Father Mark

The purest heart hangs by a thread.
Originally uploaded by Haribo's Photos

Familiar places reminding me of drink, like the back of the light rail car I’m currently riding in, sharing the odor of ganja. Police asking for my rail ticket, this time I have it to show. Its funny how this clean shaven white guy doesn’t even get a close examination of my ticket; it could’ve been invalid. Or maybe the cop is lazy, since he did nothing about the pot smelling punk. Minneapolis cops are like that.

Just last night I was waiting at the bus stop and had to walk away from the bench because two drunk black men were arguing loudly while their woman puked all over the bench; fairly standard for 11 o’clock at night at the corner of Franklyn and Nicollet. In the twenty minutes it took for the bus to arrive there passed no less than four of Minneapolis’s finest patrol cars without as much as a single glance at the disorder on display. Minneapolis cops are useless.

I’m drafting this on my Palm Tungsten e2 on the train as I return from my piss test, for a job instead of a PO. The thought of drinking in this trigger ridden place has, thankfully, not overcome me with tremendous desire to use. In two days, I’ll have as many months sober…but who’s counting? I wont mention it at my next AA meeting. Hell, I’ve already got so many one and two month medallions, I don’t need another, nor another acknowledgement. I’ll hold off until my third month sober. For the record, my sobriety date is September 13th, 2010.

Yes, I said job…finally; Two, actually. I start as a seasonal bell ringer for The Salvation Army this morning. Then, starting the first full week in December, I start full-time at The CallCenter (sorry I couldn’t come up with a more creative alias). I asked a lot of souls for their prayers, and God was listening.

I really shouldn’t have started this blog post so early in the morning. I’m pooping out. Speaking of which, I’m wondering why my poop was green and runny when I went to give my piss test? I couldn’t hold #2 in while filling the urine cup, so I let both fly and found green stool. I don’t feel sick, yet for some reason I’ve got the green runs. Maybe my bodies become eco-friendly.

The smell has vacated as the black dude stopped hitting on those two chicks and left. No wonder his eyes where so puffy and red.

I have called him Father Mark for the last five years; he finds it funny. I think Mark J. should be canonized, but instead received his five-year medallion a few days ago. He’s a good friend, not just an AA one, and has helped every new comer he’s encountered in one way or another. He’s helping me. We’re starting over from the beginning in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. He’s moved to Roseville and, coincidentally, that is where my new job at The CallCenter is located. There’s an extra room available in his house and we’ve discussed me possibly moving in when and if this new job pans out.

He's back with his ganja smell. These young black girls he’s hitting on think it’s cool.

I’m listening to music for first time in a while instead of news. I’m doing a lot of things anew now that I’ve decided not to drink. I’m following God's will.

Darla V. called. I plan to see her Saturday night after work. Although I haven’t seen her since we lost the apartment in Saint Paul, I don’t believe she’s in a relationship. When I see her, I want to kiss her long and hard. We’ll probably meet at a bar, but I don’t think I’ll drink. I’ll keep you informed.

Teresa J. called too. She actually found me on Facebook. She’s an old college fling from back in early ‘80s. She still lives in Anaheim, CA, 1500 miles away. She’s a total nymphomaniac. More about her later.

If you keep up with my blog, you know my history with starting a new job. After settling in, I get comfortable, then drink. Eventually, I loose the job and home and property and mind. I’ll have to do thing differently this time.

I must satisfy my penurious need for job starting material (i.e. bus pass, work cloths, lunch money, etc.). This bell ringer job should put me in the black enough for business dress cloths.

I really must get to sleep now. I just want to conclude by saying I’ve been practicing YALO and FOG: Yet Another Learning Opportunity and to keep an eye out for Fucking Opportunities for Growth. Let the FOG roll in!

P.S. I need to update the look of this blog. And the photo has no connection what so ever to this blog…I just thought of heart when searching for an image.

Update: The Salvation Army had no work for rookie bell ringers on this first day. With nearly 140 candidates and only 24 available positions, only the veteran ringers were chosen. This left my roommate, Wayne R., and me without work. We were the only residents of the Hunting Hotel looking for this type of work. I believe the vast majority of candidates were residents of Sally, which means, since they already live there, will most likely not be dissuaded from showing up tomorrow. My only hope is that some discouraged candidates left early without signing in or turning in their badges; they’ll be picked last tomorrow. But it wasn’t a total loss.

In all honesty, I did start to feel resentments. These initiated from simply walking back into this building and seeing some of the old faces again. Sally did me wrong when I went to treatment there and some of the people I’ve run into still believe it’s my fault. But, I figure this is part of God’s plan for me; to take this resentment and deal with it in a health, more constructive way. I’ll let you know how that works out after I climb back down from the clock tower.

Besides a nutritious (second) breakfast, I had a few unexpected YALO moments. I ran into Rick D. from the Sober Barn and he asked me to call him later about an opportunity. This definitely smells of God’s will, so I’ll follow up on that. Rick is one of the drivers for Sally this morning. Although I’ve mentioned the Sober Barn before, I’ve never explained Rick’s part in it. Rick is an automotive repair man who dabbles in computers, but when I met him needed an extreme update on the latest improvements to computer technology. He’d been out of the loop for a while; serving time for check fraud in prison can do that. I taught him as much as I could about the computer network I’d established, pro bono, for the Sober Barn. Given that, he still disparaged me in the eyes of their management when I was kicked out. I was warned about his thieving, and experienced it first hand when picking up my computer. He’d already taken my monitor, keyboard and WiFi card. I’d gotten them back, but at the point of him questioning whether I actually owned them. Even though he’s got several years of sobriety, he’s not to be fully trusted. Rick will always make sure he’s on the winning side of any financial deal he’s involved it. But, I will call him nonetheless.

Wayne (roommate) turned me onto the fact that the pawn shop across from Sally doesn’t charge tax on pre-paid cell phone cards. Since I buy at least $50 cards at a time, this is a savings of $3.75; which is nothing to sneeze at, let me tell you.

Actually, by arriving on the first day, we already have an advantage over anyone who didn’t show up and stay for breakfast. Those who haven’t will be chosen last tomorrow, which should have 92 positions to fill and even more on Saturday.

But, by far the most wonderful thing that came of this trip to Sally was meeting the Bus Girl. I don’t even know her name, but as I sat behind her, she noticed me. Bus Girl has a petite figure, just under five feet tall, a size two with B-cup breasts, curly shoulder plus length dark brown hair, milk chocolate brown eyes, punctual dimples, and pouty lips. I watched as she pushed those lips around with her lip balm and found myself aroused; she knew I was watching. Perfect in every way, with the exception of a few facial blemishes that was more than made up for by the occasional beauty marks punctuated with perfect grammar.

She smiled at me several times, but said nothing. I tried desperately to think of some conversation starter, but was deterred by her age. She could’ve been any age, but her small ears told me she must be in her mid-twenties, far too young for me.

She got up at my stop, which surprised me. Still, I had nothing to say. All I could do was gawk at her tight spandex splattered buttocks and knee-high black boots. She’s so fine. I was polite, she smiled, we got off together…then went separate ways. I hope to see her again. When I was sufficiently distant from her, I turned and took in one more glance; pure beauty.



-- Without Wax