GO! GO! GO! No, Wait! STOP!

Over the years I have maintained a constant, on-going dialogue with Herr Luber, a friend of long duration who knows me uncomfortably well and one of the few non-alcoholics who reads what I write (swelling my fan base by 50%, no doubt). We usually lapse into somewhat pompous reveries about death, the meaning of life, and how almost every human emotion or achievement can be reduced to and adequately explained by a sports analogy, usually involving a football player from the 1960s, like Lou "The Toe" Groza or Big Daddy Lipscomb, before he OD'ed on heroin.

Again I say that a lot of the things that alcoholics experience can be found in our fellow Earth People. The difference is that they don't need to drink when they feel frustrated or want to celebrate or are bored or uncomfortable, or just for the hell of it. It doesn't relieve anything for them or, if it does, temporarily, they can see that it's no long term solution and that it's causing more problems than it's solving.

Herr Luber and I are both Strivers. We both have an impossibly long list of things that we want to accomplish. Some of the things on our lists are never going to pan out for us, and some of them take a lot of time and effort. I personally don't like to consider the fact that I may be spending a lot of time on something that may never work out the way I want it to (by "the way I want it to" I mean "bringing me great fame and fortune.") Whenever I slow down for a few minutes an impossibly powerful part of my brain starts to squirm and talk to me, urging me to get busy, get to work, be productive.

This isn't all bad. I get a lot done. And I see this in many, many alcoholics. We're workers. Sure, we pretend like we're lazy but we're really not. I don't know many alcoholics who aren't very productive. I think we like to beat ourselves up by pretending that we are lazy.

I was wrestling with my Quiet Time this morning and thinking about how sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee, pondering a work day and getting some exercise and all the other stuff I can or have to do today, differs from sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee, watching the sun rise over the Caribbean, with nothing specific on my agenda. After a good vacation I wonder if I could simply spend the rest of my life drinking coffee, eating a bowl of papaya and pineapple -- good pineapple, fresh, just picked, not that hard crap you buy at Kroger's -- and letting life wash over me like a gentle tropical breeze.

Probably. I'm sure like to be in a position to give it a shot for a couple of years. But in reality I'm sure I would get bored after a while. The goal is melding accomplishments with peace of mind. I don't want to spend every waking minute running willy-nilly to the next task. But I do want to feel productive.

Quiet a parlor trick, when you think about it.

Write It Down

Shorty and I were having a discussion last night on the topic of not feeling very good. Feeling bad, disconnected, vaguely certain that things aren't going to work out, whatever words you want to use to dress up Feeling Like Shit in nice clothes. I was pleased that, for a change, he was the one feeling bad. All things being equal, I prefer when I feel good and the other person feels bad, even when it's someone I love. Not only would I normally choose feeling good over feeling bad, when I'm talking to someone feeling bad it gives me a comfortable sense of superiority. I can counsel them (by "counsel" I mean "tell them what to do in a mildly arrogant fashion"). I enjoy telling people what to do, even when I have no idea what that might be.

The exchange centered around writing which, while it's one of Shorty's strong points, is something he had not yet done. He admitted this right away because he knew I would take a swollen and misshapen pleasure out of pointing it out. There's something very revealing about soul-searching with a pen and paper. The pen usually goes places that I wouldn't have predicted. It has a life of its own. It's hard to fool yourself when you are writing. What's the point? I can see the logic behind trying to bullshit another person, but when I'm all by myself writing down stuff no one else is going to see it doesn't seem productive to lie. I know when I'm lying to myself, for God's sake. I'm not fooling myself any more.

When we're upset a lot of the time we are doing something we shouldn't be doing or we aren't doing something that needs to be done. Simple as that. This what the writing will reveal. But sometimes we can't put our finger on anything specific. And that's OK. Sometimes we are just going to feel like crap. Everybody feels like crap some of the time for no reason whatsoever. Life can be a challenge.

"This, too, shall pass." West-side Ken.

Etched on my Tombstone: "I Told You I Was Sick"

Health: physical and mental well-being; soundness; freedom from defect, pain, or disease; normality of mental and physical functions.

I'm pretty sure that there is something seriously wrong with my body. Deep down inside a venomous tumor has awakened from a deep slumber and is growing quickly, inexorably marching toward total victory over my pathetic normal cells. Or maybe I have contracted an extremely rare disease, found only in a tiny corner of a remote tropical archipelago. There is no known cure. I have all of the symptoms, that's for sure. Maybe the delicate chemistry of my brain is beginning to short circuit, weird impulses surging erratically through deteriorating nerves. Maybe all three are happening at once!

Dear God, not me, please not me. Why can't this happen to someone else?

When I was in The Jungle I had a mild case of, ahem, Montezuma's Revenge. I'm sure it didn't have anything to do with the local food I bought from street vendors cooking with unwashed hands. Or the begonia stalk that I sucked the moisture out of while on a jungle walk. Our guide, Israel, was showing SuperK and I how it was possible to survive in the jungle if we got lost. The mere thought of being lost in The Jungle, where the average native plant could beat me up, probably got The Diarrhea up and running. As I sucked on the begonia, I thought: "This doesn't seem like a very good idea."

If I don't feel well I assume that the prognosis is horrible. I assume I'm going to die. An unhealthy obsession with my own health is part and parcel of being totally consumed with my own being. And it segues nicely with the belief that I can go through life pain free.

Yeah. That sounds good. Pain free.

St. Francis Strikes Again

Garment: Any covering of clothing; clothes; costume.

St Francis, that great friend and mentor to recovering alcoholics, once suggested that we should "wear the world like a loose garment." He was not making recommendations about clothing. St. Francis is not your mother. He doesn't care if you go outside without a coat even though it's as cold as a witch's stainless steel Sub-Zero freezer "Quik-Freeze" compartment, should such a freezer or compartment actually exist. I have no knowledge one way or another. I have a Frigidaire, I think.


The idea behind the garment comment -- which definitely dates St. Francis. I mean when is the last time you said: "Hmmm, I wonder which garment I should wear today?" Probably the last time you put on a pair of trousers or wore an Easter hat -- is to suggest that we need to be willing to let go of our attachments to everything and anything connected to this world. A lot of the problems that we have can be traced to overly strong attachments to stuff and people and things.


I personally wear the world like a piece of spandex exercise equipment designed for a tiny woman. Unfortunately, I look better in women's clothing but I'm not going to delve into that topic here. Back to the garment, which has been washed in a scalding hot washer then dried in a scorching hot dryer. It has shrunk somewhat. It has a warning label stating"sizes run smaller than normal." It is not loose in a normal sense of the word. It so restricts my circulation that all of the blood in my body is forced into my mouth, where I relieve the pressure by saying stupid and inappropriate things.

When I go into the garment store I purposely lie about my garment size. If the garment fitter questions my measurements, I snatch the tape measure out of his pocket and shred it with my sharp teeth. "I didn't say I want a garment that fits, you dumb ass," I snarl. I lose my garment. I steal garments from other people. My garment is old and should have been thrown away long ago.

I'm not the best person to join for a day of clothes shopping.

Death Beds!

Death Bed: The bed on which a person dies.

I was contemplating the Death Bed experience during my Quiet Time this morning. While I'm very proud of the fact that I always take the time for prayer and meditation to start my day, you can see that it isn't always very effective. I was thinking about the contention that no one ever laid on their Death Bed and said: "I wish I had spent more time at the office" or "I wish I had done a better job with my lawn." I personally don't think there is any way to know that for sure. Maybe somebody really liked their lawn. Is there a book somewhere with Death Bed confessions listed? Who knows what crap people come up with when they are near death.


The belief is that most people that have regrets are thinking that they should have spent more time with their family or volunteering at a soup kitchen. I'm not that thrilled with my family, to be honest with you, and the thought of soup first thing in the morning makes me nauseous. I would do better in a bread line. You can eat bread for any meal, even breakfast. Toast it up with some butter -- it's delicious.


The idea of a Death Bed experience is not comforting to me. If I'm on my Death Bed, I'm going to be screaming: "Help! Help! Get me out of here!" I can't imagine that I'm going to be pondering different philosophical questions. I'm going to be trying to cut a deal with the Devil, assuming I can pull the old switcheroo and escape the Death Bed but still keep my hands on my soul, which seems like an important thing to keep track of.


And what if I die in a plane crash or fall out of a tall building? No Death Bed experience there. I'm going to assume that I will be kicking and screaming then, too. "Don't lean out that window," she said. "You might fall to your death," she said. Always nagging me, that woman.


Honestly, I'm not that informed on Death Beds. Maybe there is a room in every hospital specifically set aside for the Death Bed experience. That's a room I'd want to stay out of. They couldn't possibly stick you with a roommate in the Death Bed room, could they?


Actually, I was thinking about how frustrated I get from time to time at the mundane aspects of life. I overlook the simple accomplishments and true pleasures to focus on the fleeting excitements that I crave so much.

"No one here gets out alive." -- Jim Morrison.

Fun at the Border

Inconvenient: Not favorable to one's comfort; difficult to do, use, or get to; causing trouble, bother, work, etc.

We took a day trip while in Belize to visit Tikal, a famous Mayan ruin in Guatemala. We had to pass through security and customs at the border, which looked like something out of a spaghetti Western. It wasn't a very efficient process (by "efficient" I mean "not inconveniencing me at all.") We had to get out of the truck and stand in line in kind of a utility shed with a concrete floor to pay money for this privilege. We got back in the truck, drove thirty feet, parked wherever we could wedge the vehicle, and got into line in kind of an open airplane hanger structure. A customs official (and by "official" I mean "someone who is working with teenagers in army uniforms holding sawed off shotguns") furiously stamped my documents while holding a staccato conversation in Spanish with a colleague while ignoring me completely. That was OK -- I was keeping an eye on the teenagers. Someone whose colleagues are holding sawed off shotguns has my full attention and complete respect.


Finally, she stopped and looked at me. "$3," she said. Irritated at the delay for such a ridiculously small amount of money, which I resented having to pay to someone not treating me with the respect to which I am entitled, I opened my mouth to comment on how inconvenient this was for me and remembered the phrase "restraint of tongue in pen when in the company of teenagers holding guns" and returned to the truck. I left SuperK in line. "She can come up with her own entrance fee," I thought. After all, it was three dollars. We had one last document check before we entered a country that probably doesn't have to worry about waves of people trying to sneak in.


"Hold on a second, Alfredo," I said to our guide. "I want to suggest some ways to improve this process. Stop at any one of the teenagers, preferably one with an Uzi and not a chintzy sawed off shotgun." I had some very good ideas how they could do it better. Surely they wanted to hear my ideas. Everybody thinks my ideas are great. They love it when I tell them how they are doing it wrong and how to improve it, whatever it is.

Alfredo didn't look my way as he gunned the engine and accelerated into Guatemala.

Happy New Year

This year I celebrated New Year's Eve (aka, Amateur's Night) by falling asleep at 11PM in my hotel room in Belize. You know what they say (and by "you" I mean "old people") -- 11PM is the new 1AM. I was vaguely aware of some hooting and hollering and fireworks going off at midnight but that may have been my prostate barking a little louder than normal. When I was drinking heavily and had to go to the bathroom during the night I didn't always feel the need to actually get up. You can do the math there.

The next morning I awakened early and creeped out to my balcony overlooking the Caribbean. One of the great gifts I give to SuperK when we are on vacation is not setting my alarm for some ridiculously early time. I'm always in a big hurry to get up and get going. Lots to accomplish, except I'm on vacation and the whole idea is to not have lots to accomplish. I did yoga for an hour and poured myself a cup of coffee.

I watched a young man heading past the hotel from the direction of town. He would slowly start to lean forward as he moved until he was at such a ridiculous angle that I thought surely he would pitch forward into the sand. He would stop and almost right himself before lurching into motion again. Now some invisible force would begin pulling him from behind until he looked like he was getting ready to go under a limbo bar set six inches above the ground. Implausibly, incredibly, he refused go over. Some balancing mechanism deep inside his hippo-campus was fighting back against whatever drugs and alcohol were percolating through his system. There was some confusion when he would encounter an obstacle like a dock. He would lurch up and over in a quick, disjointed manner. I used to think that if I did something dangerous and stupid very quickly that it was better that way. Apparently detouring a few feet around the end of the dock was more than his hippo-campus could handle.


SuperK and I took a brisk walk into town later in the morning for breakfast and Cuban coffee. As we made our way down the beach a dude coming our way started yelling: "Happy New Year!" He stopped us and insisted on shaking our hands. "I'm Joe from Texas. You can tell me your name. I'll remember." He was clearly not going to remember. He may not have had his own name right. He had slept in the sand somewhere. SuperK said: "I definitely need to wash my hands."


The night before we sat outside for a while and listened to a musician named Louie playing at the bar next door. He was a pretty good guitarist. He had a voice like a wolverine being fed through a wood chipper. He would harmonize with himself, ignoring the fact that harmonizing requires more than one person. He was laughably bad but people in the bar were clapping and cheering, oblivious to the noise he was making. He probably came cheap. Maybe he played for drinks. I know that when I was drinking I didn't need to have anything good going on.

It was a lot better this way.