Stuff: To fill too full; cram; overload. 1
I'm still grooving on the differences between cultures and how people accept what they do or do not have. Stuff, stuff, stuff, oh how I need thee, wondrous stuff! That's Shakespeare, I think, or part of an exchange between Beowulf and Grendel, or the concluding couplet in a poem by Lord Byron. The question I have to ask myself is: What did I get for my birthday last year? Beats the hell out of me. Several wrinkles and a few new aches and pains, that's for sure, and maybe a pink golf shirt that didn't fit but I was too lazy to return. Whatever I got is probably in the basement already, or I've lost or broken it, or tired of its fleeting allure.
Alfredo from Belize didn't have any air conditioning in his garage like home. He had just gotten a couple of ceiling fans in the last year. He was pretty impressed with those fans. He sounded like a yuppie breaking down all of the features on his new BMW. Mind you we are talking about heat and humidity that had teeth and claws and stalked the night like a angry warlock. I slept standing up in front of the air conditioner with a bag of ice cubes on my head, my feet in a bucket of dry ice, and still bitched about how hot it was.
I try to avoid any "When I was growing up" comments because it makes me sound older than I already am, which is older than I ever thought I'd be considering my garbage disposal like approach to drug and alcohol consumption. I just threw it down my gullet and assumed the whirling metal tines would take care of it. My motto was: "Live fast - die young - leave a bloated and unattractive corpse." That being said, when I was growing up our house didn't have air conditioning and I slept on the second floor, in the Cincinnati heat and humidity. I assume it was not very comfortable. I don't recall feeling that I was being abused in some horrible way. It was hot. I fell asleep and took a shower when I got up. Now, if I didn't have air conditioning in my second floor bedroom, I'd make it sound like I was being tortured in a Medieval dungeon.
Careful with that stuff.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
This Doesn't Make Me Look Too Good
A few weeks ago I spoke with the new editor of a local newsletter that The Fellowship publishes in my area. She is working hard to make some improvements and had asked for volunteers to help out. I rang her up and volunteered (by "volunteer" I mean "agreed to do something, regretted it immediately, and started to plot ways to evade the new responsibility, no matter how trivial.") We met in person at the area meeting of our Fellowship. God love us, if Earth People could see how we run everything they would be amazed that we have managed to stick together for more than a few weeks. It is barely controlled chaos. We are like the band on the Titanic, calmly playing a sonata as the deck tilts and the massive ship sinks below the waves.
She introduced me as the new reporter for the central part of Cincinnati to the whole meeting, quickly making it much more difficult for me to get out of any assigned tasks. We discussed in general terms what she wanted me to do, and I met with another member who was to contribute to the piece I was tasked to write. I left the meeting with a vague sense of my responsibilities and when they were due, which is pretty much the norm for me. I'm sure my friend clearly detailed my tasks but I don't listen when people talk to me and I forget most of what I hear. All of this is complicated by the fact that I hate to do anything that anyone tells me to do, even if it's something simple or something that helps me out personally. I was the kid who listened to my mother's admonitions then immediately ran across the street without looking.
A couple of weeks later I received an email with the information that I needed to write the article. The editor called me not 10 minutes later and reminded me that my piece was due by five o'clock that evening. Here was my reaction: I was pissed on so many different levels I couldn't keep track of them. I was mad the companion piece arrived so late. I was mad that the editor hadn't told me when the piece was due. I was mad that I had such a short amount of time to finish the article, especially because I was so terribly, terribly busy.
Here's what happened. I tried to email an apology to the editor, in a gutless, passive aggressive fashion. I didn't want her to be mad at me -- being a people pleaser -- and I didn't want to have to lie to someone directly -- the guilt would kill me -- but I felt some responsibility to tell her that I wasn't going to do what was expected of me.
The Book suggests that I pause when agitated. I don't pause well. I'm better at moving forward at breakneck speed. The pause helped me recognize that "being busy" meant I wanted to take a nap and go swimming that afternoon. That's not busy -- that's selfish. So I sat down and wrote the article. It took me ten minutes. The bitching and scheming and planning an elaborate web of lies took an hour. You do the math.
My work done, I called the editor who said: "Don't worry about. I got the article already from Claire." Which was just fucking perfect. Before I called I put on my flak jacket and football helmet and unsheathed my switch blade. I was ready for a knife fight and I'm good with a knife. When I mentioned that I had cleaned up the article, she was very happy. When I suggested some other things I could add to the next article, she said: "Yes. Yes. Yes, to all of it."
Boy, I can complicate a piece of toast.
She introduced me as the new reporter for the central part of Cincinnati to the whole meeting, quickly making it much more difficult for me to get out of any assigned tasks. We discussed in general terms what she wanted me to do, and I met with another member who was to contribute to the piece I was tasked to write. I left the meeting with a vague sense of my responsibilities and when they were due, which is pretty much the norm for me. I'm sure my friend clearly detailed my tasks but I don't listen when people talk to me and I forget most of what I hear. All of this is complicated by the fact that I hate to do anything that anyone tells me to do, even if it's something simple or something that helps me out personally. I was the kid who listened to my mother's admonitions then immediately ran across the street without looking.
A couple of weeks later I received an email with the information that I needed to write the article. The editor called me not 10 minutes later and reminded me that my piece was due by five o'clock that evening. Here was my reaction: I was pissed on so many different levels I couldn't keep track of them. I was mad the companion piece arrived so late. I was mad that the editor hadn't told me when the piece was due. I was mad that I had such a short amount of time to finish the article, especially because I was so terribly, terribly busy.
Here's what happened. I tried to email an apology to the editor, in a gutless, passive aggressive fashion. I didn't want her to be mad at me -- being a people pleaser -- and I didn't want to have to lie to someone directly -- the guilt would kill me -- but I felt some responsibility to tell her that I wasn't going to do what was expected of me.
The Book suggests that I pause when agitated. I don't pause well. I'm better at moving forward at breakneck speed. The pause helped me recognize that "being busy" meant I wanted to take a nap and go swimming that afternoon. That's not busy -- that's selfish. So I sat down and wrote the article. It took me ten minutes. The bitching and scheming and planning an elaborate web of lies took an hour. You do the math.
My work done, I called the editor who said: "Don't worry about. I got the article already from Claire." Which was just fucking perfect. Before I called I put on my flak jacket and football helmet and unsheathed my switch blade. I was ready for a knife fight and I'm good with a knife. When I mentioned that I had cleaned up the article, she was very happy. When I suggested some other things I could add to the next article, she said: "Yes. Yes. Yes, to all of it."
Boy, I can complicate a piece of toast.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Horseface Steve -- Leader of The Free World!
Lead: To show the way to, or direct the course of, by going before or along with; conduct; guide.
I spoke at a meeting last night. In the Midwest we call this "Giving a Lead." And by "Giving a Lead" I mean "Speaking about myself before a captive group of mostly polite people who are at least pretending to pay attention to what I am saying," which is mostly lies, wild exaggerations, and totally fabricated stories about my existence, both real and imagined, but mostly imagined. Because I have the attention span of a mouse on acid I don't generally enjoy leads. I get bored very, very easily. However, when it's me talking about myself I can only assume that everyone else is hearing what I have to say with utter fascination. How could anyone be bored when I'm talking? Amazing to even consider.
As I blathered on in a random, disjointed fashion I found my circular thinking looping back to a topic near and dear to me; namely, the importance of action and the pitfalls of thinking. An early sponsor suggested that you can act yourself into good thinking but you can't think yourself into good action. He wasn't interested in what I was thinking. He rightly assumed this was not productive stuff. He was extremely not interested in how I was feeling. He rightly assumed I was feeling screwed, put upon, not appreciated, and angry about my terrible lot in life.
"What did you do today?" he would ask. He was complimentary if I did just about anything more complicated than sitting around and thinking about myself.
He was extremely complimentary if I went to work or called my mother. I didn't get it. I didn't like to go to work -- I didn't make enough money, I wasn't running the entire organization, and the commute bugged me. This situation was compounded by the fact that I didn't like any of my co-workers, who didn't appreciate my value to the organization. And my mother, telling me what to do even though she ruined my entire life by raising me and caring for me in a loving and responsible manner, don't get me started about my mother.
The funny thing is that when I act well my thinking improves. I care about things and people that don't interest me at first blush. I learn how to care about people. At my core, I really only care about myself. I have to pretend to care about someone else. I have to practice at it.
I couldn't lead a duck to water.
I spoke at a meeting last night. In the Midwest we call this "Giving a Lead." And by "Giving a Lead" I mean "Speaking about myself before a captive group of mostly polite people who are at least pretending to pay attention to what I am saying," which is mostly lies, wild exaggerations, and totally fabricated stories about my existence, both real and imagined, but mostly imagined. Because I have the attention span of a mouse on acid I don't generally enjoy leads. I get bored very, very easily. However, when it's me talking about myself I can only assume that everyone else is hearing what I have to say with utter fascination. How could anyone be bored when I'm talking? Amazing to even consider.
As I blathered on in a random, disjointed fashion I found my circular thinking looping back to a topic near and dear to me; namely, the importance of action and the pitfalls of thinking. An early sponsor suggested that you can act yourself into good thinking but you can't think yourself into good action. He wasn't interested in what I was thinking. He rightly assumed this was not productive stuff. He was extremely not interested in how I was feeling. He rightly assumed I was feeling screwed, put upon, not appreciated, and angry about my terrible lot in life.
"What did you do today?" he would ask. He was complimentary if I did just about anything more complicated than sitting around and thinking about myself.
He was extremely complimentary if I went to work or called my mother. I didn't get it. I didn't like to go to work -- I didn't make enough money, I wasn't running the entire organization, and the commute bugged me. This situation was compounded by the fact that I didn't like any of my co-workers, who didn't appreciate my value to the organization. And my mother, telling me what to do even though she ruined my entire life by raising me and caring for me in a loving and responsible manner, don't get me started about my mother.
The funny thing is that when I act well my thinking improves. I care about things and people that don't interest me at first blush. I learn how to care about people. At my core, I really only care about myself. I have to pretend to care about someone else. I have to practice at it.
I couldn't lead a duck to water.
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Sound of Silence
Plague: Anything that afflicts or troubles; calamity; scourge.
Serenity Stan and I were having a discussion about a shortcoming that torments both of us like one of the Biblical plagues. I'm not talking one of the minor plagues like locusts or water turning to blood or frogs, either. I just came back from The Jungle. I can handle a few frogs. Now if it was snakes or those mosquitoes the size of small fixed wing aircraft, OK, I might feel some trepidation. My personal plagues are more of the major variety: incurable boils or pestilence or death. I wish my shortcomings were as inconsequential as locusts.
Stan and I have this bad habit of talking. Almost nothing good results when I talk. I usually say something when the situation calls for silence and I don't speak up when action is required. But when I have fallen under the influence of strong emotions of any kind (and by "strong emotions" I mean "runaway anger") then things really get interesting. Permit me to me work up a good justified anger and I lose all control of my mouth muscles. There is no discernible connection between the higher processing centers in my brain and my lips.
Stan was sharing the details of an incident where someone behaved atrociously and it affected his serenity. So he said something. Then he called to talk about it. Very few of us call to talk about anything before we act, even though that would be the recommended method. Mind you, I was more than totally sympathetic. This individual deserved to hear what Stan had to say, and a lot more, in my opinion. Secretly, I was cheering him on. My temper is lurking just beneath the surface like a plague of frogs itching to overrun the area. It's not gone. It's just that I have managed to build a much stronger cage over the years. Stan whipped his frogs into a frenzy and then sent them out into the world. It's weirdly satisfying unleashing a plague. It makes me feel powerful.
Stan wondered if he needed to make an amends. My experience is that if you think you need to make an amends, you need to make an amends.
Serenity Stan and I were having a discussion about a shortcoming that torments both of us like one of the Biblical plagues. I'm not talking one of the minor plagues like locusts or water turning to blood or frogs, either. I just came back from The Jungle. I can handle a few frogs. Now if it was snakes or those mosquitoes the size of small fixed wing aircraft, OK, I might feel some trepidation. My personal plagues are more of the major variety: incurable boils or pestilence or death. I wish my shortcomings were as inconsequential as locusts.
Stan and I have this bad habit of talking. Almost nothing good results when I talk. I usually say something when the situation calls for silence and I don't speak up when action is required. But when I have fallen under the influence of strong emotions of any kind (and by "strong emotions" I mean "runaway anger") then things really get interesting. Permit me to me work up a good justified anger and I lose all control of my mouth muscles. There is no discernible connection between the higher processing centers in my brain and my lips.
Stan was sharing the details of an incident where someone behaved atrociously and it affected his serenity. So he said something. Then he called to talk about it. Very few of us call to talk about anything before we act, even though that would be the recommended method. Mind you, I was more than totally sympathetic. This individual deserved to hear what Stan had to say, and a lot more, in my opinion. Secretly, I was cheering him on. My temper is lurking just beneath the surface like a plague of frogs itching to overrun the area. It's not gone. It's just that I have managed to build a much stronger cage over the years. Stan whipped his frogs into a frenzy and then sent them out into the world. It's weirdly satisfying unleashing a plague. It makes me feel powerful.
Stan wondered if he needed to make an amends. My experience is that if you think you need to make an amends, you need to make an amends.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
What to Do, What to Do?
Contradiction: A condition in which things tend to be contrary to each other; inconsistency; discrepancy.
In the interest of trying to keep things simple I usually assume that when I want to do something then I probably shouldn't do it. I'm not that good at making decisions that work out well for me in the long run. I have a defective decision maker. The great irony, of course, is that all I do is try to arrange my life so that I receive the maximum amount of personal pleasure out of everything.
Just as important as this great pursuit for personal pleasure is my desire to avoid doing things that I don't want to do. I don't need to tell you that this is quite a long list. There are many things that I don't want to do, such as anything that involves work, effort, personal sacrifice, or pain and boredom of any kind whatsoever. The thought of putting the welfare of another person before my own is farcical.
So here I am, Horseface Steve, blithely tootling along, oblivious to the needs or wants of anyone else in the world, yet vaguely uneasy about things. Every now and then, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I will do something that I don't want to do but might have the best interests of someone else in mind. What happens? I feel better about myself. When I think of others I feel good; when I think about myself I feel bad. Although this concept is not that complicated, it will not take root in my brain. I have a genetic disposition to ignore the well being of other people. It is not part of my normal make up.
Very frustrating, this thinking about others. Verrrry frustrating.
In the interest of trying to keep things simple I usually assume that when I want to do something then I probably shouldn't do it. I'm not that good at making decisions that work out well for me in the long run. I have a defective decision maker. The great irony, of course, is that all I do is try to arrange my life so that I receive the maximum amount of personal pleasure out of everything.
Just as important as this great pursuit for personal pleasure is my desire to avoid doing things that I don't want to do. I don't need to tell you that this is quite a long list. There are many things that I don't want to do, such as anything that involves work, effort, personal sacrifice, or pain and boredom of any kind whatsoever. The thought of putting the welfare of another person before my own is farcical.
So here I am, Horseface Steve, blithely tootling along, oblivious to the needs or wants of anyone else in the world, yet vaguely uneasy about things. Every now and then, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I will do something that I don't want to do but might have the best interests of someone else in mind. What happens? I feel better about myself. When I think of others I feel good; when I think about myself I feel bad. Although this concept is not that complicated, it will not take root in my brain. I have a genetic disposition to ignore the well being of other people. It is not part of my normal make up.
Very frustrating, this thinking about others. Verrrry frustrating.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Murder Most Foul
I have a buddy in The Program who was grousing about one of our fellow Travelers. He knows that it isn't very spiritual to talk about someone who isn't actually present but he was pretty steamed and gossip, after all, is a deliciously satisfying character defect -- a minor character defect, in my opinion -- that is awfully hard to give up. The Book calls gossip a "polite form of murder by character assassination." Any defect that includes the words "murder" and "assassination" doesn't actually sound too minor, now that I think about it. Gossip is particularly pleasant when the other person has, in fact, behaved badly, which does happen from time to time. Not every one is as perfect as I am.
Sir Leonardo's solution to this irritation -- we are in the solution business, not the problem business -- was to go and sit next to this guy at each meeting. His sponsor made him do it. It wasn't his solution. His solution was to get as far away as possible then gossip after the meeting. A lot of the time if we make an effort to get to know someone who is frosting our cake then we learn a lot about ourselves. A lot of the time this individual is displaying character traits that we ourselves have. It shows me how irritating my little old character defects can be.
At our next meeting Sir Leonardo sat down next to me. I eyed him suspiciously.
Sir Leonardo's solution to this irritation -- we are in the solution business, not the problem business -- was to go and sit next to this guy at each meeting. His sponsor made him do it. It wasn't his solution. His solution was to get as far away as possible then gossip after the meeting. A lot of the time if we make an effort to get to know someone who is frosting our cake then we learn a lot about ourselves. A lot of the time this individual is displaying character traits that we ourselves have. It shows me how irritating my little old character defects can be.
At our next meeting Sir Leonardo sat down next to me. I eyed him suspiciously.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Inner Horseface
Keep It Simple.
I think this phrase is overused from time to time. I prefer to Make It Difficult. I prefer to take something simple and complicate the hell out of it. I know that I've really been productive when I can take the most inconsequential situation and blow it up into an international incident.
I only Keep It Simple when the task requires some analysis and effort. Like when I need to get busy and start working The Steps. Then I decide that not drinking and going to meetings is enough. There's a famous story about a farmer who peeks out of his storm cellar and sees that everything he owns is destroyed. He says: "I don't see any problems here, Ma. Ain't it grand the wind quit blowin'?"
Recovery is about a lot more than not drinking. Drinking was but a symptom for me. The real problem is that I'm an asshole, and this made me so uncomfortable that I had to get drunk just so I could ignore who I was, which was an asshole. Hey, maybe I'm still one. Probably so. I vaguely aware that my inner asshole is slumbering away just below the surface, ready to leap into action at the slightest provocation. Not that the alcohol is gone all that's left is the asshole. That's intolerable to me today. That's why I work The Steps.
Keep it simple but do the work.
I think this phrase is overused from time to time. I prefer to Make It Difficult. I prefer to take something simple and complicate the hell out of it. I know that I've really been productive when I can take the most inconsequential situation and blow it up into an international incident.
I only Keep It Simple when the task requires some analysis and effort. Like when I need to get busy and start working The Steps. Then I decide that not drinking and going to meetings is enough. There's a famous story about a farmer who peeks out of his storm cellar and sees that everything he owns is destroyed. He says: "I don't see any problems here, Ma. Ain't it grand the wind quit blowin'?"
Recovery is about a lot more than not drinking. Drinking was but a symptom for me. The real problem is that I'm an asshole, and this made me so uncomfortable that I had to get drunk just so I could ignore who I was, which was an asshole. Hey, maybe I'm still one. Probably so. I vaguely aware that my inner asshole is slumbering away just below the surface, ready to leap into action at the slightest provocation. Not that the alcohol is gone all that's left is the asshole. That's intolerable to me today. That's why I work The Steps.
Keep it simple but do the work.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Horseface Steve: Relationship Savant
It's interesting talking to people in recovery about relationships. There is kind of an unofficial tradition that we don't tumble into a serious relationship too early in sobriety. As a group, we do a good job of immediately getting deadly serious with whatever hostage we are currently trying to take. We burn with a white hot heat then try to get out after an impossibly short time. "What was I thinking," we say. "I don't even like this person." We jump into relationships for all the wrong reasons: sex, loneliness, selfishly using someone else to plug a void in our lives that we should be figuring out how to plug ourselves. It's easier avoiding our own problems when we can focus all of our energy on someone else. All that excitement distracts us from some of the hard parts of living. It's a lot easier fixing the problems of another person than working on our own.
SuperK and I met at her second meeting, when I had a robust four months of sobriety. Let me assure you that this didn't go over too well with the old-timers in Chicago and they weren't bashful about speaking up. How well did the conventional wisdom work? We've been together, in a wonderful relationship, for over 20 years. Not that it has been easy all of the time -- that's delusional, fantastical alcoholic thinking, the perfect relationship -- but it has been incredibly satisfying and a lot of fun.
The caution is that we need to be careful that a jolt to our emotions doesn't upset us so much that we drink. And we're not just thinking about ourselves, either. Even if we believe that we have the intestinal fortitude to handle a big shock, we have to think about the other person. And the snake in the grass is that most of us change a great deal in our first couple of years of sobriety, when we are arduously working The Steps. It isn't unusual to look into the eyes of your soul mate after a few years and ask:"Who the hell are you?" Happened to SuperK. She had to suck it up and play hurt for a long time before she became accustomed to my unique, deeply hidden, and rare charms (by "charms" I mean "significant psychological pathologies.")
When I talk to friends and sponsees about their relationships, I'm careful to keep my mouth shut. What do I know about whether or not things will work out? I'm a big expert on relationships? I was the 30 year old guy sucking down bong hits and watching "Gilligan's Island" at 10 in the morning. I'm going to make suggestions about interpersonal relationships? I don't think so. My experience is limited to making suggestions to The Professor, who although he can't hear me, might want to consider taking time off from making a telephone system using coconuts and swamp water and FIXING THE HOLE IN THE FUCKING BOAT!
SuperK and I met at her second meeting, when I had a robust four months of sobriety. Let me assure you that this didn't go over too well with the old-timers in Chicago and they weren't bashful about speaking up. How well did the conventional wisdom work? We've been together, in a wonderful relationship, for over 20 years. Not that it has been easy all of the time -- that's delusional, fantastical alcoholic thinking, the perfect relationship -- but it has been incredibly satisfying and a lot of fun.
The caution is that we need to be careful that a jolt to our emotions doesn't upset us so much that we drink. And we're not just thinking about ourselves, either. Even if we believe that we have the intestinal fortitude to handle a big shock, we have to think about the other person. And the snake in the grass is that most of us change a great deal in our first couple of years of sobriety, when we are arduously working The Steps. It isn't unusual to look into the eyes of your soul mate after a few years and ask:"Who the hell are you?" Happened to SuperK. She had to suck it up and play hurt for a long time before she became accustomed to my unique, deeply hidden, and rare charms (by "charms" I mean "significant psychological pathologies.")
When I talk to friends and sponsees about their relationships, I'm careful to keep my mouth shut. What do I know about whether or not things will work out? I'm a big expert on relationships? I was the 30 year old guy sucking down bong hits and watching "Gilligan's Island" at 10 in the morning. I'm going to make suggestions about interpersonal relationships? I don't think so. My experience is limited to making suggestions to The Professor, who although he can't hear me, might want to consider taking time off from making a telephone system using coconuts and swamp water and FIXING THE HOLE IN THE FUCKING BOAT!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Why Do I Think I Can Remember What I Did in a Blackout?
Lie: Anything that gives or is meant to give a false impression.
I attended a meeting last night and heard a lead from a fellow traveler on this sometimes narrow, rocky road upon which we trod. Actually, it was kind of a half-0-lead. At this meeting the speaker talks for about 30 minutes and then the chairperson calls on folks in the group to share their thoughts. I thoroughly enjoyed the lead, somewhat unusual for a self-centered, judgemental, know-it-all like myself. I hear a lot of drunkalogues in this meeting. It can be difficult to "get sober" in such a short time. Conversely, I have about a 30 minute attention span so I actually listen to much of what is said, instead of sitting there thinking about myself, which is my favorite topic.
I find today that when I share I try to talk about the How I Got Sober part. I try to avoid the What I Did When I Was Drinking part. Frankly, I don't believe much of what I say when I talk about my drinking exploits. In case I haven't mentioned it, and I hope that I have, I'm quite a liar. I don't mean to be a liar. It's just that when I talk I say things that aren't true. Words come spilling out of my mouth before my brain can remind me that I am making things up, which is a polite way of saying that I'm lying. Making things up sounds so much nicer. Liar is an ugly word. That's why I really try not to lie. I have given it up for Lent, anyway. When the High Season is over all bets are off.
I think that a lot of my recollections about my drinking have been poisoned by my desire to be the baddest ass drunk in near Northeast Cincinnati, central region, on or near a main thoroughfare but not including any businesses or cross streets. I always liked to make things a little more dramatic than they actually were. Occasionally, even today, I'll be sharing an old war story and I'll think: "You know, I'm not sure that I ever did that." I have exaggerated the same stories for so long that they have become part of my mental lore. My sharing is an epic poem, like Beowulf or Charge of the Light Brigade. I have never been one to let facts get in the way of a good story.
That's why I talk about my recovery. That is something that I remember accurately, most of the time.
I attended a meeting last night and heard a lead from a fellow traveler on this sometimes narrow, rocky road upon which we trod. Actually, it was kind of a half-0-lead. At this meeting the speaker talks for about 30 minutes and then the chairperson calls on folks in the group to share their thoughts. I thoroughly enjoyed the lead, somewhat unusual for a self-centered, judgemental, know-it-all like myself. I hear a lot of drunkalogues in this meeting. It can be difficult to "get sober" in such a short time. Conversely, I have about a 30 minute attention span so I actually listen to much of what is said, instead of sitting there thinking about myself, which is my favorite topic.
I find today that when I share I try to talk about the How I Got Sober part. I try to avoid the What I Did When I Was Drinking part. Frankly, I don't believe much of what I say when I talk about my drinking exploits. In case I haven't mentioned it, and I hope that I have, I'm quite a liar. I don't mean to be a liar. It's just that when I talk I say things that aren't true. Words come spilling out of my mouth before my brain can remind me that I am making things up, which is a polite way of saying that I'm lying. Making things up sounds so much nicer. Liar is an ugly word. That's why I really try not to lie. I have given it up for Lent, anyway. When the High Season is over all bets are off.
I think that a lot of my recollections about my drinking have been poisoned by my desire to be the baddest ass drunk in near Northeast Cincinnati, central region, on or near a main thoroughfare but not including any businesses or cross streets. I always liked to make things a little more dramatic than they actually were. Occasionally, even today, I'll be sharing an old war story and I'll think: "You know, I'm not sure that I ever did that." I have exaggerated the same stories for so long that they have become part of my mental lore. My sharing is an epic poem, like Beowulf or Charge of the Light Brigade. I have never been one to let facts get in the way of a good story.
That's why I talk about my recovery. That is something that I remember accurately, most of the time.
Monday, January 19, 2009
GO! GO! GO! No, Wait! STOP!
Over the years I have maintained a constant, on-going dialogue with Herr Luber, a friend of long duration who knows me uncomfortably well and one of the few non-alcoholics who reads what I write (swelling my fan base by 50%, no doubt). We usually lapse into somewhat pompous reveries about death, the meaning of life, and how almost every human emotion or achievement can be reduced to and adequately explained by a sports analogy, usually involving a football player from the 1960s, like Lou "The Toe" Groza or Big Daddy Lipscomb, before he OD'ed on heroin.
Again I say that a lot of the things that alcoholics experience can be found in our fellow Earth People. The difference is that they don't need to drink when they feel frustrated or want to celebrate or are bored or uncomfortable, or just for the hell of it. It doesn't relieve anything for them or, if it does, temporarily, they can see that it's no long term solution and that it's causing more problems than it's solving.
Herr Luber and I are both Strivers. We both have an impossibly long list of things that we want to accomplish. Some of the things on our lists are never going to pan out for us, and some of them take a lot of time and effort. I personally don't like to consider the fact that I may be spending a lot of time on something that may never work out the way I want it to (by "the way I want it to" I mean "bringing me great fame and fortune.") Whenever I slow down for a few minutes an impossibly powerful part of my brain starts to squirm and talk to me, urging me to get busy, get to work, be productive.
This isn't all bad. I get a lot done. And I see this in many, many alcoholics. We're workers. Sure, we pretend like we're lazy but we're really not. I don't know many alcoholics who aren't very productive. I think we like to beat ourselves up by pretending that we are lazy.
I was wrestling with my Quiet Time this morning and thinking about how sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee, pondering a work day and getting some exercise and all the other stuff I can or have to do today, differs from sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee, watching the sun rise over the Caribbean, with nothing specific on my agenda. After a good vacation I wonder if I could simply spend the rest of my life drinking coffee, eating a bowl of papaya and pineapple -- good pineapple, fresh, just picked, not that hard crap you buy at Kroger's -- and letting life wash over me like a gentle tropical breeze.
Probably. I'm sure like to be in a position to give it a shot for a couple of years. But in reality I'm sure I would get bored after a while. The goal is melding accomplishments with peace of mind. I don't want to spend every waking minute running willy-nilly to the next task. But I do want to feel productive.
Quiet a parlor trick, when you think about it.
Again I say that a lot of the things that alcoholics experience can be found in our fellow Earth People. The difference is that they don't need to drink when they feel frustrated or want to celebrate or are bored or uncomfortable, or just for the hell of it. It doesn't relieve anything for them or, if it does, temporarily, they can see that it's no long term solution and that it's causing more problems than it's solving.
Herr Luber and I are both Strivers. We both have an impossibly long list of things that we want to accomplish. Some of the things on our lists are never going to pan out for us, and some of them take a lot of time and effort. I personally don't like to consider the fact that I may be spending a lot of time on something that may never work out the way I want it to (by "the way I want it to" I mean "bringing me great fame and fortune.") Whenever I slow down for a few minutes an impossibly powerful part of my brain starts to squirm and talk to me, urging me to get busy, get to work, be productive.
This isn't all bad. I get a lot done. And I see this in many, many alcoholics. We're workers. Sure, we pretend like we're lazy but we're really not. I don't know many alcoholics who aren't very productive. I think we like to beat ourselves up by pretending that we are lazy.
I was wrestling with my Quiet Time this morning and thinking about how sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee, pondering a work day and getting some exercise and all the other stuff I can or have to do today, differs from sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee, watching the sun rise over the Caribbean, with nothing specific on my agenda. After a good vacation I wonder if I could simply spend the rest of my life drinking coffee, eating a bowl of papaya and pineapple -- good pineapple, fresh, just picked, not that hard crap you buy at Kroger's -- and letting life wash over me like a gentle tropical breeze.
Probably. I'm sure like to be in a position to give it a shot for a couple of years. But in reality I'm sure I would get bored after a while. The goal is melding accomplishments with peace of mind. I don't want to spend every waking minute running willy-nilly to the next task. But I do want to feel productive.
Quiet a parlor trick, when you think about it.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Write It Down
Shorty and I were having a discussion last night on the topic of not feeling very good. Feeling bad, disconnected, vaguely certain that things aren't going to work out, whatever words you want to use to dress up Feeling Like Shit in nice clothes. I was pleased that, for a change, he was the one feeling bad. All things being equal, I prefer when I feel good and the other person feels bad, even when it's someone I love. Not only would I normally choose feeling good over feeling bad, when I'm talking to someone feeling bad it gives me a comfortable sense of superiority. I can counsel them (by "counsel" I mean "tell them what to do in a mildly arrogant fashion"). I enjoy telling people what to do, even when I have no idea what that might be.
The exchange centered around writing which, while it's one of Shorty's strong points, is something he had not yet done. He admitted this right away because he knew I would take a swollen and misshapen pleasure out of pointing it out. There's something very revealing about soul-searching with a pen and paper. The pen usually goes places that I wouldn't have predicted. It has a life of its own. It's hard to fool yourself when you are writing. What's the point? I can see the logic behind trying to bullshit another person, but when I'm all by myself writing down stuff no one else is going to see it doesn't seem productive to lie. I know when I'm lying to myself, for God's sake. I'm not fooling myself any more.
When we're upset a lot of the time we are doing something we shouldn't be doing or we aren't doing something that needs to be done. Simple as that. This what the writing will reveal. But sometimes we can't put our finger on anything specific. And that's OK. Sometimes we are just going to feel like crap. Everybody feels like crap some of the time for no reason whatsoever. Life can be a challenge.
"This, too, shall pass." West-side Ken.
The exchange centered around writing which, while it's one of Shorty's strong points, is something he had not yet done. He admitted this right away because he knew I would take a swollen and misshapen pleasure out of pointing it out. There's something very revealing about soul-searching with a pen and paper. The pen usually goes places that I wouldn't have predicted. It has a life of its own. It's hard to fool yourself when you are writing. What's the point? I can see the logic behind trying to bullshit another person, but when I'm all by myself writing down stuff no one else is going to see it doesn't seem productive to lie. I know when I'm lying to myself, for God's sake. I'm not fooling myself any more.
When we're upset a lot of the time we are doing something we shouldn't be doing or we aren't doing something that needs to be done. Simple as that. This what the writing will reveal. But sometimes we can't put our finger on anything specific. And that's OK. Sometimes we are just going to feel like crap. Everybody feels like crap some of the time for no reason whatsoever. Life can be a challenge.
"This, too, shall pass." West-side Ken.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Etched on my Tombstone: "I Told You I Was Sick"
Health: physical and mental well-being; soundness; freedom from defect, pain, or disease; normality of mental and physical functions.
I'm pretty sure that there is something seriously wrong with my body. Deep down inside a venomous tumor has awakened from a deep slumber and is growing quickly, inexorably marching toward total victory over my pathetic normal cells. Or maybe I have contracted an extremely rare disease, found only in a tiny corner of a remote tropical archipelago. There is no known cure. I have all of the symptoms, that's for sure. Maybe the delicate chemistry of my brain is beginning to short circuit, weird impulses surging erratically through deteriorating nerves. Maybe all three are happening at once!
Dear God, not me, please not me. Why can't this happen to someone else?
When I was in The Jungle I had a mild case of, ahem, Montezuma's Revenge. I'm sure it didn't have anything to do with the local food I bought from street vendors cooking with unwashed hands. Or the begonia stalk that I sucked the moisture out of while on a jungle walk. Our guide, Israel, was showing SuperK and I how it was possible to survive in the jungle if we got lost. The mere thought of being lost in The Jungle, where the average native plant could beat me up, probably got The Diarrhea up and running. As I sucked on the begonia, I thought: "This doesn't seem like a very good idea."
If I don't feel well I assume that the prognosis is horrible. I assume I'm going to die. An unhealthy obsession with my own health is part and parcel of being totally consumed with my own being. And it segues nicely with the belief that I can go through life pain free.
Yeah. That sounds good. Pain free.
I'm pretty sure that there is something seriously wrong with my body. Deep down inside a venomous tumor has awakened from a deep slumber and is growing quickly, inexorably marching toward total victory over my pathetic normal cells. Or maybe I have contracted an extremely rare disease, found only in a tiny corner of a remote tropical archipelago. There is no known cure. I have all of the symptoms, that's for sure. Maybe the delicate chemistry of my brain is beginning to short circuit, weird impulses surging erratically through deteriorating nerves. Maybe all three are happening at once!
Dear God, not me, please not me. Why can't this happen to someone else?
When I was in The Jungle I had a mild case of, ahem, Montezuma's Revenge. I'm sure it didn't have anything to do with the local food I bought from street vendors cooking with unwashed hands. Or the begonia stalk that I sucked the moisture out of while on a jungle walk. Our guide, Israel, was showing SuperK and I how it was possible to survive in the jungle if we got lost. The mere thought of being lost in The Jungle, where the average native plant could beat me up, probably got The Diarrhea up and running. As I sucked on the begonia, I thought: "This doesn't seem like a very good idea."
If I don't feel well I assume that the prognosis is horrible. I assume I'm going to die. An unhealthy obsession with my own health is part and parcel of being totally consumed with my own being. And it segues nicely with the belief that I can go through life pain free.
Yeah. That sounds good. Pain free.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
St. Francis Strikes Again
Garment: Any covering of clothing; clothes; costume.
St Francis, that great friend and mentor to recovering alcoholics, once suggested that we should "wear the world like a loose garment." He was not making recommendations about clothing. St. Francis is not your mother. He doesn't care if you go outside without a coat even though it's as cold as a witch's stainless steel Sub-Zero freezer "Quik-Freeze" compartment, should such a freezer or compartment actually exist. I have no knowledge one way or another. I have a Frigidaire, I think.
The idea behind the garment comment -- which definitely dates St. Francis. I mean when is the last time you said: "Hmmm, I wonder which garment I should wear today?" Probably the last time you put on a pair of trousers or wore an Easter hat -- is to suggest that we need to be willing to let go of our attachments to everything and anything connected to this world. A lot of the problems that we have can be traced to overly strong attachments to stuff and people and things.
I personally wear the world like a piece of spandex exercise equipment designed for a tiny woman. Unfortunately, I look better in women's clothing but I'm not going to delve into that topic here. Back to the garment, which has been washed in a scalding hot washer then dried in a scorching hot dryer. It has shrunk somewhat. It has a warning label stating"sizes run smaller than normal." It is not loose in a normal sense of the word. It so restricts my circulation that all of the blood in my body is forced into my mouth, where I relieve the pressure by saying stupid and inappropriate things.
When I go into the garment store I purposely lie about my garment size. If the garment fitter questions my measurements, I snatch the tape measure out of his pocket and shred it with my sharp teeth. "I didn't say I want a garment that fits, you dumb ass," I snarl. I lose my garment. I steal garments from other people. My garment is old and should have been thrown away long ago.
I'm not the best person to join for a day of clothes shopping.
St Francis, that great friend and mentor to recovering alcoholics, once suggested that we should "wear the world like a loose garment." He was not making recommendations about clothing. St. Francis is not your mother. He doesn't care if you go outside without a coat even though it's as cold as a witch's stainless steel Sub-Zero freezer "Quik-Freeze" compartment, should such a freezer or compartment actually exist. I have no knowledge one way or another. I have a Frigidaire, I think.
The idea behind the garment comment -- which definitely dates St. Francis. I mean when is the last time you said: "Hmmm, I wonder which garment I should wear today?" Probably the last time you put on a pair of trousers or wore an Easter hat -- is to suggest that we need to be willing to let go of our attachments to everything and anything connected to this world. A lot of the problems that we have can be traced to overly strong attachments to stuff and people and things.
I personally wear the world like a piece of spandex exercise equipment designed for a tiny woman. Unfortunately, I look better in women's clothing but I'm not going to delve into that topic here. Back to the garment, which has been washed in a scalding hot washer then dried in a scorching hot dryer. It has shrunk somewhat. It has a warning label stating"sizes run smaller than normal." It is not loose in a normal sense of the word. It so restricts my circulation that all of the blood in my body is forced into my mouth, where I relieve the pressure by saying stupid and inappropriate things.
When I go into the garment store I purposely lie about my garment size. If the garment fitter questions my measurements, I snatch the tape measure out of his pocket and shred it with my sharp teeth. "I didn't say I want a garment that fits, you dumb ass," I snarl. I lose my garment. I steal garments from other people. My garment is old and should have been thrown away long ago.
I'm not the best person to join for a day of clothes shopping.
Death Beds!
Death Bed: The bed on which a person dies.
I was contemplating the Death Bed experience during my Quiet Time this morning. While I'm very proud of the fact that I always take the time for prayer and meditation to start my day, you can see that it isn't always very effective. I was thinking about the contention that no one ever laid on their Death Bed and said: "I wish I had spent more time at the office" or "I wish I had done a better job with my lawn." I personally don't think there is any way to know that for sure. Maybe somebody really liked their lawn. Is there a book somewhere with Death Bed confessions listed? Who knows what crap people come up with when they are near death.
The belief is that most people that have regrets are thinking that they should have spent more time with their family or volunteering at a soup kitchen. I'm not that thrilled with my family, to be honest with you, and the thought of soup first thing in the morning makes me nauseous. I would do better in a bread line. You can eat bread for any meal, even breakfast. Toast it up with some butter -- it's delicious.
The idea of a Death Bed experience is not comforting to me. If I'm on my Death Bed, I'm going to be screaming: "Help! Help! Get me out of here!" I can't imagine that I'm going to be pondering different philosophical questions. I'm going to be trying to cut a deal with the Devil, assuming I can pull the old switcheroo and escape the Death Bed but still keep my hands on my soul, which seems like an important thing to keep track of.
And what if I die in a plane crash or fall out of a tall building? No Death Bed experience there. I'm going to assume that I will be kicking and screaming then, too. "Don't lean out that window," she said. "You might fall to your death," she said. Always nagging me, that woman.
Honestly, I'm not that informed on Death Beds. Maybe there is a room in every hospital specifically set aside for the Death Bed experience. That's a room I'd want to stay out of. They couldn't possibly stick you with a roommate in the Death Bed room, could they?
Actually, I was thinking about how frustrated I get from time to time at the mundane aspects of life. I overlook the simple accomplishments and true pleasures to focus on the fleeting excitements that I crave so much.
"No one here gets out alive." -- Jim Morrison.
I was contemplating the Death Bed experience during my Quiet Time this morning. While I'm very proud of the fact that I always take the time for prayer and meditation to start my day, you can see that it isn't always very effective. I was thinking about the contention that no one ever laid on their Death Bed and said: "I wish I had spent more time at the office" or "I wish I had done a better job with my lawn." I personally don't think there is any way to know that for sure. Maybe somebody really liked their lawn. Is there a book somewhere with Death Bed confessions listed? Who knows what crap people come up with when they are near death.
The belief is that most people that have regrets are thinking that they should have spent more time with their family or volunteering at a soup kitchen. I'm not that thrilled with my family, to be honest with you, and the thought of soup first thing in the morning makes me nauseous. I would do better in a bread line. You can eat bread for any meal, even breakfast. Toast it up with some butter -- it's delicious.
The idea of a Death Bed experience is not comforting to me. If I'm on my Death Bed, I'm going to be screaming: "Help! Help! Get me out of here!" I can't imagine that I'm going to be pondering different philosophical questions. I'm going to be trying to cut a deal with the Devil, assuming I can pull the old switcheroo and escape the Death Bed but still keep my hands on my soul, which seems like an important thing to keep track of.
And what if I die in a plane crash or fall out of a tall building? No Death Bed experience there. I'm going to assume that I will be kicking and screaming then, too. "Don't lean out that window," she said. "You might fall to your death," she said. Always nagging me, that woman.
Honestly, I'm not that informed on Death Beds. Maybe there is a room in every hospital specifically set aside for the Death Bed experience. That's a room I'd want to stay out of. They couldn't possibly stick you with a roommate in the Death Bed room, could they?
Actually, I was thinking about how frustrated I get from time to time at the mundane aspects of life. I overlook the simple accomplishments and true pleasures to focus on the fleeting excitements that I crave so much.
"No one here gets out alive." -- Jim Morrison.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Fun at the Border
Inconvenient: Not favorable to one's comfort; difficult to do, use, or get to; causing trouble, bother, work, etc.
We took a day trip while in Belize to visit Tikal, a famous Mayan ruin in Guatemala. We had to pass through security and customs at the border, which looked like something out of a spaghetti Western. It wasn't a very efficient process (by "efficient" I mean "not inconveniencing me at all.") We had to get out of the truck and stand in line in kind of a utility shed with a concrete floor to pay money for this privilege. We got back in the truck, drove thirty feet, parked wherever we could wedge the vehicle, and got into line in kind of an open airplane hanger structure. A customs official (and by "official" I mean "someone who is working with teenagers in army uniforms holding sawed off shotguns") furiously stamped my documents while holding a staccato conversation in Spanish with a colleague while ignoring me completely. That was OK -- I was keeping an eye on the teenagers. Someone whose colleagues are holding sawed off shotguns has my full attention and complete respect.
Finally, she stopped and looked at me. "$3," she said. Irritated at the delay for such a ridiculously small amount of money, which I resented having to pay to someone not treating me with the respect to which I am entitled, I opened my mouth to comment on how inconvenient this was for me and remembered the phrase "restraint of tongue in pen when in the company of teenagers holding guns" and returned to the truck. I left SuperK in line. "She can come up with her own entrance fee," I thought. After all, it was three dollars. We had one last document check before we entered a country that probably doesn't have to worry about waves of people trying to sneak in.
"Hold on a second, Alfredo," I said to our guide. "I want to suggest some ways to improve this process. Stop at any one of the teenagers, preferably one with an Uzi and not a chintzy sawed off shotgun." I had some very good ideas how they could do it better. Surely they wanted to hear my ideas. Everybody thinks my ideas are great. They love it when I tell them how they are doing it wrong and how to improve it, whatever it is.
Alfredo didn't look my way as he gunned the engine and accelerated into Guatemala.
We took a day trip while in Belize to visit Tikal, a famous Mayan ruin in Guatemala. We had to pass through security and customs at the border, which looked like something out of a spaghetti Western. It wasn't a very efficient process (by "efficient" I mean "not inconveniencing me at all.") We had to get out of the truck and stand in line in kind of a utility shed with a concrete floor to pay money for this privilege. We got back in the truck, drove thirty feet, parked wherever we could wedge the vehicle, and got into line in kind of an open airplane hanger structure. A customs official (and by "official" I mean "someone who is working with teenagers in army uniforms holding sawed off shotguns") furiously stamped my documents while holding a staccato conversation in Spanish with a colleague while ignoring me completely. That was OK -- I was keeping an eye on the teenagers. Someone whose colleagues are holding sawed off shotguns has my full attention and complete respect.
Finally, she stopped and looked at me. "$3," she said. Irritated at the delay for such a ridiculously small amount of money, which I resented having to pay to someone not treating me with the respect to which I am entitled, I opened my mouth to comment on how inconvenient this was for me and remembered the phrase "restraint of tongue in pen when in the company of teenagers holding guns" and returned to the truck. I left SuperK in line. "She can come up with her own entrance fee," I thought. After all, it was three dollars. We had one last document check before we entered a country that probably doesn't have to worry about waves of people trying to sneak in.
"Hold on a second, Alfredo," I said to our guide. "I want to suggest some ways to improve this process. Stop at any one of the teenagers, preferably one with an Uzi and not a chintzy sawed off shotgun." I had some very good ideas how they could do it better. Surely they wanted to hear my ideas. Everybody thinks my ideas are great. They love it when I tell them how they are doing it wrong and how to improve it, whatever it is.
Alfredo didn't look my way as he gunned the engine and accelerated into Guatemala.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Happy New Year
This year I celebrated New Year's Eve (aka, Amateur's Night) by falling asleep at 11PM in my hotel room in Belize. You know what they say (and by "you" I mean "old people") -- 11PM is the new 1AM. I was vaguely aware of some hooting and hollering and fireworks going off at midnight but that may have been my prostate barking a little louder than normal. When I was drinking heavily and had to go to the bathroom during the night I didn't always feel the need to actually get up. You can do the math there.
The next morning I awakened early and creeped out to my balcony overlooking the Caribbean. One of the great gifts I give to SuperK when we are on vacation is not setting my alarm for some ridiculously early time. I'm always in a big hurry to get up and get going. Lots to accomplish, except I'm on vacation and the whole idea is to not have lots to accomplish. I did yoga for an hour and poured myself a cup of coffee.
I watched a young man heading past the hotel from the direction of town. He would slowly start to lean forward as he moved until he was at such a ridiculous angle that I thought surely he would pitch forward into the sand. He would stop and almost right himself before lurching into motion again. Now some invisible force would begin pulling him from behind until he looked like he was getting ready to go under a limbo bar set six inches above the ground. Implausibly, incredibly, he refused go over. Some balancing mechanism deep inside his hippo-campus was fighting back against whatever drugs and alcohol were percolating through his system. There was some confusion when he would encounter an obstacle like a dock. He would lurch up and over in a quick, disjointed manner. I used to think that if I did something dangerous and stupid very quickly that it was better that way. Apparently detouring a few feet around the end of the dock was more than his hippo-campus could handle.
SuperK and I took a brisk walk into town later in the morning for breakfast and Cuban coffee. As we made our way down the beach a dude coming our way started yelling: "Happy New Year!" He stopped us and insisted on shaking our hands. "I'm Joe from Texas. You can tell me your name. I'll remember." He was clearly not going to remember. He may not have had his own name right. He had slept in the sand somewhere. SuperK said: "I definitely need to wash my hands."
The night before we sat outside for a while and listened to a musician named Louie playing at the bar next door. He was a pretty good guitarist. He had a voice like a wolverine being fed through a wood chipper. He would harmonize with himself, ignoring the fact that harmonizing requires more than one person. He was laughably bad but people in the bar were clapping and cheering, oblivious to the noise he was making. He probably came cheap. Maybe he played for drinks. I know that when I was drinking I didn't need to have anything good going on.
It was a lot better this way.
The next morning I awakened early and creeped out to my balcony overlooking the Caribbean. One of the great gifts I give to SuperK when we are on vacation is not setting my alarm for some ridiculously early time. I'm always in a big hurry to get up and get going. Lots to accomplish, except I'm on vacation and the whole idea is to not have lots to accomplish. I did yoga for an hour and poured myself a cup of coffee.
I watched a young man heading past the hotel from the direction of town. He would slowly start to lean forward as he moved until he was at such a ridiculous angle that I thought surely he would pitch forward into the sand. He would stop and almost right himself before lurching into motion again. Now some invisible force would begin pulling him from behind until he looked like he was getting ready to go under a limbo bar set six inches above the ground. Implausibly, incredibly, he refused go over. Some balancing mechanism deep inside his hippo-campus was fighting back against whatever drugs and alcohol were percolating through his system. There was some confusion when he would encounter an obstacle like a dock. He would lurch up and over in a quick, disjointed manner. I used to think that if I did something dangerous and stupid very quickly that it was better that way. Apparently detouring a few feet around the end of the dock was more than his hippo-campus could handle.
SuperK and I took a brisk walk into town later in the morning for breakfast and Cuban coffee. As we made our way down the beach a dude coming our way started yelling: "Happy New Year!" He stopped us and insisted on shaking our hands. "I'm Joe from Texas. You can tell me your name. I'll remember." He was clearly not going to remember. He may not have had his own name right. He had slept in the sand somewhere. SuperK said: "I definitely need to wash my hands."
The night before we sat outside for a while and listened to a musician named Louie playing at the bar next door. He was a pretty good guitarist. He had a voice like a wolverine being fed through a wood chipper. He would harmonize with himself, ignoring the fact that harmonizing requires more than one person. He was laughably bad but people in the bar were clapping and cheering, oblivious to the noise he was making. He probably came cheap. Maybe he played for drinks. I know that when I was drinking I didn't need to have anything good going on.
It was a lot better this way.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Friend or Foe?
I recently gave a lead at an area clubhouse. This particular meeting features talks by people who have twenty plus years of sobriety. "Man," I thought. "This organization is in a world of hurt if I've crossed some kind of mythical threshold." Most of the time I'm in a Texas Death Match with that goat playing the ukulele. I'm lucky if I can act in a normal fashion 20 or 30 percent of the time. Otherwise it's any body's guess what's going to come out of my mouth .
A few good friends of mine came to hear me speak and I always make a point of emphasizing how important these relationships are to my sobriety. It's one thing to attend a meeting once a week and another all together to have long conversations with people who know me very, very well. I have a tendency to spin things when I'm speaking before a bunch of people. I want to be funny and profound in my message and well put together. If I'm having trouble at work I can paint a picture that would seem to place all of the blame on the job and none of it on me, as unlikely as this is. I don't even know I'm doing this most of the time. My capacity for bullshit and self-delusion is boundless.
So I have these friends who know they can shoot from the hip with me. In my opinion that's what a friend is. Someone who knows he can speak his mind and that there won't be long lasting repercussions. When I was drinking I had a Shit List, and you were on it. I didn't forget anything. I was a master grudge holder. So what happens? Nobody tells you anything you don't want to hear.
One time I was having coffee with Willy and he was laying it on pretty thick so I interrupted and told him what I really thought. He started to laugh then yelled to the waitstaff: "I'm going to need another cup of steaming hot coffee because I'm going to pour this one in this guy's crotch."
I can move surprisingly fast for an old man.
A few good friends of mine came to hear me speak and I always make a point of emphasizing how important these relationships are to my sobriety. It's one thing to attend a meeting once a week and another all together to have long conversations with people who know me very, very well. I have a tendency to spin things when I'm speaking before a bunch of people. I want to be funny and profound in my message and well put together. If I'm having trouble at work I can paint a picture that would seem to place all of the blame on the job and none of it on me, as unlikely as this is. I don't even know I'm doing this most of the time. My capacity for bullshit and self-delusion is boundless.
So I have these friends who know they can shoot from the hip with me. In my opinion that's what a friend is. Someone who knows he can speak his mind and that there won't be long lasting repercussions. When I was drinking I had a Shit List, and you were on it. I didn't forget anything. I was a master grudge holder. So what happens? Nobody tells you anything you don't want to hear.
One time I was having coffee with Willy and he was laying it on pretty thick so I interrupted and told him what I really thought. He started to laugh then yelled to the waitstaff: "I'm going to need another cup of steaming hot coffee because I'm going to pour this one in this guy's crotch."
I can move surprisingly fast for an old man.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Horseface Steve or Special S?
Special: Of a kind different from others; distinctive, peculiar, or unique; unusual; uncommon; exceptional; extraordinary.
All that applies to me. All of it. I am EXTRAORDINARY. Unfortunately, I'm extraordinary in the bad sense of the word, as in: "That was an extraordinarily inappropriate comment" or Your work habits are exceptionally bad." Peculiar seems to be a better fit.
I recall a conversation I had a while back with Harley, an old friend of mine. He was working outside of the city and had a long daily commute. On the drive home one night he got a speeding ticket. He was not happy about this gift from the state, and he spent a long time telling me why he shouldn't have been cited: it was a speed trap, everyone else was speeding, the radar actually got the guy ahead of him, etc. etc.
Mind you, I'm totally sympathetic. I believe that there should be a special set of Horseface Rules for someone as exceptional as me. My actions should be judged separately from the rest of society because of my exceptional persona. I always thought that I should be given a special driver's license, maybe marked with a big scarlet "S." For instance, if I was stuck at a red light and there was no cross traffic, I would be free to run the light. My exceptional driving skills would make this safe and acceptable.
I recall the last time I got a speeding ticket. Believe it or not, it was actually kind of a fun experience. I saw those oh-so-familiar flashing lights go on and felt the oh-so-familiar panic grab my genitals before I recalled that I was clean and sober. No quick check of the ashtray for the stray roach. No kicking beer cans under the seat. No mouthful of Tic Tac so that I smelled like Budweiser and spearmint. The cop was polite, quick, and efficient. He even gave me a flyer explaining that they were patrolling this particular stretch of road because there had been a recent spate of serious accidents, as if he had to explain to me why he was giving me a ticket for driving 20 MPH above the posted limit. "Sir, I clocked you at 75 in a 55 MPH zone." That's funny, because I had my cruise control set at 78.
My mentors in recovery help me work out the answers on my own. I don't listen to anyone when they talk to me. I have to think that I figured out something all on my own. Here's my exchange with Harley.
"What was the speed limit?"
"35."
"How fast were you going?"
"48."
"OK, I see. So you were, in fact, speeding?"
"Yeah, but . . . "
"But you were, in fact speeding?"
Maybe if start posting signs that say:"Speed Limit 35, Unless everyone else is speeding then it's 48."
All that applies to me. All of it. I am EXTRAORDINARY. Unfortunately, I'm extraordinary in the bad sense of the word, as in: "That was an extraordinarily inappropriate comment" or Your work habits are exceptionally bad." Peculiar seems to be a better fit.
I recall a conversation I had a while back with Harley, an old friend of mine. He was working outside of the city and had a long daily commute. On the drive home one night he got a speeding ticket. He was not happy about this gift from the state, and he spent a long time telling me why he shouldn't have been cited: it was a speed trap, everyone else was speeding, the radar actually got the guy ahead of him, etc. etc.
Mind you, I'm totally sympathetic. I believe that there should be a special set of Horseface Rules for someone as exceptional as me. My actions should be judged separately from the rest of society because of my exceptional persona. I always thought that I should be given a special driver's license, maybe marked with a big scarlet "S." For instance, if I was stuck at a red light and there was no cross traffic, I would be free to run the light. My exceptional driving skills would make this safe and acceptable.
I recall the last time I got a speeding ticket. Believe it or not, it was actually kind of a fun experience. I saw those oh-so-familiar flashing lights go on and felt the oh-so-familiar panic grab my genitals before I recalled that I was clean and sober. No quick check of the ashtray for the stray roach. No kicking beer cans under the seat. No mouthful of Tic Tac so that I smelled like Budweiser and spearmint. The cop was polite, quick, and efficient. He even gave me a flyer explaining that they were patrolling this particular stretch of road because there had been a recent spate of serious accidents, as if he had to explain to me why he was giving me a ticket for driving 20 MPH above the posted limit. "Sir, I clocked you at 75 in a 55 MPH zone." That's funny, because I had my cruise control set at 78.
My mentors in recovery help me work out the answers on my own. I don't listen to anyone when they talk to me. I have to think that I figured out something all on my own. Here's my exchange with Harley.
"What was the speed limit?"
"35."
"How fast were you going?"
"48."
"OK, I see. So you were, in fact, speeding?"
"Yeah, but . . . "
"But you were, in fact speeding?"
Maybe if start posting signs that say:"Speed Limit 35, Unless everyone else is speeding then it's 48."
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The Alcohol Keeps Coming At Me
I have learned over the years to be especially careful about my sobriety when I'm on vacation. I believe that if I quit working The Program one day at a time that I will eventually drink again, and I think that it not be during a time of stress or tragedy. When I'm in difficult circumstances, when I'm in pain or fearful, I tend to work on my recovery. It's when I get all relaxed and loosey-goosey and away from my support network that my thoughts drift toward alcohol and drugs. Alcohol, after all, did a good job making good times better.
Here are some of the things that happened to me in Belize.
When we checked into our hotel on the beach, we were shown the three beverages always available at no charge to the guests: coffee, fruit punch, and rum punch. Free fruit punch with rum. I would have just taken that container up to my room and suckled it like a new born baby. I think the fruit punch container had "Fruit Punch" written on it in magic marker; the alcohol had "Fruit Punch with Rum -- Enjoy!!" There may have been several exclamation points. The writing was more attractive and alluring, friendlier somehow. Were they suggesting that I shouldn't enjoy the fruit punch? That it was unlovable, less than somehow?
The first evening we walked the half mile from our hotel into the little party town that was the island's focal point. After a couple of hundred yards we came on a guy who had six or eight little hand made rope bracelets on a piece of cardboard. "This guy needs to work on his marketing," I thought. Friendly, he asked when we had gotten into town, what were we doing for New Year's Eve, did we want to buy some pot -- free sample, would we look at his bracelets? "Excuse me, what was that middle thing again?" This was repeated a half dozen times as we made our way into town. Apparently marijuana control was not a big issue here. I figured that with the tropical climate and a big crowd of Rasta dudes that the weed was probably top shelf. Free rum punch and free samples of weed. Where were these people when I was using?
We stop for dinner at a local restaurant overlooking the Caribbean. Nice breeze, great view, food smelling wonderful, and the waiter takes our order for a couple of cokes. "What, no drink? Mai Tai, margarita, beer? You're on vacation." I'm sure the markup on beer is a lot higher than the markup on beans and rice. I bet no one orders eight plates of beans and rice at one sitting. If he does, I bet he sleeps by himself that night.
I was not tempted by any of these very, very attractive temptations but I was very, very aware of them. This is how I know I'm an alcoholic. This hyper-awareness of the presence of alcohol is pretty typical of alcoholics.
Funny. There was always a full container of rum punch and never any fruit punch when we were thirsty.
Here are some of the things that happened to me in Belize.
When we checked into our hotel on the beach, we were shown the three beverages always available at no charge to the guests: coffee, fruit punch, and rum punch. Free fruit punch with rum. I would have just taken that container up to my room and suckled it like a new born baby. I think the fruit punch container had "Fruit Punch" written on it in magic marker; the alcohol had "Fruit Punch with Rum -- Enjoy!!" There may have been several exclamation points. The writing was more attractive and alluring, friendlier somehow. Were they suggesting that I shouldn't enjoy the fruit punch? That it was unlovable, less than somehow?
The first evening we walked the half mile from our hotel into the little party town that was the island's focal point. After a couple of hundred yards we came on a guy who had six or eight little hand made rope bracelets on a piece of cardboard. "This guy needs to work on his marketing," I thought. Friendly, he asked when we had gotten into town, what were we doing for New Year's Eve, did we want to buy some pot -- free sample, would we look at his bracelets? "Excuse me, what was that middle thing again?" This was repeated a half dozen times as we made our way into town. Apparently marijuana control was not a big issue here. I figured that with the tropical climate and a big crowd of Rasta dudes that the weed was probably top shelf. Free rum punch and free samples of weed. Where were these people when I was using?
We stop for dinner at a local restaurant overlooking the Caribbean. Nice breeze, great view, food smelling wonderful, and the waiter takes our order for a couple of cokes. "What, no drink? Mai Tai, margarita, beer? You're on vacation." I'm sure the markup on beer is a lot higher than the markup on beans and rice. I bet no one orders eight plates of beans and rice at one sitting. If he does, I bet he sleeps by himself that night.
I was not tempted by any of these very, very attractive temptations but I was very, very aware of them. This is how I know I'm an alcoholic. This hyper-awareness of the presence of alcohol is pretty typical of alcoholics.
Funny. There was always a full container of rum punch and never any fruit punch when we were thirsty.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Timing is Everything
Silence: The state or fact of keeping silent; a refraining from speech or the making of noise.
I was chatting with Serenity Stan yesterday about how difficult it is to determine, in any particular situation, when we need to act and when we need to wait patiently and let life proceed on its own terms. We debated the facts, exchanged ideas, pondered great mysteries and arcane truths, and tried to unravel the secret of successful living. And, once again decided that, in most cases, our lives would be better if we sealed our mouths with duct tape and sat quietly in a corner for the rest of the day. I can't remember where my car keys are half of the time. I'm going to solve your problems for you? I don't think so.
Here's a general recap of our conclusions:
Would I be better off if I did nothing? Yes.
Would things work out better if I didn't say a word? Yes, they would.
If I talk or act in any manner whatsoever, do I see an improvement in the lives of others? Not very often.
But in those instances where I do need to act the trick is getting the timing right. I have to make sure that I'm not agitated or upset. I need to consider the circumstances of others. Stan wanted to make a point -- a very good, justified point that needed to be made-- to a sleep deprived significant other. He was facing long odds that this was going to work out well.
Seal those lips.
I was chatting with Serenity Stan yesterday about how difficult it is to determine, in any particular situation, when we need to act and when we need to wait patiently and let life proceed on its own terms. We debated the facts, exchanged ideas, pondered great mysteries and arcane truths, and tried to unravel the secret of successful living. And, once again decided that, in most cases, our lives would be better if we sealed our mouths with duct tape and sat quietly in a corner for the rest of the day. I can't remember where my car keys are half of the time. I'm going to solve your problems for you? I don't think so.
Here's a general recap of our conclusions:
Would I be better off if I did nothing? Yes.
Would things work out better if I didn't say a word? Yes, they would.
If I talk or act in any manner whatsoever, do I see an improvement in the lives of others? Not very often.
But in those instances where I do need to act the trick is getting the timing right. I have to make sure that I'm not agitated or upset. I need to consider the circumstances of others. Stan wanted to make a point -- a very good, justified point that needed to be made-- to a sleep deprived significant other. He was facing long odds that this was going to work out well.
Seal those lips.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Always Learning
On the last morning of our vacation SuperK and I bought a couple of hand carved wood items to help us remember our trip, as if we were going to have trouble remembering 7 days out of the cold in sunny 80 degree weather: a small box (by "small" I mean "large") and a small end table (by "small" I mean . . . it's a table, for God's sake). We decided to pack these items, which we did not need, so that we could transport them home as "carry on" luggage. The only way these could rationally be called "carry on" is if we also had a small crane to winch them into the overhead luggage compartment on the plane, which is designed for small items, not furniture.
In my defense, I have tried to be considerate about airplane travel, as long as it doesn't inconvenience me in any way, shape, or form. I've never been one of those people who try to save 8 minutes at baggage claim by bringing 250 lbs of luggage into the plane cabin, using up enough overhead bin space for fifteen people. I glare at these people, typically. It gives me a comfortable feeling of superiority.
Here's the exchange at the ticket counter in Belize City:
SuperK: "Is it going to be OK to carry these items onto the plane? We don't want them to get damaged."
Agent: (eyeing the items dolefully) "I don't know. It's a pretty full flight."
Did I mention that I have a bad temper (by "bad" I mean "really pretty awful")? I have managed, by trying to practice these principles in all my affairs, to jam this temper way down deep inside my subconscious. It isn't gone by any means, just under control most of the time (by "most" I mean "some"). Even though it's locked away in a jail cell, swaddled in chains, and guarded by fearsome warriors it manages to get out from time to time.
I was trying to find out if we could check our furniture as carry on, not if the flight was full. I didn't give a shit if the flight was full. That's American's problem, not mine. Don't book so many passengers. Don't charge for checked luggage. Don't allow people to bring on furniture.
Horseface: "Can you guarantee they won't be damaged?"
Agent: (saying nothing, well trained in handling pissy passengers).
Horseface: "Well, then I'm taking these out to the gate. You can ask someone else to check their luggage."
As we walked away I felt a little tinkling of regret.
HF: "I was a little shitty . . . "
SK: "Yes, you were."
HF: "What do you mean by shitty?"
SK: "You know what you said."
HF: "You mean I was . . . shitty."
Funny thing happened. After standing in line for an hour to get through customs, we found out that we didn't have a form that the ticket agent should have given us, so we were booted out of line.
Had to be a coincidence, didn't it? Didn't it?
In my defense, I have tried to be considerate about airplane travel, as long as it doesn't inconvenience me in any way, shape, or form. I've never been one of those people who try to save 8 minutes at baggage claim by bringing 250 lbs of luggage into the plane cabin, using up enough overhead bin space for fifteen people. I glare at these people, typically. It gives me a comfortable feeling of superiority.
Here's the exchange at the ticket counter in Belize City:
SuperK: "Is it going to be OK to carry these items onto the plane? We don't want them to get damaged."
Agent: (eyeing the items dolefully) "I don't know. It's a pretty full flight."
Did I mention that I have a bad temper (by "bad" I mean "really pretty awful")? I have managed, by trying to practice these principles in all my affairs, to jam this temper way down deep inside my subconscious. It isn't gone by any means, just under control most of the time (by "most" I mean "some"). Even though it's locked away in a jail cell, swaddled in chains, and guarded by fearsome warriors it manages to get out from time to time.
I was trying to find out if we could check our furniture as carry on, not if the flight was full. I didn't give a shit if the flight was full. That's American's problem, not mine. Don't book so many passengers. Don't charge for checked luggage. Don't allow people to bring on furniture.
Horseface: "Can you guarantee they won't be damaged?"
Agent: (saying nothing, well trained in handling pissy passengers).
Horseface: "Well, then I'm taking these out to the gate. You can ask someone else to check their luggage."
As we walked away I felt a little tinkling of regret.
HF: "I was a little shitty . . . "
SK: "Yes, you were."
HF: "What do you mean by shitty?"
SK: "You know what you said."
HF: "You mean I was . . . shitty."
Funny thing happened. After standing in line for an hour to get through customs, we found out that we didn't have a form that the ticket agent should have given us, so we were booted out of line.
Had to be a coincidence, didn't it? Didn't it?
Monday, January 5, 2009
Back in the USSR
Vacation: Freedom from any activity; rest; respite; intermission.
I'm a big fan of vacations. I think that we all need to step back from our lives from time to time to get some perspective on ourselves and the world in general. Over the holidays SuperK and I visited a developing country in Central America which doesn't have the level of creature comforts that we are used to here in the US, to put it mildly. We had the same driver each day, a 32 year old guy named Alfredo, who was as delightful a man to be around as we could have hoped for. And a very happy man at that. He proudly pointed out his house as we drove to our lodge in the jungle. It was a bit smaller than my detached two car garage, which was built in 1928, and appeared to be a little more rustic.
We made a habit of asking the locals that we spent time with if they were happy. The universal response was: "Yes, we're happy. We don't have much but we're happy." Maybe they were lying. Who knows? I always lied when people asked me if I was happy unless I wanted to put on a big song and dance about how totally disastrous my life actually was. These people sure seemed happy. I'm a pretty good judge of misery and I couldn't detect very much.
Alfredo told us about one of his brothers who had managed to accumulate some material things. He also managed to accumulate some angst about them. He worried about someone breaking in and stealing them. Alfredo said: "You want to break into my house? Go ahead. There's not that much in there." He was happy that he finally got a couple of fans to mitigate the brutal heat and humidity. I could barely breathe it was so humid. I can't imagine sleeping in that pea soup even if I had a ceiling fan to slosh the air around.
What do I worry about on vacation? Is my stuff OK at home? Am I spending too much money? Is my job going to go to hell in a hand basket this year? I don't want to over simplify things. I have some nice stuff and I enjoy it from time to time but it also carries some baggage. Nice car? Nice car payment. Big house? Big mortgage.
I have to remember that my needs are food in my belly, clean water to drink, and a place to sleep. Everything else is wants.
I'm a big fan of vacations. I think that we all need to step back from our lives from time to time to get some perspective on ourselves and the world in general. Over the holidays SuperK and I visited a developing country in Central America which doesn't have the level of creature comforts that we are used to here in the US, to put it mildly. We had the same driver each day, a 32 year old guy named Alfredo, who was as delightful a man to be around as we could have hoped for. And a very happy man at that. He proudly pointed out his house as we drove to our lodge in the jungle. It was a bit smaller than my detached two car garage, which was built in 1928, and appeared to be a little more rustic.
We made a habit of asking the locals that we spent time with if they were happy. The universal response was: "Yes, we're happy. We don't have much but we're happy." Maybe they were lying. Who knows? I always lied when people asked me if I was happy unless I wanted to put on a big song and dance about how totally disastrous my life actually was. These people sure seemed happy. I'm a pretty good judge of misery and I couldn't detect very much.
Alfredo told us about one of his brothers who had managed to accumulate some material things. He also managed to accumulate some angst about them. He worried about someone breaking in and stealing them. Alfredo said: "You want to break into my house? Go ahead. There's not that much in there." He was happy that he finally got a couple of fans to mitigate the brutal heat and humidity. I could barely breathe it was so humid. I can't imagine sleeping in that pea soup even if I had a ceiling fan to slosh the air around.
What do I worry about on vacation? Is my stuff OK at home? Am I spending too much money? Is my job going to go to hell in a hand basket this year? I don't want to over simplify things. I have some nice stuff and I enjoy it from time to time but it also carries some baggage. Nice car? Nice car payment. Big house? Big mortgage.
I have to remember that my needs are food in my belly, clean water to drink, and a place to sleep. Everything else is wants.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Happy New Year
Resolution: The thing resolved or determined upon; decision as to future action; resolve.
I had time on vacation to ponder my New Year's resolutions. And I don't mean standard stuff like Lose 10 Pounds or Start Exercising or Quit Using Heroin. I knew I would never do those things. I'm talking about actions that I could actually consider thinking about doing some day in the distant future on a planet in a galaxy far, far away.
Here's a partial listing of what I came up with:
1. Quit acting like such an asshole.
2. If I have a headache, don't imagine the presence of a malignant tumor the size of a softball.
3. When I have a bad day at work, avoid the thought procession that has me getting fired, never getting another job ever again, losing my house and family, and living in a refrigerator box under a highway overpass.
4. If I have a stomach ache, don't assume that I have a tropical parasitic tapeworm 25 yards long.
5. When I want to say something -- anything -- just don't say it. The stuff that comes out of my mouth isn't that good.
6. If I wake up with a stiff back, don't worry that it's the result of chronic degenerative spinal scoliosis syndrome.
7. Bathe regularly.
I'm aiming low.
I had time on vacation to ponder my New Year's resolutions. And I don't mean standard stuff like Lose 10 Pounds or Start Exercising or Quit Using Heroin. I knew I would never do those things. I'm talking about actions that I could actually consider thinking about doing some day in the distant future on a planet in a galaxy far, far away.
Here's a partial listing of what I came up with:
1. Quit acting like such an asshole.
2. If I have a headache, don't imagine the presence of a malignant tumor the size of a softball.
3. When I have a bad day at work, avoid the thought procession that has me getting fired, never getting another job ever again, losing my house and family, and living in a refrigerator box under a highway overpass.
4. If I have a stomach ache, don't assume that I have a tropical parasitic tapeworm 25 yards long.
5. When I want to say something -- anything -- just don't say it. The stuff that comes out of my mouth isn't that good.
6. If I wake up with a stiff back, don't worry that it's the result of chronic degenerative spinal scoliosis syndrome.
7. Bathe regularly.
I'm aiming low.
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