Here's how the inventory process works: I write down what's going on and I try to be honest about it. This is not that easy for me considering my love of a Good Lie. I possess the brilliant ability to see the faults and errors in other people, places, and things but am blissfully unaware of my own. Steve Martin used to come out on stage at the start of a comedy set wearing a big plastic vise on his head. He would warn his audience that he wasn't at his best due to an unexplained splitting headache. That's me. I've got the big vise on my head. I know. I put it on each morning and winch it tight.
I like adventure but I like to dictate the terms. Adventure at a time and place of my own choosing. Otherwise it seems more like a Nasty Surprise.
It's a great truth for me that the anticipation of pain is worse than the pain itself. And then the relief at not worrying that the pain that wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be is so pleasant that I'm motivated to go out and get in really painful circumstances so that I can work through them and feel better later.
I think I just got carried away.
I rarely do challenging things unless I'm under some duress. It's easier for me to go with the flow, especially when I can take an objective look at where I am and see that it's not that bad. When something ends or I end it, I usually foresee worsening circumstances. I'm afraid of change because I think it will be worse. I don't imagine good.
In the future, I'm never winning the lottery but there is usually an ax murderer there.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Be Careful What You Ask For
One of my favorite expressions is "Be careful what you pray for. You might get it." I have a higher power who is kind of kooky. He has a truly twisted sense of humor. He lights firecrackers when I'm sleeping. He loves the old switcheroo, the bait and switch, the Kansas City two step, the Cincinnati shuffle. He looks right and goes left. He has a powerful stutter step and a great head fake.
I talk very carefully to this guy. I'm wary about asking for things specifically because he interprets my requests differently than I do. He has a joyful sense of irony. The more specific I get, the more he messes with me. My prayers have started to morph into "Thy will be done" kind of prayers. Every time I ask for something it blows up in my face.
There is a great book by Ursula K. LeGuin called the "Lathe of Heaven." The main character discovers that whatever he dreams becomes reality. He hooks up with a benevolent psychologist who tries to direct his dreams through medication and power of suggestion. They are going to make the world a better place for everyone.
Here's how it goes. They ask for a solution to world overpopulation -- a terrible plague kills 90% of the earth's inhabitants. They ask for world peace -- aliens land on the moon, bringing mankind together to fight a common foe. They ask that the aliens leave the moon -- the aliens launch an attack on earth. And on and on. Their motives were good but their motives were their own. God had other plans.
The Company stripped off another big piece of my territory today. Not exactly what I envisioned when I prayed recently.
D'oh!
I talk very carefully to this guy. I'm wary about asking for things specifically because he interprets my requests differently than I do. He has a joyful sense of irony. The more specific I get, the more he messes with me. My prayers have started to morph into "Thy will be done" kind of prayers. Every time I ask for something it blows up in my face.
There is a great book by Ursula K. LeGuin called the "Lathe of Heaven." The main character discovers that whatever he dreams becomes reality. He hooks up with a benevolent psychologist who tries to direct his dreams through medication and power of suggestion. They are going to make the world a better place for everyone.
Here's how it goes. They ask for a solution to world overpopulation -- a terrible plague kills 90% of the earth's inhabitants. They ask for world peace -- aliens land on the moon, bringing mankind together to fight a common foe. They ask that the aliens leave the moon -- the aliens launch an attack on earth. And on and on. Their motives were good but their motives were their own. God had other plans.
The Company stripped off another big piece of my territory today. Not exactly what I envisioned when I prayed recently.
D'oh!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
AFGO
Grow: To increase in size and develop toward maturity.
I've got a couple of friends going through some painful stuff right now. I feel bad for them but not as bad as if it was happening to me. When we run into each other I gave them a big, manly hug, grab them by the shoulders, and say with all the sincerity that I can muster: "How does this affect me?" Frankly, if it doesn't impact me in some significant way I'm not all that interested.
I don't really say that. I don't want to be cruel. I think them, though. Sometimes I lapse into Manly Guy but not too often because I don't do very well at manly things. Actually, SuperK is the masculine figure in our relationship. I don't mean to imply that she's not feminine. I mean to imply that she can pick up a saw by the right end. I'm not allowed to touch anything that has sharp teeth or edges, or is powered by a motor. I can't get more than two feet off the ground and someone has to supervise me when I do any work whatsoever.
The point with Manly Guy behavior is that we cuff each other about the head and shoulders and say: "Buck up and get on with your life." Unless it's me. I cry like a baby. I want sympathy and I want someone to fix my problems and fast.
I have to remember that I grow when I'm challenged. Bald-weenie calls such troubles AFGOs. I think it means "Another Doggone Growth Opportunity," or something close to that.
Pain is the touchstone to all spiritual progress.
I've got a couple of friends going through some painful stuff right now. I feel bad for them but not as bad as if it was happening to me. When we run into each other I gave them a big, manly hug, grab them by the shoulders, and say with all the sincerity that I can muster: "How does this affect me?" Frankly, if it doesn't impact me in some significant way I'm not all that interested.
I don't really say that. I don't want to be cruel. I think them, though. Sometimes I lapse into Manly Guy but not too often because I don't do very well at manly things. Actually, SuperK is the masculine figure in our relationship. I don't mean to imply that she's not feminine. I mean to imply that she can pick up a saw by the right end. I'm not allowed to touch anything that has sharp teeth or edges, or is powered by a motor. I can't get more than two feet off the ground and someone has to supervise me when I do any work whatsoever.
The point with Manly Guy behavior is that we cuff each other about the head and shoulders and say: "Buck up and get on with your life." Unless it's me. I cry like a baby. I want sympathy and I want someone to fix my problems and fast.
I have to remember that I grow when I'm challenged. Bald-weenie calls such troubles AFGOs. I think it means "Another Doggone Growth Opportunity," or something close to that.
Pain is the touchstone to all spiritual progress.
Monday, July 27, 2009
I Am Always Right
Self-righteous: Righteous, proper, moral, etc. in one's own opinion; Pharisaical.
I've got a friend in The Program . . . OK, I just got stuck there, on that thought, temporarily. Maybe that's a statement that stands on its own two legs. Maybe I can't expound further on that statement. Or maybe I only have one friend and that's why I locked up.
Anyway, I have known this guy for a hell of a long time and we go to the same institution meeting each week. It's been an important meeting for me over the years and my relationship with this guy has been important, too. He is not, however, someone that I would have been friends with in the Earth People world. His opinions on politics, religion, moral values, and just about every other inflammatory, controversial topic are diametrically opposed to mine. They are exactly opposite of mine. If you wanted to know in great detail what I do not believe in you could talk to this dude and reject every thing he said. And by everything, I mean EVERYTHING. I can't think of one thing that we agree on.
I've learned in my recovery that I'm not always right. I'm not the smartest guy in the world. I'm not even the smartest guy in this here coffee shop. I don't have all of the answers. Most of the answers but not all of them. Sometimes if I shut up for a minute and listen I learn things. I try to see where other people are coming from. I change my mind from time to time. I see how nuanced the world is. It's not all black and white, right and wrong.
I at least try not to be so self-righteous about everything. It's one thing to think my opinions are unassailable -- it's another thing altogether to treat people who disagree with me in my beloved sneering, dismissive, arrogant way.
Hey, I'm as self-righteous as the next guy and I'd love to show you the error of your ways and convert you to my way of thinking, which is, of course, right. You know, I don't like people telling me what to think -- why do I think you want to be bombarded with my point of view?
Sometimes I show respect for other people by keeping my mouth shut. If I know something irritates you, I can keep quiet. This knowledge used to be the most potent ammunition I could load into my gun. I dug at the soft spots. I picked off the cripples. If you were unhappy I felt better about myself.
I was a little worked up today.
I've got a friend in The Program . . . OK, I just got stuck there, on that thought, temporarily. Maybe that's a statement that stands on its own two legs. Maybe I can't expound further on that statement. Or maybe I only have one friend and that's why I locked up.
Anyway, I have known this guy for a hell of a long time and we go to the same institution meeting each week. It's been an important meeting for me over the years and my relationship with this guy has been important, too. He is not, however, someone that I would have been friends with in the Earth People world. His opinions on politics, religion, moral values, and just about every other inflammatory, controversial topic are diametrically opposed to mine. They are exactly opposite of mine. If you wanted to know in great detail what I do not believe in you could talk to this dude and reject every thing he said. And by everything, I mean EVERYTHING. I can't think of one thing that we agree on.
I've learned in my recovery that I'm not always right. I'm not the smartest guy in the world. I'm not even the smartest guy in this here coffee shop. I don't have all of the answers. Most of the answers but not all of them. Sometimes if I shut up for a minute and listen I learn things. I try to see where other people are coming from. I change my mind from time to time. I see how nuanced the world is. It's not all black and white, right and wrong.
I at least try not to be so self-righteous about everything. It's one thing to think my opinions are unassailable -- it's another thing altogether to treat people who disagree with me in my beloved sneering, dismissive, arrogant way.
Hey, I'm as self-righteous as the next guy and I'd love to show you the error of your ways and convert you to my way of thinking, which is, of course, right. You know, I don't like people telling me what to think -- why do I think you want to be bombarded with my point of view?
Sometimes I show respect for other people by keeping my mouth shut. If I know something irritates you, I can keep quiet. This knowledge used to be the most potent ammunition I could load into my gun. I dug at the soft spots. I picked off the cripples. If you were unhappy I felt better about myself.
I was a little worked up today.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Emily Dickinson or The WWF?
Productive: Producing abundantly; fertile; marked by abundant production.
Today I am going to be productive. I will spend every waking moment doing something worthwhile. I will not sit quietly contemplating anything. I will not be comfortable in my skin or anyone else's skin, for that matter. You can forget about TV or reading, unless it is something stimulating and intellectual, like the N.Y. Times travel section or obscure Emily Dickinson poetry or a technical treatise about something or the other.
Whatever I decide to do will probably be the wrong thing. I could be doing something else even more productive. And if I stop what I'm doing and do the even more productive thing, I won't spend enough time doing it. Sure, I may pick up that poetry book but will I really dig deep and understand every nuance and angle, and remember everything I read so I can explain it to other people, who could care less, in most instances? Maybe I should memorize whole passages. Maybe I should go back to school and get a degree in poetry and then teach the shit to rapt graduate school students.
Yeah. That's the ticket.
Today I am going to be productive. I will spend every waking moment doing something worthwhile. I will not sit quietly contemplating anything. I will not be comfortable in my skin or anyone else's skin, for that matter. You can forget about TV or reading, unless it is something stimulating and intellectual, like the N.Y. Times travel section or obscure Emily Dickinson poetry or a technical treatise about something or the other.
Whatever I decide to do will probably be the wrong thing. I could be doing something else even more productive. And if I stop what I'm doing and do the even more productive thing, I won't spend enough time doing it. Sure, I may pick up that poetry book but will I really dig deep and understand every nuance and angle, and remember everything I read so I can explain it to other people, who could care less, in most instances? Maybe I should memorize whole passages. Maybe I should go back to school and get a degree in poetry and then teach the shit to rapt graduate school students.
Yeah. That's the ticket.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Little, Tiny, Teeny Stuff
"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." -- Confucius.
I bet Confucius wasn't getting ready to go anywhere when he said this. I bet he had just eaten a good breakfast and was puffing on an opium pipe, reading the sports page. I've seen pictures of Confucius. He doesn't look like a exercise enthusiast to me.
I like the idea of taking little baby steps. My inclination is to visualize something, then abandon the idea immediately if I can't become the world record holder at whatever it is I'm pondering. I'm trying to figure out how I can run a thousand miles without stopping or sleeping. I'm doing this while I smoke a cigarette and avoid any training. Or actual running, for that matter. It doesn't occur to me to walk around the fucking block. It occurs to me to cross the finish line first in the next Olympics. And because it's obvious to even me that I won't be able to accomplish this, I fire up another butt.
I like to vote. Not really, but it might wreck my cool image if I admitted otherwise. How about I do vote after many, many years of not voting. My justification was that I've never voted in an election that was decided by a single vote, so what's the point? That and I didn't feel like setting down my beer and joint and walking a couple of blocks to actually cast my ballot. It never occurred to me to be part of a process.
Sometimes I talk at meetings and sometimes I listen, and often I sit there like a lump on a log taking up space, daydreaming. But I'm in the system and I think that makes a difference. Maybe I'm there so that somebody from out of town or a new person has a meeting to come to. I'm so wrapped up in what I'm taking away that I forget the idea is to give something back. My decision to come, even on those nights when I don't want to, may have consequences for someone else.
Have you ever seen someone talking on a cell phone while checking out of a store? What an asshole. It's forgivable that this act of self-centered rudeness is delaying other very important people like me. What is egregious is that someone is treating another human being like a piece of wood. How hard is it to smile, look the other person in the eye, and say something nice? I have gotten a lot of good vibes from doing that, and sometimes from cute chicks, although they may just be trying to move the slightly off-kilter hipster doofus through the line and out of their immediate vicinity.
It's all little stuff.
I bet Confucius wasn't getting ready to go anywhere when he said this. I bet he had just eaten a good breakfast and was puffing on an opium pipe, reading the sports page. I've seen pictures of Confucius. He doesn't look like a exercise enthusiast to me.
I like the idea of taking little baby steps. My inclination is to visualize something, then abandon the idea immediately if I can't become the world record holder at whatever it is I'm pondering. I'm trying to figure out how I can run a thousand miles without stopping or sleeping. I'm doing this while I smoke a cigarette and avoid any training. Or actual running, for that matter. It doesn't occur to me to walk around the fucking block. It occurs to me to cross the finish line first in the next Olympics. And because it's obvious to even me that I won't be able to accomplish this, I fire up another butt.
I like to vote. Not really, but it might wreck my cool image if I admitted otherwise. How about I do vote after many, many years of not voting. My justification was that I've never voted in an election that was decided by a single vote, so what's the point? That and I didn't feel like setting down my beer and joint and walking a couple of blocks to actually cast my ballot. It never occurred to me to be part of a process.
Sometimes I talk at meetings and sometimes I listen, and often I sit there like a lump on a log taking up space, daydreaming. But I'm in the system and I think that makes a difference. Maybe I'm there so that somebody from out of town or a new person has a meeting to come to. I'm so wrapped up in what I'm taking away that I forget the idea is to give something back. My decision to come, even on those nights when I don't want to, may have consequences for someone else.
Have you ever seen someone talking on a cell phone while checking out of a store? What an asshole. It's forgivable that this act of self-centered rudeness is delaying other very important people like me. What is egregious is that someone is treating another human being like a piece of wood. How hard is it to smile, look the other person in the eye, and say something nice? I have gotten a lot of good vibes from doing that, and sometimes from cute chicks, although they may just be trying to move the slightly off-kilter hipster doofus through the line and out of their immediate vicinity.
It's all little stuff.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
It Will Not Be So.
Pretend: To claim or profess falsely; feign; simulate: as, he pretended ignorance of the law.
My work life has been slowly unraveling over the last few years. It is moving inexorably in a direction that I don't like. As a general rule, I don't like change or I'm afraid of it, certain that it will bring pain and disaster into my life. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable. As a specific rule, I loathe change when I perceive that it's going to deprive me of more money, more sex, more power, which is, as I have made abundantly clear, the motto of my life.
So I hang on. I soldier forward as if everything will stay the same, forever and ever. I figure that if I pretend that things aren't changing I can will it to be fact. I'm like the person who spent a couple of weeks every summer at a small cottage on an undeveloped stretch of beach well off the beaten track. It was quiet and simple. Over the years, however, the area became popular. High rise hotels catering to drunken college students began to sprout like some bad fungus, the crushed shell access road was replaced by a four lane strip highway, lined with bars and fast food joints, where bikers and rap-rattling hot rods cruise 24 hours a day, and some reprobate surfer stuck in the 60s opens a jet ski shop.
Every morning I walk out to the beach in my floppy hat, carrying a book of poetry and a cup of organic herbal tea. The sun is usually blocked by the monolithic high-rises or filters through a haze of choking internal combustion engine exhaust. Sometimes the din of the jet skis drowns out the roar of the motorcycles. I pretend that nothing has changed. It starts to rain. I don't budge. It rains harder. It becomes a downpour. My floppy hat sags, my book falls apart, and the rain fills my tea cup.
SuperK leans out a window: "What are you doing?" It's one of the most common questions that she asks me. You would not believe how many times she has asked me this, which makes me question exactly what it is I'm doing most of the time.
I pretend that I don't hear her.
My work life has been slowly unraveling over the last few years. It is moving inexorably in a direction that I don't like. As a general rule, I don't like change or I'm afraid of it, certain that it will bring pain and disaster into my life. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable. As a specific rule, I loathe change when I perceive that it's going to deprive me of more money, more sex, more power, which is, as I have made abundantly clear, the motto of my life.
So I hang on. I soldier forward as if everything will stay the same, forever and ever. I figure that if I pretend that things aren't changing I can will it to be fact. I'm like the person who spent a couple of weeks every summer at a small cottage on an undeveloped stretch of beach well off the beaten track. It was quiet and simple. Over the years, however, the area became popular. High rise hotels catering to drunken college students began to sprout like some bad fungus, the crushed shell access road was replaced by a four lane strip highway, lined with bars and fast food joints, where bikers and rap-rattling hot rods cruise 24 hours a day, and some reprobate surfer stuck in the 60s opens a jet ski shop.
Every morning I walk out to the beach in my floppy hat, carrying a book of poetry and a cup of organic herbal tea. The sun is usually blocked by the monolithic high-rises or filters through a haze of choking internal combustion engine exhaust. Sometimes the din of the jet skis drowns out the roar of the motorcycles. I pretend that nothing has changed. It starts to rain. I don't budge. It rains harder. It becomes a downpour. My floppy hat sags, my book falls apart, and the rain fills my tea cup.
SuperK leans out a window: "What are you doing?" It's one of the most common questions that she asks me. You would not believe how many times she has asked me this, which makes me question exactly what it is I'm doing most of the time.
I pretend that I don't hear her.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Preacher Steve
I gave a lead last night at a halfway house. This type of facility can provide a tough audience and the meeting was mandatory which meant a goodly percentage of the attendees were dudes in trouble with the law who were being forced to do something that they didn’t want to do. I personally don't like to be told what to do, especially when I don't want to do it. I spent very little time qualifying my membership – if you’re locked up for drug and/or alcohol offenses you’re probably one of us – and most of the time talking about what I do to stay sober, which didn’t seem to enthrall anybody.
I remember how deflating it was the first time I gave a lead at an institution. I was spilling my guts in dramatic fashion, burning with self-righteous fervor, like some backwoods country preacher at a big tent revival, when I began to notice that nobody was listening. A lot of people last night were not listening, and those who weren’t listening were clearly not listening. Some of them were talking quietly and seemed to be enjoying that a lot more than what I was saying. Which is OK. I went to keep myself sober not to save anyone else’s life.
I cut it short.
I remember how deflating it was the first time I gave a lead at an institution. I was spilling my guts in dramatic fashion, burning with self-righteous fervor, like some backwoods country preacher at a big tent revival, when I began to notice that nobody was listening. A lot of people last night were not listening, and those who weren’t listening were clearly not listening. Some of them were talking quietly and seemed to be enjoying that a lot more than what I was saying. Which is OK. I went to keep myself sober not to save anyone else’s life.
I cut it short.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
He's Everywhere and Everything
I'm on my throne at The Coffee Shop this morning when Mr. Ubiquitous pulls up with a newish guy. Mr. Ubiquitous and I are both salesmen and we were discussing who is suffering more in this economic downturn. In my mind, at least, I won the competition. I was the Most Miserable, even though I'm not miserable at all, but I will admit to feeling a certain weird sense of contentment when I'm at the top of whatever heap I'm trying to get to the top of, even if it's manure or rusty, broken pieces of jagged metal, or a vale of children's tears.
The new guy started explaining what he was doing to make money. He's involved with something that is just this side of a Ponzi scheme and he's at the bottom of the pyramid. I'd say he might make money but he's probably going to get soaked and not with water. Every now and then Mr. U would toss out a red flag which was promptly machine-gunned out of the air. You can tell when someone has already justified something to themselves. His mind was made up. He did, however, seize on any little scrap of vague encouragement that he could use to justify his behavior. I bet his take on the conversation was that we were very supportive.
Mr. U was appropriate. H didn't say:"That's stupid," which is how you get a bull-headed alcoholic to keep doing what he's doing for ever and ever. He was cautionary, trying to look at the pros and cons of this scheme, to no avail. We're like children when we're new. We learn through experience. Nobody can tell us anything. We have to try it ourselves. Sometimes we watch what other people do and learn that way, but we never, never do what anyone says to do, unless we want to do it ourselves
Who am I kidding? I still act that way.
The new guy started explaining what he was doing to make money. He's involved with something that is just this side of a Ponzi scheme and he's at the bottom of the pyramid. I'd say he might make money but he's probably going to get soaked and not with water. Every now and then Mr. U would toss out a red flag which was promptly machine-gunned out of the air. You can tell when someone has already justified something to themselves. His mind was made up. He did, however, seize on any little scrap of vague encouragement that he could use to justify his behavior. I bet his take on the conversation was that we were very supportive.
Mr. U was appropriate. H didn't say:"That's stupid," which is how you get a bull-headed alcoholic to keep doing what he's doing for ever and ever. He was cautionary, trying to look at the pros and cons of this scheme, to no avail. We're like children when we're new. We learn through experience. Nobody can tell us anything. We have to try it ourselves. Sometimes we watch what other people do and learn that way, but we never, never do what anyone says to do, unless we want to do it ourselves
Who am I kidding? I still act that way.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Hell's Bells
Project; To send forth in one's thoughts and imagination.
I almost feel guilty when good things happen to me. Like I don't deserve it. Like I have to do something to get a good thing. It's all a big game of celestial payback. After all, the rain doesn't fall on the wicked except for the dick that lives next door. The rain seems to be falling on him just fine. Maybe the deer eating my cucumber plants have been sent by the big celestial scorekeeper because I said a swear word in fourth grade. The big celestial scorekeeper is All Knowing and, by extension, All Remembering. Omnipotent, omniscient, and omremeberent.
I think I'm built for pain. I get uncomfortable when I project pleasure out into the future. I'm better at assuming that things are going to blow up in my face. Job interview? Won't get it. Vacation? Gonna rain. Big date with beautiful young chick on Saturday night? SuperK might find out. I have a premonition that I am not going to win the lottery.
Do I ever project Victory on what might happen? Not very often.
I almost feel guilty when good things happen to me. Like I don't deserve it. Like I have to do something to get a good thing. It's all a big game of celestial payback. After all, the rain doesn't fall on the wicked except for the dick that lives next door. The rain seems to be falling on him just fine. Maybe the deer eating my cucumber plants have been sent by the big celestial scorekeeper because I said a swear word in fourth grade. The big celestial scorekeeper is All Knowing and, by extension, All Remembering. Omnipotent, omniscient, and omremeberent.
I think I'm built for pain. I get uncomfortable when I project pleasure out into the future. I'm better at assuming that things are going to blow up in my face. Job interview? Won't get it. Vacation? Gonna rain. Big date with beautiful young chick on Saturday night? SuperK might find out. I have a premonition that I am not going to win the lottery.
Do I ever project Victory on what might happen? Not very often.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Power of the Fellowship
So I'm eating lunch with a bunch of buddies from the Fellowship today. Good guys. I love 'em all. Ostensibly they have my best interests at heart, unless they don't.
I mentioned that I had shown SuperK a picture of a very expensive car, suggesting that I would finally be happy forever and ever if I could just own such a vehicle, which I do not need and cannot afford. She was . . . how should I put this? . . . not supportive. Not enthusiastic in the least. Not in agreement with my delusional thinking.
I mentioned this to the crew. Here's the gist of their comments:
Farmer Bill: "Well, how long will she be mad?"
Doctor Doom: "That's the important question. I bet it wouldn't be that long. I bet you could outlast her."
The Bank Man: "Let me ask you: who wears the pants in your family anyhow?" (A rhetorical question: everyone knows who wears the pants. I don't even own any pants).
Farmer Bill: "Yeah, just buy the car and that's the end of it."
Horseface Steve: "It's not how long she'll be mad that I'm worried about: it's the intensity of the anger. The woman weighs like a 110 lbs soaking wet and I'm scared to death of her. When she gets it cranked up it's not a pretty sight."
Doctor Doom: "You'd look GREAT in that car."
The Bank Man: "Think of all the cute chicks you could pick up."
Farmer Bill: "Show her who's boss. You're losing our respect here."
Doctor Doom: "After all: you can't take it with you."
The good news is that there is a solution.
The bad news is that it's us.
I mentioned that I had shown SuperK a picture of a very expensive car, suggesting that I would finally be happy forever and ever if I could just own such a vehicle, which I do not need and cannot afford. She was . . . how should I put this? . . . not supportive. Not enthusiastic in the least. Not in agreement with my delusional thinking.
I mentioned this to the crew. Here's the gist of their comments:
Farmer Bill: "Well, how long will she be mad?"
Doctor Doom: "That's the important question. I bet it wouldn't be that long. I bet you could outlast her."
The Bank Man: "Let me ask you: who wears the pants in your family anyhow?" (A rhetorical question: everyone knows who wears the pants. I don't even own any pants).
Farmer Bill: "Yeah, just buy the car and that's the end of it."
Horseface Steve: "It's not how long she'll be mad that I'm worried about: it's the intensity of the anger. The woman weighs like a 110 lbs soaking wet and I'm scared to death of her. When she gets it cranked up it's not a pretty sight."
Doctor Doom: "You'd look GREAT in that car."
The Bank Man: "Think of all the cute chicks you could pick up."
Farmer Bill: "Show her who's boss. You're losing our respect here."
Doctor Doom: "After all: you can't take it with you."
The good news is that there is a solution.
The bad news is that it's us.
Powers of Concentration
Suck: To make the sound of sucking.
So I'm at a Starbuck's nursing my $3 cup of coffee at an outside table. There is in my mind no contradiction in paying $3 for this product and then balking at throwing in more than a dollar or two at tonight's meeting. None at all. Not even when I consider that I'm in no need of any caffeine to jazz up my already hyperactive ass. That fact is irrelevant until I'm shaky and jittering in a few minutes, muttering about the fact that I've had too much coffee.
There's a guy sitting at the table next to me reading a book and eating a huge piece of watermelon, and loudly sucking his teeth. I have never understood the purpose behind loud teeth sucking. Maybe it feels good. I can't imagine that he's getting any watermelon stuck in his gums. I immediately noticed that he was just using the table to eat his lunch -- an odd choice for a meal, actually -- even though he hadn't purchased a drink from Starbuck's. I assume that this is a direct violation of the Starbuck's Constitution, although I have never seen that particular document. I assume this is against The Rules even though there are several unoccupied tables and it's none of my fucking business anyhow.
Moreover, he was using a plastic fork and knife to cut up the watermelon into little prissy pieces, which I found vaguely unsettling, on top of all The Rules violations and sucking noise. I'm going to assume that it wouldn't have been any better had he been just wading into the watermelon like a child, face buried deep in the luscious red fruit, covered in sticky juice.
So to recap: here's a guy flouting Western society's table conventions (You may sit at our table if you have purchased our product), the unwritten Man Eating Watermelon code (eat it with your hands or use a Bowie knife or a machete or hire a servant girl to drop each bit into your mouth), and some simple dining manners (no burping, belching, farting, or making loud slurping or smacking noises).
After a while all I could concentrate on was the teeth sucking. I think the guy must have set up a large amplifier system with big speakers aimed right at my table. I began to anticipate the interval between each tooth suck with more and more intensity. It became like some suburban Chinese water torture. It's not the drop of water -- it's the anticipation.
I should add that I was at a busy Starbuck's in a busy shopping strip mall next to a six lane surface road boiling with lunch time traffic. I had to strain to hear each tooth suck over the cacophony. It's not like it was easy to hear him. It reminded me of how difficult it is to ignore some one at a meeting that I find boring or tedious or preachy. I'm drawn to their words like a moth to a flame.
Is it any wonder I drank?
So I'm at a Starbuck's nursing my $3 cup of coffee at an outside table. There is in my mind no contradiction in paying $3 for this product and then balking at throwing in more than a dollar or two at tonight's meeting. None at all. Not even when I consider that I'm in no need of any caffeine to jazz up my already hyperactive ass. That fact is irrelevant until I'm shaky and jittering in a few minutes, muttering about the fact that I've had too much coffee.
There's a guy sitting at the table next to me reading a book and eating a huge piece of watermelon, and loudly sucking his teeth. I have never understood the purpose behind loud teeth sucking. Maybe it feels good. I can't imagine that he's getting any watermelon stuck in his gums. I immediately noticed that he was just using the table to eat his lunch -- an odd choice for a meal, actually -- even though he hadn't purchased a drink from Starbuck's. I assume that this is a direct violation of the Starbuck's Constitution, although I have never seen that particular document. I assume this is against The Rules even though there are several unoccupied tables and it's none of my fucking business anyhow.
Moreover, he was using a plastic fork and knife to cut up the watermelon into little prissy pieces, which I found vaguely unsettling, on top of all The Rules violations and sucking noise. I'm going to assume that it wouldn't have been any better had he been just wading into the watermelon like a child, face buried deep in the luscious red fruit, covered in sticky juice.
So to recap: here's a guy flouting Western society's table conventions (You may sit at our table if you have purchased our product), the unwritten Man Eating Watermelon code (eat it with your hands or use a Bowie knife or a machete or hire a servant girl to drop each bit into your mouth), and some simple dining manners (no burping, belching, farting, or making loud slurping or smacking noises).
After a while all I could concentrate on was the teeth sucking. I think the guy must have set up a large amplifier system with big speakers aimed right at my table. I began to anticipate the interval between each tooth suck with more and more intensity. It became like some suburban Chinese water torture. It's not the drop of water -- it's the anticipation.
I should add that I was at a busy Starbuck's in a busy shopping strip mall next to a six lane surface road boiling with lunch time traffic. I had to strain to hear each tooth suck over the cacophony. It's not like it was easy to hear him. It reminded me of how difficult it is to ignore some one at a meeting that I find boring or tedious or preachy. I'm drawn to their words like a moth to a flame.
Is it any wonder I drank?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Earth People Attack
I got a lot of great feedback on the anonymity question. Spiritual foundation indeed, based on the enthusiasm.
I have a couple of friends who frequently comment on what I say; Spandex is in the Program and Herr Luber is not. I like to hear how people interpret what I write, because it's pretty much what I think. It's a live feed to my brain. I'm a little wary about what I think. It's not always the greatest stuff although I'm impressed with it, as a general rule. Spandex helps keep me honest with my A.A. opinions which are mainstream but can get wacky sometimes. Herr Luber is looking at recovery through a different prism.
The following is an almost verbatim exchange with Herr Luber on my opinions about trusting my instincts. If I was polite, I'd ask him if I could do this which I'm not going to do. I thought it was revealing because the idea that I'm not going to make very good decisions based on my own thinking is bandied about, sometimes tongue in cheek, often quite literally, in meetings. It makes sense to me.
Herr Luber:
"I foresaw exactly squat. I would have made the worst possible decision had I followed my instincts, which are not to be trusted." These two sentences are VERY important. I think the first one stands on its feet, sturdy, unassailable.
The second sentence is the most "problematic" sentence I have run across in the history of your blog. If you are not using your instincts, then what are you using? Me, I gave up on reason a long time ago, and trust instincts (which are informed by experience and analysis and reflection). I think I did this because I was lazy or impatient, but I don't know what else to do. If I cannot count on my instincts getting better and better as I age, then why go on living?"
The B-Man:
"I think this is a case where you, as a non A.A. guy, interpret the words too literally. This is certainly a problem with what I say from time to time as my specialty is hyperbole, exaggeration, lying, creating. I think in the recovery crowd the idea that we can't trust our own instincts is interpreted much more loosely. We cover this ground often: the idea that I'm so consumed with myself and my comfort that I have to be a little suspicious of my motives.
My understanding of instinct at a base animal level is "what's in it for me?" Territory, procreation, food. Humans work on a higher plane, obviously, but some times we can revert to these positions. I certainly trust my instincts a lot more than I used to. I always say if my gut reaction is that something is bad for me, I can go with that absolutely. If I think it's bad, it's bad -- I don't have to check with someone else. On the other hand, if I think something is good for me then I need to review my motives with my friends. I may be reverting back to the more money, more power, more sex sensibility.
Good feedback, and you are right on the button in a literal sense. In a lying sense, slightly off the button."
Herr Luber:
"I like how you put it. Especially interesting is the view of "instinct/gut" as primarily defensive. Protective against danger. Doubtless that is how it came down to us through our long evolutionary descent. Not too many sea anemone or early hominids got nabbed as something else's meal because they had a hunch to go long on oil stocks."
What this exchange did for me was to reveal that what goes on in a meeting can be interpreted differently among the Earth People. I can say something to a buddy that I can't say in church, which is why I never go to church: I like to say what I want. We are, after all, kind of sort of insane. Normal people don't drink themselves right up to the brink of total personal destruction so they don't have to resort to what are sometimes extreme measures to deal with life. Thus, I think, anonymity serves a purpose beyond being the foundation of our spiritual traditions. It keeps our asses out of hot water.
Serenity Stan sent me a note relating an experience of a friend who ran into another member at her work place. After chatting for a minute the guy yelled across the lobby: "Is he one of us?" The receptionist asked Stan's friend what that meant, and she had to break her anonymity. I can only imagine how the receptionist interpreted one of us. Cross dresser? Terrorist? Sexual predator? It was definitely not cool. I always try to catch a friend's eye when I see them talking to someone I don't know. As in: is it cool for me to say hi? Sometimes it isn't.
I have a couple of friends who frequently comment on what I say; Spandex is in the Program and Herr Luber is not. I like to hear how people interpret what I write, because it's pretty much what I think. It's a live feed to my brain. I'm a little wary about what I think. It's not always the greatest stuff although I'm impressed with it, as a general rule. Spandex helps keep me honest with my A.A. opinions which are mainstream but can get wacky sometimes. Herr Luber is looking at recovery through a different prism.
The following is an almost verbatim exchange with Herr Luber on my opinions about trusting my instincts. If I was polite, I'd ask him if I could do this which I'm not going to do. I thought it was revealing because the idea that I'm not going to make very good decisions based on my own thinking is bandied about, sometimes tongue in cheek, often quite literally, in meetings. It makes sense to me.
Herr Luber:
"I foresaw exactly squat. I would have made the worst possible decision had I followed my instincts, which are not to be trusted." These two sentences are VERY important. I think the first one stands on its feet, sturdy, unassailable.
The second sentence is the most "problematic" sentence I have run across in the history of your blog. If you are not using your instincts, then what are you using? Me, I gave up on reason a long time ago, and trust instincts (which are informed by experience and analysis and reflection). I think I did this because I was lazy or impatient, but I don't know what else to do. If I cannot count on my instincts getting better and better as I age, then why go on living?"
The B-Man:
"I think this is a case where you, as a non A.A. guy, interpret the words too literally. This is certainly a problem with what I say from time to time as my specialty is hyperbole, exaggeration, lying, creating. I think in the recovery crowd the idea that we can't trust our own instincts is interpreted much more loosely. We cover this ground often: the idea that I'm so consumed with myself and my comfort that I have to be a little suspicious of my motives.
My understanding of instinct at a base animal level is "what's in it for me?" Territory, procreation, food. Humans work on a higher plane, obviously, but some times we can revert to these positions. I certainly trust my instincts a lot more than I used to. I always say if my gut reaction is that something is bad for me, I can go with that absolutely. If I think it's bad, it's bad -- I don't have to check with someone else. On the other hand, if I think something is good for me then I need to review my motives with my friends. I may be reverting back to the more money, more power, more sex sensibility.
Good feedback, and you are right on the button in a literal sense. In a lying sense, slightly off the button."
Herr Luber:
"I like how you put it. Especially interesting is the view of "instinct/gut" as primarily defensive. Protective against danger. Doubtless that is how it came down to us through our long evolutionary descent. Not too many sea anemone or early hominids got nabbed as something else's meal because they had a hunch to go long on oil stocks."
What this exchange did for me was to reveal that what goes on in a meeting can be interpreted differently among the Earth People. I can say something to a buddy that I can't say in church, which is why I never go to church: I like to say what I want. We are, after all, kind of sort of insane. Normal people don't drink themselves right up to the brink of total personal destruction so they don't have to resort to what are sometimes extreme measures to deal with life. Thus, I think, anonymity serves a purpose beyond being the foundation of our spiritual traditions. It keeps our asses out of hot water.
Serenity Stan sent me a note relating an experience of a friend who ran into another member at her work place. After chatting for a minute the guy yelled across the lobby: "Is he one of us?" The receptionist asked Stan's friend what that meant, and she had to break her anonymity. I can only imagine how the receptionist interpreted one of us. Cross dresser? Terrorist? Sexual predator? It was definitely not cool. I always try to catch a friend's eye when I see them talking to someone I don't know. As in: is it cool for me to say hi? Sometimes it isn't.
Who Is That Masked Man?
Anonymous: With no name known or acknowledged.
I like that definition. Short and sweet, razor sharp in its focus. There are no wasted words.
I'm not sure why we complicate the concept of anonymity so ferociously in A.A. , except that we love to complicate everything. That's why all of our slogans have three or four words. Makes it harder to complicate 'em, although that doesn't stop us from trying.
The concept of anonymity -- the spiritual foundation of all of our traditions -- was put into place to protect the Fellowship, not the individual. The alcoholic, as a general rule, is splayed out in the public square for anyone to inspect. Anonymity in A.A. is to make sure that no egomaniacal drunk, who might be a politician or celebrity or big-shot business person, can dominate a group. In a meeting, we're all equal. Nobody has any more authority than anyone else. We value quality of sobriety. We don't use the yardsticks that society does to take the measure of a
person.
And isn't it funny that we get all uptight about who knows that we're drunks. I used to pull up at 3AM, Black Sabbath rattling the windows of the entire block, park in the middle of the street, take a leak on my neighbor's petunias, and stagger inside, dropping beer cans and wine bottles and drug paraphernalia on the way. I knew one guy who left his door open and the engine running all night. Another friend was awakened by a neighbor who wanted him to move his car. It was parked in the wrong driveway. He couldn't even hit the right driveway.
Then we sneak across town, incognito, heavily disguised with fake beards and wigs, wearing ski masks just because we don't want someone to spot us at an A.A. meeting. We forget that if they do spot us,that they're at the meeting, too. Subtleties like that escape us. That being said it is wise to keep a lid on your recovery in some circumstances, particularly early on. The anecdote about vomiting on the shoes of the cop who was handcuffing you for urinating in a public place, in broad daylight, might get a big laugh in a meeting. It won't get a big laugh in a business meeting or PTA meeting.
I like that definition. Short and sweet, razor sharp in its focus. There are no wasted words.
I'm not sure why we complicate the concept of anonymity so ferociously in A.A. , except that we love to complicate everything. That's why all of our slogans have three or four words. Makes it harder to complicate 'em, although that doesn't stop us from trying.
The concept of anonymity -- the spiritual foundation of all of our traditions -- was put into place to protect the Fellowship, not the individual. The alcoholic, as a general rule, is splayed out in the public square for anyone to inspect. Anonymity in A.A. is to make sure that no egomaniacal drunk, who might be a politician or celebrity or big-shot business person, can dominate a group. In a meeting, we're all equal. Nobody has any more authority than anyone else. We value quality of sobriety. We don't use the yardsticks that society does to take the measure of a
person.
And isn't it funny that we get all uptight about who knows that we're drunks. I used to pull up at 3AM, Black Sabbath rattling the windows of the entire block, park in the middle of the street, take a leak on my neighbor's petunias, and stagger inside, dropping beer cans and wine bottles and drug paraphernalia on the way. I knew one guy who left his door open and the engine running all night. Another friend was awakened by a neighbor who wanted him to move his car. It was parked in the wrong driveway. He couldn't even hit the right driveway.
Then we sneak across town, incognito, heavily disguised with fake beards and wigs, wearing ski masks just because we don't want someone to spot us at an A.A. meeting. We forget that if they do spot us,that they're at the meeting, too. Subtleties like that escape us. That being said it is wise to keep a lid on your recovery in some circumstances, particularly early on. The anecdote about vomiting on the shoes of the cop who was handcuffing you for urinating in a public place, in broad daylight, might get a big laugh in a meeting. It won't get a big laugh in a business meeting or PTA meeting.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Instincts Gone Wild! . . . Wild! Wild! Wild!
I am pondering one of our most nettlesome of slogans: "This, too, shall pass." My question, or questions, actually, are: When? Why? Will it get better or will it get worse? What will happen to me when it does pass? What will it pass? Will it pass at a high rate of speed, which would be pretty cool. Why isn't it passing more quickly (if I'm in any pain at all) or why did it pass so quickly (if it's providing me with even the slightest amount of pleasure)?
I think that one of the main differences between new sobriety and the long term variety -- as long as both individuals are doing the work -- is that we start to generate an understanding of the inevitability of change. Life is not static. I liked alcohol so much because it helped me manage my interior environment and gave me the illusion that this was the same thing as controlling the outside world. It is another one of my many fantasies to think that I can prolong the fun forever and hold off the pain with a fearsome straight arm.
Today I don't get as upset with things that aren't to my liking and I don't get so enamored with things when they are. Mostly, I'm not captive to the fear that if it's presently bad that it's always going to be bad. I'm pretty robot-like in my recovery program. I change people, places, and things from time to time, being intolerant and easily bored, but I follow a basic framework. I don't often slack off.
I know that when I'm in pain that it will end eventually. I just have to do the things that I have always done. Usually the pain is short-lived. Sometimes it isn't but it does end eventually. At least it has up to this point and I'm going to go with that trend. I work my way through a bad day and assume that tomorrow it will be better. Like all of us I have been trapped in repeating loops of discomfort that have lasted a long time, but they have always, always ended. This knowledge helps keep me on an even-ish keel.
A few years ago my work circumstances changed and I was sure that I was done for. I almost quit because I was so convinced that everything was going to fall apart. I was going to show the bastards before they could show me. Not surprisingly, nothing fell apart. I have been fine. I knew nothing. I foresaw exactly squat. I would have made the worst possible decision had I followed my instincts, which are not to be trusted.
Normally I'm OK if I do the exact opposite of what I think I should do.
"I am the exact opposite of every person you have ever met." - George Costanza.
I think that one of the main differences between new sobriety and the long term variety -- as long as both individuals are doing the work -- is that we start to generate an understanding of the inevitability of change. Life is not static. I liked alcohol so much because it helped me manage my interior environment and gave me the illusion that this was the same thing as controlling the outside world. It is another one of my many fantasies to think that I can prolong the fun forever and hold off the pain with a fearsome straight arm.
Today I don't get as upset with things that aren't to my liking and I don't get so enamored with things when they are. Mostly, I'm not captive to the fear that if it's presently bad that it's always going to be bad. I'm pretty robot-like in my recovery program. I change people, places, and things from time to time, being intolerant and easily bored, but I follow a basic framework. I don't often slack off.
I know that when I'm in pain that it will end eventually. I just have to do the things that I have always done. Usually the pain is short-lived. Sometimes it isn't but it does end eventually. At least it has up to this point and I'm going to go with that trend. I work my way through a bad day and assume that tomorrow it will be better. Like all of us I have been trapped in repeating loops of discomfort that have lasted a long time, but they have always, always ended. This knowledge helps keep me on an even-ish keel.
A few years ago my work circumstances changed and I was sure that I was done for. I almost quit because I was so convinced that everything was going to fall apart. I was going to show the bastards before they could show me. Not surprisingly, nothing fell apart. I have been fine. I knew nothing. I foresaw exactly squat. I would have made the worst possible decision had I followed my instincts, which are not to be trusted.
Normally I'm OK if I do the exact opposite of what I think I should do.
"I am the exact opposite of every person you have ever met." - George Costanza.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Not Enough Attention Is Being Paid To Me.
More about me.
It is, as a point of procedure, your honor, all about me. As there is a woeful lack of emphasis on me in the world at large I will never cease striving to fill this void. I will work until my dying day to make sure that everyone has as much information as possible about me. I will work my fingers to the bone. I will work until I am stooped and hunched and crippled if I can only carry the message about me, even if it's only to one more person.
When I try to make my way through the world it never ceases to amaze me how persistently people try to impede my progress. It's a huge conspiracy of evil individuals linked by a highly sophisticated electronic network whose sole purpose is to GET IN MY WAY. You are under the impression that all of those earphones and earplugs and ear buds are I-Pods (registered trademark) and portable cellular devices (no known trademark) and MP3 players (I don't know what those are). Nonsense. That is hard evidence of the Vast Anti B-Man Conspiracy sweeping the world. These are people who have it out for me.
The Book talks about patience. It says: "We realized that the people who wronged us were perhaps spiritually sick." Perhaps? It's typically egocentric of me to think that I'm the only person with problems. If I make a mistake or act poorly I want to be treated with compassion and understanding. When someone else does this, I wonder why they hate me so much. Even worse, I get my hackles up when someone acts in a perfectly acceptable behavior that isn't to my liking. This is the height of arrogant egocentricity.
Until A.A. and those blasted Steps it never occurred to me that your average healthy person is egocentric and has all kinds of problems and issues and deadlines to think about, above and beyond your standard B-Man obsessions. As my buddy EMC likes to say: "They're not thinking about you. They're thinking about themselves."
What? What!!?!
It is, as a point of procedure, your honor, all about me. As there is a woeful lack of emphasis on me in the world at large I will never cease striving to fill this void. I will work until my dying day to make sure that everyone has as much information as possible about me. I will work my fingers to the bone. I will work until I am stooped and hunched and crippled if I can only carry the message about me, even if it's only to one more person.
When I try to make my way through the world it never ceases to amaze me how persistently people try to impede my progress. It's a huge conspiracy of evil individuals linked by a highly sophisticated electronic network whose sole purpose is to GET IN MY WAY. You are under the impression that all of those earphones and earplugs and ear buds are I-Pods (registered trademark) and portable cellular devices (no known trademark) and MP3 players (I don't know what those are). Nonsense. That is hard evidence of the Vast Anti B-Man Conspiracy sweeping the world. These are people who have it out for me.
The Book talks about patience. It says: "We realized that the people who wronged us were perhaps spiritually sick." Perhaps? It's typically egocentric of me to think that I'm the only person with problems. If I make a mistake or act poorly I want to be treated with compassion and understanding. When someone else does this, I wonder why they hate me so much. Even worse, I get my hackles up when someone acts in a perfectly acceptable behavior that isn't to my liking. This is the height of arrogant egocentricity.
Until A.A. and those blasted Steps it never occurred to me that your average healthy person is egocentric and has all kinds of problems and issues and deadlines to think about, above and beyond your standard B-Man obsessions. As my buddy EMC likes to say: "They're not thinking about you. They're thinking about themselves."
What? What!!?!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Tales From the Coffee Shop
I'm going to walk down to the coffee shop," I told SuperK. "Maybe pick up some young chicks."
She eyed me dubiously: "Maybe you should take those reading glasses out of your pocket before you go."
"Oh, right, thanks," I said. "See you in an hour or so."
She eyed me dubiously: "Maybe you should take those reading glasses out of your pocket before you go."
"Oh, right, thanks," I said. "See you in an hour or so."
Friday, July 10, 2009
Days of the New
I leaned out over the cliff face and looked down. Far, far below someone was hanging onto a rope with one hand, wildly swaying in the wind buffeting the mountain. It was raining and hailing and sleeting, and lightening was striking the rock face, dislodging big pieces of rubble which were bouncing off the guy, who was actually grasping the rope with a couple of fingers, not even a whole hand.
What did I do? I yelled down: "Nice to see you! Hang in there -- it'll be better tomorrow!" It even sounded ridiculous to me and I'm a master of the ridiculous statement.
That's what it feels like when I talk to a new person. That's what it was like for me when I was new. Most of the time my advice feels ridiculously inadequate. I want to help but there's really not a whole hell of a lot I can do, to be honest about it. Sometimes, when I come back the next day, I see the guy has hoisted himself up a foot or so. He is still way down there, though, and now some cops and family members and employers are there, throwing rocks at him and trying to shock him with a taser and fry him with a flamethrower. One ex-wife is hacking at the rope with a sharp knife. That's how it felt to me. It didn't get better at first, it seemed to get worse.
"You're doing great!" I screamed into the shrieking wind. "Keep coming back!"
What did I do? I yelled down: "Nice to see you! Hang in there -- it'll be better tomorrow!" It even sounded ridiculous to me and I'm a master of the ridiculous statement.
That's what it feels like when I talk to a new person. That's what it was like for me when I was new. Most of the time my advice feels ridiculously inadequate. I want to help but there's really not a whole hell of a lot I can do, to be honest about it. Sometimes, when I come back the next day, I see the guy has hoisted himself up a foot or so. He is still way down there, though, and now some cops and family members and employers are there, throwing rocks at him and trying to shock him with a taser and fry him with a flamethrower. One ex-wife is hacking at the rope with a sharp knife. That's how it felt to me. It didn't get better at first, it seemed to get worse.
"You're doing great!" I screamed into the shrieking wind. "Keep coming back!"
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Mohawk or Faux Hawk?
I find myself pretty interested in what other people think of me even though what they think is none of my business,technically. You might say it's one of my many, many obsessions. I'm not sure why I think anyone else would be thinking about me considering how rare it is for me to think about anyone else. I have the market cornered when it comes to thinking about myself. I'm not sure that there is any room in the space-time continuum for any additional thinking about me.
A few years ago I followed up some yard work with a soak in my tub , usually a help to ease the strain of an aching back. I idly ran my hands through my wet hair when I was done, contemplating my visage in the mirror. I probably flexed my meager biceps a couple of times, making sure SuperK wasn't around because frankly I can't take too much more of her laughing when I flex my biceps. I guess I could quit flexing my biceps, come to think about it, but I prefer skulking around behind people's backs, doing weird and embarrassing things and pretending that they're normal.
I found that I could get my hair to stand straight up, as if a tiny little terrorist had detonated a tiny little bomb on my scalp. I found the result ridiculous yet visually arresting, and quite amusing. I grabbed a bottle of some no doubt expensive spray -- again, on the sly, because the stuff is probably 50 cents a squirt -- and discovered that it was possible to kind of cement my hair in the Up position. I decided to call it the Explosion Cut.
"Oh, jeez," SuperK muttered. "What the hell's this?"
"I'm not sure yet," I said.
"Are you going out in public like that?" she asked.
"I haven't decided yet," I replied. "Probably, at some point."
"Give me a heads up on that, will you?" she said.
"You'll be the first to know, trust me."
The general public has been very polite, which perplexes me somewhat. Once I hair-sprayed the explosion into kind of a Mohawk, or a Faux Hawk, according to Serenity Stan, and didn't hear a peep. That look even made me a little nervous. The first time a buddy saw the doo he bent over double, laughing, which was the reaction I expected. Farmer Bill tells me I'm just trying to get some attention, to which I reply: "Duh."
Part of it, I hope, is that I'm trying not to take myself so seriously. I'm the same guy, Faux Hawk or not.
A few years ago I followed up some yard work with a soak in my tub , usually a help to ease the strain of an aching back. I idly ran my hands through my wet hair when I was done, contemplating my visage in the mirror. I probably flexed my meager biceps a couple of times, making sure SuperK wasn't around because frankly I can't take too much more of her laughing when I flex my biceps. I guess I could quit flexing my biceps, come to think about it, but I prefer skulking around behind people's backs, doing weird and embarrassing things and pretending that they're normal.
I found that I could get my hair to stand straight up, as if a tiny little terrorist had detonated a tiny little bomb on my scalp. I found the result ridiculous yet visually arresting, and quite amusing. I grabbed a bottle of some no doubt expensive spray -- again, on the sly, because the stuff is probably 50 cents a squirt -- and discovered that it was possible to kind of cement my hair in the Up position. I decided to call it the Explosion Cut.
"Oh, jeez," SuperK muttered. "What the hell's this?"
"I'm not sure yet," I said.
"Are you going out in public like that?" she asked.
"I haven't decided yet," I replied. "Probably, at some point."
"Give me a heads up on that, will you?" she said.
"You'll be the first to know, trust me."
The general public has been very polite, which perplexes me somewhat. Once I hair-sprayed the explosion into kind of a Mohawk, or a Faux Hawk, according to Serenity Stan, and didn't hear a peep. That look even made me a little nervous. The first time a buddy saw the doo he bent over double, laughing, which was the reaction I expected. Farmer Bill tells me I'm just trying to get some attention, to which I reply: "Duh."
Part of it, I hope, is that I'm trying not to take myself so seriously. I'm the same guy, Faux Hawk or not.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
What It Seems
Honest: Being what it seems; genuine; pure.
I heard a lead a few nights ago from a young guy that I like and admire. He did a good job of keeping it real. I have more of a tendency to keep it fake. I want to paint a bullshit picture of myself that makes me look more impressive than I am so I can impress people that I don't know and couldn't care less about. I'm not someone whose life is grounded in reality so honest people help to anchor me in the real world or at least somewhere in the vicinity of the real world. My friend was direct and honest and hard on himself, but not brutal. Appropriately hard. We are whack jobs so we do well to call ourselves out when behavior is poor.
My problem -- one of many, no doubt -- is that I want to be the best at everything. When I share in front of a group I want to be the baddest ass drunk, the most profound recovery savant, and so fucking funny you'll wet your pants. I want to look out over a sea of admirers, heads nodding in unison, amazed at my wisdom. So what happens? I start to exaggerate, then I stretch the truth to the breaking point, and blast on through to outright lying. It's not enough to be me -- I need to be super me on steroids.
I heard this description of a man's drinking life not long ago: "I started to drink because it made me feel better. It got out of control quickly and I became a pathetic drunk." Then the guy talked about recovery. That about sums it up for me, too. I don't know how exciting I can make the stories of sitting in front of my TV, alone, drunk and stoned. It is not interesting.
I don't believe half the stuff I say.
I heard a lead a few nights ago from a young guy that I like and admire. He did a good job of keeping it real. I have more of a tendency to keep it fake. I want to paint a bullshit picture of myself that makes me look more impressive than I am so I can impress people that I don't know and couldn't care less about. I'm not someone whose life is grounded in reality so honest people help to anchor me in the real world or at least somewhere in the vicinity of the real world. My friend was direct and honest and hard on himself, but not brutal. Appropriately hard. We are whack jobs so we do well to call ourselves out when behavior is poor.
My problem -- one of many, no doubt -- is that I want to be the best at everything. When I share in front of a group I want to be the baddest ass drunk, the most profound recovery savant, and so fucking funny you'll wet your pants. I want to look out over a sea of admirers, heads nodding in unison, amazed at my wisdom. So what happens? I start to exaggerate, then I stretch the truth to the breaking point, and blast on through to outright lying. It's not enough to be me -- I need to be super me on steroids.
I heard this description of a man's drinking life not long ago: "I started to drink because it made me feel better. It got out of control quickly and I became a pathetic drunk." Then the guy talked about recovery. That about sums it up for me, too. I don't know how exciting I can make the stories of sitting in front of my TV, alone, drunk and stoned. It is not interesting.
I don't believe half the stuff I say.
Full Speed Ahead
Wait: To stay in a place or remain inactive or in anticipation until something expected takes place.
I'm not very good at waiting for things to happen of their own accord. I'm more predisposed to charge into the future like a rhinoceros on amphetamines. I want to get out there and see what happens, and I want to get out there FAST. Patiently waiting for the timing to be right is not in my genetic make-up. I'm built for speed and impulsiveness and quick action. I'm all fast-twitch muscles. Fast cars, fast women, fast food, fast riffs. Fast, fast. fast.
I find that are meeting rooms are staffed with a lot of the most Type-A-ish of the Type-A personalities. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. Alcoholics are talented, motivated people and we get a lot done. If you feel like you have ants in your pants and bugs crawling under your skin and your ass AND your hair is on fire, you get a lot done. The problem is that a lot of the time we try to figure out things all on our own, which is necessarily a bad thing. While we may be good at action, we are not good at thinking. Our thinkers are broke. Our minds are in a bad neighborhood. FIRE! Ready. Aim, is how we go about things.
I will never in my life be someone who can sit around. I like new experiences and challenges and things to do. I want to try new foods and go different places and say whatever comes to my mind to see how people react. I spent my whole life sitting around, drunk and stoned, in bars, in front of TV sets, lying on my couch wondering why things weren't different. I'm not going to do that anymore. I'm going to give life a whirl. Am I going to make mistakes? You bet. I tried stuffed tripe in a seaside restaurant in a little town in France once. It was revolting.
It tasted like pig intestines.
I'm not very good at waiting for things to happen of their own accord. I'm more predisposed to charge into the future like a rhinoceros on amphetamines. I want to get out there and see what happens, and I want to get out there FAST. Patiently waiting for the timing to be right is not in my genetic make-up. I'm built for speed and impulsiveness and quick action. I'm all fast-twitch muscles. Fast cars, fast women, fast food, fast riffs. Fast, fast. fast.
I find that are meeting rooms are staffed with a lot of the most Type-A-ish of the Type-A personalities. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. Alcoholics are talented, motivated people and we get a lot done. If you feel like you have ants in your pants and bugs crawling under your skin and your ass AND your hair is on fire, you get a lot done. The problem is that a lot of the time we try to figure out things all on our own, which is necessarily a bad thing. While we may be good at action, we are not good at thinking. Our thinkers are broke. Our minds are in a bad neighborhood. FIRE! Ready. Aim, is how we go about things.
I will never in my life be someone who can sit around. I like new experiences and challenges and things to do. I want to try new foods and go different places and say whatever comes to my mind to see how people react. I spent my whole life sitting around, drunk and stoned, in bars, in front of TV sets, lying on my couch wondering why things weren't different. I'm not going to do that anymore. I'm going to give life a whirl. Am I going to make mistakes? You bet. I tried stuffed tripe in a seaside restaurant in a little town in France once. It was revolting.
It tasted like pig intestines.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Tales of A Thwarting
Thwart: To hinder, obstruct, frustrate, or defeat ( a person, plans, wishes, etc.)
Yesterday I wandered away from the Forest of Serenity. I found myself in the Desert of Annoyance. I have a long and storied history of exploits in this Desert. My path is well marked and heavily traveled. Everybody there knows me. I have a reserved table in the best restaurant, right next to the kitchen, because this is, after all, the Desert of Annoyance. "Right this way, B-Man," the Maitre'd says. "Your money is no good here, B-Man," they tell me. "Sorry about the locusts, B-Man," they say, eyeing the plague of insects darkening the sky with their sheer numbers.
I woke up from a lovely nap, somewhat annoyed. I woke up on the wrong side of the couch. I realize any sympathy I may have generated by the tale of my travails in the Desert of Annoyance has just evaporated with the nap-on-a-workday information but this is a program of honesty, unless of course it's convenient to lie. I drove to a local mega mart to purchase a mop. My present mop has experienced a catastrophic structural failure, prompting me to think: "What a world: we can put a man on the moon, although not recently, but we can't make a sturdy and durable mop."
The mart had a poor selection of mops, favoring models with totally small mop heads. I don't like to mop as it is and it seemed to me that these mops would increase the mopping time, which didn't increase my enthusiasm for the product. There were no replacement parts available to fix the broken mop that I owned. A good thing because I had already slammed the thing on my asphalt driveway, hurting my hand, and broken it into several pieces. "I showed that mop who was boss," I told SuperK as she tried to staunch the bleeding. I'm a bad MF when it comes to dominating inanimate, inorganic products.
Piqued, I made the long trek back through the mart and across the parking lot, dodging all of the cretins who were specifically spending their free time trying to impede my progress. They had it out for me. It was a big conspiracy to thwart my mop work. I drove into a normally congested area devised by people who belong to the Urban Planning and Road Engineering Union of Satan, and got stuck in traffic. I decided to swing into an outer lane to zip right by everyone to the head of the line, and pop into a mega building supply store minutes earlier -- Hooray for me! I'm the winner! - except traffic was heavier than normal and I got shunted right by the mega store. In the not too distant past I just wedged my way wherever I wanted to go. I can't do that anymore . . . as much. So I gave the store a friendly wave as I passed by, and executed a partially legal U-turn somewhere down the road.
You know what? I'm exhausted recounting this story. Mentally exhausted. I spend so much of my time raging against the machine. I forget my friends imploring me to slow down and take it easy. "What are you talking about?" I shriek. "I have to get a new mop!"
I did find a model that suited me, in the airplane hanger sized building that passes for a retail establishment these days. I made it home, safe and sound, and put the mop in a dark closet deep in the bowels of my basement. I had no enthusiasm for mopping. I decided to try to passive-aggressive SuperK into trying out the new mop instead. "Boy, these floors really could use a good mopping," I'd say, eyeing her from my spot on the napping couch, still warm from my excellent nap.
"Really could use a good mopping."
Yesterday I wandered away from the Forest of Serenity. I found myself in the Desert of Annoyance. I have a long and storied history of exploits in this Desert. My path is well marked and heavily traveled. Everybody there knows me. I have a reserved table in the best restaurant, right next to the kitchen, because this is, after all, the Desert of Annoyance. "Right this way, B-Man," the Maitre'd says. "Your money is no good here, B-Man," they tell me. "Sorry about the locusts, B-Man," they say, eyeing the plague of insects darkening the sky with their sheer numbers.
I woke up from a lovely nap, somewhat annoyed. I woke up on the wrong side of the couch. I realize any sympathy I may have generated by the tale of my travails in the Desert of Annoyance has just evaporated with the nap-on-a-workday information but this is a program of honesty, unless of course it's convenient to lie. I drove to a local mega mart to purchase a mop. My present mop has experienced a catastrophic structural failure, prompting me to think: "What a world: we can put a man on the moon, although not recently, but we can't make a sturdy and durable mop."
The mart had a poor selection of mops, favoring models with totally small mop heads. I don't like to mop as it is and it seemed to me that these mops would increase the mopping time, which didn't increase my enthusiasm for the product. There were no replacement parts available to fix the broken mop that I owned. A good thing because I had already slammed the thing on my asphalt driveway, hurting my hand, and broken it into several pieces. "I showed that mop who was boss," I told SuperK as she tried to staunch the bleeding. I'm a bad MF when it comes to dominating inanimate, inorganic products.
Piqued, I made the long trek back through the mart and across the parking lot, dodging all of the cretins who were specifically spending their free time trying to impede my progress. They had it out for me. It was a big conspiracy to thwart my mop work. I drove into a normally congested area devised by people who belong to the Urban Planning and Road Engineering Union of Satan, and got stuck in traffic. I decided to swing into an outer lane to zip right by everyone to the head of the line, and pop into a mega building supply store minutes earlier -- Hooray for me! I'm the winner! - except traffic was heavier than normal and I got shunted right by the mega store. In the not too distant past I just wedged my way wherever I wanted to go. I can't do that anymore . . . as much. So I gave the store a friendly wave as I passed by, and executed a partially legal U-turn somewhere down the road.
You know what? I'm exhausted recounting this story. Mentally exhausted. I spend so much of my time raging against the machine. I forget my friends imploring me to slow down and take it easy. "What are you talking about?" I shriek. "I have to get a new mop!"
I did find a model that suited me, in the airplane hanger sized building that passes for a retail establishment these days. I made it home, safe and sound, and put the mop in a dark closet deep in the bowels of my basement. I had no enthusiasm for mopping. I decided to try to passive-aggressive SuperK into trying out the new mop instead. "Boy, these floors really could use a good mopping," I'd say, eyeing her from my spot on the napping couch, still warm from my excellent nap.
"Really could use a good mopping."
Monday, July 6, 2009
Wha?
Present: Existing or happening now; in process; contrasted with past, future.
I think that I'm at a point in my life where I'm pretty happy. It sticks in my craw to have to admit that. Then again, maybe it's acid reflux caused by an as yet undetectable tumor which is malignant, aggressive, inoperable, and fatal. Anyway, a sunny attitude ruins my reputation as a grievously injured party. But there it is: I have been in a good spot. I feel like I'm in the world and not trying to swim furiously through the world. I'm always trying to get somewhere and I'm in a big hurry.
I think that life is like a fine fog and I'm just sitting on a bench squinting into the gloaming. I can't see too far. The fog is not too thick and it's not too cold and it's pleasantly damp, like mist on a hot day. Faces drift in and out, most of them pleasant although some scary shit does materialize from time to time. They mostly come and go, or they stay a long time; never can tell, those faces. The fog is OK. I'm just sitting in the fog. I want the big telescope so that I can see for miles and miles but what would be the point? It's foggy.
I've always liked the imagery of allowing my essence to escape my body and drift straight up ten feet or so, like a helium balloon in the shape of a horse head. I do this a lot and I try to hang around up there and keep an eye on myself. It's not awful to watch and there's an appalling lack of drama. I see a person, mostly, who has been given a lot.
If you made a movie about my life, which would destroy all previous box office records, I'd be the character that would make everyone groan. You'd wish that I would simply shut up. "Is that guy whining again?" people would say. "I hate that guy. I'm going for popcorn." I'd still be on the screen complaining when they got back. "Why does she stay with him?" they'd ask. "He's really annoying."
I remember being on a vacation in a city that had a world famous cathedral. We fought the traffic and crowds to see this site, only to find it disappointing. It was noisy, thick with sweating tourists trying to hear shouting tour guides holding up sticks and umbrellas, and expensive. It was crouched on a chaotic intersection, its facade caked with the grime of car exhaust. Some of the structure was cloaked in scaffolding. A few days later we were traveling through a village in the country side and stumbled on a small village church. It was a tenth of the size of the cathedral. It was empty. We sat for a while in a pew and took in its essence. A woman opened the door in the balcony, nodded at us, then sat down and played the organ. We listened for a while. Who knew? I'm sure that church wasn't in the guidebook.
I'm pretty content with what I have and I'm not greedily eyeing things that I don't have, at least not with the runaway greed that typifies most of my past behavior. This is total freak show stuff.
I have no idea who I am.
I think that I'm at a point in my life where I'm pretty happy. It sticks in my craw to have to admit that. Then again, maybe it's acid reflux caused by an as yet undetectable tumor which is malignant, aggressive, inoperable, and fatal. Anyway, a sunny attitude ruins my reputation as a grievously injured party. But there it is: I have been in a good spot. I feel like I'm in the world and not trying to swim furiously through the world. I'm always trying to get somewhere and I'm in a big hurry.
I think that life is like a fine fog and I'm just sitting on a bench squinting into the gloaming. I can't see too far. The fog is not too thick and it's not too cold and it's pleasantly damp, like mist on a hot day. Faces drift in and out, most of them pleasant although some scary shit does materialize from time to time. They mostly come and go, or they stay a long time; never can tell, those faces. The fog is OK. I'm just sitting in the fog. I want the big telescope so that I can see for miles and miles but what would be the point? It's foggy.
I've always liked the imagery of allowing my essence to escape my body and drift straight up ten feet or so, like a helium balloon in the shape of a horse head. I do this a lot and I try to hang around up there and keep an eye on myself. It's not awful to watch and there's an appalling lack of drama. I see a person, mostly, who has been given a lot.
If you made a movie about my life, which would destroy all previous box office records, I'd be the character that would make everyone groan. You'd wish that I would simply shut up. "Is that guy whining again?" people would say. "I hate that guy. I'm going for popcorn." I'd still be on the screen complaining when they got back. "Why does she stay with him?" they'd ask. "He's really annoying."
I remember being on a vacation in a city that had a world famous cathedral. We fought the traffic and crowds to see this site, only to find it disappointing. It was noisy, thick with sweating tourists trying to hear shouting tour guides holding up sticks and umbrellas, and expensive. It was crouched on a chaotic intersection, its facade caked with the grime of car exhaust. Some of the structure was cloaked in scaffolding. A few days later we were traveling through a village in the country side and stumbled on a small village church. It was a tenth of the size of the cathedral. It was empty. We sat for a while in a pew and took in its essence. A woman opened the door in the balcony, nodded at us, then sat down and played the organ. We listened for a while. Who knew? I'm sure that church wasn't in the guidebook.
I'm pretty content with what I have and I'm not greedily eyeing things that I don't have, at least not with the runaway greed that typifies most of my past behavior. This is total freak show stuff.
I have no idea who I am.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Fowl Tails
We discussed the Third Step this morning. You know the one: comes right after the Second Step, precedes the Fourth Step, number three in the orderly progression of twelve steps. This Step talks about god and finding god and all of the ways that god can piss us off. Fortunately, the Third Step doesn't bring out a big self-righteous stick to whack us if we have some trouble dealing with god, which most of us do. It encourages us to just hang in there. Due diligence is a phrase that comes to mind.
I tend to over think things and I can get mired in a thick mud of rationalization if I try to conceptualize god and what it means to turn my life over to his care. I become confused. I don't know what the will is, either, so I couldn't cede control of that if you paid me. I've always liked the advice to stay in the minute. I can't do it too good but the instructions are pretty clear. If I'm doing what's in front of me and not what I think may be in front of me in the future things seem to work out OK.
Anyway, I was sitting in my porch this morning watching this baby bunny bounce around. He appeared to have ingested more coffee than me and he was also damn cute. Tomorrow morning after he and his brethren have ravaged my vegetable garden and SuperK's flowers once again, I'll be dreaming of baby bunny stew, but I'm trying to live in the moment. I'd really feel like a piece of shit if I nursed a grudge against a bunny.
The bunny would eat a little then take a few big jumps. It looked to me like he was doing it for the sheer joy of jumping. At one point he exploded forward and landed right on the tail of a mourning dove who was foraging in the area. The dove fluttered briefly and settled back down, no doubt saying: "What the fuck?!?" although he didn't appear to nurse any resentments.
The bunny had blasted a few yards away but came back to stare at the dove, who tried to ignore him. I wasn't sure if he was being apologetic ("Sorry about that"), confrontational ("You looking at me? You looking at me? Well, there's nobody else here"), or issuing a challenge ("OK, on the count of three: Mississippi one, Mississippi two . . . "). Suddenly, he made a big charge right at the dove, who flew away. Enough is enough, apparently, even if your protagonist is young and cute. The bunny made a big leap and disappeared into the thicket that passes for my neighbor's garden.
I am totally roaring at this point at this stupid rabbit. I wanted to go outside and play with him. Scare the bird, leap into a big, soft thicket, hide in the cool darkness, find mama, take a nap.
Be the Rabbit. Be one with the Rabbit.
I tend to over think things and I can get mired in a thick mud of rationalization if I try to conceptualize god and what it means to turn my life over to his care. I become confused. I don't know what the will is, either, so I couldn't cede control of that if you paid me. I've always liked the advice to stay in the minute. I can't do it too good but the instructions are pretty clear. If I'm doing what's in front of me and not what I think may be in front of me in the future things seem to work out OK.
Anyway, I was sitting in my porch this morning watching this baby bunny bounce around. He appeared to have ingested more coffee than me and he was also damn cute. Tomorrow morning after he and his brethren have ravaged my vegetable garden and SuperK's flowers once again, I'll be dreaming of baby bunny stew, but I'm trying to live in the moment. I'd really feel like a piece of shit if I nursed a grudge against a bunny.
The bunny would eat a little then take a few big jumps. It looked to me like he was doing it for the sheer joy of jumping. At one point he exploded forward and landed right on the tail of a mourning dove who was foraging in the area. The dove fluttered briefly and settled back down, no doubt saying: "What the fuck?!?" although he didn't appear to nurse any resentments.
The bunny had blasted a few yards away but came back to stare at the dove, who tried to ignore him. I wasn't sure if he was being apologetic ("Sorry about that"), confrontational ("You looking at me? You looking at me? Well, there's nobody else here"), or issuing a challenge ("OK, on the count of three: Mississippi one, Mississippi two . . . "). Suddenly, he made a big charge right at the dove, who flew away. Enough is enough, apparently, even if your protagonist is young and cute. The bunny made a big leap and disappeared into the thicket that passes for my neighbor's garden.
I am totally roaring at this point at this stupid rabbit. I wanted to go outside and play with him. Scare the bird, leap into a big, soft thicket, hide in the cool darkness, find mama, take a nap.
Be the Rabbit. Be one with the Rabbit.
Early Morning Conversation
"What are your thoughts about a murder suicide pact?" I asked SuperK. They were my first words of the morning.
"Well," she said. "Who's doing the murdering?" Always thinking, that woman.
"I really hadn't thought about it," I answered. "I could go either way."
"I thought that if you committed suicide then you went to a bad place," she pointed out.
"That's true," I admitted. "Maybe I should be in charge of this operation. Do you have any preference of how you want to go?"
"I don't think so," she said. "I think you could go through with the murdering part but then would bail on the suicide part."
She had me there. I gave her a big hug and went out and dug around in the garden. The deer and rabbits and squirrels and groundhogs and possums and chipmunks have to eat, too.
"Well," she said. "Who's doing the murdering?" Always thinking, that woman.
"I really hadn't thought about it," I answered. "I could go either way."
"I thought that if you committed suicide then you went to a bad place," she pointed out.
"That's true," I admitted. "Maybe I should be in charge of this operation. Do you have any preference of how you want to go?"
"I don't think so," she said. "I think you could go through with the murdering part but then would bail on the suicide part."
She had me there. I gave her a big hug and went out and dug around in the garden. The deer and rabbits and squirrels and groundhogs and possums and chipmunks have to eat, too.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
It's STILL All About Me
I was at one of my regular meetings last night. I shared, and I was brilliant. I guess at this juncture that I don't have to point that out any more. I'm always brilliant when I share. My remarks are cutting, insightful, humorous, deeply profound yet accessible to even the simplest of minds. I help everyone. It no longer bothers me that no one has ever told me these things, but I know them to be true, and I am not often wrong. If I think it, if it exists in my mind, it must be fact.
Anyway, there were some friends at the meeting that I wanted to talk to and there was also a guy who looked newish: arrived a little late, sat by himself, passed on the reading, typical new guy stuff. I remember approaching my first hard-ass sponsor in Indy after a meeting to complain about something that if I had been talking to him on the phone regularly he would have already known about. I had a few months clean and sober at that point.
He spun me around. "You see that man over there?" he said. "He's brand new. Go talk to him." This was code for "Get away from me -- the meeting is for me, too." The message I learned is that the new guy is the main guy. Even the rookies among us have something to share.
The Book suggests that we will run into people that we'll need to encourage to talk by sharing our own story, and that there will be people who need to talk. This guy needed to talk, god bless him, and he wasn't very interesting. He didn't come up for a breath once in 2o minutes. I didn't have to pay close attention to what he was saying. I tried to interject a comment from time to time but could see that he was taking a break to formulate what he wanted to say next: he was not listening to me. We're all like that when we come in. None of us are interesting. We have all done the same things and they aren't nearly as interesting to other people as we think they are.
There's a story of a man coming into a club house and sitting down. He turns to the right and asks: " How long have you been sober?"
"30 years."
He turns to the left: "How long have you been sober?"
"30 days."
He thinks for a minute, then looks at the guy with 30 days: "How did you do it?"
How, indeed.
Anyway, there were some friends at the meeting that I wanted to talk to and there was also a guy who looked newish: arrived a little late, sat by himself, passed on the reading, typical new guy stuff. I remember approaching my first hard-ass sponsor in Indy after a meeting to complain about something that if I had been talking to him on the phone regularly he would have already known about. I had a few months clean and sober at that point.
He spun me around. "You see that man over there?" he said. "He's brand new. Go talk to him." This was code for "Get away from me -- the meeting is for me, too." The message I learned is that the new guy is the main guy. Even the rookies among us have something to share.
The Book suggests that we will run into people that we'll need to encourage to talk by sharing our own story, and that there will be people who need to talk. This guy needed to talk, god bless him, and he wasn't very interesting. He didn't come up for a breath once in 2o minutes. I didn't have to pay close attention to what he was saying. I tried to interject a comment from time to time but could see that he was taking a break to formulate what he wanted to say next: he was not listening to me. We're all like that when we come in. None of us are interesting. We have all done the same things and they aren't nearly as interesting to other people as we think they are.
There's a story of a man coming into a club house and sitting down. He turns to the right and asks: " How long have you been sober?"
"30 years."
He turns to the left: "How long have you been sober?"
"30 days."
He thinks for a minute, then looks at the guy with 30 days: "How did you do it?"
How, indeed.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
BoxMan
So I get a call today from my buddy BoxMan. This dude has some stuff going on right now that he wanted to talk about; heavy stuff that is going to require some heavy lifting. I personally don't like heavy lifting. It implies that something is going to be heavy and that I have to lift it up. I prefer light things that someone else has to lift. And I want the whole process to be quick and painless.
My first thought when someone asks me for my advice -- which I give readily even when I know the advice to be bad or incomplete, preferring to hear myself talk as if I'm an expert on topics about which I know nothing rather than admit my ignorance -- is that this individual must be in a world of bad hurt if he thinks I know anything relevant about almost any topic. I haven't done the best job running my own life. I can't imagine I'd be any better at running your life.
My inclination is usually to tell someone what to do about impossibly complicated situations about which I have no training, qualifications, and precious little experience. I'm a Fix-It Guy, as long as it doesn't require fixing anything wrong with me or the broken thing is at all difficult to fix. Then I'm not so good. One thing I've learned in my recovery is that when I talk I can only make things worse. I've started walking around with a sock stuffed in my mouth. Not surprisingly, my days go better.
Another thing I've learned is that most people aren't looking for advice. They just want to get things off their chest. I think BoxMan made a good decision, unless he didn't. Maybe he made a terrible decision. What do I know? I'd throw up blood and blame it on the pizza, not the 24 cans of Colt 45 I consumed.
We make decisions to the best of our ability and then live with the consequences. Sometimes things don't go the way we want them to go but that doesn't mean it's a bad decision. Maybe they're going the way god wants them to go. Maybe god wants us to get stronger by working through a tough situation. I'm used to the 30 second rule -- shot of whisky, two quick bong hits and I feel better.
Life ain't that way.
My first thought when someone asks me for my advice -- which I give readily even when I know the advice to be bad or incomplete, preferring to hear myself talk as if I'm an expert on topics about which I know nothing rather than admit my ignorance -- is that this individual must be in a world of bad hurt if he thinks I know anything relevant about almost any topic. I haven't done the best job running my own life. I can't imagine I'd be any better at running your life.
My inclination is usually to tell someone what to do about impossibly complicated situations about which I have no training, qualifications, and precious little experience. I'm a Fix-It Guy, as long as it doesn't require fixing anything wrong with me or the broken thing is at all difficult to fix. Then I'm not so good. One thing I've learned in my recovery is that when I talk I can only make things worse. I've started walking around with a sock stuffed in my mouth. Not surprisingly, my days go better.
Another thing I've learned is that most people aren't looking for advice. They just want to get things off their chest. I think BoxMan made a good decision, unless he didn't. Maybe he made a terrible decision. What do I know? I'd throw up blood and blame it on the pizza, not the 24 cans of Colt 45 I consumed.
We make decisions to the best of our ability and then live with the consequences. Sometimes things don't go the way we want them to go but that doesn't mean it's a bad decision. Maybe they're going the way god wants them to go. Maybe god wants us to get stronger by working through a tough situation. I'm used to the 30 second rule -- shot of whisky, two quick bong hits and I feel better.
Life ain't that way.
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