Beadsman needed

We don't pay, except in providing cheap living quarters.

Also, prayers must be written for the Magistral Grand Prior's prior approval. (C.B. might object, for instance, if our beadsman prays for the return of Brother Hans).

A Chef Mondial, so to speak, is needed as well, since I'm eating again.

Ah, these recent frequent vacancies are spoiling me, since I live in the largest room --- so grand my rent will double without a bunkie.

So, the brethren are faced with all these issues again, when it's time to interview all the up-and-coming, hopefully recovering junkies and rummies.

And they---the brethren--- remain very wary of my influence during our decision-making meetings. They are certain, almost to a man, that my motives are corrupt. Specifically, that I like to vote in men who will relapse, so I can have my f'ing room back. Or, more generally, they are just very suspicious...well, of my inscrutability.

Why does he keep that room? Why why why? And he never says what you'd expect him to say. It's like he'll pretend he wants what he doesn't want, to trick us into voting against our own interests.

I think they are going to kick me out of this suite, eventually. It's the best room, but it's the low end of the totem room too. That's confusing them to the point they're going to do something rash, I worry.

I still am up front and honest about this: I want an old man in the house! Awright? A stubborn, grouchy old man who frequently yells "I've had it up to HERE with youse guys!" and threatens to kick people "in the pants".

This man.



But no one believes that. Or, when they do believe it, they're against it because they still think it's a trick of some kind. And, never minding all that, they simply like to see me get mad when I don't get my way. But what is my way? I bet you I don't even know.

I want a man here who was already an adult before the gdam 1960's. I want a man who cleared forest and built a railroad bridge. I want a Merchant Marine with a "Mom" tattoo. Someone who has won and lost many fortunes, and expects anyday to make another.

Natch, I'll point out that it will be best if he's half deaf. And other qualities will come to my mind before Sunday.

You may object that I seem to be acting like the play directer, just like the "Big Book" says you shouldn't anymore.

Absolutely right. I'll have to pray. In secret. And then we'll just see.

Max Marathon

No post today since I'm on vacation for winning my nine-month sobriety chip.



Apropos?

Take It On Down

I've been making myself at home around the plant since Sunday, walking around with my Telephoney camera, and some ready-made tall-tales in case some union man surprises me with "hooo 'r yu and whut yu doon here may I ask if you don't mind".

Easy. Turn the tables.

"I'm on the video phone, Mister, what's it look like? You mind if I have some privacy here? Thanks."

Or, the always reliable "I was up here looking for you! They want you downstairs, quick."

Anyway, that above is a Telephone shot of an area of the plant where I've never set foot. And those are heavy cylinders of paper we keep in reserve, in case a shipment fails to arrive. You wouldn't want us running out of paper at the newspaper. Think of it:


The Daily Slab.

You never see the cylinders brought in, you never see them taken out or moved.

So I relax. Because I can feel safe and sure that as long as no one attempts to move them, I won't look up one day and see one on its side rolling towards our crew.

I love the timeless qualities of certain factories and warehouses I've visted.
(It almost looks like it was did in 1910, doesn't it?)

____

Otherways, my day was an Eagle Scout's. I drove a friend to counseling. I gave a small talk about the fatal glass of beer, in an A.A. meeting. (So true. And so hyperbolic, too! It's strange.) Computer lessons for The President. Advised my sponsor on one of his political/moral conundrums. Was nice to some people I STILL don't like. On and on, without effort, even without good intentions sometimes, I was good somehow. One or two slips being mean to loved ones. Letter of sincere apology. I felt bad, and thank goodness this time I knew why.

I didn't 13-step today, either. That's not much of a problem in the last month or so, after that embarrasing incident during a meeting when I passed a note to a woman who, it turned out, couldn't read. (And her friend didn't buy it when I pointed at my ears, signalling myself deaf-mute).

There are women at work, after all.
____
"Take it on down,
Begin to grow..."

-Dylan ("Tell 'Em Tiny Montgomery Says Hello")

Without Trial

What's strange is that everyone has to clock in at the paper. Mrs. Pynchon, even. She fumbles with the time sheet while keeping her Affenpinscer crooked in her arm. You offer to help, expecting she'll give you the sheet but she hands you the dog instead, "Hold little Stuffy for me and I'll get this right," she laughs.

"Oh my goodness it's 11:59! Just a second, I love it when I get the exact twelve o'clock stamp! It means I fuckin' win, you know," says the grand old dame. Everyone in line guffaws, of course. Mrs. Pynchon can have as many cheap laughs as she likes. She's boss.

I was last in line but in no hurry, feeling almost serene. Got out my camera phone, clicked and mailed the above photo to Ma Kettle. 'Behold, I'm a factory worker, got a two hour shift today! haha!'

Got no response.

Then my pal Sam stepped up and gave me a friendly warning about taking pictures.

____
Later I was on the line, with the phone in my pocket, set to vibrate. Jesus, I'd forgotten that. Like a live animal in my pants all of a sudden.

It was President C.B., calling to tell me that he'd just summarily evicted my new room-mate for "inconsolable drunkeness". And did I think that was ok without a trial?
He blew two point in the breathalyzer.

As his Halderman I knew what to say, which was "Yes, sir. People have to know we run a tight ship, Mr. President".

C.B.(I can call him that) said, "You're right. Thanks Bob," and hung up. I thought --- well I'll be... The poor bastard ought to be crying, since being homeless and drunk is no way to stay out of jail.

He was a good room-mate. What the hell? And he spent most of his cash on groceries last night, when we drove to Schmucks. I don't get alcoholics. It's why I've always been a mystery to myself, I suppose.
____
Now I have the best room in the house to myself, again. They wonder why I never want to graduate to a single.

All and all in it's completed-ness, we had a open and shut day today at Oxford. I wonder what tomorrow brings.

Bluto/Bruno/Burno. Whatever, man.

Our impeached/evicted heroin addict former President, Hans, started calling K.B. "Burno" for reasons we couldn't fathom. I think he meant to call him "Bruno", meaning "Bluto", but that doesn't make sense either, since Hans probably had no idea that Bluto was originaly named "Bruno". Bluto sounds good, though. K.B. has a sort of deep voice like that. Or could mimic Bluto it if he wanted to.

K.B. is a good mimic. I often find myself wanting to ask him to do Bullwinkle, because Bullwinkle always puts me into stitches. You have to know the sort of things Bullwinkle says though, and K.B. is too young to remember.

You can't just have the voice. That's true of all mimicry: even if you can't do the voice, if you come close and can recreate what the person typically says, then you get a laugh, maybe.

Like, with Bullwinkle you might say, "This is the amplifier, which amplifies the sound. And this is the preamplifier, which, of course, amplifies the pree."

Or, "Here, cleverly disguised as a bomb, is a bomb."

Man alive, do I digress this time of night.
__
In the recovery movement, and in this Oxford House, K.B. has lots of material to work with, but don't let me give you the wrong idea. He rarely uses this type of humor. Oh, he's got this guy Tom down, who is a part of the Dead End Club committee ("Folks, we're considering after a lot of prayer changing this meetings floor-mat". And "Hey folks, I may not be the sharpest bulb in the drawer but..."
____
Anyway. I'm going to write about all my housemates here in the house of the crooked. Each one. And tonight K.B. got up behind a podium at the nursing school auditorium and told his story, so what better time to write about some stuff he didn't mention.

(What we knew: He's a genius ex-hobo (prefers "tramp" to "hobo", btw, so ok, "ex-tramp") who hopped trains for several years and somehow made it to Austrailia. That sounds like genius, yes, but when you think about it, impossible. He obviously took a tramp steamer there. NO, I call him a genius because he beats me at chess.)

What he didn't mention in his story tonight is , for instance, why/how he ended up with a big green fish tatooed to his chest. (I mean, a fish that looks like it has been caught and is still hanging from a hook. Not a mounted fish. Not a 'swimming' fish.)

Also, his compulsion to argue and debate with ME constantly. And I do mean ME, in particular, because he doesn't do this with others, that I've witnessed. To him, I'm a target of some sort.

One day I said I was driving uptown, and he looked at me a bemused smirk and corrected me.

I meant "downtown", he said.

We've been going on about this for weeks.

I tried to establish the rules, or just some few areas of agreement on this subject. For instance that we're not talking about Manhattan. And that we're not referring to elevation, or north and south (up, down, on a map) when we say Uptown or Downtown.

He's since got me mixed up, though, and I've forgotten what my real position is. Maybe he wanted me to say uptown. I'm trying to remember right now what I would naturally say. "Stan, I'm going downtown to a meeting." Yes, I think that's right. But still.

This is important to understand, for me, because I want an agreement that we'll never discuss this again, while he concedes that he was wrong in ever correcting me in the first place.

"Uptown" is what rural people say when they are coming in from the country Friday night to shop, bathe, and get shaved.

Or, it is what people who live down the street from the city center say when they are going to the city center. "I'm walking uptown".

We live in some old, distant suburbs here, in an area that can't be reached without driving past vacant lots and even a bit of country, so when we go to town, I think I say "let's drive uptown".

The point is, it depends on where you are coming from,--- and K.B. comes from Philidelphia, among many other places, and somehow that, he will admit, makes a difference, since it gives him the authority to say what's what.

Which is probably that Colobocomo has no downtown OR uptown. He will not confess or agree with me unless he completely reinterprets what I've said. I said it depends where you're coming from.

I've been meaning to ask him. If he is in some small town that is flat as a gameboard, would he say, "let's walk up the street there"? Or, "down the street"?

It's his problem! Not mine. And I think he should be forced to answer. In fact, I am going to insist on it, to the President.

I'm just getting started here but now I'm all upset. I think I'll walk down, or up (?) (no way) the hall and bang on his door and settle this. And all the other shit, like whether it's correct to say Bell "invented" the phone. And my use of the word "epoch".

Yesterday he tried to correct my english and noted that he'd dropped out of high school.

"Don't get uppity with me," I said. "I was kicked out of high school. For that matter I was kicked off the debate team." He wasn't phased.
___
Once we agreed on something, or started to. He was making me my first genuine tramp sandwich and we started discussing Mayo vs. Miracle Whip. We're totally square on this: Miracle Whip sucks. But quickly we got into a debate about how people ever got the two confused. Mayo is nothing like Miracle Whip. (And how, I wondered, is it to be used as a salad dressing? He rightly pointed out "Potato salad, macaroni salad,etc.)

My parents simply bought Miracle Whip and brought us kids up calling it mayonaize for some reason. We didn't learn until we were adults that we'd been duped somehow.

K.B. said that didn't happen to him. His family knew the difference. The source of confusion is human stupidity, he said. That's all. That's it. People are morons, man.

I said, that's begging the question. He disagreed. Facts simply being facts. Something about them not doing what you want them to do, facts.

During one of these imbecilic tutorials I drew a camera on him and was amazed that he didn't protest or even flinch. That's because he's recently become completely enslaved there, in the computer swivel chair.

Two of Moronic Man's greatest inventions. The computer and the comfortable swivel chair.

I hope I haven't made this bastard sound bad, he really isn't at all, taking recovery as seriously as anyone else I know. Could be a saint, someday. Also, he's young, still imagining that Kurt Vonnegut is a literary giant, for instance.

I ought to stop shouldn't I. Another of our arguments is about my being a snob at the Dead End Club (an AA club where many of the regulars still drink and drug, or who, frankly, stopped too late and became psychos.) He has a love/hate relationship with the club too, but for other, more subtle reasons that require special dispensation and explanation since he's got more cred than me.

Good Work If You Can Get It

It was Sunday, and I don't usually work Sundays. There were only five of us in this huge newspaper plant, and the boss wasn't there ("he's gone North for awhile. They say that vanity got the best of him but he sure left here in style" --dylan. Sorry, a slip).

So it was strange, and of course I wanted to go exploring with it so empty and quiet like that. We were working on the little "stitcher" assembly line though, putting a magazine named "Rural Missouri" together, which has a different edition for every county in the state. (Quaint. It had a little article about "using your microwave safely", and another about how to deal with pesky neighbors who eavesdrop on the party line.) (That last? I just lied. They didn't have an article about party lines. But notice that when I lie, I so promptly admit it.)

Our supe loves Sundays, because it is the only time she can be sort of friendly and outgoing and be treated well. I always like her but she won't ever get that, I'm afraid. She let us take breaks at will, as long as the line was kept going, and for the first time I checked out the camera feature on my cell phone, see...

With a real camera, this could have been awesome. All these blue papers were wrapped tightly in bundles, so they rolled a bit, and looking over the dozens of palates it was like a child's drawing of ocean waves.

I snapped this picture and sent it to Ma Kettle, the only person I know who has a cell phone with a camera. She promptly sent back a picture of her boyfriend, whom I've never met and have automatically disliked. Typically, my prejudice was confounded. He looks like a nice guy.

How I digress. Or maybe I have no subject.

It should have been an awful long day, since I had to do the same thing for eight hours. But all in all in its all-ness, the day seemed like a miniature. Or am I thinking of this photo? I shouldn't write this late. Dreams are seeping in here.

Anyway. Next time I'm going to bring my digital camera and make a study of all the old factory gears, dials, buttons, ancient warning signs like tiny license plates. And such. Some machines look like they're from the '40s, by the way.

Thanks for visiting. I have a bio of one of the brethren ready to post, after his approval. Hope he doesn't hit me in the mouth instead.

Jackson

My Town (first of a very long series)

This picture is much more striking on its original site.

Anyway. There's a piece of ground in My Town.

Here's the Barbershop

where many a father has taken his young son for important lessons, not just in grooming, but good citizenship. Here a young man learns that he must sit and wait his turn. Here, a young man learns that haircuts are $12, and that discussing politics is unwise, as it will cost you an extra $20. He learns that talking about hunting and fishing is free, because then the men are exchanging useful information which might one day put food on the table.

That's Virgil on the right. The younger man, Alec, is a "journeyman", or apprentice.

When walking into a barbershop, do not be foolish and avoid the barber with the bad haircut. Because he didn't cut his own hair. You go right up to him and say, "Sir..?", and introduce yourself. Maybe you will nod to the other barber and say that you would like your hair cut in that style.

Here is my town at night

That's the Tiger Hotel, where --- of course you've heard if you read the Colobocomo Courier--- a young man named Corvus Flywheel lost his shirt in a poker game, then pulled a gun (from his pants of course, he'd lost his shirt) and starting shooting wildly. So wildly, he killed one of our local ministers, who wasn't anywhere near the place.

People still talk about it. Then Corvus Firefly himself was killed a few days later, and both men are buried at the cemetary in my town, adjacent to one another, equal in the sight of God.

Much more later. And soon, too!



photography by Renee

"We tell what we were like"

I moved to Colobocomo to get drunk and stay drunk. There was some money in the bank, just enough for me to live like a rich man for a few months. Well dressed, not working, living downtown in a fairly clean, well furnished media crib. I didn't have to drive anywhere. I hoped to get laid but staying drunk was a prerequisite just leaving the house, so I wasn't attractive. Or even cheerful and outgoing most of the time, it turned out.

When I arrived I knew Ma and Pa Kettle and the kids, and I had one other good friend. She disapproved more strongly, and quite naturally, that I was living as if preparing to die. I had no plans. Everyone disapproved, of course, in their own way. ...

Up t' town is just the right size for me and has all the stores, pubs, theatres, shops, and coffee houses I'd ever care to visit. It was adjacent to the campus too, so at times the sidewalks were as crowded as a subway metropolis.

I had the same walk every night, to the same four or five taverns. Two of them were owned by women my age, "Miss Kittys" I called them, I hoped to marry. But I couldn't keep their frakin names straight. Always calling Debra Cindy, and Cindy Debra. They looked alike. They looked good. And they were friendly...so nice really! Hm. I'd marry one of them and help out.

Then there was one bar where I didn't like anyone. I still went, usually my last stop. Open the door and walk into a wall of noise that filled me with hatred. I don't know why, but I kept going. The girls were pretty, and drunk, and possible. The bar owner was a town character, a reconteur from New Jersy, and he helped me get to know the two Miss Kittys.

There wasn't always a Death Metal band playing when I walked in there. Sometimes it was nice and quiet. Or, the band would be tuning up and I'd be bracing myself, angry that whatever conversation I was having would be impossible soon.

They'd start to play and I'd flip them the bird. Make ugly faces, mouth the words "Fuck you. FUCK you. You. Fuck ya") It was past midnight usually.



This fellow, the bouncer, ejected me once for answering a challenge to a fight.
(You do bounce, you know. You're drunk and all relaxed and it's like how inebriates survive car-wrecks where six sober people die.) I believe he was very surprised at me that night, late in my game, when I stopped dressing so good and tipping so well.

The math gave me until October, and then I told myself I'd get a job, if it came to that. But I was in no shape for a job. ...

Thanks for visiting. Much less of this, later.

"It's Probably The Whole Neighborhood"

Cred

I got a job at the newspaper plant, jogging papers in the bindery department. I was still at The Eclipse, the 'dual diagnosis' residential treatment house, which was nearby. This is all upt'town.

During my last year of drinking I knew I'd wind up at the plant someday, if I lived past my hermitage. Walking by, I'd see the workers on their smoke breaks, where all the cars line up to pick up the afternoon paper or the New York Times.

After so much communal living, being committed, etc. I figured work there would be like any other institution, where I'd probably meet the same loons I knew from Second Floor North and A.A. and N.A. meetings.

It was true. Even the first day I was relaxed. It was part time, about 25 hours a week. This gave me enough flow to move to an Oxford House once I was kicked out. (I was in No Hurry. The Eclipse was co-ed, after all.)
___
Life seemed to come to terms with me, rather than the other way around. Those first four or five months committed were fun, or interesting, or better than C-span anyway. I got my heart broke a couple of times and almost got into some fist fights.

I was up for the latter. Some little red-neck turned on me, after some weeks of friendship, and sneered, "You think you're better than the rest of us, don't you?"

I might have said 'yeah'. I don't remember.

Dang, I was sick of people thinking I was Mr. Phoney just because they'd see me spending my free time reading. And these were historys of comic strips, ffsake.

Jackanapes.

I'd slipped and used too many five dollar words in a meeting, or something. Also, he'd confided a terrible secret to me, and I think he changed his mind and wasn't so comfortable having me as a confidant. So, I wondered about there being an attempt on my life, too. He eventually split, at midnight, and shook my hand goodbye.

I sound sort of tough? You have no idea. I am a world class worry wart, and a school yard pussy all my life. I do have some physical courage, or at least I know how not to appear frightened when, for instance, I'm being tested in a jail. I don't flinch easy. I don't avert my eyes.

Never been hit in the face. Slugged a lot, of course, by two older brothers.

It's these people who frighten me, the ones who give me the hairy eyeball and finally confront me with an accusation of good breeding. Which I got, see.

Anyway, working on an assembly line in a factory gave me some cred, I supposed. So I arrived last winter at this Oxford House, which I'll be talking about a lot on this scroll.
____
Ex-cons read. So do hobos. Ex-cons play chess, as do hobos. So, I don't get a lot of krep here, except for being a slob in the kitchen sometimes, and for yelling at some meetings so loud I have an eyeball hemmoragh (I HATE BEING MISUNDERSTOOD, DO NOT MISQUOTE ME OR I YELL! ALSO, DO NOT HYPERBOLIZE MY POSITION ON THE ISSUES.)

Oxford House has saved me. Freedom works, of course. Plus the rent is cheap.

Yes, I'd go with the ex-cons over the pre-cons anyday...

Thanks for visiting. You can visit the Oxford site by clicking the logo up there. I never have visited it, but you might be interested if you're in early recovery and looking for a home for the crooked.

Midnight Impeachment

But I still haven't told you about the Oxford House where I live.

It's just seven men in a ranch style, split level house. Not a religious order or like that, despite my mom's impression I gave to her. You just pay rent, and stay sober is all. We meet once a week (I'm secretary) to deal with finances, any rent-slackers etc.

And relapsers. A couple of weeks ago we had an emergency meeting at midnight, to impeach and evict our president, Hans. Hans was this big Aryan meterosexual and ought to have gone to Hollywood, where he could be Bi-sexual. Raised middle class, became a heroin addict somehow. We didn't like him much because he was an out in the open racist, too.

Anyway, his trial had to be at midnight because we all had to be there.

He'd been gone for a week to St. Louis, and was acting strange. I don't know where the brethren found a drug testing kit, but they gave him a U.A. which was positive for opiates. I didn't know that, though.

Me, I was ready to be Henry Fonda in 12 Angry Men. I didn't want him to go. A house needs a villian to help keep everyone else on friendly terms. We all hated Hans, so this was bound to be tough for me, if he got kicked to the curb.

So it was midnight and we had our hooded red robes on and he was in the special hot seat, waiting, with his hands covering his face like he was ashamed. Or, touched maybe.

"Listen," he said. "Can I be the first to speak?"

C.B, who got this going with the drug test, said just a second dood, and explained to Stan (our old man who was out of the loop completely, and by choice) what the charges were. Then he let Hans talk.

"Ok guys. I know what you're going to do with me, but you're making a mistake."

"How is it the drug test came back positive then?" C.B. asked.

"Percocet. It's prescribed to me, from last October, all right? I took one. There was one left. I threw away the bottle then. Or anyway I can't find it."

"When we gave you the pee test, why didn't you mention that?"

Hans' body was stiff and slumped at the same time. Or, not slumped, but bent over forward in his chair. He looked all right, had been to the tanning beds that day as usual. "I don't know why. I should have mentioned it..."

"Listen guys. If I was back on heroin, would I have $500 in my wallet? If I was back on heroin, would I have a new car and a tank full of gas? If I was using, would I have this job as a drug counselor?"

Everyone was quiet. Waiting, I think, for someone else to say, YOU MIGHT, RABBIT, YOU MIGHT, but no one said that.

I said, "Let's get you to mid-mo now, Hans. Second floor north. You're going to hit bottom and it's going to kill you."

"I can't do that. I'd lose my job. And you're wrong, I'm not shooting dope."

The brethren started talking at once about his behavior recently. He'd been spending a lot of time in the bathroom getting sick, for instance. And he was moody as hell. And on and on they went, past what was neccesary.

Then they started shouting at one another to shut up. C.B. said, "Ok Hans. Go to your room while we decide what to do."

I was speechless. What a poor defense. I thought, maybe he's innocent but wants this attention for some other reason. Or, wants to be kicked out for a reason to nose-dive back into his addiction for real.

When he'd gone and shut his door, someone said he should be out by 7 a.m. There wasn't any question or deliberation that he was evicted.

I said, ah, that's a little rough. Give him til noon. Jesus.

Shouting at me. I don't remember what, but shouting all at once.

"Fuck. We ought to just call and have him committed. Tell the cops he's threatening suicide. They'll have him out of here within half an hour. His stuff can go to the garage."

Shouting at me.

"He won't go, John. He'd lose his job. He'd have to admit the truth."

"So, let's tell him he threatened to kill Stan."

The old man woke up and said Oh, not me, please.

A more level headed juror, Craig the high school teacher, said Noon was ok.

No one shouted at him.
___
Then we actually prayed a bit. What to do, what to do. And all of a sudden I turned into a complete hard-ass.

I started my usual mumbling until all the defensive eyes turned upon me, waiting. Then I spoke up. "Who's going to baby-sit him tonight? How do we know he isn't going to steal the silver? I mean, the fuckers got $500, he told us so. We could kick him out right now, as according to the charter, and he can go to a motel."

Everyone was probably surprised. There was silence again.

"If he's on heroin, I don't know him anymore," I said. "Hell, he could be Richard Speck now. How do we know he won't go next door and murder a house full of nurses?"

Then we voted, and called him out of his room. He had an hour to go. It was 1 a.m. but that was our group consensus.

Hans didn't argue. He was a little weepy and said he loved us, I think. Or something like that. I offered to take him to mid-mo second floor north again. He said no thanks.
___
So the next week, we had to elect a new president. Our 33 year old genius hobo K.B. offered himself for the position. K.B. is a genius hobo, by the way. I mean, he made it all the way to Austrailia once, the crazy fucker. Why, I don't know. How, intrigues me a bit.

I nominated C.B. First, because he was mad at me about something, how I mispronounce his last name when there's good company, something... I said he was the biggest and could out wrassle us all, and how that's the way Lincoln got his start in politics.

C.B. won, to my surprise. (Usually the criminals and cut-throats here vote me down, just to make me yell.) Then K.B. made a proposal that we should review our constitution and all our rules, for next weeks meeting.

See, I knew he was like that. He says he leans Anarchist, which is fine, but I suspect he's growing into a busy-body liberal as the drugs leave his system.

Anyway, C.B. was cool with being president, and promised to crack the whip and clean up the neighborhood, particularly the crack house across the street.

I asked him what honorific he'd like. He said, "oh, i'm just a dumb painter, junkie out of prison."

I'd been calling him "Sir" for a long time anyway.

Now I'm Halderman to his Nixon. It'll be fun, if I ever want something extra-legal done around here. (Not that Halderman did that. BTW, I read his White House memos and that man could write! Wow. Clear and to the point, like you'd have to write if you were president of Ford Motor Company or somewhere.)


The new President and me

Anyway, I got other stories I'll tell sometime.

Yesterday I did my AA 5th step, so I'm going out and tell everyone, all proud and full of myself, which is exactly wrong.

My Dorothy Parker

SHE has that sense of humor I appreciate most: honest, moody, off the beam, fast, and sometimes so damn ferocious you'll find yourself bent over in a black knot of laughter.

Then there's occasionally this accidental girlish slip and you can't help teasing her when that happens.
___
Loves Bix Beiderbecke, as you can see.

Women who pose with tombstones. What can you say? (No really, tell me.)

SHE was my boss in the Childrens' section at a bookstore (where we finally , finally met, thank you lord). We have long discussions about Parker and Thurber, Chuck Jones (and what he did to Tom and Jerry. I haven't forgiven him.) Warner Brothers vs. Disney.

She's a youngster but she never liked Scooby Doo, so I gave her a pass on that. She knows the muppets better than me, which I appreciate. It's good to have younger friends.

I could write a lot more and risk a knuckle sammyrich (she'd have to drive down from Iowa, though). Her strange fascination with Nascar. NO! NO nonononono. I meant FORMULA 1 racing.

Nascar...you could go on and on how stupid Nascar is.

Ah, me. I forgot about this picture. Drat her anyway for making me love her and then getting married. All right, drunks don't make the best husbands, true enough...

"arise, sirloin of beef
arise duke of ellington
quarter of ten
milk of magnesia "

She's got everything she needs, music wise.
She's a shuffle girl:

"I just love my music, I know what i love

and my moods change

so, hank begets blondie
blondie begets benny goodman
benny begets keane
keane moves to the yardbirds
the yardbirds peck at squeeze
and squeeze pokes the bear that is abba
abba does a folk dance over to split enz
who converge upon mendelssohn
because we aren't animals."

"its my music"
__
She is being a great help to me in my 'recovery', even though hundreds of miles seperate us. And lord knows she has her own travails.

So, I include a little love-tribute here.

BTW, don't knock "chat" between old friends. (We do prefer to call them 'conversations', though. That's just what they are.)

Politics

Just a note that there will be very little if any politics on this new scroll. Politics is just too easy nowadays.

"Dual Diagnosis"

My four month long residential treatment was specifically for addicts with mental problems. Hahahahahaha. So, they offered us drugs to help with our depression and anxiety.

Everyone was crazy! Lost the wife, kids, home, all the money. Cops on the look out.

I tried to avoid the drugs, except the Klonopin, and I got off that too, once.

Then the doctor was making her weekly visit ---November I think it was. I was getting S.A.D. ---so I asked for the works, and Jesus Christ on a bike, I couldn't believe this shit. It was almost purely for kicks. I got the Klonopin back and then started Ambiance, Seriquil, Busbar, Effexor, uppers downers bennies 'ludes. I asked for some Viagra too, I don't know why, a premonition, a pretty fair guess?

But it was the Seriquil that really fucked me up. And you have never heard anything like this before, believe me. (This was Seriquil on Me, and I'm unique.)

This pill was to help you sleep, but it also helped with weight gain and appetite. The first night I took it led me into a sort of a kalaiedescope of rut, and I'll tell you how now.

I became famished in thirty minutes. I made myself a cheeseburger, which struck me as unusually delicious. No, not delicious. Simply put, it was like the first cheeseburger in the world for me. It tasted so good I made another, and began to make crazy remarks to my housemate Gary, that I might be on to something here.

Meanwhile I was falling asleep fast. But I made myself some waffles. I had to be quick because I couldn't be sure if I was going to be awake much longer. Then I had a piece of cherry pie. I won't bother you with the superlatives.

I ate until I choked. I was asleep.
____
For three months, on Seriquil, I could only eat once a day. And it had to be the same meal. And the cheeseburger was perfect everytime. The waffles and cherry pie, too.
______
One night I took the pill and got to the kitchen fast, of course, not wanting to fall face forward into my plate. Had to have everything. As usual all the ingredients were there. Hamburger. Cheese. Salt. Bun. And the rest.

This night, no one was around. Maybe it was after everyones bedtime.

A young woman walked into the kitchen, I'd never seen before. This was surprising, to live in a house without meeting one of your housemates. She was fairly pretty, with slightly hypothyroid brown eyes and long, straight black hair unusually thick.

Six months pregnant. I gave my usual "well, hello, welcome !" and asked if I could help her find anything to eat. She asked in a very hushed voice for a glass of water, and seemed apologetic. I gave her some ice water, smiling, not being talkative to her.

That was that, but then two days passed and suddenly I remembered her. Who was that? I hadn't seen her since. Three days passed. It became a *shrug*, except that she had seemed nice and so quiet, I presumed innocent. Perhaps scared. Small town girl.

I asked everyone, (about ten people living there at the time), and even the staff. Nobody knew who I was talking about.

Then on Thanksgiving Day, when I refused to eat any of the feast because I didn't want to ruin the euphoria of my midnight cheeseburger, waffles, pie, THERE SHE WAS AGAIN.

Heather! Sweet-Pea! Joanie! Who is that girl?

Her name is Flora. She doesn't talk. She just sits there knitting. We try to get her to talk but she won't.

My gosh. How CHARMING! And at last, an addict who really WAS crazy. In this charming way, too, where she's obviously in some nesting mode. Probably has a big swollen heart like her belly, only she must be awfully sad being here. Oh my.

HEY I TOLD YOU GUYS SHE WASN'T MY IMAGINATION. SHE'S NO MAKE-BELIEVE, SHE'S SITTING RIGHT THERE.
____
So, I was in some sort of love.

I began to pay close attention. And I'd make small talk. She was deaf apparently, despite what the staff told me. I didn't take it personally.

Then I told her she was my 'imaginary'. I nicknamed her. "Good Morning, Make-Believe!"

This was just as foolhardy as it is starting to sound. I blame the Seriquil, of course. Well, as I grow up a little, maybe not so much but still. That shit was sine qua non. A prerequisite, I mean. Maybe the Busbar, Effexor, uppers downers bennies 'ludes were too.

But! It was me. I know myself that well. It was still me after all. Alcoholics are fuck-sticks unless they're really really trying not to be, constantly, three AA meetings a day.

After a week I teasingly asked if she would sit by me in one of our meetings. She did. We sat on the couch, crowded together, and she put her head on my shoulder.

Next day, we were holding hands. We talked. I asked each day, how are you. She'd say, "I'm tired." That was it.

Staff spotted her leaning her head on my shoulder. There was a hullabaloo. Then later they caught us holding hands.

People warned me to knock it off. But I thought maybe if I hurt her feelings, her brain might release some chemical into her blood-stream that would make the baby meloncholy.
___
All this time, the staff was trying to kick me out. I'd got a long list of misdeamenors after a regime change there, a month earlier. My counselor had to turn into a cop. I was put under house arrest for weeks at a time. No AA meetings, no church, no store.

Finally, I went AWOL for thirty minutes to go to an AA meeting, a block up the street. The director was waiting for that. They shut and locked all the doors. (Oh. I forgot to mention I was already kicked out but we were in a legal appeal process.)

It was snowing but I didn't mind. I was amused, standing out there waiting for my stuff.

Then I looked up and there was Flora looking out the window, unhappy I imagined. Maybe I'd convinced her that she didn't really exist if I wasn't around imagining her. And I felt like I was saying goodbye to my own Harvey The Six foot tall rabbit.

You know, a Pooka.

I thought: f'ing serequil, god damn that's some strange stuff!

See, I wasn't so far along in the 12 steps. Still supremely selfish, above all the rules, etc.

Anyway, this all led to a few months of moral conundrums, because I'm not very decisive and when I am mometarily aware of people's feelings, I don't want to hurt them.

I should get off the drugs anyway. But I gained 15 pounds just with that one same meal a day.

Or maybe I had a sympathy pregnancy going, due to some spell she cast on me.
___
Maybe I'll continue this story later.
_______
I should have just nicknamed her "Pooka".

Cute, and it wouldn't have meant anything to her, I bet.
___
Women, food, and drugs. Man Alive.

Kettle Kids

Here they all are. My honorary nieces and nephews. They wonder why I'm not coming around so much anymore.

I say, I work. Like your Pa. I'm in manufacturing.

Oh, yeah. That's Pa Kettle, my best chum for some , ...meh, ...couple of decades. He cooked me a steak last night the size of my dinner plate and I ate it all. Also there was a big baked potato. He didn't even ask if I wanted a vegetable, because he knows I only like mine out of a can. Then we sat one of the youngest between us and watched another DVD of 1950-60 school films/propoganda for good behavior. The kid kept turning to me and saying, "hear that John?" And I'd go, WHAT?

Y2K. My niece Caroline and me, sober three years

I had been sober once before, but forgot how nice it was when I relapsed. Now I am sober for almost nine months. I live in an Oxford House, and am a proud member of A.A.