Running Amuck

Amuck: To rush about in a frenzy to kill; to lose control of oneself and do or attempt violence. (From Malay amog: engaging furiously in battle).

When I get up in the morning I weigh myself. Naked, of course; I wouldn't want a few ounces of clothing contaminating the exact weight, which never fluctuates more than a couple of pounds and hasn't changed significantly in 20 years. Even though I could stand to put on a few or 25 lbs I'm very aware of what I weigh. I rejoice at an appropriate weight and fume when I'm up, wondering what foodstuff the day before caused this rise. "Cheezits," I mutter sullenly. "Damn that greasy, salty snack."


I said something in jest to a friend in The Program that I think she may have misinterpreted. I openly abuse my friends and in turn I welcome their abuse. While this is all in good fun sometimes the zinger bites the wrong way, or I perceive this to be true. I've thought a lot about this possibly misinterpreted jesting comment. I think a lot about things that are not important at all. Once I lost my temper at the mechanic who works on my car. I wouldn't recommend doing this -- the guy could damage your Johnson rod and you'd never know the difference. I went back the next day and apologized. He looked at me: "I have no idea what you're talking about, " he said.


I get stuff in my head and it swirls around and lodges in there, but good. This stuff is poisoned fatally by the fact that no one is thinking about me. They're thinking about themselves. I don't think about anyone else so why would I expect them to think about me?

Because I'm really, really self-absorbed.

The Mouse is dirty. I'm vaguely aware that it needs to be washed, even though it's winter and cold and raining, and no one else cares about my car or how much dirt it's carrying around. I wonder if I should take it to a car wash or risk frostbite by washing it myself to save the $4. I wonder what other people think about my dirty car.

I keep a list of deals that I have won in my business life to help track my commissions. I also keep a list of deals that I have lost. I'm obsessed with the losses. I could care less about the wins. I remember the losses in great detail and wonder what I could have done to change the outcome. Most of the time it had nothing to do with me, but I think: "If I had worked harder or smarter I could have changed the outcome."


This is how I spend my time.

Sequence.

I've decided to call my car "The Mouse." Maybe Mini Mouse or Mighty Mouse, but I'll probably keep it simple. The one word names are the best. I've always given my cars names. I've had The Whale, The Appliance, The Beast, The Truck, Three-Ball, The ZEE, X-Box, and The Pimp.

On an unrelated matter I've decided to run with the Bs for a while vis-a-vis my fake names at Starbucks. I'm vaguely aware that the group of women who prepare my coffee drink might start to pick up on the constantly changing litany of names. I figure if I stay somewhat consistent, in the same family of fake names at least, it might throw them off the trail. Probably I'm just another unremarkable middle aged guy buying coffee; I'd be surprised if any of them could pick me out of a police line-up. I suspect that not everyone else is thinking about me as much as I am.

I pondered using Brad again but it had an evil feel today so I decided on Bruce. Unfortunately, I froze at the last minute and blurted out Brian. I have no idea where that came from. I guess I wasn't Bruce today. All of this shift changing occupied my mind and I forgot what name I had given.

"Brian. Brian? Brian!?!" yelled the barista, looking around before I lurched into action.

I have my mind set on Boris tomorrow. It's getting cold so I feel an awakening of my inner Russian.

I had a dream last night that I killed some people. I'm not sure how many people I killed but it was definitely more than one. I was not upset about the murders at all. We had watched a documentary about how the court system dealt with a woman whose husband had beat the shit out of her and their kids for years until she had had enough and evened the score with extreme prejudice. The documentary was intentionally ambiguous. Obviously this story had weaseled itself into my subconscious and it came burbling out at night. I can't say my behavior in my dream surprised me -- it was another example of me behaving badly and justifying it in my own mind.

I almost never remember my dreams. Usually I'm naked in a public place. Not sexual naked, just not wearing any clothes and trying to do normal things. I'm often in school or at an important business meeting, late, unprepared, unsure of the timing and location of the event. More obsession with lack of control.

Anyway, the murder dream was kind of upsetting; not upsetting, really, but stimulating. I couldn't get back to sleep and I found that my mind continued working within the dream sequence. I was plotting how to get away with my crime. How to get in my house without alerting the cops; how to get money, transportation, food. Where would I go? I thought about walking over to Shorty's and asking to borrow his car.

Even when I'm asleep I'm trying to get away with something.

You Are Obviously WRONG!

Wrong: Implies the inflicting of unmerited injury or harm upon another.

As the year draws to a close I'm alternately amused and annoyed by all of the analysis saturating the airwaves. The aggrieved parties, which seem to be everyone alive, here in the richest nation on earth where very few really bad things ever happen, tell us all how terrible everything is and why what we are doing to correct this sad state of affairs is COMPLETELY WRONG! We are going to hell in a hand-basket and the only solution is to do the EXACT OPPOSITE! of what we are doing now.

I'm reminded of my mind set when I first entered The Program and heard about the 12 Steps, our suggestions to make ruined lives whole again. I was pretty sure everyone had been drinking wood alcohol or whatever the stuff is that makes you go blind and lose your mind completely. I was eager to explain that I was different, that I didn't have a job or a girlfriend or any money and no one liked me anymore and my feet smelled bad. I didn't see how these sweet and inoffensive bromides were going to solve my problems, which were real and intractable and very, very, extremely unique.

One of the great benefits of my recovery is that when I quit trying to drown out everyone else with my screams of disapproval I can learn some good stuff. I'm not always right. There are a lot of good ideas out there, and if I quit trying to explain why your beliefs are so stupid I might learn something new, something that might help me out.

I'm not suggesting that when I listen to someone that I disagree with that I'm going to change my mind. I am, after all, STUBBORN AS HELL! and RARELY WRONG! But sometimes I do change my mind because I learn a better way of doing something. And I learn to see an issue from a different point of view. Just because I disagree with someone else doesn't make them wrong or stupid, which is what I suspected before.

Today I can shut up for a minute and remember the advice I received sitting in bars, talking to other drunks.

New Year's Eve

Ever notice that there aren't a lot of anniversaries between Christmas and New Year's Eve? I can't imagine choosing to quit drinking a few days before December 31st. It was hard enough quitting in August, and there aren't any holidays in August that I'm aware of. Still, it was so hard to quit that I don't even remember the exact day. I made one up.

I was addicted to those times when drinking came out of the shadows and assumed the guise of normal behavior. along with all other times. Acceptable public drunkenness was a good thing for me when I was drinking, given my affinity for public drunkenness. I'm going to assume that most people with an AA anniversary this time of year quit under some duress: police intervention or detox or dire warnings from spouses.

So far this holiday season I have gotten to spend time with my blood brothers and marrow sisters from The Program, and also with my family of origin. Can you guess which has been more enjoyable? I bet you can.

On Christmas Day SuperK and I went to a friend's house for a brunch and a meeting. There were about 20 other people in recovery there. I have done this a number of times and I always leave marveling at the substance of this program, although the food is so good I'd come if it was some kind of time share presentation, followed by a dramatic religious ceremony. The day was what I think the holidays should be about.

My family seems to engage in Massive Expectation whenever gifts or meals are involved. I never feel like I'm doing it right no matter what I do. I get the wrong gift or I don't spend enough money or I spend too much money. There's a heavy air of passive aggressive disapproval.

Ho.

Holiday Cheer.

The holidays. The actual root of this word, of course, comes from Holy Days.

I'm amazed every year at the power of the holidays. There is a lot of potential for disaster when we try to get our hands around the simple concept of dealing with family and friends and trying to pretend that the retailers aren't ruling the world. That and reconciling the fact that a lot of the significance has clearly been pilfered from ancient pagan religions that have little to do with our modern traditions. I mean, c'mon, how did we get from frankincense and myrrh to Death Match IX -- Fatal Blow , on sale at $249.99?


This time seems to swell up and crash down on us with the violence of a volcano. It's not like we don't see it coming. The mountain has been shaking and rumbling and spewing ash for weeks. We know that something's up. We can barely drink our cup of coffee because of all of the vibration.

Some of us have learned to get out of the way. But some of us sit there slowly disappearing as the ash rains down. Future generations will uncover us, frozen in a heated argument with an obscure second cousin that we see once a year and couldn't care less about, brandishing a turkey leg like an Arab scimitar. We're Charlie Brown making yet another run at Lucy holding that damn football. We can't believe it when we end up on our back again.

I don't mean to suggest that there aren't family gatherings and religious celebrations that look like a Norman Rockwell painting, whoever the hell he was. I'm sure there are, somewhere, in a distant galaxy millions of light years away. Good for you freaky people. I have no idea how you do it but I celebrate your accomplishment.

The rest of us should take a deep breath and hang in there. If you struggle during the holidays know that you aren't alone. I see more pissed off, rude people bulldozing their way through this time than in any other time. I'm going to speculate that the expectations and pressure make this very difficult for a lot of us.

Nobody really cares if the food isn't perfect or the gift isn't the best. I always ask: what did you get last year? Nobody can remember, so it must not have been that important. If you burn the toast put out a box of Fruit Loops. If the day is really about your family and faith the cereal will be fine. If it's about making a big showy splash, you're probably screwed anyway, because whatever you do won't be good enough.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

Caffeine!!

Caffeine: The alkaloid present in coffee, tea, and kola; it is a stimulant to the heart and central nervous system.

Today I'm going to drink too much caffeine.

Coffee in my case, although I have a lot of respect for any of the caffeine delivery systems available to the average consumer. Available to the Super Consumer, too, actually, when you think about it. Pop, soda, cola, energy drinks, chocolate bars, anything that provides a jolt rates highly on my scale of Things That Are Important. I'm a little suspicious of tea drinkers, however. I don't trust entire cultures that think tea is better than coffee. That's something that cannot be explained using modern logic.

The fly in the ointment is that I wake up at full boil most days. I don't need any caffeine. I would do better with a drink that sucks the residue of yesterday's caffeine out of my body. That makes more sense than to drink something that gets me jittering and jugging around like a 2 year old on a 3 day sugar binge.

I admit to being attracted to anything that is outside my body that I can put inside my body that makes me feel different. I don't mean better, either, although that is a nice perk. I just want to feel different than how I feel now, even if I feel good now. When that's the case I want to feel better. It's never good enough with me. I'm always seeking for the next feeling. I'm planning several feelings ahead.

Today

Boredom: The condition of being bored or uninterested; ennui.

Today I'm going to be bored, bored with everything. Been there, done that, I am so bored. Usually when I'm bored I can transition into a wonderful depression. Boredom and depression are best friends, old buddies, walking hand in hand down the Road of Ennui.

Couple of things. When I'm bored I'm not being very grateful. And I'm sure not thinking of anyone else. I've heard it suggested that maybe I should go do something for someone else instead of sitting around and thinking about myself. I'm loathe to do this because I like to think and I like myself so there's a natural marriage there.

I expect too much out of life. I like to come back to the exhortation in the long form of The Serenity Prayer that we can expect to be reasonably happy. Any more is unrealistic.

i think it's quite a party trick to accept what I have. I'd rather sit around and complain that I don't have what I want.

Which is to be on top of the roller coaster all of the time.

Humility is a Many Splendored Thing

I went to a wake last night for a long time member of The Fellowship, sober some 30 odd years. He was a pretty typical old timer. He was also 82 when he went to the Big Meeting in the Sky, so I think he felt that he had earned the right to say what he wanted to say, not always passing along his excellent message with an overly careful sense of decorum. He kicked ass and took names later, basically. Some times I cringed at his directness while secretly cheering him on. At times he said what I thought should be said but didn't have the chutzpah to say. I never thought he missed the mark with his message, only with his delivery.

This didn't endear him to everyone. Some of us think that we should be very careful with the feelings of others. Some of us think that we should be careful but not too careful. I personally remember having my ears cuffed early on with amazing clarity and perfect recall. Sometimes I need a hug and sometimes I need a finger poked in my chest.

At the wake the family had put together a montage of pictures of this man's life. I was stunned to find out that he was a three sport star at the university level. Anyone who is at all interested in sports knows that it's really hard to be a one sport star at a big high school, let alone at a university. While I realize we aren't talking about Notre Dame or USC, it was still an amazing accomplishment.

I never heard him mention this once at a meeting in the 8 years that I knew him. How many of us manage to work in how much money we make or where we live or how successful we are with the opposite sex every time we share? I'm not even sure how long he was sober. Some of us mention the number every time we talk.

The big picture can be very complex.

What Are the Earth People Thinking?

So today at Starbucks I gave my name as Brad again, determined this time to remember what my name was supposed to be. I was psyched. I was focused. I felt like a Brad. I became a Brad. I was one with Brad

"Brian! Brian! Tall Americano for Brian!" my barista shouted out.

I can't even screw up The System properly anymore.

"Maybe they're screwing with you," SuperK pointed out.



!!!!

"I'm just being silly," I said.

"No, it's weird," SuperK said. "Do you think other people are in there giving fake names out?"

"Yeah, but I know that I'm doing it," I said.

"That's doesn't make any difference," she replied.

Anyway, with this behavior in mind I was pondering the public reaction to the behavior of alcoholics. Something horrible happened today to a local celebrity whose actions in the past led one to believe that alcohol and drugs may have played a part. Maybe not, too; there are a lot of non-alcoholics out there making bad decisions. I'm speculating on whether or not someone has a drinking problem which I shouldn't do. Every man, woman, and beast of the field gets to make that declaration on their own. I'm an alcoholic because I say I am.

But I get the sense that Earth People think that we make these mistakes because we're weak or evil or lazy, not because we're sick. I remember, with a cold shiver up and down my spine, how my disease drove me over the cliff time and time again. It didn't help that I was vaguely aware that I was going over the edge but I couldn't seem to take my foot off the accelerator. I don't think my car even had a brake. I didn't make a conscious decision to ruin things, I just did it. I was on Auto Pilot.

My car had a Self Destruct button the size of a minor asteroid.

Today: A Grouch AND A Brainstorm For Me.

Grouch: A grumbling or sulky mood.
Brainstorm: A series of sudden, violent, cerebral disturbances.

Today I'm going to let my anger run wild. I realize that this hasn't worked out well in the past but I think that I have shown enough emotional growth that I am now at a place where I can handle it. This will be well placed anger, justified, sound and productive for all concerned, especially me. People will come forward to thank me: "That was great, Horseface, thanks. We especially enjoyed all of the expletives and violence and ridiculous lying exaggerations. We are better people for it."

Things might get broken.

The Book suggests that "If we were to live, we had to be free of anger. The grouch and the brainstorm were not for us." Well, not for you, maybe, but perfectly acceptable for me. Actually, I didn't know that "grouch" was in use anymore. It sounds quaint, like Grinch or troll or Shrek. And what is up with "brainstorm" exactly? I thought successful people got together to brainstorm up great ideas. The definition makes it sound like a bad acid trip.



I guess the point is that anger ". . . the dubious luxury of normal men . . ." should best be left for people like me that can handle it. Today I think that I should blow up so that I can stay in good practice. If I don't rage all over the place every now and then I might lose my touch, and then where would we be?

I always feel better when I've just had a good freak out and let my dark emotion loose to roam the streets. I always feel good about myself. I'm sure I've acted appropriately. When I'm finished, lips flecked with spittle, smoke pouring from my ears, my somewhat girlish hands clenched so tightly that my knuckles glow white, I simply feel wonderful.

Everybody is OK when I do this. No regrets, no burned bridges, no hurt feelings.

Things are definitely going to get bent.

Financial Insecurity

Insecure: Not secure; specifically, a) not safe from danger. b)feeling more anxiety than seems warranted. c) not firm or dependable; unreliable.

Today seems to me to be a financial insecurity day.

Why not, I ask? Why not today?

I have a feeling in my bones that I'm going to run into big financial difficulties today. Don't ask me to provide any proof. Don't insinuate that I've been well provided for ever since I quit providing college educations and new cars for the local drug dealer and bar owner and Mr. Coors.

Please do not remind me that clean water, adequate food, and a warm place to sleep tonight are my only needs, strictly speaking. Everything else is A Want. And lest we forget, one of The Promises is that we shall lose our fear of financial insecurity.

Regrettably it doesn't specify that we won't have any financial insecurity. Boy, these rooms would be full if we could guarantee that.

Power Bar

Power. That’s one of those words that just has a good feel to it. It sounds like it has some weight and heft. When I hear that word I think: “Yeah, I want some of that. I want a lot of that. Everything would be OK if I could get some more power.”

 I want to be in charge. I want to be calling all of the shots. I was terrified to hear that our lives improve when we give up control to Somebody or Something else. I was afraid that They or It wouldn’t do as good a job as I was doing. I mean, with the joblessness and lack of money and legal troubles and living with my parents as a 30 year old and all that. How could I give that up?


I have heard the suggestion that if I’m struggling with my program then I should figure out what step I think I’m on and go backwards, one at a time, until I get to the step that I’m actually on. It’s obviously not the step I think or I wouldn’t be in so much pain. Invariably, I end up back at Step One: powerlessness. I’ve tried to take control of some person, place, or thing and it’s not working out to my satisfaction. So I get frustrated and angry. I get burned up.

 I’m not crazy that I have to start at the beginning again although I should be used to it since it happens all of the time. I believe that by now I should have graduated to the Phd program, the secret club with the funny handshake and weird hats where nobody has to do any of the hard work any more. I want to be in the Advanced Sobriety Program. I want to be on Step 47.

 But powerlessness is the crux of the problem; it’s the key to recovery. Our whole program is based on a foundation of giving up control of people, places, and things. We don’t go anywhere until we manage this trick.



I don’t like to fly because I’m not the pilot. That and the terrible seats and bad food and screaming babies, I guess. No one will give me a ride any more, especially my wife, because I’m such an insufferable back seat driver. Control. I’m not in control. I think I know best. Why in the world would I think I know best? I don’t have a very good history of predicting good outcomes. When I make the decisions about anything people get hurt and things blow up.



At the very beginning people would ask me: “What is it that you so afraid of losing? What are you going to be giving up?” Now I’m quite the talker when I want to justify what I’m doing but I had trouble defending my position. I’m the guy standing on the edge of the smokestack as the boat starts to sink below the waves, water lapping at my shins, shouting over to the Coast Guard: “Hey, thanks for the offer but I’m good here. I think the pumps are starting to really kick in.”

 “Lack of power, that was our dilemma.”


Alcoholics Anonymous – page 45.

Brad? Brad??!!?

I go to a very busy Starbucks from time to time for my totally unneccesary morning cup of coffee. My engine is at full power the minute my eyes click open; I don't need no stinking coffee to wake up. To thwart confusion they ask for your name which they put on the cup so that the drinks don't get mixed up. If I got someone's miso peppermint half-calf latte instead of my cup of coffee I would FREAK OUT. And hopefully I wasted my time explaining why they put your name on the cup. Hopefully you knew why they do that. If you don't, you deserve to get someone else's Carmel mocha frappuccino with sprinkles. I would never drink something that has been sprinkled.

Anyway, to amuse myself I always give a different name. Today I used Brad in honor of my friend, well, Brad. I have used normal names so far but I'm thinking of going foreign soon. I have my eye on Boris. SuperK wants me to dive right in with Sergio.

"I think I can pull a 'Boris' off. I think I could pass for Russian," I said. "I don't think I can do 'Sergio.' I don't look Latin at all."

She stared at me a couple of beats too long. I got a little uncomfortable.

"You're giving fake names at Starbucks," she said.

"I think I hear my phone ringing," I replied, exiting the room.

Anyway, today the woman who takes your order and signs your cup before giving it to the woman who takes the money for the drink must have misrouted the cup. The coffee line stops for no man so I was shushed onward before the cup was located. Somehow it made it to the woman who actually makes the drink, or gives it to the woman who makes the drink. I had no idea who was doing what to the cup of coffee at that point. There are a lot of stops at this place. I feel like I'm watching people make Model-Ts.

I'm standing there stupidly looking at this woman.
"Brad?" she asks.
"Brad?" she says again. "Brad?! Brad??!"

Something deep in my brain clicks and I raise my hand, and confirm the drink order. She must have thought I was on Thorazine.

I leaned over to the guy behind me and whispered: "My name's not really Brad."

He didn't say anything.

Intending To Be Good . . .

Intend: Implies a having in mind of something to be done.

In a perfect world people would judge me by my intentions rather than my actions. They would listen to what I say and pay little attention to what I do. I'm quite the talker. I'm quite the liar, too. And I'm not shabby in the manipulation department. What is it that you want to hear? I'm sure I can come up with something suitable, something pleasant to your ears, something to make you see me bathed in the soft glow of a magical light.

"That Horseface, what a guy," you say, as my buttery words beguile your senses.

"Damn that Horseface," you end up muttering, later, disappointed.

Over the years I've learned to size people up by what they do and not what they say. There are some pretty impressive resumes in The Program based on how people characterize themselves with their own mouths. I know I do it. I try to be witty, funny, and profound. I try to accentuate the good things -- good thing? is it multiple? -- and bury any bad behavior under a mountain of justification and rationalization.

There are folks who impress me by what they share and then offend me when they act. You get to know people if you stick around long enough. Sometimes their behavior doesn't jive with their speechifying. And many of us live very impressive lives of service and caring but don't spend a lot of time announcing the fact.

Like me, probably. I'm just sayin'.


Actually, sometimes I do nice things. If you give me a minute I'll try to come up with a couple.

More Tales From the Kitchen . .

Broken: Splintered; fractured; burst, etc.; violated.

I am . . . ahem . . . not coordinated. I am not coordinated in any part of my body or being. My brain sends along perfectly reasonable commands to my various body parts to no avail. Well, technically to some avail, I guess, but from time to time no avail is forthcoming. I drop things. I miss when I grab for something or misjudge clearance and distance.

Things get broken. All of the time.

This situation is compounded by the fact that I'm usually trying to do 10 things at once while thinking about 10 totally different things, and I'm in a hurry. Time is short.

Sometimes nice things get broken, or bent.

SuperK used to get upset when something died a violent death at my hands. I feel bad enough as it is -- I'm not breaking things on purpose, usually -- and having someone criticize me openly or express some obvious disapproval made my regret more acute. Being a big fan of the philosophy that "The best defense is a good offense" I'd point out that she didn't handle nearly as many dishes as I did, not being a kitchen person and all so she didn't have nearly as many opportunities to break things as I did. This is probably not true, but whatever.

I don't like to lose arguments or games or contests and I'm perfectly willing to blow up the world if I can only win. Big fights erupted over unimportant things.

Eventually we realized that it would be best just to handle the emergency. Now when something breaks loudly SuperK shouts: "What do I need to do?" I suggest that I've got it handled or yell: "Towel!" or "Broom!" or "Ambulance!!"

We mop up the blood or pop or dirt, throw away the debris, and get on with our day.

Compromise and Win.

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



So I do most of the cooking in the Horseface household. I like to cook, or what passes for cooking, so this is not a problem for me. It may be a problem for SuperK but I'm usually thinking about myself. I'm a lot more interested in what my problems are than what hers are. If it's a problem for her I assume that she'll tell me. But she won't tell me, probably, because I'd just ignore it anyway. She holds her nose and swallows quickly.

We have a great relationship, as you can see.

At some point the decision was made, probably by me, that the non-cooker would clean up the kitchen. This is not a big job because I'm the original Anal Retentive Chef. I clean as I go. I'm very efficient as I make fairly tasteless meals. I'm very, very German. I like to be in control of everything, including SuperK and the kitchen environment.

SuperK is not neurotically organized like I am. She cleans the kitchen but it doesn't fall at the top of her list of important things to do, which it shouldn't because it's not an important thing to do. Maybe that night, maybe the next morning, whatever. I clean on auto pilot. We'll be chatting in the kitchen while she makes some lunch and she'll say: "Where's my spoon?" I've snatched the still clean spoon off the counter a nanosecond after it lands and dropped it in the dishwasher, all the while unaware of what I'm doing.

"Can you at least give me a chance to use it?" she asks, exasperated.

I tried all kinds of techniques to get her to clean the kitchen on my timetable. I can only assume that this makes everything worse. When someone tries to control me I push back. Sometimes I simply ask her to clean the kitchen RIGHT NOW, but this seems a little pushy. Sometimes I clean the kitchen myself in a very obviously annoyed passive aggressive manner, banging dishes around and such. Sometimes I leave the dishes pile up so that they irritate me continuously until I clean them. I always crack before she does. I should have just cleaned up immediately and saved myself the additional irritation but this would deprive me of the satisfaction of controlling someone else.

Eventually I started to clean the kitchen myself. It takes like two minutes a day. I have to admit that I don't even know where the laundry room is in our house. I haven't touched the laundry in 20 years. SuperK gets very little credit for doing this chore which I hate to do.

I bet it takes longer to do the laundry than it takes to clean the kitchen.

Nice.

Nice: Difficult t please; very careful; fastidious; refined (from the Old French meaning stupid, foolish and Latin meaning ignorant, not knowing.)

I have never had much interest in doing nice things. I liked to imagine that people were calling me "nice" behind my back, while secretly suspecting that they were using other epitaphs. Being nice and thoughtful always seemed to entail giving, not receiving. That's not a philosophical question I ponder in my memoir: "Horseface Steve: Grabbing For What's Mine!"

I think about all of the things that I've done in my sobriety that I would call nice. There's almost 10 as long as I'm liberal with a few of them. I think about the thousands of nice things that people have done for me. Often, I understand that they have things to do that are a lot more interesting than what they are doing for me. When I was drinking and totally consumed by myself -- as opposed to mostly consumed by myself, which is my present state -- I could never sacrifice my own interests for the interests of others.

I've had to practice this and it still doesn't come easily. I've found that when I do something that is not immediately gratifying but the right thing to do, I feel better eventually, not instantaneously, but the feeling lasts a lot longer. I feel better in a general, global sense. I sacrifice the immediate reward of pleasing myself. I think down the road a little bit. I think of The Big Picture.

I should try doing some of the stuff I write about. It sounds great.

Guy Stuff

Guy: A rope, chain, or rod attached to something to steady or guide it. Oops, rather: English conspirator executed for his part in the Gunpowder plot, an unsuccessful plan to blow up Parliament. D'oh! Maybe: a boy or man; fellow; chap.

I go to an off the books men's meeting from time to time. They let me attend even though I'm not sure I qualify as much of a guy. Secretly, I think I would be more attractive in panty hose and a tight skirt but that's a another topic, probably one best discussed with Sigmund Freud, in private, with no one else around. I don't think the solution to that tendency can be found in The Steps.

This is mostly guy guys. You know, the kind who go on fishing trips and don't shave or bathe for a week, eating nothing but cooked meat and raw meat and potato chips. I get freaked out if I don't have good conditioner with me for a day, and special lotion. I have no interest in sitting in a rowboat in the baking sun on a lake somewhere, catching something I'd be afraid to eat. I'd be happier shopping for frilly things in a cute shop.

The thing I like most about this meeting is that we call each other on our crap. If I get off base, someone stops me, rudely and to the point. I don't get to spread my disease around, only my solution. I think some meetings fail at making sure that its members are adhering to the basic principles of recovery. We get too concerned that we'll hurt someone's feelings. The result is that these meetings attract people who are careful not to hurt anyone's feelings and you end up with a wishy-washy, light-hearted love in. We're dealing with serious stuff here and sometimes we need to get our hands whacked.

The problem with men is that sometimes we go too far with this behavior. It gets so over the top that it seems forced. One of my buddies asked if they still do all of that grab-ass stuff at that meeting. I don't know what grab-ass stuff is but I think it captures the tone of the gathering.

I'm a real bad ass. Definitely.

Horrible Things To Come.

Horrible: Causing a feeling of horror; terrible; dreadful; frightful.

Today I'm going to live in the future. I believe I have written about living in the future at some point in the past but it really is an irresistible topic, and one that I'm sure I'll be drawn to once again in the future, probably sooner rather than later. I can go into the past and regret what I have done or left undone or blown up, but I'm limited to what actually happened or my recollection of it. I can't make a bad situation worse when it's already happened unless I can't remember exactly what happened, which is pretty common.

But fortunately, the amount of misery available to me in the future in limitless. It is without limit. It can expand forever and ever, like our universe. It has no end. I can suffer pain and indignities beyond belief as long as I'm willing to populate what may happen with horrible people and implausible scenarios and disastrous situations. I never underestimate my ability to imagine the truly awful.



The fact that bad things rarely happen to me is not a concern. Moreover, that I now have the tools to handle everything that may come my way is irrelevant because I may not have the tools to handle what will surely be an unimaginably catastrophic series of events. I can't even imagine how horrible it will be, but I try my best.



Imagining a horrible future is a good use of my time.