The Committee Recognizes Horseface Steve

Committee: A group of people chosen, as from the members of a legislature or club, to consider some matter or function is a certain capacity.

I got on the wrong side of The Committee right out of the chute this morning. I tried to have a Quiet Time. The Committee is opposed to The Quiet Time on every level imaginable. They have installed some new levels using Federal stimulus money just so they can develop new and creative methods of opposition. There is not a single Committee member who supports these attempts at calm. They vote against it, they sabotage it by spreading lies and innuendo, they fill it full of plastic explosives and try to blow it up. They really, really don't like The Quiet Time.

When I meditate I try to take back the night. I think that I should have some say so in what goes on in my mind. It is, after all, in my head. I feed it, keep it warm, and try to protect it from diseases, blunt instruments, and loud, clanging bells. I should at least have a non-binding vote. I should be allowed to voice my opinion.

The Committee begs to differ. They have been running the show for so long that they are loath to give up any control. They don't want to lose any members and they don't want to have their microphones turned off. The amplifiers they have go up to Eleven, which is one more than Ten, which is pretty loud.

The members aren't very creative, just insistent. They like to alternate between shouting: "Go! Go! Go!" with "No! Stop, you idiot! What are you doing? You're making a mess of everything." They prefer frenetic activity to calm reflection. The Quiet Time permits the owner of the head to wonder about some of the advice he's getting. "Go" doesn't seem to apply to every situation that comes up.

Deep, calming breaths.

I Can See For Miles and Miles

This morning during rush hour and in the rain, I drove out to THE SUBURBS to meet my friend PC for a cup of coffee. It was on the way to a work appointment that I was obligated to attend despite the fact it was not nearly important enough for me to grace with my presence. It was like asking King George to hang out with the scullery maids and peel some turnips for someone else's turnip soup. He might be persuaded to help if he was going to get to eat some of the turnips that he was laboring over, assuming he likes turnips and they're going to be served at an appropriate meal, such as dinner or maybe lunch. I can't imagine King George helping with the prep work for a turnip omelette. And I think that it's only fair to admit that I have always found the whole concept of a scullery maid pretty sexy.

Go on, Horseface, tell us more about these scullery maids.
No, damn you! I have the suburbs on my mind.
Mr. Webster chimes in: Scullery: A room adjoining the kitchen, where pots and pans are cleaned and stored or where the rough, dirty kitchen work is done.

I got trapped on one of those long stretches of boulevard, 10 lanes wide with berms and turn lanes and access roads intersecting at crazy angles, warning signs everywhere: No trucks! No Right Turn! One Way! Do Not Enter! All of these warnings tempt me to see many traffic rules I can violate with one move. A U-turn from the right lane in a truck right into a one way street guarded by a Do Not Enter! This Means You! sign. That would be sweet. I wouldn't get a ticket for doing that.

I felt like I was in one of those Flintstones scenes where Fred and Betty are moving along in the convertible with the rock wheels -- this has to be a heavy vehicle -- that Fred is powering with his feet, and the background keeps repeating itself over and over in short intervals. Building - dinosaur - rock quarry - repeat. Walmart - Lowe's - Fridays - repeat. I passed what I hoped was the correct Starbucks, on the wrong side of the road, protected by a berm and several stern signs and an unending stream of traffic in the opposing lanes.

Apparently the entrance was off of an access road, deep in the bowels of a warren of smaller access roads and Walmart driveways. I circled it several times, like a deranged stalker taking the measure of a helpless, virgin scullery maid with a torn bodice and long skirt, also torn, offering a tantalizing glimpse of milky while scullery maid thigh. I could see it, I just couldn't get to it.

This was frustrating despite the fact that I was early and PC wouldn't have cared a whit if I had been a little late, even though he is an anal retentive compulsively prompt individual like myself. Luckily, I had my trusty GP Girl to tell me where to go.

GP Girl: "In one mile, turn right."
Horseface (muttering): "That's a residential street."
GPG: "Recalculating. Turn left."
HF: "The %$!! Starbucks is behind us, you dumb ass."
GPG: "Recalculating. Recalculating. Arriving at destination."
HF: "That's a %$!! field you %$!! piece of electronic %$!!.

PC bought my coffee. A three shot espresso drink. Clearly I was too calm for my own good.

The Four Horsemen

I usually wake up once in the middle of the night and head down to the kitchen for a piece of hot buttered toast. I have done this for many years and have no idea why anymore. I think it's like a little security blanket, a comforting routine. It's my wubby. I'm a lot more masculine talking about eating a piece of toast than admitting that I can't sleep without my tattered baby blanket, disgustingly dirty, with the frayed edges, laundered into a state of unimaginable softness. I DO NOT suck my thumb, however.


I crawled back into bed and tried to concentrate on taking some calming breaths and pondering pleasant thoughts to help me fall back asleep, which is not much of a problem as a general rule. I'm pretty sure I could sleep in the median of any major interstate or on a daybed at the edge of a busy airport runway. I maintain that this is because I'm totally at peace with my world. SuperK says I'm old. She has a way of cutting through to the truth of things.


Last night I found myself thinking about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Not the best choice in retrospect but it's what my mind latched onto, and my mind is firmly in control. I have to do what it wants. I don't have a vote. Probably The Committee decided that it was the evening's topic. I'm one of those people who gets a crummy song -- like the Ohio State fight song or the theme to Gilligan's Island -- stuck in my head, in an eternal loop. "OK, that's enough!" SuperK shouts. "I'm begging you -- please stop."


The Four Horsemen are Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death. Quite a group. I'm going to venture that Pestilence is the weak link. Pestilence: Any virulent or fatal contagious disease. Whew, that's a hell of a weak link. A deadly illness that spreads quickly and easily. I'm not going to look up the definitions of the remaining three Horsemen. If we added a fifth horseman, what could we come up with? I shudder to imagine.


Our Literature makes reference to The Hideous Four Horsemen: Terror, Bewilderment, Frustration, and Despair. If we're going to play a little four on four pick-up basketball game, I'm betting on the Apocalypse guys. Bewilder: To confuse hopelessly; befuddle; puzzle. I think that War is going to post up Bewilderment and slam dunk on his head.

It's no wonder some of us have trouble sleeping.

Welcome to the Grand Illusion

Analysis: A separating or breaking up of any whole into its parts so as to find out their nature, proportion, function, relationship, etc.

The crazy little men who have taken up residence in my head are always exhorting me to analyze the crap out of everything. I want to know why or why not or what the hell? I can't seem to go with the flow. I want to control the flow. I want to understand why I feel the way I feel. I think I can make myself feel better through sheer force of will.

Sometimes I don't feel that great. Most people understand that it's not a big deal to feel a little off. Alcoholics panic. We want to know why. We want to know what to do to feel better, then we worry that the good feelings aren't going to last. We're afraid that we won't ever feel better ever again. We want to fix things. We don't like to feel a little off. We want to feel GOOD. All the time.

This is why my sponsor talks to me as if I'm 10 years old. Because I act like I'm 7 years old.

Of Mice and Men and Crickets

I had a bit of a tiring day today. By that I mean I had to actually work, which is something that I would like to outsource. You do the work and send me the money. If it doesn't go well you can be the fall guy; if it does, I'll take the credit. I have it all worked out. I spend most of my considerable free time trying to figure out how to game the system. If I spent as much time working as I do trying to avoid work, I'd be really, really tired. When I tell my sponsor that I'm tired he always asks: "Is it a good tired?" My mouth says: "Yes, yes it is." while my brain is muttering: "Ah, go !#*%!! yourself." I know he wants me to be grateful for having a job and a bank account and other stuff that I couldn't seem to hang onto when I was drinking, but he can be such a punk.

At one point I pulled off the road to get a cup of coffee that I didn't need and that I knew was going to taste poisonous. Truck stop coffee. Not hard to figure out where that's going. Being . . . ahem . . . outgoing and lacking most normal human inhibitions, I like to talk to just about everybody I bump into. This is mostly good, I think. My intentions are admirable and my behavior falls mostly within the normal limits of human behavior.

At the gas station there was a kid sweeping around the coffee maker and emptying garbage. He said hello - probably more grateful for his job than I am for mine - so I asked him how his day was going. He kind of shrugged.

"Well, are all of your dreams coming true?" I said. He stopped and looked at me for an increasingly uncomfortable moment. He was short and was wearing impossibly thick glasses. I couldn't tell if he was glaring at me or laughing with me or having a seizure. He shrugged again. "One dream?" I ventured hopefully.

He smiled and walked over to me, leaned in close, and whispered: "Someone stepped on my cricket." He nodded and said it again: "Someone stepped on my cricket."

Check and mate.

Heater on High

Heat: Strong feeling or intensity of feeling; excitement, ardor, anger, zeal, etc.

One of the great advantages of The Program is that I get to meet so many people who feel and act like I do. When I was out there, blindly groping through the real world, trapped inside my own head and breaking bread with the insane monsters who were squatting there, I had no conscious contact with reality. I would think crazy thoughts, vaguely aware that something wasn't quite right, yet not have an outlet to release the steam. Quite naturally, I got crazier and crazier. I decided to dispense with the theory that I was descending into madness and just kind of went with it. I got to know the monsters. I started to like the monsters. I became irritable when Earth People suggested that, not only were the monsters not real, they weren't particularly pleasant or helpful monsters, like Shrek or the Cookie Monster. They weren't even monsters like Frankenstein, who was a good sort, really, just misunderstood, lurching around in that vest 5 sizes too small.

For instance, I am by nature full of the most absurd level of kinetic energy. I have ants in my pants and bees buzzing around my head. Things are chasing me, apparently, so I have to run run run like hell to get away. It can be disconcerting to have to manage all of this white hot heat. I can be incredibly productive when I harness this nuclear fusion but I can also wipe out the occasional suburb. Sometimes it's very uncomfortable to try to sit quietly in my own skin, which is often stretched to the breaking point trying to contain the chaos threatening to break out.

I have been chatting with my friend MudWoman who, I believe, is similarly afflicted. It's not as if the knowledge that others think, feel, or behave the way I do cures what ails me, it's that it takes away that debilitating sense of isolation. I used to sit in bars with other drunks who wanted to talk about sports (couldn't care less), work (couldn't hold a job), or women (couldn't get a date). I tried bringing up my theories about Good Monsters versus Bad Monsters a few times but the conversation lapsed. To be sociable I would try to make the conversation topical, as in: " Who do you is faster, Shrek or the Cookie Monster?" Or who would be a better CEO: Batman or Superman?"

SuperK can sit through a movie, like a normal person. I start squirming after a half hour or so, grit my teeth for another twenty minutes, then hit the Pause button, burst out of my chair just so I can get up and move around. She just rolls her eyes, picks up the magazine or knitting she keeps handy to indulge my restlessness, and goes with the flow. You can feel the heat coming off of me. You can see the sparks flying.

Today I know it's not just me.

Not Fit To Serve

Fit: A sharp, brief display of feeling.

Several years ago my sister bought me a pizza pan so that I could cook a pizza pie in the comfort and cheapness of my own home. It's not a complicated piece of machinery. It includes the metal pizza pan itself, round, full of holes to allow all of the grease percolating off of the partially hydrogenated cheese and meat-like pepperoni to drip down into the catch tray. This tray, round also and slightly larger than the pan, is made of plastic. The theory, clear to anyone with the most basic common sense and intelligence, it to remove the scorching hot pizza pan from a 400 degree oven and set it on the plastic tray. This will protect your counter top from the hot pan while simultaneously providing a receptacle for the crap discharging from the surface of the pizza.


Newly sober I took the pan out of the box, placed the pizza on the pan, and set the pan on the catch tray, which I inserted into the oven. I was dismayed for a minute that it didn't quite fit, and I allowed this dismay to explode into a fit of justified anger. "Why the hell would they make a pizza pan that wouldn't fit into an oven?" I fumed. When I'm angry I can just flush any of the little bits of wisdom that I possess right down the spit sink.

I took a pair of pliers out of the small kitchen drawer holding my pot holders while simultaneously serving as my shop, workbench, and basement woodworking facility, and tried to "bend" the corners of the plastic tray so that it would fit into the oven. I was not discouraged by the fact that pieces of the "metal" tray began snapping off with loud cracks. I don't know what I did with these shards. Probably flung them at SuperK, who sensibly clears out of the immediate area when I get angry. Something about collateral damage.

At some point, probably when I was taking a short break to try to catch my breath and stop hyperventilating, I lifted the metal pan out of the "metal" tray, and tried to put this into the oven, where it fit with plenty of clearance.

"Hey, SuperK, I figured it out!" I shouted into the other room. I pretend like nothing out of the ordinary has happened when I make an ass of myself. I'm like a cat. I turn my back and start to clean my head by licking my hands and rubbing them over my hair.

Every time I tried to save a few dollars by making my own pizza I contemplate my handiwork. In the Horseface household, we call this phenomenon "getting bent." SuperK will pick up something that I have destroyed or damaged in a fit of irrational rage, and ask me:"What happened here? Did this get bent?

I'm cleaning my head right now.

True Friends

Vindictive: Revengeful in spirit; inclined to vengeance; stresses the unforgiving nature of one who is animated by a desire to get even with another for a wrong, injury, etc.

I took a call yesterday from Shorty. He's involved with an employee assistance program associated with his professional life, and travels here and there to pick up people who need to go to the hospital or detox or to have a health assessment done. Nice Twelfth Step work, good for the soul, although I don't see much improvement in Shorty. At least he's trying, God bless his soul.

While he was waiting for some guy to finish up his evaluation, he had driven to a local shopping center to kill a couple of hours. This particular outlet mall, that I know well, is right across the interstate from a 24 hour porn store. We were yukking it up, having a conversation about recovery and spirituality, and wondering if he should spend some time in the porn shop instead of the Bass Outlet Store. Shorty told me that he had a trunk full of guns owned by the guy he was trying to help. One of the requirements was that this man temporarily cede his weapons until he got back on his feet. Anger, alcohol, and firearms can be a little dicey.

I said this: "You know what I think I'm going to do, just for fun? I'm going to call the local highway patrol and tell them that I ran into an acquaintance this morning who was angrily loading a bunch of weapons into the trunk of his black Ford Taurus. He appeared to be drunk and was shouting about 'getting even with some SOB working at the exit 10 porn store.' His name is Joe Blow, but he frequently uses the alias 'Shorty' and he pretends to be a lawyer."

Shorty was laughing pretty hard, but I think I heard the tires on his car squealing.

Oh, No! There Goes Tokyo, Godzilla!

Monster: A person so cruel, wicked, depraved, etc. as to horrify others.

I was having my quiet time this morning, idly mulling over the concept of fear. One might be curious as to why I would be thinking about fear when I am supposed to be talking to my Higher Power and waiting patiently for divine guidance. To this I say: "Shut up." My brain is firmly in control and it goes where it wants to go and does what it wants to do. It has broken the chains that bind it and is terrorizing the countryside.

Actually, I was marveling at how free of fear that I am most of the time. This is what I remember most about my drinking: the constant tugging of anxiety that colored all of my thoughts, the sense that things weren't going to work out very well. I didn't just have monsters in my closet and under my bed -- my closet was a monster with a lot of monsters living inside of it. The whole house was a monster. I was trapped inside a huge monster. Now that's some scary shit. If the stuff going on inside my head ever got out it could slay a whole army of fearsome, vicious monsters. My general monstrosity-ness is impressive.

Today I feel like everything is going to be OK. I'm like everybody else in that I have some problems and I have some things that could turn out to be problems. But I'm not letting that particular group of monsters out this morning. The Program provides me with a powerful package of monster abatement tools.

Now I'm not making any guarantees about an hour from now.

The Tram to Nowhere

Means: That by which something is done or obtained; agency.


I have been pondering the phrase "The Ends Justify the Means." Sometimes I get confused and ponder its opposite: "The Means Justify the Ends." I like the contradiction. I can change my whole life philosophy to fit whatever particular mood I'm indulging. It reduces my accountability for my own actions, which I find convenient. I prefer blaming other people, places, and things for whatever difficulties I happen to be experiencing. But if things are going well, which they usually are despite my continuous bitching and complaining, I will take the credit.

I don't even know what the means are. I don't understand the definition. Maybe I shouldn't have started writing about the means since I don't know how it applies to the story I want to tell. It's a peculiar choice this morning. But, then again, I expound at great length on all kinds of things with which I only have a passing fancy. I never let facts or information get in the way of a good story, or a bad story for that matter.

I think the concept of "It's all about the journey" would be more apropos. I'm starting to worry that the story isn't that good, anyhow, and isn't going to justify all of this meandering that I'm doing.

When I was in San Diego I decided to head up to Balboa Park on one of the days that SuperK was in class. I took the time to point out how unbelievable the weather was going to be, in case she hadn't noticed or preferred sitting in a windowless conference room, trying to stay awake. Balboa Park is billed as the cultural center of San Diego. The concept of a cultural center is a bit of a stretch for a city where you can have a boob job while watching a beach volleyball match. Politicians never let facts get in the way of good marketing.

To get to Balboa I had to take a tram. The tram was the means. I got pretty worked up about the tram experience. Where do I catch it? How do I pay? Where do I get off? Is it dangerous? Why do they call a train a tram? I was nervous contemplating doing something I had never done before even though it was simple, inexpensive, and totally without significant consequences.

I wasn't in NYC where getting off at the wrong subway stop could be dangerous. I wasn't in Nairobi where there isn't a subway. I wasn't someplace where I couldn't speak the language. I was in mild, mild California. I could just ask somebody if I had any questions. I like new experiences but they can make me fearful.


I find the tram stop and worry that I may get on going the wrong way. Never mind that I knew the general direction of Balboa Park and was going to get on the tram pointed that way. Never mind that if I went the wrong way I could get off and get back on the tram going the right way. Never mind that I could ASK SOMEBODY which tram to get on.

When the tram arrives I stand outside waiting for the doors to swing open, like a sheep in a slaughterhouse. Someone shoulders past me and pushes the button that opens the doors. I get on, nonchalant -- if I pretend that something embarrassing didn't just happen then it becomes reality -- and find a seat. I'm on public transportation so I eye my fellow passengers carefully, trying to identify the dangerous or threatening individuals who can also afford 800 thousand dollar one bedroom apartments. I checked the route information that was outside the tram stop, then double and triple checked it, and now I see that it's also on the inside wall of the tram. A baboon could figure out this system.


Balboa Park, as you might imagine, wasn't all that compelling. The tram ride, however, the tram ride was totally kick ass. I really enjoyed the successful tramming that I did. I'm a trammer. I'm in the tram-o-sphere.

The Curious Case of Horseface Steve

Tolerance: A tolerating or being tolerant, especially of other's views, beliefs, practices, etc.: freedom from bigotry or prejudice.

Generally speaking people get on my nerves. It's not their fault, either, as far as I can tell. It's me. I understand this. I have nerves the size of aircraft carriers. It's almost possible not to trod upon them if you are within a couple of miles of my position. And they're not only huge -- they're incredibly sensitive. The CIA has abducted me a couple of times and forced me to provide some nerve material for their super-secret-sensitive listening devices. My nerves are on all of the best military satellites, listening in to the Bad Guys from the deep reaches of outer space.

But the fact of the matter is that I can work up some instantaneous judgemental irritation, like it's instant oatmeal or ramen noodles. Anyone can set me off. It doesn't require a particular action or comment or point of view, and it doesn't center around a personality type. It's an automatic biological response. People are big, juicy hamburgers and they make my saliva glands flow. It's not easily controllable. I can't will myself not to sweat.

This is all part of my need to be better than you. If you are better than me in any way: smarter (not likely), better looking (who's better looking than me? I mean, come on), richer (distressingly common, actually), etc. etc. then I can generate a resentment and let the judging begin. And if I really do think I'm better than you, man, does my arrogance kick in.

I have a lot of work to do.

One Way to Start Your Day

"So, have you thought any more about our discussions concerning a murder-suicide pact?" These were the first words I spoke to SuperK this morning as she was doing some stretching and preparing for her Quiet Time. She did not find this question particularly unusual or alarming.

"Not really," she said. "Why do you ask?" Which is a pretty good follow up question in light of the opening remarks.

After 20 years of marriage we have pretty much run out of new things to talk about. We have been over most things a few times already. SuperK talks about work and I ignore her, and I free associate ridiculous and random things and she humors me. I have encouraged my friends and family to interrupt me when I retell a story, which I do a lot. I can't remember where I placed the glass of water that I filled 5 minutes ago. It's around here somewhere. I just went and got another glass. I'm on my second glass already, at 8AM.

I stressed this fact with Serenity Stan, a guy I talk to pretty regularly, when he isn't too full of himself. He's a very nice man, very polite. Now I get this most of the time: "Yeah, I've heard that." My stories are so compelling I would think he would listen just for the fascination of it, but I guess I made the offer.

I don't ignore SuperK on purpose or because I find what she is talking about uninteresting. It's that I have the attention span of a shrew on acid. Good acid, and a lot of it. I have trouble focusing. I believe, like all men, that I have the ability to listen to a woman talk while doing something else, like watch a basketball game that I don't care anything about. I feel like I can keep an eye on the first half of Tulsa-Wichita State, two schools that I have absolutely no interest in and have no reason to follow, while listening to a separate conversation.

SuperK came into my office and said: "I would never kill you, and if you killed me first I don't believe that you would go through with it. You'd back out at the last minute without telling me." This is a constant source of friction in our relationship -- that I change my mind and plans and don't let her know. I always defend myself but I'm always wrong. It's not something that I do willfully or with malevolence, it's just that I'm not thinking of anyone but myself.

Disclaimer: I have nearly completed my migration to full vegetarianism because the thought of animals being killed is too distressing. I abhor violence and would never kill anyone else and especially not myself. It's not that death is that terrifying -- well, maybe it is -- but that I'm afraid of pain. Death seems to involve pain a lot of the time, and I'm not going to rush things in that regard.

Point of fact: SuperK is way tougher than I am and would likely take me out before I could get to her. If you are worried about her, please feel free to call on her private line: Klondike-5- I Kill You.

The Roar of The Quiet Time

Quiet: Still; calm; motionless; not easily agitated or disturbed.


I have only a casual acquaintance with any of those concepts. The words stick in my craw and I don't even know what a craw is or if I have one or if it's possible for anything to get stuck in it, especially a word. I am all about the motion. I am all about getting moving, doing something, getting something accomplished. This in itself is not a bad thing. It does hamper the Quiet Time, however, which is by definition a time to not be moving. That's what "motionless" means.


Theory: Sit down in a comfortable chair in a secluded spot. Our literature suggests closing your eyes and imagining a peaceful setting, like a beach or remote mountain top or the mosh pit of a violent punk rock band. Try to avoid the driver's seat of a moving automobile or your place of employment. You can pray when you're doing something else but that's cheating. It's like listening to someone while watching TV. It can be done but it isn't very effective and it's rude as hell. "Hey, Higher Power, thanks for saving me from a horrible alcoholic death. Talk loud because I'm watching 'Dancing With The Stars.' "


Reality: I can feel my engine revving as I sit. I want to go. I have things I need to accomplish. I project out long lists of things that have to be done right this minute. I wonder how I'm going to get them all done and what order I should do them and what I need to do when I get them all done perfectly. Sometimes at the end of the day I reflect on how agitated I was while working through my list of things that absolutely, positively had to be done.

It's bad enough that most of things aren't that important -- it's a crime that I spend so much time thinking about them.

Horseface Steve -- Kamikaze Pilot

Today I got up early, stretched a bit, then had a great cup of coffee and a mediocre quiet time. In a good mood, with a bounce in my step and a song in my heart (the theme to "The Brady Bunch." OK, so it wasn't a very good song) I walked out and GOT INTO MY CAR. I don't know what it is about the automobile but it turns me into a sinister and vaguely violent individual. I treat my car like a kamikaze pilot treats his plane. If you don't drive in a manner that I consider proper -- which I don't think it's possible to do -- I am perfectly willing to take you out.

If I'm pushing my grocery cart toward the checkout counter and someone else is arriving at about the same time, I have never accelerated quickly and knocked this person down, screaming obscenities about his mother and giving him the finger. I graciously allow them to pass (I'm such a good person. I really am an exceptionally good person). But let me spy one of those abominations who wait until the last minute before wedging their way into a line of traffic without politely waiting their turn. I patiently wait my turn, unless I'm in a hurry or a bad mood or I have some take-out pizza that I don't want to get cold, or I just don't feel like waiting in line. I risk my own life and limb and the limbs of others to try to keep this person OUT OF THE LINE.

It never works, of course. These people always get in.

Walk the Walk

The longer I'm around The Program the more I notice the difference between length of sobriety and quality of sobriety. It's a beautiful thing when the two intersect, as they so often do, but they aren't one and the same, either. There are some people out there who have been sober a long time who don't have what I want. I wouldn't touch their stuff with a ten foot pole, unless the pole was made of gold or precious gems and I could take it home with me and sell it for a profit, less the commission owed the pole-makers union, of course. And a stiff commission it is. I don't begrudge anyone a fair living but the pole makers really have a stranglehold on the market. It's pretty irritating.

I heard a lead last night from a young guy with a couple of years of sobriety. I don't want to suggest that two years is insignificant. My first two years were the longest two years of my life, and not the most pleasant. I was extremely impressed that I had put together two years. This was a pretty big meeting and there were plenty of people in the room who had more time off the juice. This man, however, had a Program. He was doing the work. He was doing the heavy lifting. I personally don't like the heavy lifting. I like light dusting in my pajamas while I'm talking on the phone, hoping someone else will do my heavy lifting for me.

I have to keep in mind that this Program is about the effort. We talk about "Working the Steps" and "trudging the road to Happy Destiny." There are chapters called "How it Works" and "Working with Others." There is no mention of talking or thinking about things, or even feelings. My first sponsor in Chicago used to say: "I don't care how you're feeling. Tell me what you're doing."

He's still sober, by the way.

Plugging In

Before I travel I always use the Internet to look up meetings. I have attended meetings in about 20 different states and 8 or 10 foreign countries. It's a lot of fun and very stabilizing and reassuring to find out that The Program is pretty much the same everywhere, except for a few minor regional differences.

The CA experience was pretty typical. SuperK and I took a ferry out to Coronado island -- which isn't an island and had no visible kin of Francisco Vazquez de Coronado on display anywhere that I could see -- and hoofed it a couple of miles to the meeting address, which was clearly, unmistakably, undoubtedly a Sunglass Hut. I borrowed phone books at a couple of shops to verify the address, clearly telling anyone that asked that "I'm looking for an AA meeting." That always puts the fear of God into 'em and quashes any follow up questions. We dialed the number which rang and rang and rang. Back to the Sunglass Hut where a weary sales woman directed us to a small annex that could only be reached by using the alley behind the shop. Good meeting. Everyone thought I was from Iowa instead of Ohio. I liked that, too, and did nothing to correct the fact. I was a Hawkeye for a day, whatever that is.

The second meeting I tried to find by myself. I walked for about a half an hour on a pleasant enough street, which started to get a little seedy as I neared the location. I had to walk about 5 blocks on a side street to reach the place. Security bars started to appear on the windows of the houses, then security fences, then a whole lot of homeless people sleeping on the street. The ambiance was not to my liking -- a skinny hipster dufus in a wussy little jacket -- so I went and had a plate of fish tacos and gave myself an A+ for effort, C- for execution.

Back in the saddle again.

Freshen Up Your Coffee, Sir?

When I was drinking and drugging I took great pride in all of the implements I owned which enabled me to drink and use. More impressively, I had the ability to construct alcohol and drug delivery systems when necessary, making do with only the barest minimum of materials, using a wicked ingeniousness. I can't find the lever that opens the trunk on my car but I can do what is needed to alter my consciousness. If you give me any three items, any items whatsoever -- you can pick; for instance a piece of bark, a copy of The New Yorker, and the components of a World War II machine gun, I would have a fully functioning refrigerator and marijuana delivery system put together in ten minutes. I'm a creative guy when I put my mind to it.

Here in my overpriced hotel, I simply must start my day with a cup of coffee. You would risk losing your fingers should you try to get between me and my first cup of coffee. There is no reason for this. I'm a Type A personality, packed full of nervous energy, who happens to be a morning person. It's an acquired taste being around me before noon. It takes a strong constitution. It's not for the weak of heart. This being said the coffee is needed only for the BUZZ.

Some evil genius employed by this nice hotel has done his work well vis-a-vis the morning caffeine. Instead of a ten dollar mini-coffee maker that I can prime with the pound of Starbucks that accompanies me everywhere, like a tank of oxygen for someone with emphysema, the hotel has provided a cheap little device that makes one cup of coffee. You should have seen SuperK and me fight over that pod of coffee. The pod slides in on a cheap little plastic tray. Everything is disposable here in Eco-California.

I made a cup this morning using the pod. The coffee was crap. I took another pod and carefully sliced off the top, emptying the coffee into the toilet and undoubtedly causing some plumbing problems somewhere, for which I feel no remorse. Out of sight -- out of mind. It's someone else's problem now. I carefully injected Starbucks into the pod wrapper and made another cup of coffee. This backed the system up and coffee flowed everywhere but into my cup. After cleaning up to the best of my pissed off ability, I re-primed yet another pod and put a small slice of coffee filter -- I carry coffee filters that I can adapt to any normal mini-coffee maker found in most thoughtful hotels, using the small scissors that I carry for this purpose only -- into the bottom of the plastic tray. This caused more backing-up problems than Attempt Two. I tried to hold my cup under the wildly spurting coffee pod maker, most of the hot water hitting my hand, stoic in my disregard for the pain. This from a guy who cries if it's too cold outside, which it isn't here in San Diego. I'll take third degree burns for a cup of coffee.

SuperK: "Doesn't that hurt?"
Horseface: "Yes."
SK: "Why don't you . . . "
HF: "Please shut up now. And hand me the Neosporin."

My final attempt -- I'll defuse the mounting suspense and tell you I met with success -- involved refilling the pod with the $27 worth of Starbucks I have used to this point, rendering the rationale of saving the $10 on the pot of coffee the hotel would have brought to my fucking room. I layered in my dissected coffee filter, which I modified by piercing the surface with the needle I have in a small sewing kit I carry with me for no known reason, and began the process. Eureka!

This took me about an hour. I had so much angry adrenalin flowing that the coffee was totally unnecessary.

Tip Big or Go Home

I’m in a hotel room in San Diego, which is a good thing, for me personally. It’s warm. I like it when it’s warm. I can go outside and sit in the sun. I have been scuttling from sun-drenched rock to sun-drenched rock, like a big prehistoric lizard, soaking up the heat. I’m aggressively courting a sunburn. It’s a badge of honor in February. When my nose is being consumed by a malignant melanoma in twenty years I won’t be quite so smug but it’s sweet right now.
This is a pretty nice hotel which is a mixed blessing. In my experience the more money you spend on lodging the more ponderous and complex and inconvenient the service becomes. They make you work for everything. No wonder rich people are so bitchy. I chose to leave my suitcase with some kid in a cap at the front door, vaguely aware that this wouldn't help my progress in the long run and would be a nightmare in the short run. No clue as to the middle run. That could go either way.

I tipped him for this privilege, which meant I lost track of my luggage for thirty minutes, as opposed to wheeling the bag up myself so that I could brush my teeth and change my underwear. I mean, the suitcases all have wheels now. I’m not using a wooden steamer trunk that weighs a hundred and twenty pounds. I’m somewhat able bodied; certainly fit enough to wheel a suitcase up to my room. I’m having enough trouble getting old without the implication that I can’t handle a suitcase on wheels but I didn't want the kid in the cap to think that I was too cheap to tip him.

This delay gave me plenty of time to work up a righteous anger, which I was unable to vent on the preposterously friendly bellhop who brought up my bag, necessitating a second tip, since the first kid had disappeared with my two bucks. I could have bought all new things by the time I got done tipping everyone, which is a skill I have never learned. I like to tip but am never sure what amount is appropriate and why it’s part of the game. I’m probably tipping better than most but feeling terrible about it, certain that I’m being way too stingy.

I’ve forgotten the point of this rant.