subject: wheels and shoes and fun and no fun

They're comfortable. They won't stand another wash, people over 42 tell me to throw them away, but I don't have to tie or untie them. I mean, they fit! Like slippers.

It's been five years since I owned these Chucks. I bought them when they were retro and was greatly surprised to find them then. They're the shoes we kids wore in the early 70's or thereabouts. In the days of the Redball Express shoes, which were guarenteed to make you run faster.

No pump action on these.

So, my retro shoes are now very much in style again , you might have noticed. They're everywhere! In colors you never saw, back when. Mine are admired for being gray and dirty and so, so old. Maybe people think they're the original article.

One more wash? I think not...

Since my work spree ended on Saturday, life has been Rio Grande now for nearly days. However, on my way home that day I honked at a fellow in a wheel-chair. Since, well, I had the right-of -way. I was surprised at myself, but probably not as surprised as he was. And I couldn't hear him but by the facial contortions I guessed he was pretty mad and cussing me out good.

That was like a fast clip from a movie montage of madness, I thought. I'll never forget that face. I'm glad I can't read lips.

It was a deliberately short 'beep', by the way. Sort of like you'd give a six year old on a bicycle when he's not being safe and, if not for your hyper-awareness, you'd have sent him flying fourty feet. With six year olds, I always figure I'm teaching them a valuable lesson, and really lean on the horn, like for half a block. Burn it into their little brains, look both ways, cars are predators being driven by adults driving home worn out from work.

I'm hearing not much listening to my poor room-mate talk to his girlfriend on the phone. Really feeling happy that's not me, listening to her talk about her sinus troubles. He is patient. Tells me he wants this to end---the relationship, I mean---but as of this hour long conversation he's only tried to say goodbye three times, so he's not really started the process. Maybe he is ambivilent. Hell, maybe it's nice. He's reading his magazine at the same time; got up once to point out an article to me about some new model of car.

We're not too well aquainted yet, but I know we'll get along. He's the best roomie so far. The only drawback being, I think he's here to stay.

That is, he won't relapse. The miracle has occured. Zero compulsion/desire to drink or use drugs. You can tell. "We withdraw from such temptations like we would pull our hands away from an open flame." (Paraphrase from the so-called 'Promises', which do come true, it seems. For some.)

Tomorrow I'll hopefully spend less time online and more time visiting. It's a day off, got to remember what I do on days off, particularly weekdays.

At the end of today's best of the week meeting, I told people I'd like for word to get around that I need a tennis partner this Spring and Summer. Preferably someone in their 50's or 60's who smokes, I said. Afterwards, I got invited to play golf. And all I could think was, could I drive the cart, because that's the only part that sounds like fun.

Anyway. Tennis. I have some other tennis shoes. They're ready.

Women send me pictures of shoes

And I don't know why.

(but this is a continuation from the comments in the previous post)



This is the only one that didn't scare me.

I'm glad the super pointy ones are all Last Year. I never did get kicked, turns out.

Sundays Funday

This is my nephew, "Toot". His dad sent this with the title "I think I see what the problem is now."




I'm thinking some Jesus kitsch to send return mail. (To my brother, the Atheist)

My Town (through my eyes, old and bent)

Not wanting to raid Renee's treasure trove again, just yet, Friday has become Cellphone Camera Day here!


The bumper-sticker reads "911 Was An Inside Job".

Something tells me there's no meth lab behind that door. But I bet you could find some pot or something rasta-similar.


When I was 20 and was writing similar graffiti, I went to jail.

No, no, I mean I did it at the jail. Covered one wall with "S.O.S." and other messages, comparing the cops to the "S.S." Why so many "s"'s , I don't know. I used a circled A, too I'm sure. And I remember realizing the next day that there was a video camera trained on me the whole time (this was in 1984).

Yeahboy. Back in the day, if we wanted to take the message to the man, we took it to the MAN.

(Of course it's better to see such coarse, sophomoric sentiment and rotten looking writing on the side of a dumpster in an alley, now. I mean especially if you're a repu repub *cough* reputable, sober citizen like me, at age 44).


There are many of these posting cylinders around the downtown area. They're very active and well up to date, mostly with ads for music shows, lectures, charity events, etc. People will argue over prime space, and it's a no-no to cover up someone else's sign of course, or to double post.

These duplicate signs read: "824 Tenured Faculty. Only 24 are black. Only 13 are Hispanic.

"Black and Gold?" (I suppose those are the schools team colors)

"Mostly just White."

Work was just a half day again today, so I felt I owned the day after 12. Walking around downtown is nice, especially now that I run into so many people I actually know and like to talk to. There is a window-shop type gait people have, not a hustle-bustling on Friday afternoons. So many people in groups of three or four, laughing on their way to lunch or a drink. I looked into the barber shop and then attempted to see my reflection in the window, to see if I needed a cut. Luke on the other side figured that out pretty quick, and shook his head, honest (or tired) barber he is. Not yet. I shrugged, like, "you know?" Because you really don't know.

And what the hell am I thinking anyway. I can't afford a haircut until next Friday anyway.

Thanks for visiting, I'll be back on Monday I hope, and all sorts of cheerfulness will break through here.

Plus my shrinks in Florida

Ran into one of the Baitshop Boys tonight. The ornithologist, plays the ornith. Cool hipster, haven't seen him much lately and never sober before. (Bad english! I mean I haven't seen him while I'm sober.)

What's the nitty gritty. You're looking kinda thin,'gate, he said.

It's true. Rocky couple of weeks. Stood on the industrial scale at work today and I've lost seven pounds. He's not the first to mention it either, it shows in my face.

I was just out from a meeting, and had to shake myself out of that 'share' mode, not to pester the cat with my heck, you know. Think I looked a bit grummy too. Said ah, got some sort of consumption, working eight days in a row,



what's shakin'.

They'd been playing downtown. I didn't know Zigzag was in town, that could account for one lost meal, farkers been hiding from me or something.

Said what, the twilight festival? He said no, that's in June. We ankled it up the parking garage steps, we'd both lost our cars. He doesn't drink though, I don't think. Spotted mine, now you're on the trolley. Good to see ya Jake. So long!

Still almost dry-drunk today, feeling blue anyway, and nothing could help much. I'm not eating, some hostility toward myself and people who are nice to me. I mean, ME. You know?

It could be so much worse. On the way home I spotted Rhonda, an old housemate from The Eclipse, walking alone toward her Oxford House. Man, we've been worried about her.

She moved in there and her room-mate O.D.ed dead.

Then the family came into the house while no one was there, to get this poor woman's things, and took a bunch of Rhonda's clothes. I mean, to boot. Too much.

But she is still very upset, this roomie of hers was the only friend she's made at the house since she moved in a month ago.

The other women sound awful. Like, they're imposing fines over dirty coffee cups. And they don't go to meetings, it seems, but bicker a lot at their own house meetings. An Oxford House could be perfectly hellish in some cases, and this one is known to be a "bad house". They vote people in, who relapse and skip on the rent. Then they come to the Oxford Chapter and have to beg a loan. Once a house has gone bad, it seems to stay bad.

And it's funny how you know, like in a family, maybe 'generations' ago, it may have started with one person having an insanely bad day or something, and taking it out...

We parked across from her place and talked for half an hour. After the sobbing (near sobbing) stories, some ligher chat, and she gave me good news about some people we know. The same news I'd hear an hour later when I got back here. Neat circle we have in Recovery.

F'ng glad I saw her and could talk to her. Who wouldn't be in despair after all that, plus living with people who apparently don't like you, or openly dislike you. Addicts, at that.

Home. It's peaceful all in all, even with our dry drunk still struggling.

Did my weekly cleaning for the kitchenette, just to protect my tiny base of serenity. Used a lot of bleach in that mop bucket, with a little soap. I don't know what I'm doing, just cleaning, you know, and hoping everything will smell clean too.

Found a bottle of amonia under the sink. Never sure what that was. Parents might have told me once, when I was four or five.

I wondered: lemony scent perhaps? And put the bottle to my honker and breathed in and --I think--almost died. I was so surprised I had the urge to bellow, but of course it was like the breath had been knocked out of me. I don't know anything. I tell ya.

Almost dropped the bottle but instead held on to it as I staggered backwards. Then set it on the table and continued staggering backwards into a chair, and took a break.

Not a cigarette break.

Later, Chauncey stepped in to report that I'd recieved a compliment from one of the Eclipse staff. The Chief out there, now, who used to be the counselor. Isaiah.

Isaiah says that of all the people who were there during my four to five months, only three of us have 'survived'. HER (I never mention, who's comb I stole), myself and this one crazy psycho bitch named Heather. (So instead of exclaiming surprise about Isaiah's mentioning me, I exclaimed "Heather??!!")

What's funny is that I'm still banned from the grounds there. Can't visit at all. And one of the staff ends me word that I should call and chat sometime but I never do. I forget.

Anyway, I tell you: ...I'm not so sure about long-term treatment, or treatment at all. Some sort of commitment or incarceration is needed, just to bottom out and get sober and to A.A., but these places have dismal records. I think they're history.

In my resentment, I still think I have a case to close that kip down if I'd like. Said that to Rhonda and she said NOOOO, though. So, she may be another winner. I hope.

Anyway one of the three success stories Isaiah has includes a guy whom he won't allow on the premises. Pretty rich, man.

ether swoon

Worked seven to noon today. Timing was perfect as I took the Prior's advice (against my own will, sort of. The opportunity was just THERE. What to do? Why not?) and drew my line in the sand and then "re-introduced" myself to Tubby.

It went as predicted. Very well. And then it just so happened that an hour later I had to be stuck with the guy, working on a machine I've only seen once before, so I needed him.

Noon meeting, etc. Ortha, the man so concerned about his sexual problems, elaborated today. First that he was sorry he'd missed so many meetings. (Oh? Welcome back.) But it was like this, he found himself with three girlfriends. "And I just wasn't working my program!" Now he had broken it off with them all, good man.

That's funny. He gets too much while I don't get any. Not laugh out loud funny, just funny.

And then there wasn't much to the day, except I started a blog at myspace after the Prior's girlfriend accepted me into her network. Writing for one, while pretending to be writing for a general audience: that's a crazy arsed investment in time and energy. No? And this girl (a deputy sheriff, I wasn't kidding about that) wrote in her very brief email to me that she wrote her dissertation on Prufrock.

I should know by now that I don't want a relationship with an English major. I'm much more interested in the women of law enforcement. At least they have their own stories.

She suggested I go leave a comment on the Prior's page. I'm not sure why. Maybe so I could see how many robot-girls he's accepted as "friends" in his network. It is funny, all their spam comments with links to pron sites. Evidently for a few days, he thought these SuperModels were for reals. Or maybe it is his sense of humor.

Do I sound like I'm sober? Again. I doubt it more and more. In the tenth month of sobriety, it appears I've peeled away to a section of the brain that's gotta lotta noive, ya know? That's one thing that probably IS always true about early recovery from this "luxury disease": you go through phases like a ...like a ...well anyway you go through phases, and it's interesting, scary or not.

She's stopped coming over. I told the Prior, or rather I , eh, made it clear, or, joked that I thought this Prufrock deputy was some sort of angel. I think I put my fist to my chest then , too, so he got the idea and grinned like good luck keeping up with her dude and watch for the tazer...

I'm just nosing around in the ether. No harm done.

You change after a little sleep

Four of us sipping our sugar and cream with a dash of coffee, and smoking our holy smokes in the Frater this morning. It was just as we began to realize the sun would stay above the clouds. Cool, anemic day, livened a bit by the new greenery of the back fourty.

I pretend this is a monastic order.

We are only a group of seven men sharing a house so we can get on our feet after years of drug abuse or/prison/or hermitage. There are no rules (except for strict sobriety), no leaders but trusted servants, etc. It's Anarchism-A.A., a capital 'R' commune I suppose.

When I first moved in last December, the Prior was being ironic when, during the local morning news (we used to watch TV here), he'd announce we should have a meditation, reading, and discussion. It became regular though: this sort of half-joking, quasi A.A. meeting ("Hullo, my names Charley and I don't wanna go to f'ng work this morning, I pass").

Now we have these much more irregular meetings, spontaneous but more serious. Murf will read, we'll each say something if we've got something to say. This morning was memorable. It turns out that two of us dodged some bullets this last week.

We all consider this new life fragile, to be closely guarded. To "drug" (yeah, a verb now) or drink again, for us, is to choose to die. It may not be suicide, but it's a choice against life and life's menus. Insanity and despair will follow, and as we talk it's a very brief acknowlegment: "Man I'd lose everything."

This morning's started in the usual, unintended manner. Murf got home from the g-yard shift at his factory, which covers him in fiberglass. After the usual quick shedding and shower he came back in and The Prior had joined me. Then K.B. with his dark smuttering, growling and coughing.

At first, I only meant to ask a question about how to behave in a factory. Like, "factory etiquette'. Some asshat at my work has decided to make himself known recently, and it strikes me as a huge surprise that it's illegal to fight. Even if you agree to fight. I mean: "?"

I guess the question has just never come up for me until now. Adults. Fighting.

Not that I'm violent, or would really even dream of proposing a fist-duel, but when someone is riding you, and cruising for a bruising if you will, what are you supposed to do nowadays? File a grievence? Jasuz. Key the person's car? Do some stange "Iron John" dance from the 80's?

So, obviously I wasn't asking from a Recovery perspective. That's when the meeting started, I suppose. The Prior said what you do is go re-introduce yourself to the guy, tell him where you draw the line, and offer to start on a new footing.

Then the Prior concluded by saying "Hi, I'm Charlie" to me, and offering his hand to shake. Role playing, in his Chevy Chase ironic manner.

I shook it and said "Hi, I'm Tubby". It was rather hypnotic. "Just a kid on crack."

Last night I'd taken it out on one of the elders at the Dead End Club. You know, one of those fellows with twenty years sobriety, who reads a newspaper during the entire meeting and then gives a canned, ten minute long speech about his version of "How It Works".

He'd finished and I double dipped. There were a lot of newcomers to this particular meeting, I knew, getting their first, awful impression of A.A. (They bus these people in from detox centers, and I think the Club should be penciled off their itinerary. Hell, everyone thinks that.)

So, I wanted to add: "We also enjoy A.A. because it's a spiritual program and not religious. You can speak as you wish of course, but usually no one will push a particular religion or "higher power" on you. Also, usually no one will mischaracterize and attack someone else's religion."

That got some attention. My double-dipping directly followed the elder's canned ham, in which he'd sneered about "catholics, protestants,jews, methodists, what have you, and their god wanting to send me to hell...".

I went on: "Also, the "bottom line" is that early sobriety sucks for some people, not all people. Most blanket statements like that are false. My own early sobriety has been wonderful, especially since I started following the suggested steps."

This all sounds plain and uncontroversial.
But he always says, or yells, really, "EARLY SOBRIETY SUCKS! LIVE WITH IT,PEOPLE!"

I never addressed the man directly, and was merely giving my own perspective, I believe. It's my right to do so, and I believe what I said was 'right', too, of course. Alcoholics are always right. Deep down though...

On my way out, "Blue", an old biker who wants to be a cult leader, stopped me without getting up and told me to sit down. He wanted to have a little talk. I said nuh-uh.

"Come on son! Only a second!"

I sat down.

"John, do you really think you are going to change Dennis' mind about religion?"

"No. I wasn't talking to Dennis. I was talking to the newcomers."

"It's in the Big Book, John. Don't cross talk. Don't debate." (True? I'm not sure. Maybe he meant the "12 by 12".

"I wasn't talking to him." I said. "I didn't address him by name, didn't address him at all. I'll see you later."

I left so full of myself I may have been jive walking in the parking lot. I got home and called Moise and bragged about putting those f'ers in their place.

But this morning all I could see was Dennis' red face. It was red, and he had a queer, overly bright smile, either from anger or embarrassment. OR, it was from amazement that I'm so stoopid.

I felt completely different about the encounter now. Sick, in fact. And I remembered some looks I'd got from people, besides Blue. I'd probably hurt the man.

So I asked the fellows, if I do something "right", but with completely corrupt motives...?

It was unanimous. I owe some sort of amends, for my own good. Even if there isn't a wrong to be made 'right'.

My heart tells me I was wrong. I know I was looking for some target last night; I was there to pass along some hostility I'd picked up on the assembly line, is what it was.

Thanks for visiting. I know I keep promising less and less of this stuff. ...

We'll Stonewall (plus a stand-up routine for you)

People were nice to me at work today. Usually they're a sullen, eye-darting, almost snobbish set. Even on Friday afternoons, they are. But today, I was addressed by my name. Someone also waved hello from across the plant (I turned around, there was no one behind me so I nodded hello and smiled). The only eye-darter was Tubby, the guy who cussed me out yesterday, and I really was hoping to make eye-contact with him. And give a tough, short little snort of a laugh as I passed.

My insides don't behave at all sometimes. Call down the living I AM, or His Son, to rebuke these demons. The bastards.

On the outside I was good, and reaped some benefits of apparent serenity. I kept my morning prayers in mind. Third full shift at work and it turns out I am working eight days in a row BUT most of them are half days where I just drop in and it's like I'm on my way somewhere else. I sleep in tomorrow (which probably means I wake up when the alarm would have gone off anyway, but that's good to see the sunrise sober).

No news to share. Moise' myspace page has a list of her friends, with pictures, and I recognized the Prior's girlfriend (who is a deputy sheriff, age 25, and has the voice of a shy 17 year old). I'm thinking now it was a mistake to write her and send her a "friend" invitation. You don't want the Prior yelling "HEY ABBOT!!!!". Nor do you want the President investigating his own chief of staff.

I'm thinking deny deny deny. And hubba hubba.

Am I really sober??? Sometimes I wonder.
____________________


Abbott and Costello Meet Windows98

Costello: Hey, Abbott!
Abbot: Yes, Lou?
Costello: I just got my first computer.
Abbot: That's great Lou. What did you get?
Costello: A Pentium II-333, with 64 Megs of RAM, a 6 Gig hard drive, and a
32X CD-ROM.
Abbot: That's terrific, Lou.
Costello: But I don't know what any of it means!!
Abbot: You will in time.
Costello: That's exactly why I am here to see you.
Abbot: Oh?
Costello: I heard that you are a real computer expert.
Abbot: Well, I don't know-
Costello: Yes-sir-ee. You know your stuff. And you're going to train me.
Abbot: Really?
Costello: Uh huh. And I am here for my first lesson.
Abbot: O.K. Lou. What do you want to know?
Costello: I am having no problem turning it on, but I heard that you should
be very careful how you turn it off.
Abbot: That's true.
Costello: So, here I am working on my new computer and I want to turn it
off. What do I do?
Abbot: Well, first you press the Start button, and then-
_________

It goes on from there, of course, but I'll spare you.

Fish Wrap, Riff raff, and Willy Wonka Medallions

Still on this unusual spree of work. It's characterized by eight hour shifts, early to bed, an alarm clock, drive-time morning radio advertisements ("FRIDAY NIGHT! BIG TRUCKS!!") odd encounters with strangers, etc. It's unusual for me, anyway.

My job is at the local newspaper, in the bindery department, and I am called a 'finisher' but the slang is "jogger" because I "jog" newspapers into a neat pile to fit into an inserting machine for the advertisement pages. It's my second factory job. Really quite amazing for a former C.E.O. don't you think? But I was a practicing alcoholic and in a dream.

We are required to stuff our ears with this foam that conveniently expands after a few seconds. You are not deaf, then, but it's as if you've gone undersea.

All the bad clanging, the industrial vaccuming noises, and apparent explosions are muffled, and therefore completely harmless. I love this foam. It makes the entire plant sound like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Bells, whistles, chugachuga, chitty chitty ding ding!

And you hear things you wouldn't hear otherwise. Like, when the machine is about to break down. There's a click-click- wheeeeeeze! click-click, no one can hear without the foam in their ears. Those of us who are equiped are like some wildlife before an earthquake. We know.

And since the machine breaking down means we get a break, we don't tell. We exchange glances, with raised eye-brows and secret smiles.

The only draw-back is that I am always imagining my boss Joe's voice yelling "JACKSON!". It's a true audio hallucination, I always turn around and look for him, wondering what on earth does he want to talk about now? I've given all the advice I have to give.

It's also unusual to be so serene when a coworker cusses me out. I discovered that today. It turned out to be a mistake, but he didn't acknowlege it was a mistake.

I wasn't shaken in the least. I'm not kidding you, I even considered that he was having a bad day, and possibly coming down from some angle dust he took during his lunch break.

I didn't even have the urge to tell the story when I got home. Only mentioning it here.

When I got home I mostly talked about my cardboard and paper cuts, while Mimi obliviously or defiantly discussed what a wonderful lunch she'd had today (this is over chat, from Iowa).

She, Ma Kettle, and my online physician (you have one too, right?) are always telling me what they've done in the kitchen, perhaps because they think I have an eating disorder, which by the way I told them I do. (See below, the post on 'dual diagnosis', about Seroquil).

As they start to lose their superlatives they'll conclude with statements like: "and I love cilantro".

There is always a word I don't know, and won't look up.

(Well now for a Medallion of Buffalo Tenderloin, I think. There's still some of that Romaine Lettuce with Blood Orange Vinaigrette left in the fridge, thank you Jehovah (and for that nice bit of halibut). Vermont Camembert Cheese and Spiced Walnuts Petits...there, we're getting presidential almost, I think it's the Prior's actually. And he is notorious for keeping track of what regularly goes missing. (Put me in charge though.)

Life flickers between this ether and real life here. "MySpace" is still the internet, and now Moise has a page, just to remark in passing. It turns out she's a complete stranger to me, or she was until now. (I'm talking about a woman who is usually about twelve steps away from my door, down the hall.) Lucky break for me she's got all her info on the internet now, or I'd have eventually been caught in an embarrasment. Like for instance: "John. How can you say you didn't know I have a wooden leg??" Or, "You forgot I have a masters in fishery biology, and a doctorate in ichthyology???"

Fools with their blogs! Just post anything, like you're writing in the air. They should switch to scrolls, like me, and be so obviously preposterous or pretentious no one will ever believe. Or read.

There's a theme to this post. You'll know when I wrap it up like a newspaper columnist.

So this big dope who cussed me out at work today ought to watch out what he says to strangers because you never know. I say 'big dope', but I mean Tubby, which is what I think his friends call him. Tubby was eating a Mcdonalds breakfast right under my nose this morning, getting his paper work greasy. But it was that paper work which eventually gave me my paper cut today. So you never know, you really don't. The grease didn't spread to the sharp edges.

If only he'd stuck to some brain food like fish, which isn't so greasy (if breaded); if only he'd had the breakfast an Ichtymologist wouldn't have the heart to eat. Then the day would have been perfect.

But that's like saying, if only I'd had some cilantro.

WRAP.

you mean 'fish wrap'- ed.

two ply short roll

That was a wonderful day I just had of small events, larger eventualities (to contemplate tonight as I go to sleep) and I wish I had the time/gumption to record them here for the laughs at least.

But I'm stuffed with baked potatoE and steak and I'm sleepy and I have to work full shift tomorrow morning so what the hell, I go to bed.

Come to think of it, this was a two post day though, if you scroll down for the quick dash "overheard".

See you Monday if not in an hour.

Overheard outside A.A. church

Guy: "Man threatened to whoop my woman last night."

Other Guy: "How big is he?"

Guy: "Bigger than her!"

I mean, the office.

We've got a dry drunk in the house, lately. Actually, two now, since my mind is now consumed with various speeches which all conclude: "In short, this is a war." So I'm not right either.

This Oxford house is well known for its stability, which reflects all of our commitment to working the 12 Steps. But I'm seething right now, and it feels unmanly to be mad at another man. You're supposed to knock said man out, not brood. Take his gun and use the handle to break his trigger fingers.

Something Rockford or Maverick.

"Meh". A little prayer for the brother, that he gets well. A prayer each day for how many days.

I never have had an enemy, unless you count the hell hath no fury sort of enemy.

It struck me when I became a Christian and was told to pray for my enemies. The thought made me laugh: life would be kinda funny with a real Enemy! Like Clousseau had enemies, like Peter Parker had enemies. Superman's enemy was Lex Luther. James Bond was Spectre (an acronym, I forget what it stands for, too tired to look it up.)

Twenty years ago, Zigzag and I decided to play enemies with bottle rockets. We'd stalk one another around town and try to get in a good shot without hitting any bystanders. Or, we'd play in his big back yard, where we set fire to a field one day with some smoke grenades.

It was all just as stimulating playing Enemy then, at age twenty, as it was when I was ten.
____
I remember once when Morton Downey had his infamous talk show in L.A. Once he got so mad at a guest he slugged him, or insulted his wife, or spat on him---I forget---and this made national news on local channels because what followed was so funny and so revealing. Downey proceeded to accuse his guest of doing the very same thing that he had just done in front of a million witnesses.

Really, it was that night's 10 o'clock news light, comic story, saved for last, and syndicated. Just such a perfect example of human nature gone haywire.

Not the hitting, the spitting, etc. but the man's delusion that those things had just happened to him.

That's what I'm facing here. A dry, crazy ass drunk, behaving like an immature 11 year old. He's in crisis. The likeihood of his relapsing is small, but possible, and I'd hate to see him go if he has to throw in the towel.

I don't know what's bothering him. I don't think anyone does. We're all sick, after all. And it's amazing there are so few problems like this.
____
Mostly such a lovely day again, and excuse me, best described as "ah, me".

Half a day at work, feeding the newspapers into the inserter, day-dreaming, waiting for the occasional appearance of that one office beauty everyone waits for. She always smiles. She walks the hundred yards to the little office and then walks back and maybe that's once a shift.

We have a man from Bosnia, I originally thought was deaf and dumb. He's in his 60's and simply hasn't learned much English. He knows how to get your attention though, yelling over the powerhouse clanging and bells, "BEAUTIFUL GIRL! BEAUTIFUL GIRL!!"

Ah, so. And we use sign language. Once I pointed to my left ring finger with a questioning look on my face. Meaning to convey "was she wearing a ring?"

"WHO CARES?" he shouted.

I made a fist and knocked at my heart and rolled my eyes, as if without hope.

He waved her away, conveying, I think, that there are many more, she's not so special.

But that was another girl who rarely appears. Our regular, she is married, and you just sort of love her from afar anyway, sort of enjoying the meaningless infatuation.
Glad to be alive.
___
Tomorrow I have my job interview, to move across the street from the factory to the office girls.

We'll see. Thanks for visiting.

post script: a spontaneous cook-out, we're all in the living room at 10:30, including a couple of luvlies from our orbit, having a good time. I feel much better. Also, The Prior taught me how to tie a full windsor.

From My High Horse

This may become a regular series. I'm also thinking of one called "My Heros, Unhorsed".

(And this has nothing to do with horses. How odd.)

There have been two A.A. meetings this week about psychology and psychiatry, and I've barely heard a word, as I sit there composing in my mind what I've got to say, and then why I shouldn't say it.

I brood sometimes, wanting to blame my condition on my day and age, more than any individual. No one ever did me much wrong in my life, and I've had very few enemies, if any, since my public school days.

But now I focus a little more on my experience with professional counselors, contrasting those with my experiences with the 12 Steps. It's a resentment, a chip on my shoulder still. If I ask myself what part I played, the answer is, I lapped up the attention.

The attention was always, in my experience, positive.

I was first sent to a psychologist at 17, when I was skipping school, complaining of depression and an almost crippling shyness. By then I'd discovered that alcohol was a relief but no cure.

Also I'd started using "psychedelic" drugs (god knows what was really on those blotters of 'acid' in 1978). Mushrooms, mescaline, and marijuana.

I had a circle of friends and wasn't lonely. Also I was a fairly contented bookworm.

My depression was probably from my misconception that everyone was having sex but me. Or that no young woman would ever have me. I don't know. I was depressed about my body image since I was --anyone would grant this---freakishly thin.

But I think now about how honest I was to these counselors about my drinking and my use of drugs, and the friends I'd made, most of whom weren't friends at all.

Drinking daily, yes.
In the morning, yes.
Drugs whenever I could find them, (I'm on a journey of self-discovery!)

Then I'd discuss what books I was reading. Alan Watts' books about the similarities between Western and Eastern religions, for instance. Summerhill, a book recommending Free Schools (as in, the children should rule). Bertrand Russell's Why I Am Not A Christian. And then the famous writers of Psychology, Freud and Jung, Maslow, Ellis.

Unfortanately it was 1978 and every psychologist I had was basically this guy.

Or this guy.

In short, they dug me. They thought I was very uncommon and special and maybe even a promising sign for the next generation.

Resentment: they waved away my fairly obvious alcohol dependency and drug use.

How this effected me: I "learned" my dependency was simply a problem that sensative little punk geniuses like me were are prone to.

My part in this: I sought to be 'enabled' to live with my corrupt motives and their consequences. I sought to continue a fantasy that I was living the life of privileged superiority.

Cos, you know, I was some kinda 99th percentile type, there seemed no doubt in their minds about that, despite my math scores. I'm sure I knew how to keep them convinced too, never missing an opportunity to quote Emerson or Thoreau. Or to scoff, if they ever dared mention someone on the best-sellers list.

What little discussion we'd have about my drinking would always be rather philosophical. Say, about the honesty and the loss of inhibitions. Was that good? Perhaps not. Perhaps not... But it would always be mentioned that so many writers and artists, really great artists, like Hemingway, Falkner, and Fitzgerald were alcoholic.

It wasn't until I was an adult I began to enjoy visiting psychologists just to debate them. I think by then I was getting an inkling that I was fucked up and my morals were fucked up. So it was nice to go in there and be assured that, nah. We live in a corrupt society, John. Your reaction is quite typical, not to want to work. You'll have to work, of course, and learn how to cope. Let me give you this book, "Born To Win".

My ultimate resentment though, is toward the psychiatrist I went to for depression after my dad-gone and died, and I'd been seperated from my (then) wife, and I was unemployed. I told all, and at the top of my list of complaints was: "I am drinking at least a case of beer a day, living in my mother's basement and stealing her money and her codeine pills."

I walked out of there with Prozac and Klonopin.

I'll give her this, though: she set me an appointment with a Chemical Dependency Center. Not surprisingly (this day and age, now the 1990's) there was a two month waiting list for inpatient treatment.

(Watch out for any addict who is on a waiting list for treatment, by the way. They tend to whoop it up, imagining they're going to be saved.)

The Klonopin would be all right, she told me. She used a pen and paper to show me.

"Most tranquilizers do this to you : ^ ^ ^ ^. But Klonopin does this: ________. You'll be more calm but you won't get 'high'."

Naturally I tested that out.

The first Klonopin felt good.
The second a little better.
The third frustrated me so I took about ten. All while drinking of course. And remember almost nothing.
*
I know I'm blaming. I know the part I played, and that this really should have been in my 4th and 5th step. I also know that there are truly wonderful Psychologists and Psychiatrists out there, saving lives. The majority are doubtless a great help to their patients.

But as I see it now, counseling is looking for root causes outside of you, for instance, PTSD, or AADD. Sponsorship and the 12 steps are about a moral housecleaning and therefore spirituality. (So perhaps I shouldn't even compare the two.)

I know that drinking was not my problem. My day and age was not my problem. My illness, quote unquote, was my weak character, and my shortcomings. I had to become aware of them to become deliberately 'well', and work each day to consciously, prayerfully overcome them.

This is finally bringing me a sense of contentment and self-esteem. It's made my shyness virtually disappear. As "the promises" mention, I seem to know intuitively how to react to certain situations. I'm hardly myself at all, it seems.

Friends are good,too.



Ma Kettle

Thanks for listening. I pass...

(again, really, less and less of this later).

Living amends

I got nothin' today. Or, it went mostly on paper as I made my first attempt at the 8th step, writing down some names. I didn't dig too deep! It was still an "ah, me" sort of day, contented and relaxing.

My sponsor Corvus suggests I plan to return home to Ioway on my first anniversary. To do an "amends trip", he said. I am still literally afraid of taking a long road trip, especially there, but we have a friend from near Oakapaloka and he makes the trip every month or so. Corvus has a lot of good ideas.

I have amends to make to my maternal grandmother. He suggested visiting her grave, cleaning it up and making it pretty with flowers, then perhaps just sit there awhile and write her a letter.

Thinking of that makes me realize I have some emotions coming back. Complex almost. Time to weep, that'll be. Pretty sure I will.

The chef mondial is preparing me some chops. I must go make sure he isn't blogging at the same time.
____
My mother visits in May. She thinks I live in some sort of religious order. Where she got the idea, is anyone's easy guess. I sort of do. Come on.

e-scetics

Some of the brothers here, including Brother K.B. and the Prior, Charles, are learning about the World Wide Web. Lately, in their fast spiraling (down) into niche-internet-addiction, they refer to it simply as "MySpace".

Myspace.comPANY appears at first glance to be an internet portal. You know, a starting point, going out.

But it is not a portal. Every link directs you further into the beast. There are about 25 million people there, it's the 'internet' all right, but it's MySpace, and it's bad. Internet crack.

At one time it was going out of business, but I think Rupert Murdock bought it.
I have this screen capture, when they announced they were becoming a ghost site of the internet, and sent it to K.B. as a little prank.

Then I was so concerned how he might react, I ran down the hall to tell him the announcement was from 2003, or whenever.

Now the scriptorium, which used to have a pool table, is a media room and we have a couple or three hermits, who weren't hermits a month ago, in competition for computer time.

(This is all my fault. I'm going to hell for it , I just know. I brought in the first computer, I ordered up the cable high speed. And come to think of it, the brothers almost didn't let me move in to the dorter at all, since I'd admitted I might have a problem with internet isolation.)

Can you imagine? Some of these guys have been behind bars for a few years.

Their first discovery, I believe, was Yahoo Matchmaker. (One fellow, since departed, actually clicked on little-bunny-fufu-try- to bop him in the head WIN A PRIZE! ads.)

Those personal ads were a thrill, leading to anonymous chat rooms, where I actually worried about their safety. So damn naieve.

Internet days later, the concept of peer to peer music/video theft shook their souls and rattled their brains. This was happening so fast I couldn't keep up, I was like , god's will be done, I been there. And those songs download fast, and can be transfered to CDs.

And then of course, the almost pre-historic most revolutionary discovery of all: internet PRon. Which led me to warn them about viruses and trojans and haha, do you hear that, viruses and trojans, man alive, I put it all down for them to pick it up, get smart.

I changed their computer to use a safer browser, I installed firewalls, search and destroy machines, etc. All this while they hooted about onanism and what is the expression for a monastic order of master debaters? Etc. Yeah yeah, ha ha. They thought they'd discovered why I was always online.

But,--- not so odd, and thankfully--- this phase passed quickly. They have their DVDs, after all. Some of the brothers even have girlfriends.



This is when MySpace was discovered. Which meant internet photography, and MY digital camera.

It also meant BLOGGING (something I used to do. This, this is a scroll, not a blog.) (Because I say.) (Because it's my blog and if I want to call it a scroll, it's a scroll, gdmit.)

BLOGGING is what's got K.B. hooked for good, and I can't help him, nobody can. He is a terrific writer, funny as hell, three lols a post at least; and he is a self-absorbed, immature ADDICT of course, checking for feedback constantly, the poor fellow.

His list of "subscribers" is growing everyday.

What is it Zigfield calls this? He told me again just today. "Scheduled intermitent positive reinforcement".

K.B.s got a comments section, natch, and he's got what amounts to a sitemeter. He has a blogroll, of sorts, "friends of Kevitron", that is growing and growing. From those he is cultivating penpals, which I think is healthy at least.

He is on the computer all night and all day if he's off work.

He's like me. It's hard to witness.

I blogged for years. Yesterday as we were driving upt'town for a speakers meeting, I told him about it, and how I eventually began to drink again. Then I had the internet and my substance addiction going at the same time. I said, "Can you imagine what happened then?"



"Shares plummetted, that's what."

And He sends lightening bolts

I'm in the tedeum this morning smoking a holy first smoke and saying my prayers, when some woman, possibly a harlot, passes by via the long narrow hall and says, quite gently, "happy easter, John".

I said "happy easter" and she went along her way up the Night Stair, possibly to get home into her own bed. I don't think the poor kid is working lately.

Oh, man. If any of us are going to hell it's going to be me, man. Here I am praying to God and the Savior and I didn't even remember what day it is. I remember I was praying fast too, because sometimes I get a feeling like, don't bug God with repetitive language, don't drone on, He knows what's in your heart and are you in trouble without Jesus. Or I was praying fast just to pray fast, you know, cover my bases. It's spring. I got a wild life if I'm not careful.

hahaha. Who am I kidding. I'll TAKE a wild life if left to my own plotting rather than earnest, prayerful planning.

I called after her, "Don't forget our lecture. The longer you wait the longer it's going to be, you know."

Ergh. So few people actually apppeal to me at all. I lack love. Man. If anyone's going to hell it's going to be me.

I like her. I want her to be around. Her "happy easter, John" woke me up and made me , well, happy.

Little Elsa Kettle and I were wondering the other day why they call it "Good Friday". She's about nine, and I'd stopped by the house for a chili dog on my way to work. It was a large table we sat at, with Pa doing his homework at the computer, and the other kids quietly eating. I don't know why I mention any of this except it's a sort of spiritual boost to talk to a kid who knows more about God than you do.

My grandmother had an easy life, relatively speaking. She was a housewife with only one child, my mother who is a very good girl and her husband Jiggs who was a workaholic. She watched game shows and soap operas after cleaning and before cooking a little supper. She talked on the phone, mostly to relatives, I think.

She lived into her dottage, and I didn't visit as often as I should. Her living room was almost cloudy, like through a guazey lens, and very comfortable. Jiggs was gone twenty years now ---Good GAAAWWWD, how sad----and her last lucid years were during the O.J. trial.

All of this to tell you what I think I know about God and Heaven, this week. On her death bed Grandmother's last gasps were a question, I could tell by the inflection. Mom couldn't understand them, so I leaned in close. Grandmother kept repeating, knowing that I was there trying to understand.

"Who...that man...hosted ...Password."

Ah! She was traveling down the bright lit tunnel toward the afterdays and she wanted to meet the gentleman but forgot his name!

"Allen Luden, Grandmother! Allen Luden!" I shouted.

Almost added, "Married to Betty White!!"

After she passed, Mom and I were walking back across the street to the house where she lives, so convenient to the hospitial. We weren't sad yet. Maybe we were a little relieved. Or just, wow, she's passed through to the other side. Gosh.

Last night I was at a meeting where they do it by the lottery. Your number is called, you have to speak on the subject or pass. The subject was the 2nd step, "Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity."

My number came up. 61, year of my birth. I was hoping this night it would. There were about 75 people here in this tiny, falling down church which is next to an Adult Movie Theater.

On this subject, I always can say the opposite of what everyone ---I mean everyone---usually says.

"I came by my faith through religious scripture. I was in a dungeon, no really , it was, and they took my glasses and all I had was the Scriptures and I started on page one with my face very close to the page, like I was going inside of it or like I was going to cover my ears with it, so I would pass through all this trouble I was in. And God sent me the Comforter...

I believe in a stern god, an old man with a white flowing beard, up on a cloud. If he's good enough for Michaelangelo he's good enough for me. The god of my understanding frequently appears in New Yorker Magazine cartoons.

When I was a college sophomore, and that was for about eight years, I was an atheist, and a very arrogant one at that. I cursed "intolerace" but was the most intolerant of them all. I excelled in my moral/philosophical superiority and all my literary heros were smart guys who said, if god existed, they would spit in his face. They were the sort of smart guys who thought God ought to be comprehensible. And that God could be discredited by the likes of Elmer Gantry, Jerry Falwell, Jim Baker, etc.

Last week a tornado hit my college town right smack in the jaw, then roughed her up good. I'm distressed, worried ...wondering which of my favorite bars is still extant. But that damned English / Philosophy building where they gave me all "A"'s for merely parroting certain cold blooded New Age ideas? I gotta admit. I'm not so worried about the E.P.B. "

I don't remember how I closed. They laughed once, only, when I mentioned being concerned about the old bars (Gabes, The Airliner, The Deadwood). I think I got across the idea, though, which I usually try to: that I believe in the god my ancestors believed in. I believe in the bible people had read to them in the 1600's until this day.

And life really has improved. In fact, it's started again, where it had just stopped while I was without brakes against my drinking. (Sure, it makes sense, you stop poisoning yourself you'll feel better. But I mean after my moral inventory and confession, I feel better than ever.)

The sun is shining this morning, the tulips are up, some of the flowering trees are just now blooming violet and yellow. The grass was mowed yesterday. I've just drove our old man Stan to his first day of work at the Pizza Hut. (Pizza Hut? Easter Sunday Morning? Well anyway, that's where I dropped him off and he was happy. Stan is always happy.)

Happy Easter , everyone. Sorry to dash this off without editing, but I need to call home and say hi.

suspicious package

Yesterday I had a nine hour shift after three days off, and ---there's no other word for it---work was restorative, kind of like how a drink would be to Bertie Wooster.

Somewhat boring, a little exhausting, but all together GOOD. By the end of the day I was back on the beam, feeling human, humble but not humiliated.

And it was a beautiful day with the sun still at its day angle when I clocked out. Still my day to enjoy, and I was rich.

Got home. Monsieur Président Charlie was speaking on the pheaun with some drunken bomb, who wants to join our clerical order. I scowled and he held up a finger, to wait or go get f*ed or something.

And then what do you know, there was a package for me. From my psychiatrist I write to when I have my emergencies, twenty times a day. Ah, from Boca Raton! Or wherever she supposably lives that sounds like that, down south. This lovely woman I can never repay, except by referring more people to her to humor.

Lately I have been explaining to her all about my dreams which make not sense! And describing these spots I see sometimes, in just enough detail so she might diagnose what is wrong with me.

Sometimes she goes on vacation but that never matters, she is an internet imaginary after all, is all. Except for this...

Possibly a bum? If so, I'm sure it will explode in colorful confetti, with lots of love and understanding. But I think I will not open it until after a klonopin. Plus I would like some witnesses gathered around close to witness my joy, and know that I have important friends in the Southern Upper Class.

I had Moise and Murph come in to help open it. Moise was all excited and the packing peanuts flew high just as I imagined the explosive confetti might. The doctor did say it would be fun, and that I'd laugh. I kept asking is it some sort of sexual libido meter toy? What is it, Moise?

She laughed. "Prescription mugs! For all your prescriptions that make you so nice!"

Ah, yes. She'd told me that one of her drug salesman was there a few days ago. Described how he walked, even. (Why? Because her office building was recently flooded and now they've removed the carpet but not the carpet glue, so every unsuspecting soul who enters has to adjust after doing an initial Silly Walk.) Ah, so.

Coffee mugs to remind me to take my pills! My pills which are the secret to my success in sobriety! My pills which cause me to forget to take my pills!

I love my doctor. When she retires I'm going to write all about her, and she tells me she is retiring soon! Moving away to someplace where they have no internets.

It is twenty minutes since I've last written her about my latest emergency. She may be with a patient, she may be lecturing her boss (who is NOT HER BOSS, she says).

Thank you, Patricia. I am using the Seroquel one now. Yeah yeah yes of course, I washed it first as you politely, obliquely suggested off-handed as a suggestion.

Snap The Damn Picture Already! he yelled

photo by Renee

I was a bit 'teched' today, as they say down here a south of Ioway. Teched, I mean, "off", I mean "dry drunk", argumentative, not nice, resentful. Fuzzy connection with my H.P. Jesus Christ, son of the living God. I guess that's what it was.

Self-centered to old extremes.

Didn't cross my mind to drink. Crossed my mind to kill, yeah, but I'm still sober and without any compulsion to ...drink.

Nothing happened, except I had my third day off work in a row, which evidently is not good for me. Also I was unhappy with something I wrote. And there was a strange Noon A.A. meeting which surprisingly went scherzo.

Most unusual.

A man wanted to talk about the Sixth Step, and his "remaining character defects". The room was full and there were three newcomers and a number of sober anniversaries. Usually we confine our discussions to the first three steps in that case, but this seemed all right. It would relate back to first, admitting powerlessness, or, as the original steps put it in the early 1930's, that "We admitted we were licked".

The man said his particular defect was sexual self-control and infidelity.

Still, well, ok. Usually subjects like that are best left for the Fraternal or Sisters groups, but no one objected.

He didn't expound with any unneccesary detail. In fact it was stupid and awkward, the way he closed. I put this up for discussion over the next hour. Sexual infidelity. (That's how some heard it, anyway).

A respected sponsor spoke up and confined himself to the 6th step in general, but mentioned his lack of will power over internet porn. "I'm getting a hold on that, though..." he said. (No intention to be humorous at all.)

Next guy seconded that. (Said something like "it's open says a me, nowadays!". Heh. Wha..?)

Then an old woman spoke of her compulsion to shoplift and how she'd been using the 12 steps of recovery to master that. (She said "master that", yes. It's funny how our language starts to bend a little when sexual issues are in the air. I remember Clinton being unable to avoid double-entendres and such for weeks.)

Finally Cindy spoke up. I'd been watching the steam rise. (Almost wrote 'magma'). In full self-control, not stern, but quite serious, she said this is Alcoholics Anonymous, and we have new-comers here who desire to stop drinking. Not to stop stealing, not to stop jay-walking, she said.

It would be best to stick with the first three steps, please.

Awright.

I admired her courage for taking the chance of being disliked, and I guess I even admired her apparent willingness to allow the first few speakers to blush or get mad, even.

But then she made a mistake, in my eyes, and got up and left the meeting.

(She's like that. I've seen it before. Hell, we're all like that on certain days, just sort of already up-to-here, fed up, maybe over other things too.)

I think I started downhill from there. And with all those people, now there was a silence which for some reason I ended up being the first to surrender to. Usually there are about ten people who can't stand such a silence but apparently it was up to me, or I imagined it was. Like this was my production and the play was going badly. (Such alcoholic thinking, that.)

So I gabbed about the first step, which is admitting we are powerless over alcohol and that our lives had become unmanageable. Sounds simple, and obvious, but it's one I always made complicated, I told everyone now.

I was never ashamed of admitting I was alcoholic. I never doubted I was alcoholic. My problem was claiming powerlessness. I explained that it always struck me as an excuse for my bad behavior and said "if I told my family I was powerless, that'd have pissed them off even more, I wasn't going to do that..." etc.

It's like claiming innocense. It's asking for a get out of jail free card. It's asserting the disease concept. I am willing to believe we all suffer from some sort of personality disorder though...

ya ya...

So. With that, I almost derailed the meeting. One of the others picked up on the steps, and everything was fine after that. Except I felt small. And ignored.

Down then to a coffee joint to meet Pa Kettle, pictured above. I'm one of the fortunate ones to retain my friends outside of recovery, and he's brought ten or eleven new friends (counting the kids) in the last few decades.

We talk like this:

What's up.
(short answer about the future, the kids, etc.)
What's up with you?
(short crazy answer about something bugging me )
What are you planning to do about that?
(long crazy out of control answer)
You're crazy, man.
(Conversation then officially begins and goes everywhere and every-when til a meter runs out).

Lots of laughs. Good time for me anyway!

"Later, 'gate!"
"Aw right. See ya online maybe."

Still no peace. I get to where I'm having precautionary thoughts of what to say if a stranger stops me and asks what right do I have to take up so much sidewalk. Or, I see ahead some dim possibility of a conflict with someone, and I start the argument/debate right away, in my head.

These sorts of days are less common now, though. I notice them, notice their frequency. People are around to laugh when I'm being surprising, so that's feedback.

Tomorrow I go back to work and everything's ducky again, I suppose.
____
Also notable today, a visit from my pre-recovery friend J the T, along with her new baby Scarlet! (whom I keep accidently calling "Savanah" for some reason, probably having to do with Gone With The Wind).

J is clean ten months, but only one by choice. We sat on the patio and talked and it was a short visit but hopefully she'll stop by regularly now she's back from Texas.

Thanks for visiting!

Suggesting the operation of uncanny corn

I met Moise (pronounced MY-zee) eight years ago at an inpatient 'rehab', which occupied the third floor of a nearly abandoned old hospital in a small, withering town of unemployed factory workers and meth-freaks.

Last summer when I was committed, hundreds of miles away from that hell-zone, Moise was what you might call a 'good night nurse!', if you expressed surprise like my grandmother.

That is to say, she worked the night shift, as a psych-nurse.

She didn't wake me to say hello, of course. (What kind of nurse would wake you up in the middle of the night, eh?)

So a month passed and I was at The Eclipse by then, returning from a forbidden trip up the street to the internet. There she was, sitting with my housemates in the front yard.

"Hello, John. Do you remember me?"

I said "Yeah!" enthusiasticly, and then, "Well, no. I'm lying. Except right now. I don't, I'm sorry."

Those years ago we were patients together. It must have been ...1998, we've decided?

True to form --- and why not---I was mute most of the time, bigoted regardless of race, color or creed, and afraid of most everyone,--- including her, I suppose.

Our group of ten was too rowdy, too young for me even then!

They alluded to songs and movies and TV shows I didn't know.

I brooded lonesome, a bit angry the staff confiscated the books I'd brought with me in my granddad Jigg's suitcase.

I was just quietly waiting for the world to explode or something, and writing in my spiral notebooks. I forget what sort of trouble I was in. This was five years or so after my felonies. Maybe depression after losing a bookstore job.

Moise was shaken and afraid she was going to die from her addiction. She had two young children, Mariah and Zack.

Outwardly she was laughing, cheerful and outgoing. Young enough to follow along and participate. She'd try to shake me out of my supposed doldrums but there was nothing to shake awake, I was just ignorant and didn't know how to talk to these kids.

At first I thought she fit in with everyone else. And natch, she felt alienated too, even with all the laughter.

I'd get up very early so I could have the TV room and watch Morning Journal on C-span. Moise must have been an insomniac, because she started to join me.

I liked it being just us two.

She didn't feel any compulsion to talk friendly, like every other woman there. Maybe she'd ask me to catch her up on some scandal, which of course I was happy to do, flattered.

Probably thought: hold still...hummingbird? Dream girl?

So over a few weeks of living together like that, we became like partners, in so much as you can be partners in a co-ed re-hab. We signed out for walks around the grounds. Sat together for meals sometimes. Said goodnight and good morning without being automatic or deaf to the reply... Had our private talks.

But those walks. Which is where I'm headed here...

One Saturday night, there was a new nurse at the desk. She was preoccupied with her paperwork, and Moise and I told her we'd be gone awhile, and got a cheerful okeydoke.

Looked at one another and realized we had some plausable deniability about curfews or where we could go...

We opened the first unfamiliar door we could find and started exploring this nearly abandoned old 1910 building. Flights of stairs down, down, down; then underground passage-ways between several buildings.

Stop and wait, ---shhh!--- if we thought we heard someone. Ok.

(Surely there were security guards around somewhere.)

We found a small chapel, I remember well. I turned on the lights with the dimmer switch. We sat and talked rather seriously about what you'd expect, in this quiet mutual reverence for the security guards. Then I noticed a drop-down door on the ceiling, and pulled it down so a staircase unfolded for us. But we agreed that was a bit risky, going up there to the attic.

So we looked around some more. Opened the two doors of the confession booth and spoke through the screen, without reverence now, I'm sure, since by now we were both laughing with one new discovery after another.

In back of the pulpit curtain we looked around the clergy's cloak room, shamelessly opening drawers and cabinet doors, looking for old books or antiques. Not to steal, of course, but just to see and admire.

And then this very narrow door.

I opened it and was surprised to find these very steep, carpeted stairs which seemed to go up two floors instead of one, without zigzagging. The carpet was a strange 1950 style sea-blue (or 7-up green?) The walls were plaster white but the light cast odd shadows, oblique from above us.

I insisted. I may have said "after you!" politely. Or, maybe I didn't have to insist. Moise followed me up, holding on to my shirt-tail I think. We were treading very lightly now, not sure if we were about to find ourselves suddenly in a very public, populated place, or back home, or what.

There were several doors.

We'd found the Nuns' old living quarters.
____
Turning on an old lamp, I was agarsh.

Moise was 'wow'.

This was their common area, or living room, and it was neat and clean but could have smelled of mothballs. There was a TV set from the late 50's, I was sure.

Beautiful but faded, comfortable couches and chairs.

No windows!!

No windows... I think that's what really got to me. We were at the core of something now.

"I think this is it, Watson."

"What?"

"Home!"

"What? Wait, am I Holmes or Watson?"

"We're home, Watson!"

"Haha! Hey you're right! Let's find the kitchen!" she said, and bravely set off on her own, but never out of ear-shot.

I plopped down and stared at the dead eye of the tv and didn't feel the need to turn it on. I knew it'd be something awful, like The Ed Sullivan Show, with some trapeze artists and maybe a dancing bear.

The end.
(Oh. Yeah, we made it back okay.)
____
After our inpatient treatment was over, we wrote a lot, for about a month. I drove to see her once or twice. Something sad was going on. I remember there was a state prison in that town, I'd been reading about all my life but had never seen.
___
Now, since last summer, we are good friends. She came back to the Eclipse with some letters I'd written her. I showed her the Garcia Bear she'd given me, and said perhaps I'd return it someday.

"No, it was a present, John".

"You're...not returning my letters?" I joked.

She laughed. "No, Silly!"
______
Now we are in the same, greater Recovery Movement in this town, and as fate would have it, she is dating one of the brethren here.

Monastaries need women like Moise. Monks like us don't become The Seven Dwarves, of course, I mean, she's just one of the guys, except you offer her your seat at the table, and try to do so before anyone else. That's how it is, is all.

Nice, I mean.

Today

Our Town ll

Renee has such beautiful photos of our town. She likes to walk to work to scout. If you visit her site you'll see what a sharp eye she has, and how much she enjoys photography.

This is just such a pleasent town, since we run off all the students and professors and hose down the alley-ways, periodically.




But some Dialectical grafitti still turns up...




Our colleges have drop-outs naturally, so what are you going to do until they finally go to Voc-Rehab?

Thanks again, R.M. I'll surely ask to raid the vault again, sometime soon.

All photography at Haphazardous.net



(She has hundreds of great photos regardless of your interest in Colobocomo City.)

We Brook No Nonsense

What with the long histories, insular lodginess, and weathered, wizened faces at the Dead End Club, well... there are nick-names of course.

Gotta be!

So you got your Pistol Pete, Luke The Fluke, T-bone Sam, B-b-b-buh Bob The Stammerer, etc. (The women you don't nickname, really. It's always Crazy-____ Glenda, Helen, Mary, Mrs. Cravits...)

I've been going to the club for months but I wasn't going to get a handle, because I'm quiet and the fellows rightly shy away from nicknaming quiet men. But I wanted a nickname because I figured, when we have a newcomer, then the newcomer might think, "that guy must be one of the fellows".

But you can't nickname yourself. I mean, you probably can't, or won't. I solved this by saying, "Hi, they know me back home as 'Honest John', and I'm a proud member of Alcoholics Anonymous."

Gratifying Chorus: "HELLO, HONEST JOHN! HAW HAW HAW!"


Honest John being interviewed
by the police, some years ago.

So people will ask how I came to be known as Honest John, and I of course lie, but tell them something true about myself also: That when I lie, within about thirty seconds I usually say, "Wait! Wait, wait, wait!... I,... just told a lie, I'm sorry."

This all reminds me. Actually, I did get a nickname once, a real one to live down. And it served me right, too, because I started calling my pal Zigfield "Mudhead" from an old Firesign Theatre parody of Archie and Jughead, and he returned the compliment by calling me "Porgy" for years. As in, "I got my two-tones to the floor already, Porgy!"

Now he calls me "Jinx" for the last twenty years. I've never asked him why.

Beautiful day in Coloboco, especially upt'town where the tulips are blooming and the women are dressed in the full range of 2006 styles ranging from 1920 to 1976, this year. From Zelda to Starshine. I've been admiring women for a few twenty-four hours you know (my nephew Toot once complained to my brother D. and me, "how come you guys only talk about hubba-hubba??"). So if I don't know what I'm talking about, Toot does.

Most of those ladies were very pretty! I like 1972, the Tanya/SLA look, especially.

You even start to admire the cars, somedays, upt'town, where they have to roll by you at 15 mph. I don't know the names of cars, but I recognize new models, and old models that have just been washed. Then in the parade, for comic relief almost tragic, you spot one that is clearly illegal, perhaps missing a door or a windshield or a front grill. Today, man alive. That crack-head looked scared and he was having to move so slow I was wondering if he'd pull up on the sidewalk to pass.

He was stupid to be out. He knew he was stupid to be out here, downt'town, not blending in even close with the well-monied and fully insured. And sure enough, five minutes later I turned a corner and there he was, pulled over by the police. Win/win for everyone, even him maybe.

I worked four hours and the weather was still warm and still, but the sky was dark like the end of the world, almost like an eclipse with low, heavy thunderheads. "Sensational", I said aloud. It must have been my own personal "perfect" 75 degrees.

And to reflect that it's not the end of the world. There was a hush, too, like everyone was listening to their radio and it was one voice. Maybe God's! EEEEEEE! yikes. (One of the scariest movies I ever saw as a kid was "The Next Voice You Hear").

Anyway, in closing, I want to confess that the title of this post is a lie. I came up with the title before even thinking about what I was going to write about.

But with that, it's a wrap.

Troop manuevers on LSD (1950s)

No time to bloggo tonight. Sooooo......

If you have quicktime or maybe some other video player, here is a snipet from an interesting, quite funny, contemporaneous documentary about early LSD behavioral tests.

It's under a minute, so should load fast if you're not on dial-up.

(credit to He.fi)

Slow Train

Up at 6:22 a.m., with big memories arriving at 6.23, 6.25... And then at 6:26, when I saw that I forgot to turn Mr. Coffee off last night (no harm to the caraffe, apparently. They tell you to throw it away if it's ever left to scorch on the burner, which reminds me of the shampoo industry's advice to "lather,rinse, repeat").

The other two memories were that a missing friend called me last night; and then that I'd emailed my resume for another position at the paper where I work (something, I hope, inside the building this time.)

Two surprises, then! Like, Oh! Hm! Well, I'll be switched, etc. Like, when you wake up drunk. "Speak, Memory!"

Mostly I'm surprised that I applied for the job, which would be as an applications programmer. I distinctly remember shouting "NO!" the other day while I was shaving. That seemed final, especially with the resulting blood.

An oath, that was. No South Park city job for me, just yet.

Now, will money avalanche in exchange for a possible case of neuraesthenia? Fair exchange, considering how much money I owe to my mama.

The Shadow knows. Or, The Sleeping Beast, according to "Rational Recovery".

I keep all my demons in a box, by the way. Here's a picture of a picture of the box which is not a box.



(Yes, I've had my brush with Post-Modern Theory, mostly from the great humorists who make fun of it.)

(And if that picture does not strike you as nitemarish, you may be downright spiritually fit.)

Meantime. I always forget about Wednesdays. I asked someone today, have I worked a Wednesday here before?? Because all this seems new to me. This hoopla, I mean. And the giant buzz-saw and the pulp-maker and the apparent explosions.

My supe overheard somehow, during a lull, (clanging, whistling, bell ringing din) and said:

"Well! Wednesday comes but once a week!"

Then he turned away with perfect timing, so I could just catch him rolling his eyes.

On Wednesdays the newspaper is twice as fat with advertisements, and we print three times as many. But I've never seen the inserter run so fast, or sound so much like a locamotive. (And yet, I must have. I work Wednesdays plenty.)

Someone said we were doing 17,000 copies an hour. For a second I had the silly idea that this meant we'd all be home sooner.

I'm tired like I've been roughed up. I'm numb. At the end of the shift my left hand was covered in blood or red ink, I couldn't tell which. (I know now. It was blood after all, probably from a wooden pallet-splinter.)

Got home just as some drugular criminals were pulling up in a Missouri hillbilly truck to cart a pool table away from our basement. Boy were they in great spirits to pick up their free pool table.

They had a chickie with them, I recognized from my Dual Diagnosis residential treatment center. Her name is Sunshine and her best friend is her mother who also shoots speed.

I might have/should have greeted her, but saw her before she saw me. (Maybe). Last summer, Sunshine brought crack cocaine into that house--alledgedly--- and the result was in no way similar to the burning of the Reichstag. Seriously, it wasn't at all. After a few months of sober reflection, I'm surprised I bring it up, even.

She (Sunshine) still looks sick. I sympathize more than ever. God, what can you do for people like that?

Handcuffs worked for me, but that was after a lot of studied effort on Ma Kettle's (and other's) parts (including of course my saintly mother). Studied and steady. I knew I was dying. Ma Kettle knew it, like no one else could. I was communicating with her.

Less and less of this sort of talk later. I promise.

So, special thanks for the visit today.

j-jackson

Each Day Deliberately

Murf gets home around 7 a.m. just as I'm doing my morning prayers, waiting for the coffee to brew and smoking my first, not unholy cigarette of the day. Sitting at the table of the basement kitchenette, watching the sun rise.

He may as well be from China, working the night shift. "Hello, John-John! See you have my coffee about ready. Thanks!" he says, passing down the hall to his room, where he sheds his fiberglass dusted clothes.

"You're welcome."

God, my first good deed of the day, thank you. So easy at first. Then he comes back and is cheerfully talkative, and subject oriented, thank goodness. Always something interesting to report. His catch phrase (I'd assign him) is "but you know what-".



Left turn. Right here. But you know what, we could turn around. They say it's a simple program but you know what.
*
He's a good man. I didn't know what to make of him at first, but learned quickly that he has a lot of friends. (If I'm mistaken in that, he should have. But he does.)

"John-John" he called me. I don't mind that, never have. Get to hear my name twice.

Then K.B. is up, slit eyed and stumbling after being up all night on the computer. But Murf wakes him up quick, just asking what's up. Then Charlie comes down and we're four of us gettting pretty loud, a range of subjects mostly alarming and mostly hilarious somehow. Everyone's always got something urgent to do, just to keep on track.

Charlie says apparently without irony, "you just do the next right thing, is all". But after ten minutes we realize he's trying his very best to speak in cliches only, and he's racking his brain. "90 meetings in 90 days, fellows."

"We'll love you, until you learn to love yourself." (Then what, I wonder.)

"Faith chases away fear."

"A drug is a drug."

"Live life on life's terms, dude. Is what I say. But I'm just a dumb painter, ex-con out of prison a few 24 hours."

It was the start of a day, and I'm learning how to fence them off and tell them apart now.

Wrote a letter to a friend, which I'm partly plagarizing myself here. Got in to work at the plant around 1 p.m., did my thing there for three hours, then walked across the street to apply for a programming job.

...Home, fixed up my resume too fast, almost disinterested...and then to a meeting at the Dead End Club. You enter through the back entrance to this building.



It's A.A. but sometimes over-stimulating. You can smoke, which is copacetic, but sometimes you want to go outside to smoke in the fresh air. It's crowded. No ventilation.

Fire-trap, too. I once noticed the tag on the cushion of my chair there. Never seen one like it before: it read something like, 'MATERIAL DOES NOT MEET FIRE-CODE REGULATIONS OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA'. Which may explain why it was here in Missouri.

I have a Love it or Leave it attitude toward the club. If I don't love it, I leave it. Every other week I'm fed up, and don't miss it since I'm going to meetings downtown also.

Here are the painful cases. Maybe some of them stopped too late, (if you can ever say that), maybe some use the club for "controlled drinking", when they've just run out of money.

But there are others too. Time flies here. We talk about life in such a way, usually with stories, hopefully with stories. There are those too who talk solely about what a great meeting we're having, or will have , or might have. (My least favorite subject at A.A. : A.A. How important it is to have these meetings!)

Shut the f__uck up, you've had your five minutes, now let someone else talk who has a story to tell, g*od-da_mnit!

I'm kidding about that picture. Actually The Cabaret is next door to our shack. I was going to take a picture of the club but how could I resist this?



Now the day in its completedness nnnnmnnm, closes. With pork chops, I hope. I bought 'em, K.B. may fix 'em. I wonder what tomorrow brings, besides a full day at work. If I am always doing the next right thing, there's not much to worry about, and plenty to hope for, so good night, or good morning, where ever/when ever you are.

-jackson

Smoking Gun

President Prior called me into the office to discuss my memo about last night's interviews for a new housemate. He had been unable to attend, and there had been a unanimous vote in favor of a fellow named Chance, who has a gorgeous sister who looks like Tracy Nelson (the late Ricky Nelson's daughter).

The president was in a better mood today, but still had me standing to deliver, so to speak. He's still a little sore about my mispronouncing his last name in good company.

I explained that although the vote was unanimous, we could re-open the entire proceedings tonight, or next weekend, so he could be included in the discussion (his information based entirely on my memo, of course.)

He is still intriqued by K.B.'s notion of finding a "Lardo The Tardo".

I said that one of those men interviewed almost fit the bill. But the fellow mentioned living off of his 93 year old grandfather, and having at one time seriously considered murdering the old man.

"Off-putting?" asked the president.

"Yes sir."

He nodded. "What about this other fellow, er, ah.."

"Chad, sir. "

"Not Chance, right, the other fellow, the one in and out of prison. Chad the Pud. He has a lot of kids to support. It means he'll work if he's sober."

"Yes. And Chad is a plumber so I think he can get a job right away, after they let him go."

"A plumber. I'm a plumber."

"You are?"

"Anyone can say they're a plumber. Remember we're dealing with crooks. Liars. Desperate people."

"He was the only other choice the brethren might have voted for," I repeated from my email.

The president frowned and shook his head. "Tough choices. This Chance fellow sounds like he could get in anywhere. There are 16 Oxford Houses in this town, did you know that, H.R. "Bob"?"

(The President calls me H.R. now, and then "Bob", crooking his fingers in quotation marks.)

He continued, "I don't like not being included, although it couldn't be helped due to my pizza route."

"Right," I said.

"Sometimes I think we should consider who is in the most urgent need of help. Chance also has somewhere to stay for the rest of the month, you wrote."

"Right."

"He fixes cars though, and we've got that broken down, stolen one in back..."

"Is it stolen, Sir??"

"It doesn't have any plates, anyway, and we don't know who it belongs to. Anyway, I'm not sure about closing this matter. Not at all. Maybe we should have another set of interviews next week.

"You'd like having your suite for another week, wouldn't you H.R. "Bob" ?"

I said the men may give us some flak if Chance isn't let in. I reminded him about the sister. I wanted to play fair, reminding him, and warning him.

"We'll see if we can start over. Between you and me, we'll find a way. Send up a trial balloon and see if they'll salute it."

I said thanks, and that I appreciated it.