Next: On the first subsequent occasion: as, when we next meet.

I have had a hankerin' lately to question some of the core beliefs and founding principles of Twelve Step recovery. While your average non-professional shouldn't attempt this, it is quite reasonable for some one of my massive intellect, profound insights, and uncanny ability to cut through all of the flak and fog of life. I see life as it is. The mystery of existence is no mystery to me. I can reveal the wonders of the universe with a wave of my hand.

Which leads me to cast a skeptical eye on the concept of "doing the next right thing." I would prefer to do the next ten - the next fifty - right things all at once and get them out of the way. Then I can concentrate on doing what I want to do, whether or not these are right things or not. I want to see in the future. I don't want to waste my time doing little, unimportant things that may not get me what I want as quickly as I want it, which is quickly indeed. It would be more efficient for me to be able to skip any small actions that don't lead to the desired outcome.

I want to do the "final right thing." That way I can behave as atrociously as possible and still end up smelling like a rose.

Are You Quaking in Your Boots?

One of our beloved promises alleges that "fear of people and economic insecurity will leave us." This seems highly improbable to most of us. This is a big matzoh ball to swallow. Lack of fear? No more fear? I'm all about the fear. If you take the fear out of my life I'd deflate like a helium balloon. I'd disintegrate into a dry, powdery dust that would blow away in the wind.



I have spent years and years nurturing and feeding every possible kind of fear, anxiety, and unease and am actually uncomfortable with the idea of giving it up. Alcoholics don't like change. I prefer sitting in boiling hot sewage to getting up and going somewhere else. I'm kind of used to the sewage smell and the toxic vapors. My skin has toughened up and the wounds have scabbed over. I'm worried that I may be a little chilly if I get up. I've convinced myself that I like the sewage life. Anybody can sit in a warm tub of clean water -- it takes a tough son of a bitch to handle hot sewage.


While I have never been able to eliminate all of the fear in my life, I have amped down the volume. I am not overwhelmed with fear. I'm underwhelmed with it, maybe, but it isn't the master of my reality any more. Sure, I have to do battle with the occasional wave of apprehension or agitation. I have qualms. I sink into a blue funk of dismay, dread, and panic. I get the creeps and the cold shivers.

But it's a lot, lot better than it used to be.

Mob Rule

Meditation: Solemn reflection on sacred matters as a devotional act; deep, continued thought; reflection.

My mind is like a huge gymnasium filled with insane people screaming at the top of their lungs, barely in control of their faculties. They are screaming for revenge, murder, justice. They want more sex. They are hungry and thirsty and tired. They have been treated poorly and they know who is to blame and they are out to exact payment for these slights and insults. They don't think. They never think. They wake up screaming and they scream all day until they fall asleep, exhausted, and have terrible, awful nightmares. This is why they wake up screaming.

Meditation is like trying to get everyone to settle down. I have a comfortable chair in a quiet room. I sit down and close my eyes and try to silence the fury of this murderous mob. It's almost never a fair fight. Maybe once or twice have I gotten the entire gym to play nice. Most of the time the mob is in control. Sometimes I get a section or two to calm down. But it's a big crowd and they're pretty worked up.

My Higher Power hands out a lot of gold stars and smiley faces for any effort whatsoever. God knows this is hard. A lot of good things come from the effort.

Good Is Hard

Anyway, before I got sidetracked analyzing my horrible distaste for honesty -- it is nothing but a bad piece of fish on a stale Kaiser roll -- I meant to say something about why I behave the way I do. The concept of honesty reared its ugly head because I was going to begin lying to explain how honest I was, when it's clear to everyone that I find "telling the truth" to be something for nuns and precious children dressed in adorable sundresses.

I wish I could report that on the rare occasions that I behave in an admirable and socially acceptable manner that I do so because, in my core, I know that this is how I should behave or that I enjoy behaving well. Nothing could be further from the truth. I find good behavior curious but unappealing. Why would I sit quietly in church, listening to a good sermon, when I could be doing bong hits and drinking warm beer and watching Petticoat Junction?

The fact of the matter is that I have learned that good behavior today makes for a happy Horseface tomorrow. Bad behavior is like sipping on a weak poison. Imperceptibly, I get sicker and sicker. I don't die right away but eventually I wish that I had.

I Am Not A Liar

Liar: A person who states that something is true which he knows is untrue; person who tells lies.

Sometimes, when I'm thinking, which is something that I should never do, something which should be banned by the government and condemned by Papal fiat, something which runs counter to all known laws of man and beast, I wonder why I try to act well. Sometimes I even try to get honest with myself. This is pretty rare because it's a lot easier to lie about things that make me uncomfortable than to try to get at their root causes, because then I would have to face some hard facts and make some difficult changes. I prefer quick solutions and half measures to any kind of work. This is especially true when the work involves correcting some character defect which makes me happy, like gluttony or lust or anger.


On a side note, I hosted a surprise birthday party for my wife a few months back. I had to perform some quite extensive lying to accomplish this and was pleased to see how easily I regained my ability to look someone right in the eye and say something that isn't true. Years of drinking permit most of us to develop into proficient liars. I believe that I could pass a lie detector test. Some stupid machine operated by a run of the mill flunky wouldn't pose much of a threat to a liar like me. I would have been a good spy. I would have been a great politician.

I've forgotten what I started out to say this morning. Maybe it'll come back to me.

I'd Like To Order Some Better Promises, Please

Promise: Indication, as of a successful prospect or future; basis for expectation.

I remember the first time I heard about the famous Promises. I was sitting in a meeting, still off-gassing a toxic stew of alcohol fumes and THC residue. The fatty white matter in my brain was releasing all kinds of trace chemicals from the illegal street drugs and illegally procured legal medication that I had taken to ease all of my ills and chase away all of my demons. Funny story about LSD: it actually produces more demons than it vanquishes. We should have more government oversight on the folks marketing these chemicals. There is a lot of deceptive advertising going on in this field.

I licked my chops and prepared to feast on the certainty of fast Italian sports cars, fast Italian models, and the awesome, absolute power to crush anyone who stood in my way. Money! Power!! Sex!!! These concepts were being presented to me as promises. Not Horseface type promises, which were usually delivered in an attempt to escape some misery or obtain some chemical well-being, but real, honest-to-God promises from people purporting to live a spiritual lifestyle.

Imagine my horror to discover a lot of what I considered flimsy platitudes. Freedom from fear? Peace of mind? A sense of well-being? Not what I was looking for. I thought that I had the key to those things, and his name was Jack Daniels. I was hoping for tangible stuff. I wanted to put my hands all over these Promises and party with them all night long.

Obviously I was a meeting last night where we talked about gratitude.

Mauve With Envy

Envy: A feeling of discontent and ill will because of another's advantages, possessions, etc; resentful dislike of another who has something desirable.

It has been reported that envy is the only one of the Seven Deadly Sins that doesn't bring the sinner any specific benefit. At least I get a brief release of endorphins when I scream irrationally at a blameless person who isn't doing something that I want them to do. At least I get a momentary rush of excitement when I buy something that I don't really want and will tire of quickly. Maybe my neighbor will be sick with envy when he sees my new thing before I put it in the basement and head out to waste money on something else that I think I want but really could care less about. This eighth piece of pizza will be totally worth it.

I get envious when I see someone else with something I really want. Shit, I get envious when it's something I don't want and couldn't care less about. I have been known to cast an envious eye when I see a woman with a nice outfit on. You would think that lust might be the sin of choice here, but I can't help wondering how I would look with that skirt set on. "Horseface, you are going to kill tonight at the opera in that cocktail dress."

I wonder why people get green with envy? Why green, when there are so many other colors to choose from? Maybe it's because money is green. But where does that leave people in Europe and other countries that don't rely on green based currency? Am I to assume that only Americans get envious?