Wheeze would remain in my office all day, lying in the sun in the summer and wedged underneath the radiator in the winter. The Wheeze would saunter in to my wife's office, look around with a bored expression on her face, and then saunter back out. It was almost mean-spirited. It was almost malevolent. You love me? Tough shit.
That cat could purr when she was content which she almost never was. That cat never spoke unless she was annoyed - which was often - and then she screamed. She shrieked, she howled. If she saw another cat walking through the yard she would throw herself against the window, yelling like a banshee. Originally I thought this was the bravado of an animal talking shit from a position of safety until I saw her get outside a couple of times and chase the offending animal away.
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
The Dark
Death: The cessation of life and all associated processes; the end of an organism's existence as an entity independent from its environment and its return to an inert, nonliving state.
Die: To stop living; to become dead; to undergo death.
I confess to owning a highly developed dark side. I protest when it's pointed out that I'm all dark side, but I don't protest too much. I can see the dark. I can see into the dark. I can see the dark up ahead.
My favorite movie is "Apocalypse Now." My high school required that each student complete a huge research paper - the dreaded "Junior Paper" - prior to moving on to Senior year. My research topic was "The Effects of Allied Bombing on Nazi Germany In WWII." I was 17 when I chose this topic. Who knows why this I did this - I could have chosen any topic under the sun? No, seriously, I'm asking if anyone knows why I did and why I do this?
I'm sure I've got some hard-wiring that predisposes me to the dark. I'm sure I absorbed some of the general dark theory that my mom and dad dished out. I'm sure that all of the unfavorable outcomes that arose from my drinking and drug use caused me to trend dark. But it's not like I ever had anything really crappy happen to me that would warp a naturally sunny disposition to one that ponders instead All That Could Go Wrong.
We talk in The Fellowship about the efficacy of the Gratitude List. We are encouraged to write down all the shit that we should be grateful for and then read what we've written regularly, lest we forget to be grateful. When someone leading a meeting suggests the topic of gratitude an audible groan is heard. In The Fellowship we try to discuss The Solution and not wallow in The Problem but it sure is a lot more fun talking about what's going wrong instead of what needs to be done to fix it.
So I guess I'm not alone.
I'm going to step outside for a moment - the sunset is incredible.
Die: To stop living; to become dead; to undergo death.
I confess to owning a highly developed dark side. I protest when it's pointed out that I'm all dark side, but I don't protest too much. I can see the dark. I can see into the dark. I can see the dark up ahead.
My favorite movie is "Apocalypse Now." My high school required that each student complete a huge research paper - the dreaded "Junior Paper" - prior to moving on to Senior year. My research topic was "The Effects of Allied Bombing on Nazi Germany In WWII." I was 17 when I chose this topic. Who knows why this I did this - I could have chosen any topic under the sun? No, seriously, I'm asking if anyone knows why I did and why I do this?
I'm sure I've got some hard-wiring that predisposes me to the dark. I'm sure I absorbed some of the general dark theory that my mom and dad dished out. I'm sure that all of the unfavorable outcomes that arose from my drinking and drug use caused me to trend dark. But it's not like I ever had anything really crappy happen to me that would warp a naturally sunny disposition to one that ponders instead All That Could Go Wrong.
We talk in The Fellowship about the efficacy of the Gratitude List. We are encouraged to write down all the shit that we should be grateful for and then read what we've written regularly, lest we forget to be grateful. When someone leading a meeting suggests the topic of gratitude an audible groan is heard. In The Fellowship we try to discuss The Solution and not wallow in The Problem but it sure is a lot more fun talking about what's going wrong instead of what needs to be done to fix it.
So I guess I'm not alone.
I'm going to step outside for a moment - the sunset is incredible.
Monday, November 13, 2017
Hunter Cat
Hunt: To chase down prey and (usually) kill it.
Again I apologize for the written version of what passes for a cat video presentation. I'm supposed to do this writing and, frankly, this animal had as big an impact on my life as any human ever has. Pet lovers, animal lovers will understand this.
Two more games that fall more in the Hunting category than in the Warring category: The Strafe and The Tag.
The Strafe was most memorable on the wood flooring in our last house. When The Wheeze executed The Strafe she sounded like a freight train. I honestly don't know how an animal that probably didn't weigh five pounds could make that much noise. It was frightening. It sounded like there was a tornado approaching. It sounded like she was stomping around in heavy boots.
The Strafe occurred when a person entered a room - The Wheeze would blast out of some hiding place and streak by right in front of you, so close that you had to resort to a stutter step to avoid running into her. It surprised me and made me laugh every time. She thought she was in an F-16 doing a fly-by. I believe that she broke the speed of sound a few times.
The Tag was in the same family as The Strafe but with more sinister implications. The Tag was a strafe from the rear - as The Wheeze blew by she'd throw up a paw to give the back of your leg a whack. Sometimes she'd stop and throw her feet around your legs and bite a calf or ankle. She didn't use her teeth often and never with evil intent but she wasn't above sinking an incisor into flesh on occasion. The damage that occurred came from my attempts to avoid the teeth - she'd have a light chomp going on as I was trying to extract a body part from the area. It was more of a shredding than a biting.
Still . . . blood.
Again I apologize for the written version of what passes for a cat video presentation. I'm supposed to do this writing and, frankly, this animal had as big an impact on my life as any human ever has. Pet lovers, animal lovers will understand this.
Two more games that fall more in the Hunting category than in the Warring category: The Strafe and The Tag.
The Strafe was most memorable on the wood flooring in our last house. When The Wheeze executed The Strafe she sounded like a freight train. I honestly don't know how an animal that probably didn't weigh five pounds could make that much noise. It was frightening. It sounded like there was a tornado approaching. It sounded like she was stomping around in heavy boots.
The Strafe occurred when a person entered a room - The Wheeze would blast out of some hiding place and streak by right in front of you, so close that you had to resort to a stutter step to avoid running into her. It surprised me and made me laugh every time. She thought she was in an F-16 doing a fly-by. I believe that she broke the speed of sound a few times.
The Tag was in the same family as The Strafe but with more sinister implications. The Tag was a strafe from the rear - as The Wheeze blew by she'd throw up a paw to give the back of your leg a whack. Sometimes she'd stop and throw her feet around your legs and bite a calf or ankle. She didn't use her teeth often and never with evil intent but she wasn't above sinking an incisor into flesh on occasion. The damage that occurred came from my attempts to avoid the teeth - she'd have a light chomp going on as I was trying to extract a body part from the area. It was more of a shredding than a biting.
Still . . . blood.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Warrior Cat
For some reason I began calling her Wheezer which morphed into The Wheeze, as in: "Where's The Wheeze?"
We always had an alarm system in the homes that we owned while The Wheeze was alive - this was because our shit was so compelling, so amazing, that thieves were lined up on both sides of the street waiting for the opportunity to break in and take it all away. These were good, professional thieves, too - they wore black turtlenecks and black sock caps. That's how you could tell they were good. I'd drive by them and think: "Man, am I glad I have an alarm system so the thieves can't get in and steal my shit."
These alarm systems had motion detectors that detected motion. When we would leave the house we'd have to lock The Wheeze in the basement, lest she set off the alarm. It's not as bad as it sounds - we had perfectly comfortable, cat-friendly basements full of old furniture and dark hiding spaces that she could skulk around in. The problem, of course, was that she didn't always want to go into the basement, preferring the more comfortable new furniture we had throughout the house. We solved this problem by purchasing little tins of cat treats and we'd signal that it was time for a treat by rattling the can. I'm not sure what the manufacturers put in those treats but they had the same effect on The Wheeze that heroin has on an addict.
I got good at flinging the little bouncing treats way down into the basement so that she'd go scuttling after them right fast. That is on the times that she deigned to actually come when the can was rattled. Often we were forced to hunt her down in whatever room she was currently sleeping in. When she was discovered she'd sit there with a blank expression on her face: "I heard you fine - just didn't feel like coming."
I'd stand over her yelling: "Let's go let's go let's go!" like a drill sergeant. She went, in a hurry, but exuding a sullen satisfaction, glad to be one up on The Human. "You got me but I made you work for it."
Some of her favorite games:
Sitting at the bottom of our steps, watching me peek around the edge of the door on the second floor, before blasting upward to try to catch me unawares. She came up those stairs like a freight train.
Stretching out along a wall and slowly scrabbling down the hallway as I patted her haunches, making grumbling sounds during the entire transit. When we reached the end of the hall she'd change direction and we'd repeat the operation until we reached the original starting point at which point she'd shriek and lunge for my hand, clearly interested in drawing blood.
Tangling herself up in the legs of a sitting chair, screaming bloody murder, as I tried to weave my hands around the legs to grab her feet. I got bit a few times playing this game, usually when she got teeth on flesh as I was pulling quickly away in a futile escape attempt. I was careful but she was quick. More blood.
All fighting games. All warrior games. All games which stated blatantly: "I'm not afraid of shit."
We always had an alarm system in the homes that we owned while The Wheeze was alive - this was because our shit was so compelling, so amazing, that thieves were lined up on both sides of the street waiting for the opportunity to break in and take it all away. These were good, professional thieves, too - they wore black turtlenecks and black sock caps. That's how you could tell they were good. I'd drive by them and think: "Man, am I glad I have an alarm system so the thieves can't get in and steal my shit."
These alarm systems had motion detectors that detected motion. When we would leave the house we'd have to lock The Wheeze in the basement, lest she set off the alarm. It's not as bad as it sounds - we had perfectly comfortable, cat-friendly basements full of old furniture and dark hiding spaces that she could skulk around in. The problem, of course, was that she didn't always want to go into the basement, preferring the more comfortable new furniture we had throughout the house. We solved this problem by purchasing little tins of cat treats and we'd signal that it was time for a treat by rattling the can. I'm not sure what the manufacturers put in those treats but they had the same effect on The Wheeze that heroin has on an addict.
I got good at flinging the little bouncing treats way down into the basement so that she'd go scuttling after them right fast. That is on the times that she deigned to actually come when the can was rattled. Often we were forced to hunt her down in whatever room she was currently sleeping in. When she was discovered she'd sit there with a blank expression on her face: "I heard you fine - just didn't feel like coming."
I'd stand over her yelling: "Let's go let's go let's go!" like a drill sergeant. She went, in a hurry, but exuding a sullen satisfaction, glad to be one up on The Human. "You got me but I made you work for it."
Some of her favorite games:
Sitting at the bottom of our steps, watching me peek around the edge of the door on the second floor, before blasting upward to try to catch me unawares. She came up those stairs like a freight train.
Stretching out along a wall and slowly scrabbling down the hallway as I patted her haunches, making grumbling sounds during the entire transit. When we reached the end of the hall she'd change direction and we'd repeat the operation until we reached the original starting point at which point she'd shriek and lunge for my hand, clearly interested in drawing blood.
Tangling herself up in the legs of a sitting chair, screaming bloody murder, as I tried to weave my hands around the legs to grab her feet. I got bit a few times playing this game, usually when she got teeth on flesh as I was pulling quickly away in a futile escape attempt. I was careful but she was quick. More blood.
All fighting games. All warrior games. All games which stated blatantly: "I'm not afraid of shit."
Thursday, November 9, 2017
The Wheeze
Wheeze: A piping or whistling sound caused by difficult respiration.
My therapist is really pushing the concept that my dead cat is not getting enough credit as a trigger for my recent anxiety troubles or The Troubles, as I call them. This probably doesn't make the folks of Ireland happy but what can you do? It is, as you know, all about me.
"But my father died," I point out. "My mother died."
"Eh, what's the big deal," she says. "Everyone dies. Get over it. Quit whining. But losing a cat, that's some heavy shit."
This animal came into our lives in the mid-1990s, rescued from an animal shelter in a small rural town near our home in The Old City. SuperK selected her because she sat in my wife's lap and seemed to be happy doing it. My wife always wanted an affectionate lap kitten. Alas, the animal was sick, not docile - she became a rampaging bitch once she shook off her illness. This has been a great source of amusement for me over the years.
I was really opposed to getting this kitten. Frankly, I was jealous for a while because SuperK took a great deal more pleasure out of her company than she did from mine, and this was fairly early in our marriage when we were getting along a good sight better than we are now. SuperK was still at the point where she found all of my annoying control freak shit sort of endearing.
This was a grey tiger kitten with a weird pattern of black stripes running from her head down the center of her back. Frankly, she looked like she was decked out with the kind of landing beacons placed on an aircraft carrier to guide supersonic fighter jets attempting to land on a stormy sea, at night. So we called her The Lizard, although SuperK used Lizzie in polite company. I insisted on The Lizard. I liked the fact that we added "The" to her name, too. It was necessary. Like The Edge or Pele or "Here's Johnny!" she didn't need a stinking proper name.
Wheeze: (slang) Something very humorous or laughable.
As The Wheeze grew older she did not grow larger. She was a very small cat. Runt-like. And like many small creatures she feared nothing. She was not afraid of other, larger cats. She was not afraid of dogs. She was not afraid of loud noises. She would sit in the living room with a slightly annoyed, vaguely alarmed look on her face as I blasted Black Sabbath. She did not run from the vacuum cleaner. In fact, she would refuse to move as the roaring vacuum cleaner approached. I could bump into her in an attempt to make her move, and she would not move. It was like "get that thing the fuck outta here. I'm not going anywhere." On a couple of occasions she got outside when other, larger cats were around, cats with claws, cats weighing twice as much as she did, and she would throw herself at these animals. I never saw one of them take a swipe at her. It was as if they were so stunned by the chutzpah of this tiny animal that they were paralyzed into inaction.
I'm sorry, Cat People, but I'm supposed to do this writing.
My therapist is really pushing the concept that my dead cat is not getting enough credit as a trigger for my recent anxiety troubles or The Troubles, as I call them. This probably doesn't make the folks of Ireland happy but what can you do? It is, as you know, all about me.
"But my father died," I point out. "My mother died."
"Eh, what's the big deal," she says. "Everyone dies. Get over it. Quit whining. But losing a cat, that's some heavy shit."
This animal came into our lives in the mid-1990s, rescued from an animal shelter in a small rural town near our home in The Old City. SuperK selected her because she sat in my wife's lap and seemed to be happy doing it. My wife always wanted an affectionate lap kitten. Alas, the animal was sick, not docile - she became a rampaging bitch once she shook off her illness. This has been a great source of amusement for me over the years.
I was really opposed to getting this kitten. Frankly, I was jealous for a while because SuperK took a great deal more pleasure out of her company than she did from mine, and this was fairly early in our marriage when we were getting along a good sight better than we are now. SuperK was still at the point where she found all of my annoying control freak shit sort of endearing.
This was a grey tiger kitten with a weird pattern of black stripes running from her head down the center of her back. Frankly, she looked like she was decked out with the kind of landing beacons placed on an aircraft carrier to guide supersonic fighter jets attempting to land on a stormy sea, at night. So we called her The Lizard, although SuperK used Lizzie in polite company. I insisted on The Lizard. I liked the fact that we added "The" to her name, too. It was necessary. Like The Edge or Pele or "Here's Johnny!" she didn't need a stinking proper name.
Wheeze: (slang) Something very humorous or laughable.
As The Wheeze grew older she did not grow larger. She was a very small cat. Runt-like. And like many small creatures she feared nothing. She was not afraid of other, larger cats. She was not afraid of dogs. She was not afraid of loud noises. She would sit in the living room with a slightly annoyed, vaguely alarmed look on her face as I blasted Black Sabbath. She did not run from the vacuum cleaner. In fact, she would refuse to move as the roaring vacuum cleaner approached. I could bump into her in an attempt to make her move, and she would not move. It was like "get that thing the fuck outta here. I'm not going anywhere." On a couple of occasions she got outside when other, larger cats were around, cats with claws, cats weighing twice as much as she did, and she would throw herself at these animals. I never saw one of them take a swipe at her. It was as if they were so stunned by the chutzpah of this tiny animal that they were paralyzed into inaction.
I'm sorry, Cat People, but I'm supposed to do this writing.
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
The Ackerman Effect
I saw a buddy at the morning meeting today for the first time in a few weeks. We chatted for a while and he walked with me down to see my Very Expensive Car. He was parked in the other direction so he hopped in and let me drive him to his car which - coincidentally - is a Nice Car, but not a Very Expensive Car. This means I was top dog this morning in the car department. I was feeling pretty good about that until I realized that this is why most people loathe owners of Very Expensive Cars. Thus my rationale for parking a couple of blocks away from the meeting for the first couple of months. I'm not a people pleaser even though what other people think of me is very important. I'm dying for your affection and attention while sneering down at you in disdain. It's not easy but I think I pull it off.
My friend is a real car guy - someone who understands how cars work and so on and so forth - not a shallow poseur like me who still doesn't know where the fuck the engine is. In fact, he works at an auto parts store. He's the real deal.
I pulled a quick U-turn so that I could get back to his car without stressing myself unduly by driving around the block. I had to get this task done fast. I have noticed that when I make a very sharp turn at low speeds - especially when the car is still warming up in the awful, distressing 65 degree weather that passes for winter here in Vacation City - that my car makes a weird thumping or clunking noise. It's all "thunk thunk thunk" for a little while. I have noticed this noise before and I'm not happy about it. My solution is usually to really turn up the Black Sabbath. If I can't here it then it doesn't exist.
This dude says: "Whoa. What's that noise?"
If you want to cut a guy with a Very Expensive Car down to size that is an excellent opening line. He then suggested that I "might want to get that checked out." He assured me that it was probably normal but that it wouldn't hurt to investigate it further.
As you might imagine I had an unpleasant drive home, imagining Very Expensive Repairs, the major bane of owning a Very Expensive Car. I was wondering why I sold my perfectly reasonable older car to put myself in this position. Again.
It all worked out. I did some research and found that this was a normal noise for my kind of car in those very specific situations. In fact it has a name: The Ackerman Effect. I shit you not - look it up.
If your car is subject to The Ackerman Effect you should sell that car immediately.
My friend is a real car guy - someone who understands how cars work and so on and so forth - not a shallow poseur like me who still doesn't know where the fuck the engine is. In fact, he works at an auto parts store. He's the real deal.
I pulled a quick U-turn so that I could get back to his car without stressing myself unduly by driving around the block. I had to get this task done fast. I have noticed that when I make a very sharp turn at low speeds - especially when the car is still warming up in the awful, distressing 65 degree weather that passes for winter here in Vacation City - that my car makes a weird thumping or clunking noise. It's all "thunk thunk thunk" for a little while. I have noticed this noise before and I'm not happy about it. My solution is usually to really turn up the Black Sabbath. If I can't here it then it doesn't exist.
This dude says: "Whoa. What's that noise?"
If you want to cut a guy with a Very Expensive Car down to size that is an excellent opening line. He then suggested that I "might want to get that checked out." He assured me that it was probably normal but that it wouldn't hurt to investigate it further.
As you might imagine I had an unpleasant drive home, imagining Very Expensive Repairs, the major bane of owning a Very Expensive Car. I was wondering why I sold my perfectly reasonable older car to put myself in this position. Again.
It all worked out. I did some research and found that this was a normal noise for my kind of car in those very specific situations. In fact it has a name: The Ackerman Effect. I shit you not - look it up.
If your car is subject to The Ackerman Effect you should sell that car immediately.
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