The Way Things Are

Status Quo:  The state of things; the way things are, as opposed to the way they could be.

I'm heading back to The Old City again.  Apparently I have some more to learn about powerlessness and tolerance and it's not all about me-ness.  While I'm always trying to improve my tolerance skills there's nothing like a dose of family to show me how much further I have to go.  And, you know, I really like where I am right now which makes leaving to go someplace hot and humid less of a draw.

I spent about half of my swim this morning pre-arguing with an old friend from home.  He wasn't there and he was not thinking about me and if, by some miracle, he was thinking about me it wasn't in the context of an aggrieved soul wronged by the world.  This is one of those guys who managed to pick up the pieces of his ruined life after I left town and somehow forge ahead with a happy and productive life.  I don't know how these people do it.  I half-expected a mass suicide when I left town.  How could people even manage to move on after I left?

This guy has never called, emailed, or texted me since I left.  This doesn't make him unusual and I'm not angry or surprised by this behavior.  Most people have continued to live their lives.  I'm the one who left after all.  If one is interested in maintaining a status quo one can't throw the status quo into the wood chipper - The Old City status quo is in The Old City.  This doesn't mean that these relationships aren't real or meaningful, just that they're in a state of suspended animation.  There's a lot of binder in being able to chat about the weather or local politics or why the local baseball team can't seem to hit the ball out of the infield.

Where this dear old friend oversteps a boundary with me is by trying to arrange a meeting when I'm in town while not changing his behavior at all.  So my difficulty is this: if I call him then I'm surely in for a browbeating while not getting to see him and if I don't call him then I'm certainly in for a browbeating for not calling him.

So, you see, I'm kind of screwed.

The Wisdom of a 5 Year Old

Pain:  The condition or fact of suffering or anguish especially mental, as opposed to pleasure; torment; distress; sadness; grief; solicitude; disquietude.  

I still harbor deep down inside me the belief that I can make my way through life pain-free.  That desire is still there.  Intellectually, I know this to be bullshit and my experience confirms this, along with the counsel of many friends, and the wisdom I've gleaned through my intellectual and spiritual pursuit of ways to avoid the opposite of pleasure.

Sponsor (speaking directly to me):  "What are you - 5 years old?"

I wish.  I aspire to the wisdom of a 5 year old.  Maybe some day.

$7.20

Willie told a story yesterday about giving some money to a guy who approached him in a church parking lot.  Willie was a little bit suspicious of the guy after the fact.  He had a pretty good story that he told pretty well - almost practiced-like - and he first asked to use Willie's phone to call someone who Surprise! wasn't home.  Then came the request for money and not a vague amount like a dollar or two, either, but $7.20, an number which helped reinforce both the dubiousness and the plausibility of the plea.  Willie tossed the guy a tenner and wondered if he had been sold a bill of goods.  He wasn't upset - just curious.

I told him my opinion - irregardless of his interest in receiving it - about money: give it away if you can afford it.  Don't worry about where it ends up, even if it may end up in someone's pocket or in the cash register of a liquor store, because most of the time it helps out someone who needs the help.  I know I've been screwed before but I don't care because I think I've done more good with the occasional buck or handful of change that I let loose from my cold, greedy grip.  I don't want to be the guy refusing some much needed help to someone in tough circumstances because I'm worried the money might go for a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of wine.  So be it.   I'd rather concentrate on the homeless guy who's now going to be able to get something to eat.

As my grip tightens on a thing the amount of power it has on me grows exponentially.

Judge Not

Compliment:  An expression of praise, congratulation, encouragement, or respect. 

I was having coffee with my sponsor this morning when a guy that we both know from The Rooms stopped by our table to say hello.  First of all, I would like to point out the factual phrase "having coffee with my sponsor" which I was actually doing instead of just lying about it instead.  I give people so much shit about the state and quality of their Programs that it's nice to be able to report when I do the thing that I don't do all that often while still managing to berate others when they come up lacking.  

Judge not lest ye be judged.  Well, fuck that - I'm a judging machine.

This guy had a friend with him and at some point in the proceedings he characterized Tom and I as two of the most intelligent men he knows in The Program.

"Yeah, just ask us," I quipped.  "We'll tell you about it."

Everyone kind of laughed or at least pretended to.  I know the guy well enough that I felt comfortable brushing off the compliment.  The way I mouth off is not going to surprise him.  We chatted for a bit longer, shook hands, and parted with hearty good cheer.

Still, I need to keep an eye out for this guy and thank him for what he said.  Men, as a general rule, don't give out compliments lightly; what's even more true is that we don't receive them well at all.  It was pointed out to me long ago that the proper response to a sincere compliment is: "Thank you.  That was nice of you to say, you're very kind, I appreciate that, etc., etc."  It devalues the compliment otherwise and the world can use all the compliments it can get.  I still have trouble grasping the concept that it feels good to be nice to someone else.  Never receive a gift freely given by saying "Oh, you shouldn't have."  That's a crappy way of telling the gift-giver that what he has done isn't important.

It IS Me

Whenever someone asks me how I'm doing my response is always a variation on a very small theme: as in, "I'm trying to stay out of my own way" or "whenever I think someone or something else is the problem I go look in the mirror."

It IS me.  It is ALWAYS me.  I get into trouble when I try to take charge of a person, place, or thing which is none of my business, an activity that I do way, way too often.  When I can shut my brain off or at least slow it down then a wonderful vista open up and I see how totally, completely, outrageously blessed I am.

I had SuperK's car again today when I went to the club.  Deciding to avoid unnecessary confrontation, after looking in the mirror, I took my ID with me.  I was not, of course, asked to provide it today.

I did some more research on the type of cancer I'm sure I've contracted or developed or generated through sheer force of will.  Here are the facts: there are 310 million people in this country and about 100,000 cases were diagnosed last year.  This is a really, really small percentage.  I'm a math guy and I'm barely able to figure out how small a percentage this is.  Suffice it to say I have about the same chance of actually getting this disease as I have of getting eaten by a shark.  

Never Made It To The Pool

So there I am heading into my club to swim.  I know you're expecting to hear another Seaweed Acts Like An Asshole In The Pool story but it's not to be today.  I wasn't even able to reach the pool without having to invoke Rule 17UJ: Try Not To Speak.  It seems that I get myself into all kinds of trouble when I try to speak.  I'm not saying the world would be a better place if I never spoke ever again but my world would certainly improve.

The little plastic bar code thingey which grants me club access is on the key ring to my car and I was driving SuperK's vehicle this morning.  For the longest time when this would happen the club would ask for my phone number which is linked to the photograph they took of me when I joined.  A couple of weeks ago the attendant also asked for my name - cheerfully supplied on my part with hearty bon homme - and then requested personal identification as well.  I leave my wallet secured in my car, primarily because there are signs plastered all over the lockers warning me to Absolutely Never Bring Any Valuables Into The Club.  The heading of these threatening signs shrieks: "Stop!"  It hints darkly of recent thefts.  On my first visit I actually came back out to the desk to ask if it was OK to leave valuables in a locker secured with a lock.

"It should be OK," she said.

I never like it when people use "should."  There's no oomph behind should - it's a sloppy concept, should is.  I should have a Ferrari.  I should be a millionaire.  The Cincinnati Reds should win the World Series.  See?  It's a bullshit cop-out word.  

Should: Will likely (become or do something).

I digress.  I'm talking about my assault on the club rules.  The lack of a personal ID card prompted the attendant to tell me that next time it would be required, a remark that infuriated me out of all sense of proportion to the request, but I managed to say Nothing, always my best option, as I've previously pointed out,.

Today, as I made the 20 yard trek from my car to the front door I realized I didn't have my key card again.  Instead of going back to the car to get my license I soldiered grimly on - I was on a mission from god.  The bright idea came to me that I'd simply hand the attendant - the very same attendant who had corrected me before - my wife's plastic ID thingey and hope that she didn't glance at the actual photograph.  I smile, greet the young woman, and hand my key ring across like I knew what the hell I was doing, which I definitely did not.

"This is your grocery rewards card," she said, handing it back with a smile.

I go through the routine for the ID-less.

Phone number - check.  Name - check.  Photograph - check.  ID - D-oh!

I was gearing up for this whole thing about why do you take a fucking picture and then ask for a picture ID?  This is WHY you take the picture.  Either don't take the picture or don't ask for a picture ID.  Don't do both.  There is no reason to do both.

Time in the morning: 7AM.  Serenity: Elsewhere.

"So our troubles, we think, are largely of our own making for the alcoholic is an extreme example of self-will run riot, though he usually doesn't think so." 

Shriek!!

Shriek:  A sharp, shrill outcry or scream; a shrill wild cry such as is caused by extreme terror, pain, or the like.  

I took a walk yesterday around the marina which is ringed with yacht clubs.  The piers out to the boats themselves are protected by locked gates - really fearsome structures, with spikes extending out over the water so that you couldn't clamber over them to get to the boats even if you wanted to, which I do not.  All you would need to do is wade into some pretty shallow water and hoist yourself up on the pier at which you would have free access to wreck all kinds of havoc on the yachts, some of which look barely seaworthy.

At the entrance to one of the piers was a sign: "Marina Access Is For Members and Guests Only!!"  I wondered at the double exclamation point.  A period indicates the spoken word; an exclamation point suggests shouting; but two of them?  What would that be?  Yelling?  Screaming?  Shrieking?  Am I to imagine someone in a Pinkerton uniform standing guard, shrieking at me?

The spiked, locked gate would seem to speak for itself.

I'm going to rethink my inclination to join that club.  That, and the no-boat part.