Straight to Hell - Part I

Apparently the following billboard is causing quite a stir in New Zealand. Let's see if anyone notices it here!

Return to Anesthesia

It's on.

Tomorrow I have a nuclear stress test at 7:00 a.m. (to satisfy my absolutely useless cardiologist, whom I've come to hate) and a go-see with my internist (whom I still like) at 3:45 p.m. It is my HOPE that both of them will immediately sign off on my upcoming surgery.

If, God willing, they do then a week from tomorrow I'll arrive at Mt. Sinai hospital here in Manhattan at 10:00 a.m. for a radical prostectomy performed by Dr. David Samadi, using the da Vinci surgical robot.



I can't think of anyone, among my male friends, better suited to this than me. Sex has become nothing but a bitter memory of how I routinely sold myself short over the years.

God has actually done me a big favor.

Meltdown

I had a meltdown last Friday which lasted all weekend.

I was a complete douchenozzle for some of the time (I was pretty well-behaved on Saturday night).

It started on Friday when I got home from my job in NY and found two packages I could've done without. One was a letter, with affidavit, from the NYC Transit Authority, wanting me to tell them the entire story of the transit fare card incident at 53rd & Lex on August 24th. The other was a packet from my surgeon wanting all kinds of tests and clearances, from my internist and from my cardiologist, prior to my upcoming robotic prostectomy on October 14th.

In and of themselves, they were nothing. I was out about $58.00 with the MTA and the other stuff would kill a couple of vacation days during the next few weeks.

It could be much worse. These are high-quality problems for somebody who, 11 years ago, didn't have a job and was virtually homeless.

Somewhere along the way, my gratitude, which ordinarily colors most of my thinking, flew right out the window.

What saved me was having a schedule and sticking to it, of meetings and forced association with other recovering drunks like me.

I arose Saturday morning, grunting with resentment, and dragged myself to my local 12-Step, 7:00 a.m. meeting. Then, I dragged myself to a 10:00 a.m. meeting in Princeton. Then I took myself to see the new Matt Damon movie (GREAT!) and capped it by driving 80 miles (round-trip) to a gay 12-Step meeting in Pennsylvania with a couple of beginners in tow. That was good. It kept me focused on them, and not on myself.

Sunday, I was a grump again. A fax machine in Atlantic City kept attack-dialing my home phone number, starting at 6:30 a.m.. I did a reverse look-up on the internet of the number and got an e-mail address and phone number for the company. I sent an e-mail and left a voicemail, basically threatening them with physical violence if they didn't subdue their lousy fax machine. Eventually it gave up.

I went to my usual Sunday 12-step meeting, sat in the back and growled at everyone, including my sponsor.

I fled the meeting, went to the supermarket, went home and spent the afternoon isolating, napping and generally feeling sorry for myself.

This morning, I attended my home group meeting at 7:30, got to the office, took all the steps to "do the next, right, thing" and suddenly life is worth living again.

I owe this mostly to a) God, b) the program and c) people who care about me.

We have a saying in 12-Step programs which is very annoying:

"This too shall pass."

It did.

Borrowed Time

My heart attack is 20 years old this month.

I was on a Metroliner from Wilmington Delaware to New York City at the time. It was a Sunday afternoon. I'd been on vacation that week in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, where I ate badly, smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish.

In other words, business as usual.

A few minutes after the train pulled out of New Brunswick, I caught sight of the (late) Twin Towers of the World Trade Center some 30 miles off in the distance.

That's when I first felt it. A tightness in my chest. It felt like someone had balled up their fist and was shoving it straight up under my sternum. I didn't know that that's where the heart is actually located. I thought "how odd. it must be indigestion." What did I know about heart attacks? Nothing. I thought you were supposed to feel a shooting pain up your arm (I didn't).

It didn't go away.

I got back to New York and I got home.

It didn't go away. I slept fitfully that night.

It was a hundred degrees in New York that July. My ex and I went out to dinner because it was too hot to cook. We went out that Monday night, the next night (Tuesday) and the night after that (Wednesday). We went to dinner at the Post House (a chop and steak joint) that night. I had the prime rib (large), with a baked potato and lots of butter and broccoli with hollandaise sauce (yeah, I know).

After dinner, we decided to walk over to the Lex line from the west side. We got to Astor Place. I collapsed on the platform.

The doctor said I should've died. He said I'd had a massive coronary. I needed a cigarette and a drink when he said that.

I kept drinking and smoking for years afterward. I didn't care. Even though I was a high-powered Wall Streeter at the time, I was very unhappy and wished, deep-down-inside, that I was dead.

I would eventually lose everything (Wall Street, the ex, etc.) I would get sober in 1998. I would have quadruple-bypass surgery in 2004 and quit smoking at the same time. I would have bilateral endarterectomies in 2005. I would be diagnosed with type II diabetes in 2006 and eventually have a stomach bypass in 2008 to fix the diabetes.

Twenty years ago I had a massive coronary.

Twenty years ago, I realize now, God was very busy saving me from myself. Time and time and time again.

I don't doubt it.

Miracles happen. I am one.

Post-Christian America

The cover story on this week's issue of Newsweek is about life in what it terms "post-Christian America", i.e., an America which has moved well beyond the old-time religion of our forefathers.

As we all know, of course, there never was such a place. Rhode Island, the article points out, was founded by dissidents from all the other major religions as a place of safety from the tyranny of Massachusetts (Protestantism) and Maryland (Catholicism). We were always a mixed bag of beliefs (and non-beliefs). There is nothing new about that.

What is new, though, is that Americans are moving away from organized religions towards individual theologies based on a belief "in a Higher Power" but without the need for any human authority to act as God's muscle here on earth. We are far less religious these days, but far more spiritual.

This sounds suspiciously like every 12-Step Program I've ever heard of. The grandaddy of 12-Step programs, Alcoholics Anonymous, began in 1935 in Akron Ohio. One of it's founding tenets is the need for it's members to develop a belief in a "Power Greater than Ourselves"... leaving it up to the individual member to decide for him or herself exactly what that Power is.

This is very bad news for the RRR (radical religious right) aka "fundies" (fundamentalists) who would like to impose a born-again, literal fundamentalist theocracy on the nation; to outlaw abortion on demand (and, eventually, all contraception); to drive all LGBTQ people back into self-loathing closets and to "restore" our nation to it's pristine, newly-founded, condition. Which, by the way, never really existed.

Despite the outcome of Prop 8 in California last November, last Friday's unanimous vote by the Iowa Supreme Court and the outcome of the votes of the Vermont legislature and senate yesterday have triggered a seismic shift in America's thinking on the subject of gay rights in particular and fair play and full equality in general.

I believe that the culture war is over (or nearly so). The Right has lost (decisively).

Next subject?

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UPDATE!! Anti-Gay National Organization for Marriage Launches New Campaign in wake of recent events.






--- more update: it turns out they're all actors. somebody turned up the audition tapes and posted them on Youtube, too. Gee, you can't even trust Christianist Fundamentalists anymore.

Rudderless

Addiction and lack of direction go hand in hand. It’s difficult to pinpoint just which one comes first. I generally opt for starting out life with a lack of direction, booze and drugs to follow (shortly).

I grew up surrounded by a bunch of aimless, drunken, souls whose main ambitions every week were to survive and then to get blasted on Saturday night.

Nobody ever sat me down and said, “What would you like to do?” Nobody ever showed that much interest in me. The general attitudes around my childhood home were a) that I was a burden for them to endure and b) that I was a handy weapon my mother could use against my father and c) that children should be seen and not heard. Nor did anyone try to give me a leg up on life by teaching me anything (worthwhile, or not). Frankly, they didn’t have very much to offer. I was a bright kid, who could’ve done a lot if I’d been given half a chance (or even some outside tutoring). Regrettably, I had to figure everything out for myself (becoming an autodidact) and it came as a rude shock when, in the middle of the 9th grade, I realized that I couldn’t teach myself algebra. I threw in the towel on education when I hit that brick wall. I barely managed to finish high school, despite the kindness and interest of a handful of teachers. I was too ashamed to ask any of them for help.

My primary responsibilities as a kid were a) to keep up appearances in Catholic (and later, public) school so that no attention would ever be drawn to what was actually happening in my house and b) to clean up after the alcohol-fueled messes.

Consequently, I’ve never aspired to be successful. I’ve never aspired to “having a career” or even having a job that I would be remotely interested in. If I mastered something, I got bored with it. If it was too hard (i.e., it took more than a week to learn) I quickly lost interest and tossed it aside.

The same went for people. Either I mastered them overnight, or they fell by the wayside.

And there were careers and relationships. To all outward appearances, both were lovely. But they weren't. They were empty shams.

Nothing fulfilled me. Nothing gave me a sense of being. I spent most of my life being a big, empty, nothing.

Only recently have I begun to realize that all those things I failed to get in childhood (including having decent role models for healthy relationships) I was now in an ideal position to give as a sober adult.

The rooms of 12-Step programs are full of needy people, who, like me, grew up empty, desperate for loving direction, kindly help and moral support. I had the opportunity to “be” the very thing I so desperately craved. I could be the loving father and mother to others that I never had for myself.

I had a chance, at long last, to be fulfilled.

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p.s. I'm watching the live stream of the California Supreme Court hearing on the constitutionality of Prop 8. So far I'm having a hard time pinning down the court's attitude.

Old Queens

When I got home last night there was a message on my answering machine from my (half)-brother. Our dad is in the hospital. He was delirious and suffering from dehydration (the two go hand-in-hand with the elderly) on Monday, had driven HIMSELF to the hospital (pain-in-the-ass-never-ask-for-help type that he, and the rest of us, is and are).

There is just he and my step-mom in the house. There's plenty of family within driving distance, however. My step-mom's mind is shot and she really shouldn't be left alone. Dad had sense enough to get himself to the emergency room. However, he did not have sense enough (or time enough) to drop her someplace where she'd be safe -- from herself and others. So she was left home, alone.

Although he's 83, he'll probably be fine. This time. But the time is coming when "something" will "have to be done about" them both.

I have a half-sister and half-brother. Dad is really more their dad than mine. Aside from the sperm donation he didn't really have anything to do with me until I was an adult. That wasn't his "fault" (my birth mom was a vindictive, hateful bitch, not to put too fine a point on it), but we don't have a typical father-son dynamic in our relationship. We're more like cordial friends. We certainly don't feel obligated towards each other for anything. Or, at least, I don't.

And that's why I think that they are more my half-siblings problem than mine. Nobody helped me with my birth mom when the time came for me to become her legal guardian and to commit her to a nursing home. I had to walk through that pretty much alone. With an expensive law-firm in Wilmington, Delaware. My mom didn't have any friends at the end of her life, and she'd blown through about five husbands. Nobody wanted anything to do with her -- but it fell to the "dutiful son (me!)" to see to it that she was cared for. If you call old-age hell-holes "care."

So, forgive me for wanting to keep a polite distance from the current familial drama.

However, this coming on top of "H"'s death last week has left me even more distanced from life than usual. And it's not helping matters that this coming Sunday

I__T_U_R_N__S_I_X_T_Y

Is it any wonder, then, that I occasionally lapse into thinking "Please God, just let me die peacefully in my sleep Saturday night"?

At least I'll look pretty good. I'm getting my hair done Saturday morning.

And my friends, L&M, are taking me out for a birthday dinner Saturday night.

Come to think of it, things are actually pretty good right now.

But come Sunday, if I live that long, I, like the late lamented Quentin Crisp, will officially become

One of the Stately Homos of America!

Still Crazy After All These Years

There's a new addition at the JoyZeeBoy home. His name is Philips and he's a bouncing 72 pound, 42" 1080p, 120hz, LCD-HDTV.

He was landed not without a certain amount of high drama and self-loathing. It all started at my Big Gay 12-Step meeting in Princeton on Friday night when I asked for a "some strapping lad" to assist me in getting Philips home from Sam's Club Saturday afternoon. I got a volunteer, alright, all 5'6", 130 pounds sopping wet of him.

But beggars can't be choosers so I offered to buy my newfound friend lunch on Saturday in exchange for his services in picking up the new set and helping me to schlepp it home and up the stairs to my 2nd story aerie in the Oldest Decrepit Victorian in Hightstown, NJ.

I picked him up on Saturday, we had lunch at the beautiful Americana Diner on Route 130 and then drove cross-country to the Sam's Club out on Route 1 near Princeton.

Where a week ago had stood a plethora of boxes of 42" sets there now stood nada, nil, zip. They'd sold out all 9 of them in the course of one week. I cornered a couple of the young miscreants who pretend to work at Sam's and demanded to be shown to the hidden stash of tv's. But, alas, they really were out ... and they couldn't sell me the floor model because they "might" get more in later this week.

Well, later this week would NOT DO. I want my toys when I want 'em. And I wanted it then. I drove my new friend back to his place and then headed home for a well-deserved evening of self-pitying, isolationist, God-hating. I excel at that at times.

Sunday morning, after an evening of much acting out with inappropriate foodstuffs, I rousted myself out of the house to another 12-Step meeting where I knew I would see my sponsor. After the meeting, as I explained to him how God had carefully plotted and crafted the entire previous two weeks so that I would "think" I was getting a new TV but was, in reality, get a new sponsee (my friend from the day before who, at lunch, worked up the nerve to ask me to sponsor him), my sponsor just nodded sagely, commiserated fully, pronounced me a bat-shit-crazy alcoholic and asked me if I'd checked out the Sam's Club on Route 18 in East Brunswick.

Well, I sputtered, ahem, uh, er, well, no.

He smiled and went home. I tore across country to the turnpike northbound and was there in less than 20 minutes.

They had it.

I bought it.

I brought it home.

It's gorgeous.

And now, of course, I have buyer's regret.

Some weeks it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

And it NEVER pays to be me.

Divine Retribution

I see that the religious dingbats are now proclaiming I-35, which runs from north to south somewhere "out there" where I never go have declared it to be some kind of cleansing highway, sent by the Lord, to rid the country of homosex.

Or some bullshit like that. SAY "HALLELUJAH!"

I don't know much about God, but I do know one thing, and it's the same thing that the Greeks knew about their Gods. They will not be mocked.

The Greeks even had a special word for the sort of pride which garners the attention of the residents of Olympus -- and pisses them off to the point where they inflict very Godlike retribution on the poor earthly schlub who was dumbassed enough to mouth off.

That word was "hubris." It sort of loosely translates as "overweening pride" but it actually goes a lot further than that.

Greek mythology (and ancient Greek plays) are full of dumbassed jerks who piss off some God or Goddess and wind up gouging their own eyes out, or killing and eating their own children, or neat stuff like that as punishment for being such assholes to begin with.

Rule Number One in Greek Mythos: "There are Gods. You ain't them. Don't piss them off."

Now I must tell you that today, I am duly chastised by the Gods. Yesterday I posted a piece about a feeling I had regarding the aging population and my opinion that many of us would eventually be faced with the dreadful decision to do ourselves in rather than face financial ruin and become wards of the state.

Apparently I shouldn't speak of such things, not even philosophically.

This morning I received a disturbing voicemail from a sponsee of mine. He apparently attempted to kill himself last night, wound up in an emergency room overnight, and this morning they packed him off to a psychiatric rehab for a week or so.

I know I'm not personally responsible for this. I've done my best to be a good sponsor to him, not yelling at him when he has "slipped" before, but rather trying to be gentle and understanding at all times. Still, I've always suspected that he hadn't really faced up to the magnitude of his bottom. He was always too eager to "yes" me, rather than taking a moment to delve into his thoughts and feelings to tell me the truth of his pain.

It is the single most difficult thing anyone in recovery has to do, to reach down inside, through the brick wall that we ourselves have constructed within ourselves, to pull out shreds of truth which we can share with others and, finally, acknowledge to ourselves.

Apparently he found that brick wall, all alone, last night. In his call this morning, from the ambulance carrying him away, I could hear his voice shake as he cried that he had, indeed, finally "hit bottom."

I finally tracked down the place where they took him. It relieved me greatly just to know that he was someplace where he'd be taken care of (and couldn't hurt himself). He's not allowed to have any contact with the outside world while he's there -- or at least, not yet.

Every night, before I hit the hay, I hit my knees. I've done this pretty much every night since I got sober. At a minimum I thank God for my sobriety today and beg Him to keep me sober tomorrow.

I also pray that God look out for, and over, all the sick and suffering alcoholics and addicts in the world.

Humans, drunk or not, are so frail you see -- each of us needs all the help we can get.

Including me.

Service

One of the tenets of faith in 12-Step sobriety is that, ultimately, we get clean and sober in order to be of service to others. In fact, we say that our "primary purpose is to stay sober and to help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety."

Everything else in our lives becomes... not unimportant, but certainly secondary to our sobriety. It has to be that way because without our sobriety (first) we wouldn't have anything else. We'd lose life partners, children, careers, fortunes and health if we started using again.

Sometimes that "service" we render to others takes the form of one-on-one sponsorship of a newcomer. A sponsor's job in recovery is, simply, to lead the newcomer through the 12-Steps of recovery. It's not to be "the fixer." It's not to be mommy or daddy, or Dear Abby, or Bank of America or Triple AAA. But it is to share the sponsor's "experience, strength and hope" regarding their own experience with the Steps. Period.

And sometimes that service comes in the form of serving in some leadership function or another. Here's where it gets tricky. We have no President or Chairman of the Board or, indeed, much "management" at all, to speak of. As we say, "our leaders lead, but they do not govern" and anyone, anyone at all, can be "recalled" from a leadership position at any time simply by means of a "group conscience." These positions are always an honor to fill.

Back in May I was elected by my home group to lead a Friday morning beginner's meeting here in Manhattan. This was the third time I've been elected to this post over the past seven years. The length of the term is six months. I have a co-chair and we alternate Fridays from July 1 through December 31.

For reasons nobody quite understands (God?) this Friday morning meeting has grown by leaps and bounds over the past 7 years. This morning (my turn) we had 75 people turn out for it. We ran out of time before everyone could "share." When I see that this is going to happen I try to pick out newcomers in the crowd to call on because they are the most likely to drink. The old timers might cop a resentment over not being called on, but in the immortal words of my sponsor, "screw 'em if they're that overly sensitive."

He's right, of course. He always is (he also monitors this blog - "LOVE YA, BRO'!"

I look forward to Friday's meeting more than any other in the week. When I sit up in the front of that room and see the looks on the faces of people who are trying, like me, to get better... when I witness their struggles and their losses and their victories, small and large, I am overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude and with a profound belief in God and in miracles.

For any day that 75 alkies and druggies don't pick up a drink or a drug is nothing short of a friggin' miracle.

It seems like only 10 Years ago...

This coming weekend is the 10th anniversary of my planned death. No, I'm not kidding. I was horrifically drunk at the time. I'd been horrifically drunk for over 2 years (well, longer actually, but 2 seems like a good number.) I'd left my ex in November of '94 and moved into my "Apartment of Gloom" on East 78th Street.

I spent the next couple of years a) not working and b) pissing away every dime I'd banked during my lucrative Wall Street years ('83-'94).

By the summer of '97 I was drunk pretty much 24/7/365. The money was rapidly running out and I knew that it was only a matter of weeks before I had to shuck off this mortal coil.

(I'm sorry if this makes anyone out there feel squeamish, but it's the way it was.)

Now, in my insanity I hadn't actually "done" anything to prepare to do myself in. I hadn't bought any weapons or drugs to do the deed with. I vaguely recall having some notion of using "household goods" of some sort or another to do it. I remember a box cutter which I thought would do the trick (don't try this at home, kids), only it turns out you need a tub full of hot water in order to "bleed out". A bucket of warm vomit won't work.

Anyway, I didn't even get that far. The Labor Day weekend arrived and I was drifting in and out of consciousness when suddenly I became dimly aware that "something" was happening. That "something" was the announcement that Princess Diana had been in a horrific auto accident in Paris.

Well, that perked me right up. I remember blearily trying to focus on the screen (I had a 48" Sony XBR rear-projection tv in those days) and thinking (well, sort of), "OH, THISH IS SUCH A TRAGEDITY", so, naturally, I forgot all about dying (me, at any rate) and started thinking about what a wasted young life had been extinguished in Paris that weekend.

And I watched, every time I wasn't passed out, for the next week.

What had been missing from my life for months and even years at that point had been... TA-DAH! drama. Now I had plenty of drama. It wasn't my drama, but I made it my drama.

Anyway, I was pretty insane in those days (as you can tell), but I'm not nearly so now.

10 years ago Princess Di's life, which wasn't supposed to have ended, did. 10 years ago my life, which was supposed to have ended, didn't.

I'm glad God doesn't ask my opinions about anything. I'd be giving her all kinds of crazy-assed advice if She did.

A Good Christian Woman is Dying

I was gonna write some upbeat crapola about the fagulous time I had on Cape Cod and down in Gayhoboth... until I saw a brief snippet of Tammy Faye (Bakker) Mesner from her recent (last night?) appearance on Larry King Live.

She looks like hell. She should. She's been there and back. She's eaten up with cancer and it's literally only a matter of time (and not much of it at that, based on her looks). That picture, by the way, is not a recent one. I think it would be indecent to post a photo of her as she looks now. Tammy's personal defects include, I'm afraid, vanity. And I know she always wants to look her best.

I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd say something like this, but I think this woman is a sterling example of what it means to actually lead a Good Christian Life. She has nothing but kindness and love and compassion and forgiveness in her soul, despite all the crap that got sent her way via a succession of scheming, conniving, backstabbing men, some of whom she married and some of whom she didn't (oh, Pat Robertson comes to mind, with all of his manipulations to take over the PTL empire when it - and she - fell on hard times).

Tammy Faye accepts - and did even before it was fashionable - LGBT people exactly the way we are AND lets us know that in her humble opinion God loves us just the way we are and there's no need to be fussin' over it.

I think the key to her success was and remains a stubborn insistence on maintaining a childlike innocence in the face of some pretty harsh realities combined with a childlike faith in the loving goodness of a Higher Power whom she chooses to call God.

Ordinarily I have nothing but contempt for and suspicion of televangelists and their ilk. But I will make one exception, for Tammy Faye.

I think I actually love this woman.

I pray that goodness and mercy will follow her all the days of her life.

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HOT FLASH! Check out this video by Max Blumenthal over at the Huffington Post blogsite. He nails chickenhawk Republican college dimwits to the barn doors, left and right.

Tomorrow: Fagulous Times

Getting On

It's my penultimate birthday before the big "Six-Oh."

I am officially decades older than I ever thought I would be. I have severely mixed feelings about having achieved (?) this venerable age. Mostly my feelings revolve around small arms and household poisons and wondering where I can obtain both.

Sometime in my late teens, probably around the age of 17 or so, I was so unhappy with life that I remember being awakened from a violent dream one night in which I was being shot to death at the age of 30, I'd be "done in." My "killer" in the dream was a jealous lover. I thought it was very glamorous and dramatic to be killed in one's prime by a jealous boyfriend.

Keep in mind that at the ripe old age of 17 I'd never had a boyfriend and, because it was 1965, I wasn't even sure what a boyfriend was... but I knew that a) I wanted one and b) I wanted to die at his hands while I was still young and beautiful (stifle yourselves).

Flash forward to the age of 41. Two weeks after that unremarkable birthday I had a massive coronary on the evening of one of the hottest days ever recorded in New York.

I lived (obviously), but only barely. For at least another decade and a half I was sure that God hated me so He kept me alive. For that decade and a half I smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. I wanted to be more right than God. I was jealous that I wasn't God. I hated God because I wasn't Him. I hated God because I was still alive.

Then I got sober 90 days before my 50th birthday. I never told a soul, not even my 12-Step sponsor, that it was my birthday. I believe I was in court having my license suspended for six months that day. It was a great way to spend my 50th birthday! I was paying my debt to society, starting to clean up the wreckage of the past, and moving out of my drunken life into my new, sober one.

I have continued, for the last decade, to keep this date quiet from all of my new friends and acquaintences. Fortunately for me, most of my old friends, and what little remains of my family, have nearly completely forgotten my birthday.

Look, I have this theory that there's an age beyond which you should just get over the fact that people forget your birthday.

That age is 7.

12th Step

Today my 12-Step home group had it's bi-annual elections to fill all of its service positions for the coming six months.

I don't know what came over me but my hand accidentally shot up when they asked if anyone wanted to co-chair the Friday morning beginner's meeting.

I won.

This obligates me to be there, every other Friday, from July 1st through December 31st. Don't bother doing the math, that's 13 times. I have a co-chair, a very nice young woman, who'll be doing the other 13 Fridays.

This'll be the 3rd or 4th time I've co-chaired this meeting since I started attending meetings there, in March of 2000.

I don't get a lot of opportunity to be "of service" to others in my 12-Step Program because of the amount of commuting I do. Hence my comment in my bio about spending "too much time" on the New Jersey Turnpike every day. Nevertheless, Service Work is a very important part of recovery, especially for somebody like me, who has a few years of sobriety under his skirt.

I love chairing the Friday meeting. It's the biggest meeting of the week, attendance-wise. Also, it's a beginner's meeting, so we try to keep to beginner's topics, such as "how to avoid getting drunk over the weekend" or "dealing with your parents without resorting to dealing with your dealer."

We tend to get quite a few people who are counting days (from 1 to 90) in recovery at this meeting. We always let them share first. We old-timers keep our traps shut and absolutely love it when the newcomers share. Because their shares are almost always loaded with pain, it serves to remind us of how much pain we were in when we first got clean and sober... and vividly recalling that pain is important if we hope to stay clean and sober in the future.

It's also beneficial to the newcomer to share that pain because it actually helps to lessen it. Whenever people share at 12-Step meetings, everybody wins. The newcomers will benefit from listening to the experience, strength and hope of the old-timers, with whom they strongly identify. To hear how they managed to survive that pain, and to work through their painful issues, using the 12-Steps of recovery, gives the newcomer hope and faith in the program and will, eventually, give them a faith in a Power Greater than Themselves.

I am always humbled whenever I'm selected for service. I'm humbled that my co-recoverers have faith in my ability to lead. I'm also reminded of our Second Tradition which states:

"For our group purpose there is but one ultimate authority—a loving God as He may express Himself in our group conscience. Our leaders are but trusted servants; they do not govern."

I hope I can keep that in mind from July to December.

Signs from HP

In exactly 599 days we will finally be rid of that incompetent nincompoop who currently occupies the office of the President of the United States. Maybe, then, we can get ourselves a real President.

Or another incompetent nincompoop. Generally speaking, that seems to be whom we mostly elect to public office in this country. Incompetent nincompoops with the occasional breath of fresh air thrown in for good measure. But they're rarities.

I suppose it's a good sign that Fred Thompson is throwing his hat into the Republican ring. The Republican Party seems to have a real taste for actors as candidates (Reagan, Schwarzenegger, George Murphy). They always seem to strike gold with their actors, while simultaneously managing to blast the rest of Hollywood as a bunch of Commie activists.

The Republicans are real good at that sort of thing. Blasting Clinton for adultery... while committing adultery (but it's DIFFERENT, you see...)

I'm not saying there isn't plenty of hypocracy to go around, I'm just saying that the Republicans seem to have managed to turn it into an art form.

Anway, there are "signs" everywhere that things are about to change... big time. Dubya has committed two major faux pas in the last few days with "the base." First, he backed Immigration Reform, which really raises the hackles of the base. Secondly, he asked Congress to DOUBLE funding for AIDS... after he leaves office, of course.

He's clearly hedging his post-Presidency bets, hoping to put one last coat of lipstick on the PIG of his Presidency. Apparently, our shitheaded President has started to think about his legacy.

Or else he's gotten another "vision" from his Higher Power... and it scared him.

Now, speaking of signs from Higher Powers, I think mine might be sending me some signals. I have diligently shopped for real estate for the last few weeks. As you may recall I fell in love with the first place I looked at, the one with the fabulous paint job.

See my blog from earlier this month: "Cheap Tarts" for a picture of the living room.

Well, guess what. It turned up again yesterday, on the internet, at $5,000 LESS than the asking price from two weeks ago. It's now less than $200k (well, it's $199k). I sent an e-mail to my real estate agent asking her if she could find out what time they closed the pool at night, since my major concern was the noise level outside the bedroom window late at night. She called me an hour ago. They close the pool at 7:30 p.m. every night.

I could live with that.

Love the paint job, love the balcony, love the space, love the pool, love the price.

Do you believe in signs?

I DO! (But, being a typical Doubting Thomas... I'll sleep on it.)

News of the Day

Congress Passes “Sacrifice The Troops” Bill

$120bb Supplemental Funding Passes Both Houses

Minority Leader Boehner Boo-Hoos the Killing of More American Kids (but approves it anyway)

Read about it here.

Meanwhile

God Rains Shit Upon GWB

Read about it here.

This Memorial Day weekend, when we revere the nation’s war dead, let us not forget all the living men and women who, every day, march, sail or fly into “harm’s way” to defend us from our enemies.

And let us also remember just who it is that is currently ordering them into “harm’s way”, "The Commander Guy" aka "ShitForBrains."

And then let us all resolve to do something about it. Okay?

Meanwhile, have a look at how supportive Mitt Romney is of all his gay friends:

Read about it here.

But above all, do yourselves one little favor... try to find some time this weekend to loosen up a little and to not take yourselves so damn seriously (which I know I'm guilty of).

After all, God doesn't take any of this seriously at all.

God Only Knows

Don't you just love the TeleTubbies? I do. They're so sweet. They send important messages to our toddlers and preschoolers. Messages of love and cooperation and friendship.

Not to mention the message that Gay is Good and you really ought to try it sometime!

Well, at least that's what some people think.

I overheard some people talking this morning about the fires in the pine barrens in south Jersey, which sounded important.

They also mentioned the death of some televangelist, which isn't important. At least not to me.

I should be charitable and add that I then prayed, sincerely, that said televangelist would be delivered into exactly the sort of Heaven he always dreamed about and that he will get to spend eternity in the company of people exactly the way HE likes 'em. White. Male. Conservative. Heterosexist. And exactly just like himself.

And I meant it. Eternity. Forever and ever. Without hope of change.

Dave Barry, the columnist, once wrote that he was pretty certain that when God chose to speak to him that it "wouldn't be through some guy in a cheap suit with a bad haircut on cable tv at 6 o'clock on a Sunday morning." I'd add to that that God doesn't need cash, or tithing or anything else of a material nature, including buildings, limos or airplanes.

Men (or mostly men) need tithing, cash and buildings and so on. They need cars and big-assed universities and all kinds of things "for the greater glory of God" not to mention the greater glory of themselves. For no matter how much they gussy up their so-called good intentions, the fact of the matter is, God does not need a place to live. Not an Ark. Not a Temple. Not a Church. Not a Cathedral. Not a Basilica. "God" doesn't need anything from US. And it is insane vanity to think that we have anything at all to offer God, except our obedience and gratitude and love. All the rest is gold-plated, 100%, bullshit.

The United States of America has a long-standing tradition of producing snake oil salesmen, charlatans, humbugs and Elmer Gantry's who come along in a nearly endless procession and brandish new and innovative ways to bullshit us into believing their "pie-in-the-sky-by-and-by" brand of Salvation, for just one thin dime, a measly one-tenth of a dollar, yessir Ladies and Gentlemen, step right up and SEE what God has in store for YOU! Say Hallelujah!!!

And many of us do it. Not for the love of God. But because of some craving bordering on a character defect deep inside of us to belong to something. To anything. Not trusting at all in our own inate bond with the Almighty. Thinking that we "need" some middleman with the Creator in order to guarantee that we'll be forgiven for all the shit we've done and that we'll pass through the Pearly Gates unscathed and unscarred.

Was the decedent one of those sorts of men? I don't know. It's not for me to judge.

But I do know this. His personal beliefs cost a lot of people a lot of personal grief. He may even be responsible for the deaths of many people. A lot of people think so. I don't know for sure.

But God does.

Supreme Court Declares that Women are Property!!!!

"My husband controls my uterus." Copyright © Austin Cline.

Regarding today's title, they didn't really, but they might as well have.

It doesn't matter where you stand on the issue of abortion, what does matter are the words. And these are the words:

"the government may use its voice and its regulatory authority to show its profound respect for the life within the woman."


I'm not making these words up. I know about words. I know about their power and impact and their nuances, too. There is nothing nuanced in the words of Justice Anthony M. Kennedy, quoted above.

These words clearly mean that all pregnant women are the carriers of state property and that the state may dictate and police policy regarding the care and feeding of that state-owned property, come hell or high water. It also flat out states that what the woman is carrying is "life" which I've always defined as something that actually lives on the face of the earth, not something that's still sub-dividing in a flesh-lined Petrie dish.

I know this one sure thing ... I am NOT privy to the circumstances surrounding every pregnant woman's decision regarding the life FORMS she carries within her, nor am I privy to GOD'S DIVINE PLAN which, presumably, includes the exact moment at which a life FORM gets a soul.

But apparently Co-Gods and Supreme Court Justices Kennedy, Alito, Scalia, Thomas and Chief Justice Roberts, are privy to both.

May They Bless Themselves!

Oh, wait, that's right. They already have.

(p.s. I still believe that it's a woman's right to choose.)

Unconditional Love

"Would You Shower?" Copyright © Austin Cline

Isn't today's poster great? It's obviously some WWII magazine ad for saving scrap metal or something which PhotoShop artiste Austin Cline has warped into every Sodomite's dream come true. This is not "South Pacific" as envisioned by Rogers & Hammerstein, but it sure is South Pacific as envisioned by ME!

Except, of course, that it wasn't quite like that in real life. I should know. I spent four years showering with shiploads of guys and believe me, there wasn't any sodomitical hanky-panky going on that I was ever aware of.

Which isn't to say that there wasn't any, merely that I was thick enough to have not seen it.

That's called "denial" and if you'd like to hear more about that subject be sure to check out my friend, Bev's, weblog today, here.

Bev's a good friend. She even plugs my blog there today. God love her. And speaking of God loving people, that brings me to today's subject, "Unconditional Love."

I've mentioned here before that I grew up in an alcoholic family, that alcoholism figuratively ate my childhood and that I pretty much wound up raising myself, for lack of any worthwhile adult role models as a child. It took me some time in recovery to realize how that lack of attention as a child colored my relationships as an adult. I was always on the lookout for someone to take care of me. I had this aching void in the center of my soul that nothing could fill. It was an unfillable lack of love, AS A CHILD. It's hard to describe, but many addicts are seeking to numb the pain of some unfulfilled need that, as a practical matter, simply can't be filled.

Here's an example. I'd always wanted a good relationship with my father. I'd yearned for it my entire life. But it was only in sobriety that I realized, I don't want a good relationship with him NOW, I want a good relationship with him WHEN I WAS SEVEN!!!

Yeah, I know it sounds ridiculous, but that's what's going on.

Anyway, I'd spent my whole life looking for that unconditional, parental, love that I never got as a kid. And every poor soul I met who showed me the least attention was almost nearly immediately cast into the role of the missing father/mother from my childhood. Without consciously thinking it, I expected them to fulfill all those previously unfulfilled needs in my life.

In short, nobody ever stood a chance with me. I expected too much.

Until I got sober. And found the rooms of 12-Step Programs. For the last year or so I've been suffused with an overwhelming sense of well-being that's difficult to describe. I somehow sense or know that everything is "okay" and that all is well and that no matter what happens, well, that's life. No longer do I feel that there are nefarious forces at work in the universe, out to get me, to ruin my life. Every time I come away from a 12-Step meeting, I feel renewed, refreshed.... Taken Care Of.

And I've started to realize something. I have found what it is that I've spent my whole life looking for in recovery.

I have finally gotten Unconditional Love from a bunch of Adults whom I Trust Completely.

And isn't that what every 9 year old really needs and wants?

Love.... JoyZeeBoy