Sincerely Sober

New Girlfriend

2012-01-16T06:02:00.003-06:00

Just a quick post to introduce Siana D. as my new 25 year old girlfriend. She's in the recovery community, a co-worker, and very Facebook proficient. I challenged her to find this blog, so I thought I'd post a little of what's been going on lately.
I have been drinking lately; as late as last Friday The 13th of January. That did not preclude me from getting my one year medallion. I have to lie to my roommates and the community if I'm going to stay living here. More on that later.
I plan to post more often and try to stay sober.

-- Without Wax

Blessed, not Dead

2011-04-13T21:00:00.002-05:00

I have never been more sober in my life, yet I’ve only just received my three month medallion. One year ago, I stopped drinking for one month while I moved into Hunting Hotel. Before that, I was homeless in the dead of Winter in Minneapolis, Minnesota, jumping from treatment to homeless shelter to detox and back. Here is my story of what it was like, what happened, and what it’s like now.

Having failed three treatment facilities in one year, I’d stayed drunk on money from plasma donation. It seemed like a good idea at the time; nothin’ better to do. I had a case of the pore me, pore me, pour me another drink. I drank to near blackout and stayed at the Indian detox facility in South Minneapolis for two to three days at a time, just long enough to dry out to supply my blood for plasma…a never ending cycle. On one of those occasions, I left there as a guest for the very last time. That was April 2nd, 2010.

On that day, a councilor convinced me to try the Hunting Hotel. He gave me the address and the name of the manager, Matthew. It took a half a day of waiting, but I got in. That night I slept on my own bed for the first time in years. Contrary to common understanding of sleeping in a novel place, I slept like a rock and woke refreshed. That’s odd too, because I had another stranger in my room; we shared a single room. From that day and for the next month, I abstained from alcohol.

Long story short; after that month, my roommate moved to Northern California, which gave me license to drink in my room, now that I was alone. I drank until September 13th, 2010.

On that day, I had decided to stay sober. It was not for any Earth shattering epiphany. It was simply due to me being tired of being tired all the time. It was not because of some revelation I’d read in the Big Book, a spiritual experience, or hitting bottom. This time I was simply tired of being tired…physically.

Then things started happening. My mind cleared and I started pursing things; things that would improve my quality of life. You have to understand; being at the Hunting Hotel allowed me to not think in survival mode all the time. It also allowed me to drink, albeit covertly. But, because I knew how not to get caught there, I had a choice whether to drink or not. There suddenly was no pressure either way. So, prospective employers started returning e-mails and calls. I had some interviews. One of which landed me a job I interviewed for back in April.

Before starting the CallCenter job, I had a brief seasonal job ringing bells for the Salvation Army. That gave me enough money to buy a decent wardrobe for my CallCenter job. I’ve held it ever since.

I had a one-day relapse on Christmas Eve after three and a half months of sobriety. But, I now have those three and a half months of sobriety back now. I’ll describe in detail that relapse in another post. I attend up to three AA meetings a month. I live in a house with an old sober friend. I feel serene.

Please post comments and I’ll update this blog more often, okay?

-- Without Wax

Father Mark

2010-11-11T01:16:00.002-06:00

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

Everyone's Idea of Love

2010-09-19T02:20:00.003-05:00

Love Bond..
Originally uploaded by indori_vj

Everyone's Idea of Love

I don't think everyone's idea of love is identical. In fact, because of the blinding nature of love, I don’t think most couples even know how close each other’s ideas of love really are, even older couples. I know June W.’s and mine sure as hell were not the same.

For those new to this blog, June W. is my ex-wife. Keep up.

I’m pretty sure that June never really fell completely in love with any man; not her first husbinder, and definitely not with me. “Husbinder,” that was her term for them. I’m sure she’s never felt deep love; and never will.

You see, she’s never had someone leave her for another. That means that she’s historically always been the cheater; the manipulator. In fact, I think that is how June sees all her relationships: She’s the queen manipulator.

Because of my very first blog entry, on December 15th, 2005, http://sincerelysober.blogspot.com/2005/12/my-first-weblog-post.html, she has never forgiven me for being the first, and last, man to cheat on her; and I didn’t.

Back in September of 2005, the day I was released from jail for my DUI, I visited Kelly M. I consoled her on her loss of her last boyfriend, and knew her, Biblically. She drank wine, while I vowed to stay sober. I knew, even then, that alcohol was the root of my problems. I asked her if I could stay with her until I found a job.

She’d always been attracted to me. Kelly is extremely hot looking. She’s got breeder looks: 36DD breasts, wide hips, and a shapely body. She used to be
over-weight, but she’d started working out in anticipation of a new husband…any new husband. But, she’s definitely an air-head. She doesn’t follow politics, doesn’t have a passion for anything, and doesn’t seek out knowledge, for knowledge’s sake. I believe that her only real passion is having children; which, not to segway, is the reason she’s on June’s ten-most-easily-manipulated list.

But, see, I never cheated on June. Our divorce was final before I was ever released from jail in the fall of 2005. June has always had it in her head that Kelly and I had an affair while we were married. There was this one evening when June had left on a business trip for a week. I had told her that I was going to have Kelly over for a movie one night. Kelly and I had always had urges for each other, but never acted on them, not while I was married. But, we almost did that night. Kelly was acting a little weird after that night, and I’m sure June noticed, but it wasn’t because something happened. It’s most likely because Kelly wanted something to happen.

The night that Kelly and I slept together, the day I was released from jail, was the only time we’d had carnal relations. That was definitely a strange day to remember. She started drinking wine. She asked if I wanted to indulge, but I declined. I figured, booze got me here: I don’t need to drink any more

Then she became melancholy, talking about how her last boyfriend left her. I don’t remember his name, but for all intents and purposes, let’s just call him Tom. It was bad. Tom was teasing her about going back with his ex. She gave me the horrible details, which eventually ended with him going back to his ex; which she then left him for another younger guy. A story would cause tears in the eyes of the writers of “Days of Our Lives”.

Kelly then described, in detail, how she planned to attract Tom back into her life. Seduce him into believing she was deeply in love with him. Then, “drop him like a rock!” I was shocked when she said that, because I was totally buying the entire sincerity spiel. After she’d said that, she’d just finished one bottle of wine. She hesitated, only for a moment, before deciding to open a new bottle.

She kept crying and crying. I kept hugging her to console her. She gave great hugs. Breeders are always great huggers. Then she eventually looked up at me with those mascara-bled eyes and said, “Do you wanna fuck?”

I could not have imagined a more romantic query from such a beautiful woman. What didn’t happen was that my jaw didn’t drop (it was the Devil in me). I immediately got a hard-on and said, “Yes”. I guess it doesn’t take much to seduce me. Pathetic.

The odd thing about this entire encounter was that she insisted on have sex in her daughter’s room. She claimed that her bedroom was a mess – which if it was anything like the kitchen, was totally believable – but there still was that nagging idea in the back of my head. Her youngest daughter had confessed to me soda voce that her brother sleeps in the same bed as her mother. So, there was definitely something in there that she didn’t want me to see. I queered that we should do it in her daughter’s bedroom. “What if she came home?”, I asked. She convinced me that she was at a sleep-over. Still, fucking the MILF surrounded by pink stuffed animals was, to say the least, a little kinky.

But, the oddest part – and here’s the control part – was that half-way through the missionary position, she asks, “Are you cut?”

I’m totally ready to cum at this point, and then my mind asks, ‘What does she mean by cut?’ This is where my mind flashes back to that scene from “Animal House”. You know, where the guy gets the under-aged girl drunk, and into bed. After the first kiss, she passes out, totally nude. Now he’s contemplating doing her passed out. Just then, the Devil pops up on one shoulder, trying to convince him to take advantage of her. Then an Angel (which, coincidentally is her youngest daughter’s name) tries to convince him not to. I don’t need to explain the scenario; you can watch the movie…it’s funny. Eventually, the Angel wins and the Devil calls him a ‘homo’. But, I’m thinking the same thing. Two parts of my brain are working at the same time (they do that, ya know), the Devil and the Angel. The Angel is telling me, ‘Of course I haven’t had a vasectomy; June can’t conceive.’ The Devil is saying, ‘Circumcision? Of course I’ve been cut.’ But, the bottom line question was, ‘Why hasn’t Kelly, after three grown kids and being in her forties, hasn’t had her tubes tied?’

I didn’t think of the other alternative, like maybe having a child of my own wouldn’t be so bad. Or that I could simply cum to fight another day…with a condom. In the end, I told her, “You know that June has had a hysterectomy. I have no need to get cut.” I pulled out and we did things manually…I crying shame.

This whole scene was summed up in the song by Mountain, “Mississippi Queen”…if you know what I mean. Every time I hear that song, I am reminded of that night with Kelly M.

The facts of the matter are that:
June had never been cheated on,
We met by her cheating on her husband,
Me by cheating on my girlfriend, June’s sister-in-law, and,
That no matter what I told her, she will always feel that sleeping with Kelly – post-divorce – was cheating on her.

I’ve examined all of June’s relationships; family, friends, lovers: past and yours-truly. It has always been a matter of convenience and manipulation. June is the alpha-dog in every relationship. If she can’t find a way to be the alpha, she’ll make it so, or cut it off; blow it off, so to speak. June is the kind of person that has to be right, 98.2% of the time. She’s not the kind of person that likes to learn from her own mistakes.

As far as true love is concerned, I think she experienced it with me at some point in our marriage (I believe in our first year). But she now believes that at that point in time it was a farce. I fell in love with her because she showed me something that I longed for: family. My closest brother felt that need too. During that first year, and the year before we were married, family was important.

And it was good. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Easter, I’d made sure that we celebrated them fully. I even pushed for the Renaissance fair: Over weight girls in push-up bras gleaming attraction from warriors. She was a definite shoe-in. June didn’t dig that scene. She wasn’t into role playing.

See, June didn’t marry me for love. She married me for health insurance. We were already living comfortably for three years together before we married. I had always been employed (up to that point). She felt it was her time to stop making money and experiment with (several) other self-employed experiments. Most of these experiments did not yield profit. But, being the manipulator, she held the purse-strings. I never really knew where the money was going. I knew she had a lot of debt: student loans, second mortgage, credit cards, etc. I came into the marriage now with debt, when before I had none. Attempt at discovery was always diverted to other things. I was the money-maker and had to describe in detail why I had to buy the computer upgrade that I needed. I’m a computer programmer. The computer that I eventually bought is the one I’m still using to document this post; that’s how old it is. For June, money is, and always will be, king. I got fucked in the divorce. That happens when you’re drunk constantly.

June married me for health insurance. She has always had a hard time working for a company and found in me, a Software Engineer, a stable husbinder that could provide the health insurance that she so desperately needed in order for her to pursue her dream of self-employment. Not necessarily paying down her debt, but one that supports her desires. What does she do today? She sells health insurance.

And, she’s into sex. We first met because of sex. I mean, we cheated on each other’s significant others (we couldn’t admit how we met in our wedding video) and on our relatives. That probably went by too fast for you to catch. We met through relatives. My girlfriend’s brother and wife visited one week. His wife is June. June and I hooked up. So, I slept with my girlfriend’s sister-in-law.

You know that time, in every relationship, where it’s asked: How many lovers have you had?

I was up to 14 and counting (having a hard time) when she stopped me. I was sure I was drying up on the last few counts (I was digging). I could name every one, because we had relationships. She bowed her head and said, “It’s more than 100.” Then she paused, “Do you still love me?” It was at that point that I had realized that she hadn’t really had a decent relationship with any of them. She’d never deeply loved any man. I wanted to be that man.

Okay, June is not the most attractive woman, physically. She can’t get small. She can’t loose her weight any more. She used to be able to when we first met, but not any more. She doesn’t have a striking face. She’s cute, and adorable, but not drop-dead gorgeous.

My first wife, Vennessa W., was hot. But, she didn’t even know it. Vennessa would wear anything I’d ask her to. She was my dress up doll, and everything worked on her. She had a tight little body and loved to show it off. We’d go out shopping so I could see her in so many other things. She liked to dress up, and I like to dress her up. The one thing about Vennessa was that if she thought I thought she looked sexy in it, she wanted to wear it. It’s that third level of awareness.

Vennessa had the kind of body, even for a woman ten years my senior, that everyone wanted to see, and she knew it. She was a voyeur. So, shopping for her was a joy, for both her and me. It actually didn’t matter what I bought for her. (Well, actually, I could say that it didn’t work for her and she’d believe it). She had the kind of body and face that anything would look good on. Different, but good…and difference was good.

Vennessa didn’t mind wearing chokers. June thought they were for dogs. June preferred pearls. I bought Vennessa lingerie, and she was happy. June was happy when I bought her a ring, before we were married.

This was a special ring. It was our promisary ring. We weren’t ready to get married just yet. But, I wanted to express my love for June, without any connection to marriage. So, I took her to a jeweler and chose a ring that I thought was the most beautiful of all rings. I chose it in front of her. I wanted to buy it to show her how beautiful I thought she was.

It had a blue sapphire in the middle surrounded by diamonds. This ring meant a replacement of the rings that we had exchanged in Las Vegas; one wonderful cheating event. Her finger never looked more beautiful (well, entire hand, really). It is an awesome looking ring and she wears it to this day more often than any other ring, even after the divorce. I don’t think she ever wears the diamond I bought her for our wedding any more. I think she thinks that because it was pre-wedding, that it has nothing to do with the love that was meant to be conveyed by the ring. June can easily separate the two.

As my drinking became more of a problem, her faking it became more noticeable. She started to complain about her relationships with everyone from close friends to close family members, ones we used to vacation with. She started even bitching about her cats, who I know she loved.

Then she stopped confiding in me. I was the problem now. Well, of course, by that time I was unemployed.

So, her eventual solution was a Wisconsin one: Build a bar, just like her brothers had.

My current idea of love is not too far off from what it was when I first fell in love. Okay, so I fall in love with women that have alterative motives. But, I’ve seen most of them. And they get old after time and become easily spotted.

I’m not fast on the uptake when it comes to relationships. It doesn’t mean that I’m socially stupid. I don’t know what it means. But, it means that when I get to know some one, I spend a little time with them.

Everything is relative. Everyone’s idea of love is relative to everyone else’s idea of love. In order to objectively describe anyone’s (much less everyone’s) idea of love, you must understand that it explodes! Some of my personal examples may explain how love can be exploited, desired, and even needed (heaven forbid).

People talk about levels of love…mostly women. But, in this case, June thinks like a man.

To this day, June W. keeps my same last name and has never considered ever marrying ever again. It’s not out of respect or loyalty. It’s because she’d tired of moving on. She’s more comfortable being honest about being a slut.

-- Without Wax

Politically Naïve

2010-09-15T07:27:00.002-05:00

Tony Blair - World Economic Forum Annual Meeting Davos 2007
Originally uploaded by World Economic Forum

I just watched "The Ghost Writer" for a second time, and it took me that second time to realize, what everyone else in the entire rational world knew, that Tony Blair was an American puppet.

I feel that I am one that follows politics fairly closely. I mean, I’m not a guru by any sense, but I am informed. I research candidates before I vote (more than I can say for some). I know where they stand and I know how it affects me.

I also understand what’s happening in this world. When the planes flew into the towers on 9/11, it did take me the second plane to connect it immediately to Osama bin Laden. But, because I’d been reading books on terrorism, Jihad, Islam, and so forth, I knew this was an al-Qaeda attack. And I knew, at that time, that Osama bin Laden was the leader of al-Qaeda.

When the 9/11 attacks occurred, I was just a few weeks away from accepting a very good job. Being depressed about the economy and my job status (I was a couple weeks short of ending my unemployment), I had many things to be worried about.

June W. and I slept in a lot those days. She was unemployed as well. We were living off my unemployment.

That day, we were laying in bed – not getting coffee – just lagging…trying to wake up. We normally get up at 7:00am CST, but we slept in. At :46 minutes past the hour, all hell broke loose.

We were watching our favorite morning show, “The Today Show”, with Katie Couric and Matt Lower, when all of the sudden they announce that a plane went into the North tower of the World Trade Center.

We knew then that many lives would be lost. We didn’t need coffee at that point. We both bolted up in our bed. We both felt, at that point, that it was merely an accident; a terrible one at that, but just an accident.

Of course, the current Today Show was interrupted. But, they were trying to get a camera on the building. I mean, they were just downtown, yards from the collision. And they assumed the best: meaning that Katie and Matt assumed it was a stray jet liner off course…just like we did.

Seventeen minutes later, the second jet hit the South tower. It was announced, not seen. But, I knew then what was going on.

June remembers me whispering too her in bed, “Osama bin Laden”. I covered my mouth, perched my lips, and started to cry. Because I knew that this was payback…and this was the start of it.

All of the sudden, I knew what was going on. We had suicide terrorists attacking the World Trade Center again, as they did in 1993. They were attacking America’s greatest city, New York. And they were willing to give their lives to do so. June didn’t understand that first part, not immediately. When she finally did, she couldn’t stop puking.

I just remember, after the second plane, calling up my neighbors and saying, “Turn on you TV!” “Which channel?”, they’d ask. With a choke in my throat answered, “any channel”…and hung up.

June and I were glued to the set for the next hours of horror as the Pentagon was attacked and the flight 93 passengers heroically brought down their plane in a Pennsylvania field (God bless their souls).

Then the towers did something that no one every thought would happen. They collapsed with thousands of souls crumbling with them. I didn’t believe it could happen. I didn’t want to believe it. I was naive. I guess because I wasn’t alone on that day that in thinking so, that, I don’t know: there must be a hole in humanity. To let thousands of innocent human lives just perish. I mean, we are definitely not talking about worriers. We are talking about regular people that go to work every day.

And we’re not talking about a nation that has declared unconditional war by an un-provoked attack, like on Peril Harbor. The nuclear bombings on Hiroshima and Nagasaki were a justified retaliatory attack. If they’d gone on indefinitely, then maybe they would be viewed more as revenge than retaliatory. But, if the attacks against our Navy fleets in the Pacific had continued, more American lives would have been sacrified. We had the bomb and we knew we had to use it. We figured out a way to fight back; a hard punch, so to speak. There should be no martyrism in the fact that we bombed the hell out of the people that unprovokley brought the US into the WWII era.

The whole world for me felt in flux. FAA travel was suspended. People in Hawaii were asking how they can get supplies? UPS’s answer: We’ll deliver buy ground. Hawaii’s like: “Really, you’re going to build a bridge?”

On 9/12, my perspective employer said that they had been attacked by a virus and that my employment would be delayed by a few weeks. Those few weeks were butting up against my last few days of unemployment insurance we’d had left. It ended up being that the timing was just about right. But, this only added to the explosive stress of that time.

You have no job. Planes aren’t flying. Possibly more attacks. All this time, I’m remembering the 1998 movie, “The Siege”. That movie was a Prophecy of what was to come. Even with stars like, Denzel Washington, Bruce Willis, and Annette Bening; it was a flop at the box-office. It lost money.

But, here’s the Hollywood paranoia effect: There were many terrorist movies in queue at the time of the 9/11 attacks. They all got pulled, for fear of, whatever: a reactionary response, I guess.

However, sales of video rentals and purchases of “The Siege” shot up days after the attacks. Personally, I think this was a good, healthy thing. “The Siege” is a very open minded depiction of what could really happen to a great city, like New York, when militaristic systems are put into place in an urban area.

Here’s the thing: I believe there’s something fucking up in Islamic culture. Like they lost some ground that we – Americans new to the stage – gained. I believe that we took the higher ground – in so many ways – that it perplexes Islamic culture. And we did it so fast.

Women should have the right to vote. Oh, duh, we didn’t think so 100 years ago. Yah, blacks…they should be in the back of the bus. Now we have a black president. Go figure. Allowing free speech; now there’s a concept…one that will get you ejected from power. Human rights have never been achieved fast than in the United States of America. We may not be the model, but we are the example.

I think that Nelson Mandela had conveyed the transition from a state that is biased to a state that can possibly be homogenous was possibly the most humane thing that has ever happened on this Earth. Watching “Invictus”, I understood how he could’ve (and I say ‘could’ve’ because this is a fictional re-enactment) accomplished that enormous task.

So, I think that I’m well trained in global politics. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gleamed the Osama bin Laden connection seconds after the second WTC attack. But then, compared to June, when I talked about tank attacks in the Gaza Strip, she was like, “Palestinian tanks?”.

My sad answer was, “Palestinians don’t have tanks.” She didn’t respond how I’d hope she’d respond. She just said, “Oh.” There’s a conflict you don’t want to get me started on.

What I loved about June W. was that she cared about these things…she just didn’t want to know about them…I mean she puked on 9/11. But, she doesn’t even try to search out this knowledge. She’s Midwestern. She’s an Isolationist. She thinks that by buying an Acer laptop, that’s made in America, that she’s buying American. Naive to the fact that 99.7% of all components in an Acer laptop are actually manufactured overseas. Okay, she’s not blonde, just Midwestern.

But, however how I don’t support total USA gung-ho attitude, I also don’t support the fact that there are still nations in this global economy that don’t support basic human rights. If we’re going to be global (and technology has really forced us to), then we have to agree on some basic human rights. In that sentence, that means there are a lot of rights that need to be righted.

Short list:
Females need the right to go to school.
People should have the right to speak their mind without incrimination.
…I’m sorry…I’m blowing it.

I’m not a leader. I just know basic human values. I mean, I can’t make an all-end, all-be, list of human rights. That’s why I live under a constitution. But, that constitution is the best (I believe) in the World.

There really isn’t any higher human constitution. No one has written one yet. Humans are complex. We are the highest order of animal on the planet of Earth; which is as far as we know. It doesn’t mean that we should take advantage of that fact. It means we should take responsibly for that fact (which we’ve really been lagging, lately).

Number One: We need to respect others that look and act different.
Number Two: We need to respect and understand how wild animals have an affect on our World.
Number Three: Accept the fact that we may be able to terribly affect the underlining nature of the food chain.
Number Four: Just be nice to nature. I know that may be hard for some of you corporate types, but think about it…1,2, and 3.

And remember, we humans are the only animals on this wonderful planet Earth that have the Devil inside us. We have the burden of choice. We can and should make the best choice. It’s time to make the best choice…because we’ve made the wrong choice for too many years. We will eventually pay the price, if we don’t.

I just didn’t think that a nation that has ruled the world before, such as England, would have a leader that was a puppet to any nation, especially not the USA. That’s backwards. I’ve spoken to English clients. They all insist – on The Fourth of July – that we’re not celebrating our independence, but that we’re still their colony; in a humors sense; like we’re children leaving the nest.

I guess, from anyone else’s perspective, that America is the puppet master. Well, at least from Roman Polanski’s
-- Without Wax

Father's WWII Experience

2010-09-12T03:18:00.005-05:00

Galveston Texas on Pelican Island Seawolf Park the US Navy Gato class submarine USS Cavalla SS 244 museum 2010 vintage World War II Historic WWII Military ship vessel War Machine
Originally uploaded by mrchriscornwell

Without Wax Inception is all about dreaming.
And sometimes, in order to understand it, you need to walk away from it.
,,,for a bit…

Anger clouds things…as it should.

Example: My Father died at an early age for me; I was 15. My mother abused us a lot while my father was away working over seas. We'd cry for him to return, and when he finally did, we showered him with praise and never told him of the atrocities that my mother had performed. She'd stopped doing them when he arrived.
It was like we were a whole family again.
When he died, she stopped the con. She never abused us after that.
After that point, I had dreams that he'd come home; and they were deep sleep dreams. When I woke up, I believed that he was there for several hours. In those hours of deception, I have to admit that I enjoyed them. We did things, in that dream state, that I know he wanted to do with me before he died.
When the sobriety of reality slowly set in, I realized that those dream states of my Father were wonderful and a gift. Robert was a great man, and everyone knew and acknowledged it. His death was untimely. He wasn't Ward Cleaver by any stretch, but he was someone I always looked up to.
He taught me math, knife sharpening, car repair, astrology, more math, chemical engineering, poker, plumbing, electrical systems, stereo systems, what not to do to a young lady, how to build an underwater camera housing from scratch, one that doesn't leak at depths (shuttle designers could take a clue from his O-ring design), how to take care of a very drunk sister, how NOT to rewire the house (he didn't like that much when I did that), politics, war, peace.
Robert fought in WWII at 16; he was a sailor. That's where he met my mother, a nurse. They were married and dedicated to each other for more that 30 years before he died. As far as I know, neither has ever been with anyone else their entire lives.
He was an engineer 2nd class in the Navy in WWII. He re-enlisted for the Korean war. He hold sever medals.
Despite his fight against Asians in both wars, he worked with them side-by-side as an oil refinery engineer over seas, and was very fond of their company. Even so, as to bring back many Asian pieced of artwork, some of which we couldn't quite understand (a wood carving of and old man caring a pig on his shoulders?)
But the two greatest things that he ever taught me were:
1. How to look up an answer. I was always asking him stupid questions like: why is the sky blue? Is the Sun a star? (Oh, that got me in trouble with my 1st grade teacher when I told her that the Sun WAS a star. I had to sit in the corner.) He would answer as best he could, but then lead me to the encyclopedias. He taught me how to FIND answers at a very young age.
2. How to be tolerant. I didn't even know, at that young age, that he was teaching me that. I'd always asked him about the war, especially WWII and against the Japs! In a round about way, the softened the subject, then took me to my first Japanese restaurant, where the taught me how to hold, and actually use, chop stick. And I'm not talking about those cheap bamboo Chinese chopsticks; I'm talking pointy, artistic, sharp Japanese chopsticks.
I remember the very polite Japanese waitress in bright red dress taking the time to help me learn how to hold shrimp tempura with just chopsticks; the thumb, index, middle fingers..."too much pressure", "relax, reset the chops". She and him tried over and over again, until I finally got it. All the time, I'm thinking, 'each wants to kill each other', you know, because they fought in the war. But, no; it was tolerance. It was one young Japanese girl trying to teach the next generation (me) their culture from the Father of a man that fought in a war against her ancestors. It was her way of being tolerant, too.
And the meal was awesome.

Deja Vu

2010-09-08T09:12:00.002-05:00

Why was it that I needed to log out, view this movie -- find this movie in my database -- and log about it.

I found a woman dead, just like her. She was pretty, just like her. Only she was hanged. But she had a pretty face, just like her...in the movie.

That's where things change. She committed suicide. Our victim hanged herself.

It was one of my first, non-accident, victims. I had to write it up. That means that I had to find out the underlining cause of death. I had to run down the doctor and have him sign a "cause of death". That's difficult. The family got involved. It took days. The fact was that she was involved with drugs and wanted to die. The Dr. knew it, but, because of legal reasons, it was difficult to write out the death certificate. Doctors don't usually like to sign off on those type of things.

But, she was beautiful...or was. I'm sure she was, before her neck got stretched out. When a person hangs themselves for a long period of time, their collar bones tend to push through. Well, it makes them look...less human.

But, her face still was beautiful. Like the girl in Deja Vu. She was still...well, alive...to me. And that was the most difficult part. I picked her up from the sheriff's department and brought her back to the morgue.

I closed her eyes.

Then, the mortician asked all the young guys to leave the room. That was weird. She was naked, but dead. That was the only time I've ever been told to leave a naked body.

It made me feel weird that the mortician said that, but I obliged. But, I knew...I knew him. He has a very strong respect for the dead. And this woman, although her choice of death was not one he respected, needed the respect of the dead, even more so.

He put her to rest.

Seeing a beautiful woman like that take her own life makes me think...I can't come to any conclusions.

I'm sorry, I just can't.

Why I searched out Deja Vu in my archives, I don't know. There has to be some connection...I'm not sure what?

-- Without Wax

A rest on the road

2010-09-08T03:50:00.001-05:00

A rest on the road
Originally uploaded by Powerhouse Museum Collection

And old database engineer. How can someone like him, or me, find a job, in these times. I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to sell myself.

Actually, I've never really been good at selling myself.
I love photography. And I love this photo.

I love computers. I've always done self-study. I've always been bad at trusting teachers; I've always questioned them...I wish I hadn't.

I wish I had John R. Clark as my constant teacher. He was so smart and knew everything about everything, and if the didn't, he'd just know he didn't, and know who to ask about it. He was from Harvard.

All my friends in college looked up to him. If he didn't know an answer, there was a reason...and a person you could ask about it.

I mean, he knew everything...everything! He knew that our computers, our mainframes, would be replace by PC; so be bought the latest compatible, the Compac.

I did the same, but a cheaper one, The Leading Edge. Well, I couldn't afford much else. He knew that.

He helped me get some jobs at the college.

After my dad died, I thought of him as a father...a distant one though.

He took me in.

He taught me, first, Pascal, the first programming language that was structured. Then Prolog, the first of these artificial intelligence language...that was cool.

Then he taught me APL! APL is the language of symbols. He taught me that thinking in symbols is the way that humans think.

APL is simple. Once you think in symbols, everything else is a problems of space, memory space, I guess.

I mean APL is the best programming language ever. Everything is ether a number (a scalar), or an array.

If it's an array, than it must be an array of some dimension.
...and so forth.
So, in APL, there are no limits on dimensions.

You can play with dimensions as deep as your computer's limits provide.

...and then solve the problem.

But, that's the whole thing. You're problem isn't working within any computer's limits...it's working withing the problem's limits.

That's why APL is the ultimate problem solving language.
...and that's why John R. Clark wanted me to work on it.

-- Without Wax

CIA

2010-09-03T05:31:00.002-05:00

IMG_1935
Originally uploaded by Kingdafy

I just informed the CIA of a link to al-Quida, I think.
The way this guy talked about it, I knew. He knew about bombs. And he talked about it to his "followers". I mean, he really talked about it.

So, I let the CIA know about it.

But, I really don't think that it will stop any more bombings.

This photo is of the largest ICBM the US has ever built.
It has MIRV capillaries. That means, that when it launches, eight more little devices will find their own targets. It's like spreading WWIII all over the globe.

I can't say any more.

-- Without Wax

Chapter 0(zero): June W.

2010-09-02T14:07:00.003-05:00

first love
Originally uploaded by julia magdalena

This is the story of how June W. fell in love with Without Wax, how it built, and how it fell apart. The reason being that getting this all off my chest will allow me to move on.

June W. was a beautiful woman, if not large, when I first met her. I didn’t notice her much after that. Except, when I went to drive her to the airport with her husband. I’d mentioned (not thinking at the time) that I’d never seen my car not be able to accelerate as fast before. It got a chuckle. But, in reality, I’d never had heavier people in my car, all at the same time…including myself.

Let me back track. There are two things going on at this time. I’m trying to loose weight, as is June. Jacqueline O. was my girlfriend at the time, and was gaining weight. This is her MO, (modus operandi). She looses weight, finds a mate, finds a guy, then digs in; in other words, gets fat.

June W. was Jacqueline O.’s sister-in-law. Married just two years, she fell in love with Wax. She did when visiting her husband’s brother in California, me. Why she fell out of love with her current husband, I will never know (for sure)…but she did.

June W. fell out of love with Robert C., the man she’d been married to for only two years. I believe it was at a pivotal point when Jacky and I were making out in the hot tub. It got very passionate. Many family members had seen it. Reactions differed.

June said it! She said, later on, that [she’d], “never seen a more passionate expression of love.”

Robert C.: “I’ve never seen a vulgar display of sex!”

Robert had told the entire family of the incident. He embarrassed his own sister. It’s almost like he embarrassed her into marrying me to his own sister…seriously.

Sidebar: Robert had no clue what it took to seduce a woman. And the fact that he didn’t, pissed off his own wife, June. The fact that she knew it, pissed her off…and the divorce ensued.

Because of that incident, Robert eventually embarrassed Jacky into being somewhat of a prude. He told the entire family. She changed after that. It was like she’d felt like having sex was like prostituting herself. Robert had changed our relationship. Jacky now felt like she was being used.

It was because of Robert’s exclamation that a man shouldn’t display such passion of a woman that June fell in love with me. She saw the wrong and wanted to right it…and got some nooky on the side. She started, for the first time in her life, to hold hands (holding hands in public, she was not right, it was wrong).
It was on that day, in the hot tub, with Jacky and Robert’s statement, that June fell in love with me. On that day, she had decided that she’d have me, one way or another.

She'd fallen in love with him.

--
Without Wax

From White to Black

2010-08-29T23:21:00.005-05:00

greetings from planet black rock
Originally uploaded by sgoralnick

Black History

Wow, that’s a heavy story.
And here, I’m telling it; a white guy one quarter Indian. So, you the fuck…I’ll tell it.

Black (okay, I’m going to say black, meaning African American, Okay; PC People?, Jesus fucking Christ; Oh I just pissed of the Christens.)

Now that I’ve pissed off most of America, let me state this one thing.

Black women have the hardest time in America…and they know it.
Let’s state the facts: Blacks are a down trodden minority. Women are the worst of that minority. They end up raising the young gangster boys without fathers. And, if they don’t, they’re just nasty.

Want to dispute this? Have you ever seen two black girls on a bus? They think they own it and break all the rules. Young black girls know they are the bottom feeders and will rebel.

Black mothers are much different then black girls. Black mothers have weathered most of this stupid racist shit. Depending on their age, they may have experienced terrible atrocities. Older black women can be mean. But, younger black girls will be bitches.

Let me explain. Both ladies have felt betrayed. But, not in the same way.

Do the math: Blacks are shorted, women have been shorted…Duh, Black Women are on the short fucking end of the stick…and they know it.

It’s the biggest fucking elephant in the room.

Older black women have it worse. They’ve seen Jim-Crow, weathered that shit, and seen their men treated like animals…they’ve seen that shit.
Both older women…well; okay. Have you ever told an older black lady, not to do something? It will never happen. They’ve been there and done that.

Have you ever told young black girls not to eat on a bus? They are too proud. They wont listen to you. For some reason, young black girls think they can break all the fucking rules. If you try to slap them down, they’ll only fight back. And they’re wrong, but they’ll never think they’re wrong…never.

Like her mother said (in The Karate Kid), “Dre, pick up your jacket!” Never, fucking ever, cross a black mother. We’re talking about the strongest women in the world. Black mothers are the epitome of the angry south. You never cross an angry black mother…ever.

This is the mess that we’ve made.

-- Without Wax

Memories of old

2010-08-29T01:45:00.001-05:00

Memories of old / Memorias de antaño
Originally uploaded by victor_nuno

"There was a time."
I love that opening line from "Lucky Number Sleiven"!
Old typewriters. That's my old school. Only they didn't even have letters on the keys...they were blank...yes, BLANK.
The only way you know what each meant was to look up at the pull-down. There was your only reference to where each key was placed. You had to imagine each key's placement.
It was a way to teach you how to type without looking at anything else but the source material. You can't look at the keys or the paper. You had to look at the source, type it, correct it, and do it without backspacing.

This was my early learning. And I still retain it.

I can easily take a piece of paper, hand written or typed, and just type it out at 60 WPM...spelling and grammar corrected.

And because of that training, I think that way. When I write a story, a blog post, or an e-mail; I think in typing. It's an early gift.

In fact, when I started my first UNIX programming job, I had to work with international keyboards. I had to program on their keyboards, when things got harry. Many times the keyboards swapped keys, like 'Y' for 'Z', and shit like that. But, being so young and flexible, I could easily compensate. I don't think I can do that now. However, I still maintain my 60 WPM speed.

And again, it's because of the early training. I learned how to type without looking at anything. It became learned early on in me. My hands have never failed. I've never experienced anything even close to carpal tunnel.

I think...and the words just come out. If I had to write something on paper, I don't know if I could do it. It's not that I don't know how to spell and need a computer to help me. I can type faster with correct spelling than anyone can really just type. I type at 60 WPM spelling corrected!

And I can't find a job.

I fucking hate that. I'm talented. I've got an IQ of 221. I can build a computer from scratch. I know motherboards, memory speeds, hardware compatibility, how to repair ANY computer.

And I can't land a job.

It's like every employer is scared of me. And I'll take any little job. I've had interviews, but no one calls back.

It's not like I have a criminal history. There's no problem there.

It's that I do not have a history of supporting myself. In this recession, employers are only interested in people that have not had a problem supporting themselves. The rest be damned.

Their looking for the finest...and they wont find it in me.

I need a job. I'm talented. And I'll do anything.

I just need a job.

Sincerely,

-- Without Wax

So much more than worthless

2010-08-27T16:15:00.002-05:00

So much more than worthless
Originally uploaded by Raining Purple

That's exactly how I feel. I just let down a good friend by drinking my ass off. And he knew it. He let someone else fix his problem.
He knew I could do it, better, cheaper, faster, cleaner, ...
He just knew I was to drunk too do it.

And then I found my ex-wife. She was not to found of me.

So, this day is much like this photo.

Actually, this photo makes me feel like...well like a way I've felt sometimes.

A sad girl I once cheered up....for a bit; but then, when reality set in...she got sadder....it sucks!

Big Black Cow

2010-08-27T01:37:00.001-05:00

Black Cow
Originally uploaded by drew_073

If you've ever grown up with two big sisters, that loved Steely Dan, ..and drank, you'll know what I mean. Otherwise, watch the next posts for details.

Need Degration

2010-08-19T00:14:00.001-05:00

Fisherman
Originally uploaded by Flying Hatchets

If a woman's need is faster than a man's ability to fill it, he is screwed.

Big Lens, Small Flowers

2010-08-14T21:02:00.003-05:00

I took this photo a long time ago. I had just recovered it from my old hard drive.

I wish I still had that old camera.

-- Without Wax

Sunset Huntington Beach Pier

2010-08-03T01:24:00.001-05:00

Sunset Huntington Beach Pier
Originally uploaded by Tan Man

Growing up with the sun enlarging as it nears the shore, glowing orange as it sizzles into the Pacific Ocean, is a birthright for Orange County children. There were so many romantic scenes that I shared with young girls when I was young…and had no idea what to do with them. Imagine that: I was just a shy young photographer of, what, 14 young years of age, blue eyes, brown hair, attracting little girls my own age. Neither of us knew what to do. We just played around in the sand, waited until the sun set;…then got kicked off the beach for being accused of what we didn’t even know what to do.

There were so many girls I just laid with on top of life guard towers; I guess they were waiting for me to do something, make the first advance. I had no idea what to do. I was scared. I’d always been scared, of doing something with a girl I didn’t love.

The real truth is that I had no idea what love really was. More on that later.

I’d always loved the way the sun set in the Pacific. When I took astronomy in college, I’d done so to learn how we came to be. I learned that as the sun sets, light from the sun does a few things that makes it weaker…or different.

Sunlight that falls directly downward from the equator is the strongest, because of two reasons: One, any light that projects from an angle has a measured amount of decrease; Two, when light travels through the atmosphere it is filtered and weakened.

This second part can be explained like slicing an orange. If you slice an orange at its center, the peal is the smallest. But, if you slice it near it’s ends, the distance of the peal is deeper. Compare that to the amount of atmosphere light would have to travel to reach the surface of the Earth. The more air light travels through, the weaker it gets; and the more colored it gets.

This is how photographers find their color. It is so beautiful to see the Sun travel through the atmosphere. It goes from white, to yellow, to orange, to red, to dead…and people just pause to watch it.

I got pissed off, as a junior in high school student, when my leading photos didn’t make it to the yearbook cover. The cover was a generic shot of the Huntington Beach pier at sunset. What a common shot (I thought).

Fast forward to the day when I took June W. to San Diego shore, to let her experience a Pacific sunset. This is what I told her:

I had my camera. I told her that when the sun sets in the West, it happens very fast and that, if you want to catch it, you have to pay attention.

I said, “Watch the people, the couples, as they approach the shore. Just before the sun touches the waters, they will all pause, turn towards the sunset…and then just watch…”

And as they did, so did she. It took me back; It totally reminded me of that one time I was with this little young blonde 14 y/o on a lifeguard station. She was entranced. June was entranced. I saw a glow in her that I’d not seen since…well, since childhood.

Okay, well then, when June and I were on our honeymoon (years later), we’d gone up to the Upper Peninsula, on Lake Superior. It’s way North, so the sun sets much slower. When I’d first saw it set; that orange sun, I’d just had to get a photo of it. I’d had a few drinks and wasn’t thinking straight when it came to gathering the right equipment. It took me three trips to get all the right lens and equipment. But, because we were so north, the sun takes much longer to set, so it was in my favor.

Anyway, so I’ve got my 35mm camera, tripod, lens, and everything, and I’m set. So, I’m going to get the most romantic sunset on Lake Superior. And as I do that, a family approaches: mother, father, son, two daughters…one of which walk up to me.

She’s sixteen, has a T-shirt, “Lansing, Michigan”…and she has the same gaze. I’m sitting here firing off my photos as fast as I can before the sun sets, and she approaches me. Without looking at me, she says, “I’ve never seen a sunset.”

And that point, I realized that Lansing is land-locked…and she’s not looking away from the Sun. And I thought, ‘This is what June’s first sunset was like.’ This is her Pacific sunset, so to speak. This is her virgin sunset.

It was at that point that I realized that I should never take any image for granted.

I’ve thought about it a lot since then. I’d like to go back to college for photography. I’ve done a lot of self-studying on my own. There are a lot of dimensions to photography.

Photography was my first love. Computers were my second love.

And I just don’t want to not do what I love…I can’t.

-- Without Wax

First Horse Ride

2010-07-31T10:03:00.002-05:00

Sunset : horse Latitudes
Originally uploaded by The Family Dog

Have you ever ridden a horse? Horses are an amazing animal. They have evolved with humans and are on the cusp of domestication. There are wild horses, tamed, broken, and stallions. They're strong, huge, muscular, fast animals...and they are our friends. I don't believe we would've gotten to the point this society is without them.

And yet, there are people afraid of them; and I'm going to get racist here. Inner city blacks are afraid of horses; deathly afraid. I went through treatment with these thugs that would shoot you as much as look at you and they could not walk up to a horse. They cried and begged not to be near the horse.

Okay, let me explain the situation. Part of our alcohol treatment was equestrian. We were tasked to lead horses around to accomplish some menial task; I psychological test, sort of get your mind out of the way and do what's in front of you. All the inner city black guys couldn't fucking walk up to the horse. I swear, their shorts got brown. They were excused. To this day, I do not understand the connection.

However, in Mexico, I rode my first horse...and it was amazing. This was before Alison M. and I were married. We were on vacation in Puerto Vallarta. There was a boating trip to some remote area that we found interesting. I don't remember the name of it, but it was remote. Although being part of the mainland, you had to get to it by boat...it was that remote. I didn't even realize how remote it was until I took flight.

I was drunk (go figure) and chose to para-sail. They strapped me up and hooked me to a rope connected to a small boat. Before I knew it, I was yanked up 100 feet above the ocean, and climbing. The salt-air was blowing in my face and all fear of heights had instantly gone away...I was too high to care. Then, I looked around, and found the beauty of Mexico. The sky was clear; I could see for miles. I'm not talk a few miles...I'm talking all of them. I mean I could see the curvature of the Earth. It was so cool.

And then a calm came over me...all fear of heights gone. And I started to look around. I look back towards the shore...and all I saw, for miles and miles, was trees...beautiful fucking trees. And then I knew why we had to take a boat trip here. There's just no other way to get here.

Then I look down. Twenty dolphins swimming just under me, in clear blue water. And they were directly below me too...how weird is that? It was so sweeet! I'll never forget that experience.

So, I landed and Alison chickened out. But, we then rode up the the falls.

We have to ride horses up to these falls. They are on cliffs and are very dangerous. Alison rode a donkey and rode a horse. Before we mounted, she notices the fucking three foot long dong on this mule...I've never seen a dick so long. I guess he was in heat.

I'm getting off my story. The man that gave me the horse told me he is, "a little wild". So, I used all my readings about horses to try to control him...which was little: squeeze the leg, pull the rains, talk to it. He didn't listen. I feared for my life. We walked up those cliffs near far drop offs. I gave my fear over to his ability to navigate those cliffs. He knew what he was doing; I'm sure he'd done it a dozen times before.

It was the ride down that was fun. I think he sensed that I was a control freak. When we finally got to the clearing, I'd squeezed my legs against his chest, whipped his rains, and yelled, "Charge!". It was like what he was waiting for all day long. That fucking bronco heaved up and started to run. I've never felt so much muscle between my legs (and I'm saying that in a gay sense.)

But, I remembered my training. Be in sync with the horse. So, as his ups and downs came, I adjusted...and we rode. I'm not talking just riding, he wanted to run fast. So we ran fast, and I just leaned into it. And I kept calling, "Yah, yah", and he fucking took off like a rocket. It was like him and I were one.

I can understand why people own horses...they're beautiful animals.

I wish I was back on that beach. Those people live so much simpler lives than us. They're happy.

I miss that beach.

-- Without Wax

Without Wax

2010-07-30T11:43:00.007-05:00

wax
Originally uploaded by Incognita Nom de Plume

Sincerely Sober/Without Wax I will explain later.
I have so many things spinning around in my head; I just want to get them out.
First of all, I want to thank those who have added supportive comments.
Spinning is one way of gaining control. You can spin out of control, yes. However, early in WWI flying dog-fights, pilots learned that when their plane was spiraling downward, trying to turn out of the spiral failed. But, turning into the spiral took them out of the death spiral. It's counter intuitive, like jumping into an incoming wave. Many young beginner swimmers run away from a crashing wave at a beach. But, surfers know that if you run towards the wave and dive right into the base of the wave, you'll end up popping up on the high end of the wave, just behind it...instead of getting clobbered by it.

I need to learn when it is appropriate to drink and when it is not. I blame not having parents, I really do. Dad died at 15 (my age); mom died then too. Can you image, all of the sudden, not have any parental guidance at 15? Add to that, I'd just gotten to know my dad (that's another long story). I have to become my own dad now.

Without Wax is taken from the Dan Brown novel: Digital Fortress. It is the Spanish translation of sincere. Breaking it down, cere is the Spanish word for wax. Sin is "without". Sin was translated to san; I forget how. It is close to sans serif, the type font. Serifs are those extra parts on a letter in a fonts that add style. Sans serif is technically, without extras. So, fonts like Arial, are simple, without extras. But, Without Wax means much more. It's about being honest.

Side note: Without Wax/Sincere was mentioned obscurely in Dan Brown's last novel, The Lost Symbol. Evidently, Robert Langdon (the main character in that series {The DeVinci Code}) had read an obscure reference in a 'boring novel' by some unknown author (his character's author, of course) to the connection between the word sincere and without wax. That's how he solved that pyramid puzzle; boiling the wax and all. All right, you'd have to read both novels to get it. Anyway...and by the way, you'll notice my blog predates the Lost Symbol novel, so the term Without Wax gains a little bit more notoriety.

When sculptures cut marble into beautiful works of art they sometimes make mistakes. They'd chip off a little bit more than they'd intended. Since wax was the same color as marble, they'd often cover up their flaws with wax. The end product would look exactly as expected...no one would know the difference, except the artist.

A sincere sculpture is one without wax.

In being anonymous with my telling of when I'm sober and when I'm drinking, I'm still not violating my oath to readers. I can say anything here because of that. I can be myself, yet I cannot be identified. That has it's pluses and minuses. This is my most visited website, but I can't use it to spring-board off of, because it would identify me.

I am drinking as I write this. I've planned this weekend to drink out some anger. There's nothing better than drink AT someone (yah, that'll show them).

But, I have to tell you; I initially wrote this blog as a way to write letters to June W. I really didn't even realize that until after the first year of doing so. And when she found this blog, she printed ever page of it. I'd thought that was it; she'd fallen back in love with me!

What a putz! She'd just become yet another cougar with a hot tub.

But, I like this place. I get to say anything I want, whatever comes to mind, without hurting anyone or myself (I always use aliases of real people in my life). The gossip you read is of real people, but always disconnected from their real names.

Next: How to find a woman that accepts my current life style. Either that or write a crime novel.

-- Without Wax

4th Step

2010-07-21T06:01:00.005-05:00

Fourth Step

After a week of sobriety, I thought about doing the fourth step. I can’t, I just can’t. It is too deep of a well to explore. I’ll never get out of it sane. And no fifth step will ever convince me that these regrets will magically disappear.

I know this journey is supposed to produce a better human being. And I know that I’ve been a pretty selfish being; sometimes human (well, half-human). The root of my character defects is that I am selfish. That is the one thing that June W. and I still have in common. It’s probably what attracted us to each other. I know, pretty sad.

I don’t want to be selfish any more. Yet, I have little to give. Everything is gone. I am working on the selfish flaw; I have been for the last five years. June could see that. That first time we got together after I’d been sober for nine months, I could see the feelings inside her. She was envious that I had a break from the rat-race to re-evaluate myself. I think she could see that I’d lost the lust for greed; that was something we had in common. That was a drive that took our careers in so many wrong directions.

But, she saw so many more changes in my character. She at least saw that I’d become a different person, hopefully better. I think I have become a better person over the last five years, although my bank statement would beg to differ.

I can say this for sure: I clearly know right from wrong. I know how I got into this mess. I know the steps it takes to mess up. And I know that sharing those lessons honestly with my next friend, lover, co-worker, or boss; will clearly end that relationship. That’s where the anonymous part comes in.

Remember my first wife, Alison M. She was a known alcoholic, and yet I still married her. I thought I could fix her...silly me. I should say ignorant. Because, when an enabler, like me, marries an addict, he has no idea what he’s getting himself into. What I’m talking about here is I used to be on the other side of the fence. I used to be the one surrounded by addicts. I was the social drinker. I mean I tried several drugs, but none really tripped my trigger.

Then I met Alison. It was a typical pub-crawl night where my brother, Robert J., and I would go to a club that hosted older ladies. It was called The Hop in Huntington Beach, CA, owned by the Righteous Brothers. It was late in the evening when I asked Alison to dance. She responded very suspiciously. “What, you don’t want to dance with those other young blondes?”, she said. I convinced her that I really was attracted to her. I could tell she was in a pissed mood. How much so, I’d only learn later.

That night, Alison was like a mustang I had to break, to tame...and I did. I seduced her. She drove me home. We fell into the pool. Our cloths fell off. We made hot passionate love. And when she woke up, she had a smile on her face. She was a different person than the woman I’d asked to dance the night before.

I never really understood the Dr. Jekyll / Mr. Hyde effect that happens with sever alcoholics; like Alison, and later, me. What I found out later, through deduction, that Alison was in her frenzy stage of drinking that night she went to the bar. When we fell into the pool (okay, I pushed her on purpose), I discovered that she was only wearing a small top and skirt; no underwear (I drew a line, in the water, up her leg to find her panties only to discover there were none; talk about arousal). She was cruising; and acting crazy.

This is what happened: Alison was pissed about something (it really doesn’t matter with us alcoholics; it’s just another excuse to drink). She got home from work, decided that the day was shot, so why not open up the red wine and indulge. She deserved it after the crap the military gave her that day (She worked for McDonald-Douglas). Then against her sober judgment, she split off wearing little, to her favorite dance bar. She probably didn’t even think about changing.

She was attracted to me when she saw me dancing with other ladies. But, at the same time, she was pissed that she wasn’t initially asked to dance. Her anger grew. When I finally got around to asking her to dance, she thought she was last-call. That’s why the angry greeting.

Back then, when I was 25, I knew; I just knew I could kick any habit. I’d already kicked a few (meth and coke). They took a toll on me. I saw in Alison a woman that I could “fix”. Engineers are all about fixing things, right? So, I agreed to fix Alison.

We got married in Las Vegas. We told no one.

As a husband, I learned early that it is very important to get home early (not to work late) to monitor her drinking habits. At that time in my career, I worked late. I worked until the problem was solved; typical engineer stuff. But, if I didn’t get home before Alison started drinking, she would switch into the Mr. Hyde mode. She’d get paranoid, hyper, angry and crazy. It would take all my effort to calm her down enough to feed her dinner. It was a stress: I must get home before she starts drinking.

And the next day, she wouldn’t remember a thing; total black out. She’d be chipper as a bird.

The funniest thing is that I never saw any of this behavior in me. I did everything that Alison did and more before I ever really got A.A. Talk about denial. And I was worse. Even when I talked about denial, I was in denial.

So, I know how people view alcoholism: in stages; stages of denial, really. No one really wants to fall in love with an alcoholic. No one wants to hire an alcoholic. And no one wants to admit that the person they fell in love with is an alcoholic. That’s why they call it anonymous.

What I’m trying to say is that no one above your sanity level will understand the depths of danger below until they’ve experienced it. But, by then, of course, it’s too late.

-- Without Wax

P.S. Has anyone figured out why I sign Without Wax?

The Fiction

2010-07-11T07:49:00.003-05:00

When a man falls in love with a woman, there is fiction involved. She thinks of him as a provider. He thinks of her has as a very small warm place to be.

When this falls apart, they start to lie.

This happened with June W. and I.

She was gorgeous. I had blue eyes. We thought, we had the fiction, that we could make it together forever.

The economy proved us wrong.

She thought that my knowledge of technology would save us. I drank it to death.

Then the lies start.

I lied about the drinking and she lied about her skills.

I know how to program computers, I just don’t know what she can do.

I know my skills. I don’t know her skills. And she doesn’t want anyone else to know them.

And because she is so stupid, she’ll never really know how much I really love her. And I’m so fucking tired of loving her. I’m tired of writing about her. I wish she didn’t exist.

When she meant a lot to me, she didn’t even really realize what that meant to me.

I don’t think she really has moral value to any man anymore. I hate to say it, but it must be true.

I hate to say it, but she's not as smart as I thought she was. I must be more stupid. And I wish I had never met June W., because I've never fallen so dangerously and deeply in love ever in my life.

-- Without Wax

No Two People

2010-07-03T01:22:00.004-05:00

drowning
Originally uploaded by Jillian.Xenia

No two people want the same thing at the same time ever in life. Life is short, so we accept their differences, for a while. If you adore a feature of her for too long, it becomes a liability. And if you ever bring up a flaw, you’re dead.

This is the philosophy I’ve derived with women. You have to become careful around them. They want to be known as attractive, but not hit on; especially in the work place. They want to know that they can always fall back on human recourse when a man that she is not attracted to is hitting on her.

So, if you’re not the perfect man, you’re either celibate or a stalker. Put it this way: People that desire fun sex have a hard time hooking up. If you desire sex on a normal basis, you’ll see the opportunity everywhere around you. If that person you desire doesn’t…well then you’re in trouble.

How do you put that in check?
And then if you ever get deeply passionate, you’re sunk.

Fear of Addiction

2010-06-18T09:27:00.000-05:00

People fear addiction. That is the reason why no one will talk to me. I get it. I should pretend like I don’t have one. President Obama has one, but it doesn’t change other’s lives, or doesn’t have the potential to.

They fear addiction. Friends and loved ones do. They get scared…scared away. They get scared for so many reasons. Maybe because they see in you what they could be.

But then, there is the reasoning that they shouldn’t put up with that crap. With their own crap. That they should just take it.

Just take it. Yah, that would be cool.

Let’s dispel all the mistakes we’ve made into a boiling pot of anger. Let’s just it simper for a bit…let it cool.

After all this cooling, there will always be a growing uncomfortably. We will never survive this. We will always be the underclass.

Seeing my old friend taught me something. It taught me that HE will never want to be associated with US. Because, he’s scared…I think.

Is this fear more important that real friendship? Can we break the beerier of sober life?

--
Without Wax

Burning Bridges

2010-06-09T03:33:00.001-05:00

OLD BEER
Originally uploaded by defekto

You’ll never really know the bridges you’ve burnt until you look back; retrospect, they call it. We have a limited time on this fragile Earth. Friends are important, very important. You are not a genius. You won’t ever be able to discover who will be you’re most trusted friends. But, old friends, they have value.

Larry C., a software engineer (just like me)…has endeared me with the most entertaining drunk stories that, I’ve labeled them: the Larry Stories.

I’ve just found out that Larry has moved to the Twin Cities. We had a little pub crawl. And all was forgiven…or so I thought.

What he did one night caused us to not trust him ever again. We came to visit in Reno, NV. We stayed at his place. Then he disappeared. What had happened was that he fell {drunk} in love with a beautiful lady and totally had forgotten that he was hosting us at his place. All our trip property was in his apartment. We had to leave the next day. I could deal with it, but my girlfriend couldn’t.

I could deal with it because I know the nature of Larry. But, he just left us. No keys, no plan, and more importantly, no luggage. He knew we had to leave, yet he left us.

I tracked him down. I knew, from the local taverns that he visited, where he might be. Jacqueline was worried. I found him. I had expressed to him how upset she was to him. He was a man I had put our trust in…and then she got scared…because his dick got hard.

I had set myself to not trust him again…then he called. I was still pissed about the fact that he really didn’t understand how scared Jacky was. I felt, when he called, that maybe…just maybe he might have known how scared Jacky was, but I didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt. I’d told him, “no”.

Time passed, and I’d never heard from him again. Then, we found each other on Facebook. He’d remembered the damage he’d done to our relationship. We met over beer and had forgiven and put away the mistakes of the past.

We talked and drank and looked at beautiful young ladies at bars, just like old times; but it really wasn’t. I’m divorced; he’s got a daughter, a house, more than I can have. It was unbalanced.

His ex-wife said he shouldn’t see me again.

He gave me an e-mail saying that we can’t see each other again.

I’m like: Wow: what the fuck?

He called me and said that she apologized: that she should have never forced that decision upon him. Then he called back and said he felt like a jerk.

Frankly, he was, but I cannot help but think that he was a pussy jerk. Come on! His ex-wife has now decisions about friends he’s known 20 years ago?

So, now he hasn’t changed. He can easily burn bridges has fast as I could. But, I no longer find value in burning bridges. I should teach him not to. And take respect that he hasn’t, over 20 years, learned that lesson.

I must teach Larry how not to burn bridges. That’s a job; that’s a big job. Okay, I’ll do it.

Next step.

-- Without Wax

May 27 2007 Strawberry Rhubard Stuffed French Toast @ The Coffee Pot in Kenosha, Wisconsin

2010-06-04T04:38:00.002-05:00

May 27 2007 Strawberry Rhubard Stuffed French Toast @ The Coffee Pot in Kenosha, Wisconsin
Originally uploaded by cal222

Perfect.

There are times when I feel so close to June. She knows how to cook, and she knows how to reach any man through his stomach. I love her; I really do.

-- Without Wax

June's Bar

2010-05-26T02:57:00.002-05:00

I don’t think I've ever really knew how much we loved each other. Everything I loved about June W. was everything I lacked: family, stability, credit, home, friends and pets. I just watched “Crazy Heart” with Jeff “The Dude” Bridges and saw myself in every scene. Especially when he did a face-plant on the bed just before telling his friend he’s done drinking.

I wish I could say that I’m done drinking after watching that movie, but I am writing this drunk.

June did everything for me. She made me so happy. The only thing that she didn’t do was the only thing she couldn’t do: give me a child. (That is another story.)

But I’ve learned something about her being away from her. She really missed her drinking partner. As much as she tried to handle the end of our marriage with me trying desperately to stay sober, she could not be happy with a sober husband. She needed someone who could drink with her.

The more we’d learned about each other, the less honest we’d become. We both created our own set of denial: mine not accepting being an alcoholic and her’s not being married to one. She became the ultimate denial supporter.

She didn’t want to admit that she married an alcoholic, even though she saw all of the signs beforehand. She wanted to present a stable drinker to her Wisconsin heavy drinking family. It’s like she almost had something to prove. She had finally met a man that can hold a job and drink at the same time.

Once it became one or the other, she no longer was interested in me. June had fallen out of love. Her best friend could no longer drink with her.

So, what did she do? She divorced me and built a bar, in the living room (well, just off it.)

I have never loved anyone in my life more than her, June. And I can’t get over her. I told her that I will always change. I changed into a sober man. She became disinterested. I turned to the bottle. I really didn’t know where else to go. I still don’t.

Her family saw how crazy we were for each other. I fell in love with them; they’re good people. I don’t have much in the way of family. I miss family. I really don’t have any now.

And I loved June like no other man has loved a woman. When we were together, it was like glue. Just being in the same bed made me stroke her legs with mine, rub her aching muscles, pop in her dislocated spinal vertebrae. June was the kind of woman that would take time in a morning shower for a personal scrub down, no matter what her schedule.
She liked the way I took care of things in the morning, like setting the Boss for random jazz music as an alarm clock, making the coffee, feeding the cats and clearing their box; that simple stuff. I always made sure she had a good start for the day.
She loved when I sang to her in Spanish, barely naked.

I miss doing that.

We’re all getting older. That kind of fun probably wont ever happen for us.

But, she meant a change for us. At that time, we needed it. We were cheaters.

Being married meant we’d bean done with cheating, or so we thought.

This is not the kind of relationship you want to describe to your family.

This is the kind of bar that her family dreamed of, in-house, laminate, sweet lighting, European in nature, but Wisconsin in root. Thankfully she created more of the former than the latter.

It was supposed to be a place that you can just come in, play dice, talk local, bitch about work, that type of vent. That’s all she wanted. Nothing worse.

Photos were collected, and posted. She’d married a photographer, yet she never posted photos of him. She only posted photos of friends that were more drunk than her. I noticed that. It was tasteful, as tasteful as party can be. But, thought was there.

June W. is not the ultimate party girl. She’s holding out; for someone. Not me, that’s for sure. We’ve done that dance.

I love June. I will always love her. I can tell you in detail why I will always love June, but that is not important to her nor I, nor anyone else. I just know that I must let that love lie and die. If you’re a drunk, you’d know why.

Sincerely Yours,

-- Without Wax

My Friend, Alcohol

2010-04-13T11:19:00.003-05:00

Bug's eye of Antelope Canyon
Originally uploaded by theavonne

I really must describe my relationship with alcohol, at this time in my life. But first, must say something about this beautiful photograph of Antelope Canyon taken by Paul Rutowski. I was searching for a photograph that would visually describe the post I am about to pen, and although it has nothing to do with alcohol, I felt the need to share this awesome work of art. However, I could make a case for it:

This image describes the rift alcohol builds between the success of my life and the need to escape the reality of the lack there of.

How was that? Pretty lame, I know. Sounds like a drunk wrote it. Anyway, it’s good to know there are beautiful places like that on Earth.

Onto the subject at hand. Alcohol does for me what nothing else in my life right now can do: It relieves my anxiety. It can stop me from thinking about every problem I have in my life; although most of them can be attributed to alcohol. Today, I don’t feel the need to drink, to get drunk. But, because I know that won’t always be the case, I have chosen this particular GRH housing facility, the Hunting Hotel. And I’m going to be sincerely honest about this. The rule is that if you choose to drink and stay here, you will be kicked out. However, you don’t have to stay here every night. Bing! The light bulb illuminates.

There’s nothing to say that I must stay sober to live here. Because of this, I don’t feel pressured to stay sober. That is one major monkey off my back. When you’re surrounded by residents, staff, security guards, priests, AA members, doctors, and volunteers all praying, inquiring, prodding, and asking how many sober days you have, it’s enough to drive a man to cocktails. These people don’t feel the need to be casual about inquiring into your current relationship with alcohol; they feel it is their right. They feel the need to twelfth-step you to death, in the name of their own recovery.

You wanna help? Help me with the thirteenth step. I haven’t gotten laid in so long, my right hand is growing blisters.

At the Hunting Hotel, if you choose to drink, don’t come home. It’s as simple as that. I don’t have to come home every night, just once every 18 days. If I do get drunk, there are several places in downtown Minneapolis I can go. There’s the Tramp Pad downtown I can crash for the evening, or the detox facility if I need several days to sober up. I can even rent a hotel room, if I save up enough cash. The place I cannot go when drunk is home. (I never had this option when married to June W.; more on that in another post.) I can leave all my property at home – my wallet, backpack, anything of value – grab a few bucks for booze and a bus token, and I don’t have to worry about loosing my shirt when I inevitably black out from too much fun.

I’d like to elaborate on this part of leaving everything at home. When you’re homeless, you have very little in the way of storage choices. Most of what you value is on your back. Getting plastered risks all you own, yet we drunks still risk it. I have lost so much property from these drunken binges.

Once, I blacked out and ended up in Indian detox facility. When they took my property, they put my valuables – wallet, ID, social security card, Palm Pilot, cell phone, MP3 player, bus cards, money, etc. – in a little Tupperware container. Before they could store it in their safe, another drunk walk by and stole it. It happens all the time, from what the director has told me. I was devastated. Not having ID and social security card makes it impossible to get a job, amongst other things. Not having a home means you can’t just have them mail you a new ID either. But loosing my organizer was the worst. The Palm Pilot had my entire life in it (it’s like a smart phone without the phone). It had all my contacts, documents, financials, notes, appointments, applications, etc. The financial compensation I received from Indian detox was not nearly enough for me to replace all that was lost. It was yet another reason to drink, hard.

Let me make myself crystal clear about something. My history of loss in my life (friends, wives, jobs, property, reputation, etc.) has never been a major deterrent to drinking. Alcohol does for me something that at times I feel I need: relief from anxiety. I don’t have a friend in the world that can do that for me. My ex-wife, June W., used to, but she changed after marriage.

I don’t mind that it’s a one-way relationship. I buy my friend, alcohol. I let her in. She changes my outlook on life and I calm down. I stop worrying about everything I should be doing right now, which is everything. She says, “Don’t worry about everything at once, because you can’t solves most of them today anyway. Let me in and you can become that other person.” By the next morning, the other person usually finds a way to screw up another part of my life. But again, I now don’t have to worry about it so much.

Hunting Hotel does not require you to be part of Alcoholics Anonymous nor attend meetings. Some meetings have gone bad for me and have attributed to yet another relapse, from time to time. I’m no longer in treatment and am off paper (I’ve completed my DUI probation), so I have no AA meeting requirements. They do require you do drop on request (take a drug piss test and breathalyzer). I don’t do drugs, so that’s not an issue.

Mandatory AA meetings can be a burden to a recovering alcoholic, like myself. If you’re there because you want to be there, it’s not so obvious. But if you bring an AA card, everyone knows you’re required to be there, and you’re treated differently. They call it ‘court ordered’, but it’s not always. You could be in treatment for alcohol and/or drugs that requires a signed AA card. AAs have strong opinions about treatment vs. Alcoholics Anonymous, and they let you know that. And some AAs fairly new in the program like to compare their progress to yours, like it’s going to help the newcomer. It’s my experience that people like that wont stop that behavior until their first relapse. It’s only afterwards, when you see that sincere humility on their face, that you can sense that they know the meaning of the word ‘progress’. Again, more pressure.

There are times when the last thing I need is an AA meeting. I definitely have too much resentment against the folks at the Sober Barn to return there anytime sooner than I’m ready. I know of predictably healthy meetings, one of which in uptown I think I’ll attend tonight. One thing I really do not want to do is talk about how many fucking days I have sober. The next person who asks will get the living shit choked out of them...in a verbal way. No, seriously; I need to think of a clever misdirecting comeback to that question. I know, “The day after tomorrow, I will have two more days sober than I do today. How many will you have?”

If it becomes so fucking important that I must get drunk, I’ll simply head home beforehand and drop off anything of value, except what needed for the night, and head out. It is because I have this option that I don’t feel the need to drink alcohol today.

-- Without Wax

April Fool's Abdicate

2010-04-07T11:26:00.010-05:00

Her legs, high heels, petticoat, car.
Originally uploaded by Sugarbarre2

I've been sober one week. Yes, my first day of sobriety was on April Fool's day. No joke. Why the legs? They're attractive. Sometimes there is no rhyme or reason for the photos I choose.

I've found a home at the Hunting Hotel. It's a GRH place, which is really a county funded program that let's sober people stay through GA funding in exchange for your food stamps. They feed you three meals a day, but the food really sucks. It's tasteless, non-diabetic-friendly, sugar-enriched, carbohydrated trough slop! I have to bring Lawry's and hot sauce just to choke it down. I eat anywhere else, when I get a chance. For example, I'll end up some nights over at Bart's Crib, where I'm always welcomed, and eat dinner there.

The week leading up to my last day of sobriety pretty much sucked. I had ended an extended stay (nearly three months) at Bart's Crib and had to stay at another shelter near the Rat House. Things were not looking up for me, so I hit the bottle as often as I could.

I was eventually kicked out of Sober Barn for arriving one morning reeking of booze. They locked up my computer and banned me from their computer lab, the one I setup. Talk about Fourth Step amendment. So right now I've got only library access to the Internet. I'll get my computer back soon, but in my own room. However, I refuse to work on their website anymore. Good luck trying to find someone willing to do the work for free, taking orders from a cranky, sober, technophobe.

I think I'm going to create my own website...you know, just to play around with. On other things technical:

My iPad review is not very supportive. It appears that Apple's iPad is as limiting as their iPhone. So, like the iPhone, it will only run Apple approved applications. Apple is taking the opposite approach to Google in that they're not supporting open source application development. This is the same tack that they took back in the 1980s when IBM made their hardware open and the Mac was closed.

It does not support Adobe Flash. Most ads are implemented in Flash, but so is a lot of content. None of the popular Facebook applications (like Farmville and Bejeweled) will run. And the entire content on sites like Disney, Hulu, and Miniclip will be excluded. It runs the iPhone OS, not OS X, so it's not multitasking. You can't listen to Pandora in the background. No 3G network, yet (so, no GPS). It uses a Built-in battery. What were they thinking? (Haven't they learned from the MacBook Air.) They could've cleaned-up on huge replaceable battery sales. Websites that support iPhone will serve up those pages to the iPad. This can be annoying when they've got tiny menus with all that screen real-estate. It is difficult to type an entire document on. No Skype. No camera. No decent chat client. From what I understand, it's a poor replacement for a PC, no matter what your use is.

It does support eBooks on Amazon.com, in color no less.

My review was inspired by CmdrTaco's review, someone who's actually bought one.

Thought for the day:
Should there be mandatory term limits for book critics?

-- Without Wax

Light Rail Ticket Again

2010-03-30T10:52:00.001-05:00

Pinhole Light Rail
Originally uploaded by mjwessty

Light rail update: I was finally ticketed this morning; well, Clark was ticketed. Although my strategy worked, I don't think this will become a habit for me. I've been sited twice in so many days. Never before have I even been approached.

I attribute this to the new Target Twin Stadium. They must be upping the security, since there is absolutely no tail-gating parking available to Twins fans. They, for the most part, use manciple parking ramps if they want to drive downtown at all. That is not at all advisable, nor desired, as far as the city concerned. They want fans to partake in the downtown experience. They've even made the food more attractive. Dome dogs have gone the way of the dodo bird, replaced by local bratwurst. In fact, everything is local. There is a push for all food local. It sounds pretty cool. But when you leave the stadium, they want you to visit local clubs downtown. So, I can see the need to clean up the light rail.

This ticket was written out to my alias. Since I did not place my wallet in my pocket, I, again, had no fear of giving an alias. The officer was much more polite, checked my pockets for ID, found none, then told me he wouldn't be taking me downtown, where they most certainly would've found my wallet and ID. When he gave me the ticket, he told me to present it to any officer asking for my rail ticket. Again, I bought a ticket for my ride back from the airport. I'm getting tired of this cat-and-mouse game. I don't think I'm going to do it again.

Interesting thing though: The violation was named “Face Evasion”. Go figure.

– Without Wax

How to Avoid a Light Rail Ticket

2010-03-28T13:31:00.001-05:00

Light Rail Train in Downtown Minneapolis
Originally uploaded by ssphotos2009

How to Avoid a Light Rail Ticket

I had been drinking the night before and was sipping off the hair-of-the-dog on the light rail this morning, killing time and takin' naps, when two police officers approach me asking for proof of fare. I hadn't drank in two months. Thankfully, I'd thought ahead and did not pocket my wallet. I'd been warned about the $180 fine, but thought little of it in my inebriated state.

One officer questioned me while the other stood in the isle to block my escape, which I thought was amusing. Where was I going to go? There are no handles on a speeding train. To the best of my knowledge, the conversation went something like this:

The officer woke me with, “May I see your ticket?”
“Sure,” I said while I fumbled for the non-existent boarding pass. “I'm sorry, I must have dropped it.”
“May I see your Minnesota ID please?,” He asked.
“I'm sorry. My wallet was just stolen,” I replied, not far from the truth. It was stolen months ago, and I'd just gotten my ID back, but I wasn't going to show them that.
“What's your name?,” he asked.
I've never given a police officer an alias before, and always wondered what path this would lead me down. I had one ready, “Brad Clark.”
“What's your middle name?,” he quickly asked.
Off the top of my head, I used my dad's middle name, “Joseph”.
He phoned in my name. “You know there's a fine for riding the rail without a ticket.”
I nodded, “I know. I must've dropped it,” I repeated.
“Where did you purchase it?”
“Mall of America.”
“Where do you live?”
“Homeless,” I mumbled.
“...No Brad Joseph Clark on file,” the radio squawked.
“We don't have you on file, sir,” the officer stated.
“I just moved here,” I replied.
“From where?”
“California.”
“How long ago?”
“About a month ago.”
He rolled his eyes, then called to stop the train. “Step out!” Officer two stepped aside to let me pass.
I got up and stepped out of the train.
Looking me straight in the eye, he said, “Don't get back on this train!”
“Yes sir,” I said withholding my inner-smirk.
They left me within walking distance of where I wanted to go, but didn't really want to walk. I had an errand to do, so I took a look at the fare machine and said, “Why not?” I bought a ticket and got back on the train. What was he going to do?
If he would have arrested me, I would've replied, “Oh good, three hots and a cot.” I think he knew that. If he had, however, I'm sure he'd have search my backpack and found my wallet and ID. I plaid the homeless poker bluff.
But, I really wonder why he didn't give me a ticket in my alias?

-- Without Wax

Alright, I Drank.

2010-02-24T17:40:00.004-06:00

Alright, I drank.

Disposable dispare
Originally uploaded by oliver|PHOTO™

I feel like pulling my hair out.

It was intense. My donation experience was not nearly as expected. I became permanently deferred; Permanent Refused, PRed. The reason was I attempted to donated at another facility.

I will update you on all this…later.

I have to go.

-- Without Wax

Did The Wrong Thing

2010-02-24T11:56:00.002-06:00

Day 55
Originally uploaded by EBacayo

Yup, I did the wrong thing. No excuse. I found the money and I bought a fifth of whiskey, and drank it last night.

I talked to my sponsy brother. I think he knew I was high (he knows me).

I bought a fifth of whiskey, sipped a bit of it, then came back to the Sober Barn.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

-- Without Wax

Drowning

2010-02-22T14:48:00.003-06:00

drowning.
Originally uploaded by ~lady j.

I always wonder, due to my constant relapses, if anyone reading this blog wonders if I’ve died. I should be respectful and update it more often. I’ve been a bad boy lately.

I am ten day sober; had my last drink February 11, 2010. To be sincerely honest, it’s not for any other reason than City Plasma was closed down last week for their kiosk upgrade; lack of funds. While closed, no other donation center can sign up new donors, since they cannot verify any one's last donation. Suburb Plasma has a two week waiting period for initial appointments. I made one, but I’ll cancel it now that they’re only paying $50 per week instead of City Plasma’s $55. I should really shop around for other plasma donation centers. I will donate tomorrow at City Plasma and receive a whopping $20.

I don’t know if I want to blow half of that on a fifth of whiskey or not. I haven’t called my sponsor in weeks. Everyday I’ve had the urge to get drunk over this last week. I could’ve borrowed the money and gotten drunk, but I didn’t. After I got caught trying to hide in the Sober Barn during closing time, I thought they’d never let me back in again. I snuck in the first few times, and then they just let me stay after that.

So, what is the Sober Barn? It’s the place I spend my mornings, surf the Internet, play online poker, and develop their Web site. I use open source technologies to develop their Web site: Apache, MySQL, PHP, Eclipse, XDebug, Joomla, Ubuntu Linux, VirtualBox, HipHop for PHP, C++, and Java.

I’ve moved Darkness (my ten-year-old Pentium 4 desktop computer) to the computer lab I’ve setup for them. In this small lab, I’ve setup three other similar computers on a wired network, but also with WiFi, shared printer, and firewall. With little money I make here and there, I’ve upgraded Darkness’s CPU from 2.0 to 2.66 GHz, 80GB hard drive to 400GB, and installed a DVD-RW optical drive. It’s my legacy development machine with dual-boot Windows XP Pro and Ubuntu 9.10 Linux. Now, if I can only scrounge up two PC100 512MB DIMMs from an old server, I could double his system memory to 2GB (his motherboard’s limit). That will help me run Ubuntu Linux in a VirualBox within Windows XP.

Regarding the load of geekdome you’ve just read: it’s the only thing that is keeping me sober right now. This is a subject I really should devote to an entire post, but most of the above technology I have learned, or relearned, in the last three months. I’ve been in self-teaching mode.

I’ve been Homeless and jobless for one year. I’ve been living in downtown shelters since being kicked out of Rat House in October. I’ve discovered the Sober Barn and have been hanging out there days.

Lost yet another camera…really miss having a camera; I mean a really love photography. These point-and-shoot cameras, though, are really starting to annoy me with their utter lack of image control. I’ve fallen in love with several cameras, but if I had the means, I’d buy the Canon EOS 5D Mark II digital SLR. Besides being able to take stills at 21 mega pixels, it can shoot 1080p HD video at 30 fps! With a two hour battery life, you could make your own professional HD movie. At $2700, it’s one tenth the cost of an industry HD video camera without the excellent still camera lenses. It is truly innovative.

Which brings me to the featured photograph: I feel like I’m drowning most days…Which leads me to drowning my sorrows in whiskey.

-- Without Wax

30th Day "age will not worry them"

2009-11-16T19:40:00.004-06:00

Jan 30th "age will not worry them"
Originally uploaded by Neener1

I'm coming up on 30 days sober, my first whole month of sobriety without treatment. I'll have a post for my first month of sobriety this weekend.

Sincerely Yours,

-- Without Wax

Lack of Care

2009-10-15T13:15:00.008-05:00

Originally uploaded by Ruben Silva

There is no pure solution to addiction. I am addicted to alcohol at this time. I’ve seen friends successfully abstain from substances only to find another, albeit much less destructive habit, that possessed their lifestyle. Some have changed their way of thinking for life, some have made A.A. their life. None have ever become normal again.

Neural pathways are like that. You get into a habit that rewards you and if you don’t have any other reason, you just go for it! You just keep doing it.

This other reason may be religious upbringing or pure discipline initially. Some people notice their character defect and put up, what I would call barriers, but for lack of sense, we drink. These other people are called ‘normies’.

I searched the Internet to find an A.A. definition that I could link to and found nothing that could really define what I thought was a proper description of a normie.

normie: a person who can feel the need to stop drinking (or using) because of some fear of loosing complete control.

Loosing control, for a normie is what they seek, but in a limited way. Okay, this is in a point of view from an addict like me: Normies have this fear zone which allows them to not go past any given point, even if they are inebriated. When they loose control, they want some kind of social acceptance that it is Okay. A boyfriend, group of peers, or strangers at a bar may cokes them into acceptance.

After that, if a person does not have a disciplined set of values to fall back on, he/she may resort to what feels best. Guys like me seek out women that have those values. It’s a standard A.A. trait. It’s in the Big Book, somewhere. Often, alcoholic men find wonderful women (like I did with June W.) that adore them. I mean, she doesn’t adore me anymore.

I feel June W. did have that required set of values. She grew up surrounded by a the constant pluses and minus of desire and success. She learned what worked, but most importantly, she learned what failed. She learned how to avoid that.

That, is what kept her from becoming an addict.

She had every temptation available and yet she deflected it. She had good upbringing. That’s why guys like me seek out women like her because we lack family values. In learning that we don’t, we often build these extended families.

In my case, it didn’t work. I may be the extreme when it comes to taking things to their limits. June learned that – eventually; too late for her.

I say that because I knew her when she was at her prime. She was so excited about the world like no one to put her down. She’s almost always been like that. She explained to me one time when she lost a job for the first time in her life and she was devastated. Her husband at the time had to console her.

I’m different. I’ve had many failures and have learned from them early in life. Those lessons have been important. I find any failure as the most important, even valuable lesson one can ever have. If it happens at a company, it is their value. You now have an employee that may never make that valuable mistake again…or at least that’s the way I see it.

To June, any mistake is a complete failure that requires Catholic pendants.

I talk about June now because I’ve found I need her. And yet, I’ve screwed her.

I did a bad thing. I stayed sober for five months, then asked a favor. I was close to getting a job and needed to be prepared. I asked for some money, in credit, and she gave it to me, in cash. I saw it in alcohol. The math went into effect immediately. It was the exact opposite of what I wanted to do with her money and what I wanted to happen to my life. I translated the cash she gave me into the number of bottles of whiskey I could buy.

I asked her for credit to get my life back going…iron, ironing board, toiletries, etc. I asked for a way for me to created a line of credit, through her. She didn’t understand. I wanted a legitimate line of credit. But, it was much simpler for her to just advance me $120.00 in cash and avoid the entire shopping spree for her embarrassing homeless ex-husband.

I did the terrible thing of using these funds to buy alcohol and get kicked out of my housing. I told June. She responded:

“Nice job…I see what [you] did with money you FUCKER…don’t call or email me ever again!!! Have a great life!!!!!1”

There is no way out of that type of apology. She enabled me and I drank it. I don’t believe I’ll ever hear from June again.

This is what we do. We loose friends, lovers, co-workers, all because we can’t get over the fact that we sometimes have no one other than the bottle to go to when we are sad. Once those neural pathways are established, we’re screwed. It will take the next lifetime to erased them, and if there are any loved ones left around, it may be possible for them to have a normal live.

But for me, I’ve had none. June was it, and she’s found another ‘normal’ life. I don’t blame her. She deserves it after being with me.

There’s no way out after you’ve become alcoholic. You’re screwed.

-- Without Wax

Recession Alcoholism

2009-09-09T16:10:00.005-05:00

Good Kisser.
Originally uploaded by Jazmin Million

Wax (myself) has to keep reminding himself that he knows nothing when it comes to recovery. This borrowed picture is not strange to him since he’d called his sponsor for a ride to detox. He sees this daily, he does. It is mostly the black community that causes this unseemly publicly visual display, but I can’t image it to be any more easily comfortable.

I say this after an addict meeting that pissed me off! Thirty black guys and two whites, me one of them. The question was posed by a black woman about domestic violence. I could not relate with what every fucking black man used as excuses for, well, a whole list of things that would make a woman feel endangered at home. The most sickening thing is that, after all that, what I would have expected as the realistic response from what I would think is a good start to a training exercise, the black woman mostly responded with, "I understand." I understand why a black woman should allow a black man to slap her into submission. Maybe that is the way blacks do it, but it is wrong in any race. The female black instructor let it go, because there were 30 black guys to two whites...or maybe there was another reason I do not understand.

Actually, there is no reason, regardless of race, for a man to hit a woman...blacks are no exception. The fact that this black woman glossed over it because she simply understands 98% of the guys in the room by race is unacceptable.

It was like they made excuses for why a woman would make them feel the need to slap them. This group was sponsored by a black woman. And I would think that she would step up and state why this is wrong…but she didn’t. She did nothing. We closed with the serenity prayer...an afront to it.

Look, I don’t know, and I don’t pretend to know, what it must be like to be violated in the most passionate of encounters, but I can understand how it can be misconstrued.

In other words: I have wanted it so badly, I didn’t think of her.

But, I have to say, going to meetings with these black people makes me feel that there is a lower life form…and they want to descend to it.

Joy

2009-05-09T16:47:00.002-05:00

Joy of Death cold
Originally uploaded by candy rudolf

Joy

Gillian’s idea of venting anger in a healthy way has us all perplexed, wondering if the next thing any of us do will be interpreted as stepping out of line. We’ve all just been chastised by her for not taking morning meditation seriously. Guys are complaining, not commenting afterwards on how it affects them, not choosing to read at all, leaving a number of books abandoned. When Gillian gives you that scowl, you know not to get on her bad side.

Gillian D. is a talk black woman from Kentucky. Sporting grandma glasses and a low-maintenance afro, she’s here on this weekend to do one thing: get us motivated. She is wise and kind beyond imagination, but this morning she is definitely not the latter. An African American grandmother is the toughest soul.

She splits us up in three groups of three, gives us each a daily meditation book from her private library, then asks us to read it and, “…I’ll be back.” After the chastising we’d all received, there’re no protests. Arriving back, she demands, “Now each of you write your interpretation of the reading. You have 20 minutes.” She disappears again.

When she reappears, she orders us to sit in a circle, collects all our papers, and distributes them to others to read as if they were the author. That last bit is a little odd to contemplate, but again, we’re all walking on egg shells, so no one protests. When we read each of each other’s letters we are role-playing. She calls on us by the author’s name and asks us to then interpret what each letter meant to us.

Dustin V. reads my letter on Joy:

“When one full of joy enters a room, some is bound to spill out. It’s contagious. When joy comes through you, it’s shared with others. If you wake with joy in your heart, just for that day, expectations will not become resentments. People in hatred will not overcome you, and may be affected by your attitude in a positive way.”

“Joy is also a way of seeing things, not filtered through rose colored glasses, but seeing the positive in some event that would normally appear negative. Yet another learning opportunity is at hand.”

“Joy can make all the difference.”

His verbal interpretation, even through the tears, gives a positive spin on the hell he’s endured over the last week. Dustin’s mother, grandmother, half-sister and her husband all died in an unfortunate car accident 1500 miles away in California. Dustin himself is mentally challenged, speaks in a monotone voice, and generally has a difficult time making friends. This on top of the challenge we all face here at The Station with addiction. Four days after the accident, his sister with three years sobriety ODs on heroin over the trauma.

What he said blew me away, “This was exactly what I needed to read today.” Those letters were distributed at random.

I learned at last night’s meeting that Neil S., who just received his one year medallion, had too lost his sister. She’d just got back from the hospital where she’d recovered from a drug induced coma. She then settled down with her drug of choice to unwind. The crack she smoked caused her heart to explode. “It’s never enough until your heart stops beating.”

I have 85 days sober today.

-- Without Wax

Balance

2009-05-02T15:41:00.005-05:00

Free Child Walking

on White Round Spheres

Balance Creative Commons
Originally uploaded by Pink Sherbet Photography

The disc continues to skip as a frustrated Manny presses the eject button on the DVD player. “I know what the problem is.”

I’m sure you do.

“It’s the alignment of the seek heads of this player, not the reading heads. See the seek heads are responsible for finding the correct track for the read heads so…,” he continues his seemingly endless rapid-monotone explanation of basic laser media mechanics. “…I’m not sure if it’s these scratches on the disk or the fact that this player gets beaten up so often,” this 5’ 1” skinny middle-aged man continues. I don’t dare interrupt his ramble for fear of throwing him off concentration of his desperate task at hand.

“Peanut butter smeared on a scratched DVD or CD can mend it…” How I’d like to smear peanut butter on your tongue right now. “…But I think replacing the DVD player would be smarter since they’re only $30 and the cafeteria only has chunky peanut butter, not smooth. Those digital artifacts are the cause of…”

Just fix the bloody thing in silence, please! If you hadn’t just had a UA, I’d swear you’re on something.

Manny P. is perfect a example of the need for balance in ones life. He’s a reminder of how difficult it is for me. For all his faults, we are talking about a man who has achieved three months of sobriety, earned a scholarship to Dunwoody Technical School, and found housing. From the look at him with his receding hairline and mustache, you’d assume he’s just a normal, white, everyday rational man. It’s only once he speaks that the illusion is shattered and the fear of an endless one-sided conversation occurs.

It frightens me to think of how tortured his mind must be to function in this manner. He is doing the one thing he knows will keep him safe, productive, and sober. He also believes that God will do for him what he cannot do for himself. But Heaven help him if he ever encounters an obstacle in the road that gives him an excuse to use.

A balanced life has harmony between a professional life and a personal life. Before I moved my life to be with June W. (my ex-wife), I worked hard twelve-hour days, yet had no personal life. Once moving in with June, my life with her was my addiction and work took a back seat. Once my work began to suffer, the excuse to drink about it became so compelling it soured every other important thing in my life.

Alcohol brought everything down to a level where nothing was in balance. There were times I had to climb mountains at work. There were times I didn’t recognize the extra energy needed to put into my relationship. Eventually, alcohol was the only thing I was doing well. If that doesn’t make sense to you, it’s probably because you’re not an alcoholic.

I have a need for a balanced life that takes into account friends, work, love, family, play, private time, recovery time, and spiritual time. Anyone of these things ignored for long enough could go dormant, just as any one these things obsessed over will suffer exhaustion. It is also noted that normal people, like June, can add liquor to that list with no detrimental consequences.

Alcohol in my system will always unbalance me. Now that I’m 78 days sober, I’ve come to realize these things about myself and balance: I have no inner voice to guide my balancing, I must learn how to live a balanced life, that this inherit character defect is not something normal people endure and that I will constantly have to monitor this for the rest of my life. Laying it out in the open like that doesn’t seem so daunting a task, just as long as I am willing to work on it.

For myself, recovery is like returning home from exile. I eagerly dive into the task of putting my life back together – securing a job and place to live, paying off debts, restore my driver’s license, rebuild damaged relationships. These external needs are all important, but the strength to consistently follow through on them comes from my spirituality – my relationship with God. By taking time each day to acknowledge His presence and to ask for the Power to do His will, I find a new sense of balance. And with balance comes serenity.

Diabetes is one of those things that can throw ones diet out of balance. It’s an ironic thing to have your body crave sugar when it needs it the least. Yet, since I’ve never really had the instinct to eat a balanced diet, my newly acquired eating requirements does balance out in a beneficial way; I’m loosing weight at least.

“Today, I will examine my life to see if the scales have swung too far in any area, or not far enough in some. I will work toward achieving balance.”
-- prayer from The Language of Letting Go, April 30

Manny acquires some smooth-spread Skippy peanut butter, applies it to the disc, and it plays flawlessly. For most people, the relief of completing such a challenging task successfully would follow solace. However unfortunately for Manny, it only leads to his next segway into yet another one-sided discussion on how “…the next generation of DVD players uses a much shorter wave-length laser light, blue rather than red, to read even finer detail pits from the disc; hence the trademark, Blue-ray.”

I nod in understanding. I didn’t have to heart to tell him that Sony does not have an exclusive on the usage of blue lasers on media, that Toshiba also uses them for their HD DVD players.

In conclusion, empathizing with Manny causes me to think like him, if not for a bit. My use of the slang term segway to describe his imbalance and the description of the financially unsuccessful personal transport vehicle Segway is ironically humorous: a self-balancing personal transportation device.

-- Without Wax

Other Shoe Dropped

2009-04-29T16:17:00.002-05:00

29/366 diabetes sucks!!!!
Originally uploaded by km928602

Being just 75 days sober, in a safe place with three squares and serenity, you’d think I’d be content, but I’m not…I’m never content.

I had been monitoring my diabetes for the last year and I thought I had it in check – until last week. My distant vision became blurry. Since I have perfect vision (20/15, meaning I can see at 20 feet what normal people can only see at 15 feet), this was of major concern. I immediately suspected diabetes, but was either in denial or too depressed to care. However, when I spoke with my primary care physician, he wanted to see me the same day. Without a baseline blood sugar, he started me on metformin and sent me home with a glucometer.

Within five days my eyesight was back to perfect. The diet is bland though: no sugars, limit starchy foods, avoid fats. Comfort foods, basically. All the things I was told to do when I was pre-diabetic to avoid full-blown diabetes. I must exercise, loose weight, and eat less. They’ve since doubled my medication dosage and it is reducing my blood sugar to a reasonable level.

I’m now dealing with both alcoholism and diabetes, caused by the alcoholism. I’m making a lot of support calls to my sponsor and A.A.s, and it seems to help.

Right now, I’m in treatment at Signal Station (or just The Station). It’s the right place for me right now. I told my PO I relapsed and she said she wouldn’t violate me. I’ve got until September when I’m released from probation anyway.

I’ll try to update this blog more often now that I have more freedom to leave and come back.

-- Without Wax

Work vs. Sobriety

2008-12-14T04:23:00.003-06:00

Work vs. Sobriety

First off: I built this blog with the intent of showing how one man can stay sober. That was the original intent. Now I have realized that I should document my failed attempts, however drunk I am. I always wished that these posts would be sober, but from now on, they may not be. But, I will always let you know.

Currently, I’m drunk.

I have learned, from many sources, that I am what is called a “functional drunk”. No matter how many methods I’ve used to become sober, I cannot escape the fact that I want to get altered every once in a while.

I’ve found a good job. I can keep it or loose it based on my drinking. It doesn’t pay well, but I know it won’t falter in this economy.

This job is different from others in that I no longer have to pretend that I’m a ‘sober guy’. I don’t need to use the guise of AA for better or worse. It works both ways. If you stay sober, go to meetings, work the program, then no one knows that you really are an alcoholic. Once they know, all bets are off. Well, all bets are off. I have one of the most understanding supervisor that I’ve ever had. She’s seen me through detox and still kept me on. We are restructuring and I’m still there.

And I have drank at work even after all that. Slurred words on digital audio recording noticed my indecision. This hurts because some of the leads that train us notice my drunken nice. Is that a habit of chaos or what?

My sponsor, Stewart L., a very good guy, has been pushing me towards the 4th step. I’ve stolled. However, each and every resentment I’ve documented has caused me to stop any progress. And I don’t even know if taking the firth step is going to accomplish anything.

I still need to work.

I should not drink.

Reviewing all my past moral failures is not helping my current financial situation.

Photos were taken by me at the RedEye during "The Balcomy" performance.

I’m still held up in a hotel.

New Empty

2008-12-07T11:17:00.002-06:00

A wounded heart is, frankly, damaging; figuratively and physically. Put it this way: If you move you’re life to live with someone, it moves their life and body in ways you can only be known if you are 100 years old. If you think you can out think the matrix of relationships, you could earn a Nobel prize, yet be completely wrong.

The fact is that…that…that; I’m too drunk to continue.

Too much time

Big Empty

2008-12-07T03:30:00.002-06:00

I’m half the man I used to be.

Missing Comments

2008-07-31T00:18:00.004-05:00

I really miss the comments.
I'll try to post more often.

Without Wax,

Employed, At Last!

2008-06-27T06:09:00.005-05:00

With all the promises that have been fulfilled in sobriety moments before calamity, you’d think Wax had grown accustomed to it…and he has. But one week before leaving his transitional house, The House? Still he’s grown to expect the unexpected.
          For four months he’s been searching for a job, first in his chosen profession, then later, any sober job. What he landed is a compromise: Call Center Representative for a major local bank, FastBank.
          He was a little hesitant to apply, seeing that he still owns them some money, and even more surprised when they made an offer. They’ll end up with an amends.
          Two interviews was all that it took; first with Human Resources, then an hour long one with his boss. The HR interview reminded his of the standard corporate questions he’d been asked at The Department Store, with the typical disgruntled customer situations. The last interview went extremely well.
          Meeting in her cubical, Emily C. started the interview apologizing for everything from the meeting room being occupied, to her first time interviewing candidates; yes that’s right. It turns out that FastBank is trying out a new method of interviewing: having the actual boss conduct the interview. They’re just switching from a system where HR would handle all contact with new employees all the way through to the middle of training. Then boss meets employee, and if you weren’t a fit? Can you say, ‘square peg in round hole’?
          Well, that wasn’t a problem at all for Wax and Emily; they got along like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The communication was excellent, understanding similar situation they’ve experienced, and completing each other’s sentences. The only problem was that of sexual tension. Emily’s full-figured body, pouting lips, and succulent brown eyes may be an issue for Wax; something he’ll have to keep in check. After all, it’s not politically correct today to have an affair with your boss, even if she is female.
          An hour commute is an issue. Mannish House, the sober house he’s planning on moving into this weekend is in the other city. He’ll be working downtown, so bussing isn’t an issue. In fact, his new employer discounts bus fare to $35 per month. However, because of the state’s sober recovery rules, he must move from the transitional housing to a sober house. His chosen sober house isn’t on their list. If he has to choose a different one, why not move much closer to work. The only problem is he’s got ‘til this weekend to be accepted by one. The sober house he wants to move into is ideal, except for location. That is to say it’s distant from work, but he knows the area well. The advantage of living closer to work is that it’s a much more effluent neighborhood. He could find more side work as a computer repairman.
          Compensation is a little on the shy side: $10.90 per hour. His last job at The Discount Store was merely $10.76 an hour, and that’s after being promoted to manager. At his new job, he’s starting at the bottom as CCR with slightly more pay and a clear path for advancement. The job also has financial incentives for superior performance. There’s also an IT department he could slide sideway into. His new boss even questioned why he didn’t choose that and would help with the transition; she’s clearly a boss that thinks of her subordinate’s career path. His answer was intended not to prolong the employment start date: “One should walk in the shoes of the user before implementing software that solves their problems.” For the most part that is true, but he really needed this job now, and didn’t want to suffer the delay and complication of being hired by a department with much more rigorous standards. His technical history needs much more explaining and training before he’s comfortable with that transition. But dreams of making that transition at FastBank are much closer (one floor up) than with The Discount Store (one metropolis away).
          Money will be tight. With an approved sober house, the county will pay for first month’s rent and deposit. The second month’s rent will be due just as his first paycheck arrives. Until then, he’ll have to feed himself with plasma money; kind of a regenerative cycle. Most sober houses pay for utilities, cable, even Internet, as with Mannish House. So, if he hits the food shelves and uses blood money for the fresh vegetables, milk, and toiletries, he should survive until things get caught up financially. Of course, that’s not going to dissuade him from playing poker at the casino this weekend.
          Today’s photograph is of a young man waiting on a bus bench with a homemade guitar constructed of plywood. When asked if he’d built it, he replied, “No, I didn’t. I don’t know who did.”

Without Wax (speaking in the third person),

Prediabetic

2008-06-22T22:38:00.002-05:00

The fear of becoming fully diabetic has played a major roll in Wax’s goal to stay sober and respect his body. Crossing that line between prediabetes and diabetes is just one of the consequences facing his recovery. How this plays into his immediate needs is critical too.
          Now that he’s got a new doctor that has cleared him for plasma donation, it has really helped him both financially and with his self-esteem. The story there goes that six months ago when he tried to donate at City Plasma, they deferred him for having glucose in his urine. Not knowing what that meant, and feeling overwhelmed, he turned to the bottle. Being one week sober before attempting to donate plasma wasn’t enough for his body and so he wrongly thought to punish himself by binging. City Plasma said that if he went to his doctor with their specific request for diabetes clearance, he could donate. Not having health insurance, and not wanting diabetes to become a pre-existing condition, what he should of done six months ago is what he ended up doing now.
          He discovered that there are many resources for information and testing available without having to go on record as diabetic. Urine glucose testing strips are $14 over the counter. A diabetic friend of his gave him an old glucometer and test strips to monitor his blood sugar. The hospital, where he went to treatment and was diagnosed prediabetic, trained him on how to avoid becoming diabetic with diet and exercise. Unfortunately, the same doctors would not clear him for plasma donation. They didn’t want to stake their reputation on someone who could in the future become diabetic. Because of this attitude, he avoided their recommended clinic and went with his own health care provider. With enough time for his organs to heal, proper diet, and some light exercise, he was ready to attempt another physical at City Plasma.
          He’d been donating for a month at Suburban Plasma. Although he took all the proper precautions of eating well and testing, they didn’t test him for glucose. They assumed since he’d tested negative a year earlier, there’d be no reason for him to become diabetic. Protein and iron were all they were interested in.
          When it came time to attempt donating at City Plasma, he ate a salad for breakfast, tested himself, and passed their tests with flying colors. This upset one of the older nurses who think he’s trying to put one over on them.
          The cause and effect relationship between alcohol and diabetes is unclear. I would like to revisit this subject with more reference and a clearer understand of the subject at a later time. As far as he is concerned, his alcoholism caused his prediabetes.

Without Wax,

John’s Gone!

2008-06-20T21:44:00.003-05:00

In more ways than one, John L. left us a while back. But tonight, he was way gone! Some explanation is in order.
          John L. is a bad ass old dude who doesn’t take shit from anyone. Probably because he’s been shit on by everyone he’s ever trusted. For some reason, he trusted Wax…but Wax never shit on him. Whenever he’d try his tough stuff on Wax, He’d give him shit back, but only in jest, but that’s only because Without Wax is too old, cranky, and wise to take shit anyway.
          John seeked him out during his first laptop purchase. How he knew Wax was knowledgeable about computers, will never be known. It was an old Dell Latitude Pentium III he bought from some girl in treatment for $100, all the money he had at that time. It arrived with a virus that was sucking up all of the CPU cycles, slowing the machine to a crawl. She said she wiped it clean, but she must not have done a very good job. Wax tried repairing it, but quickly realized it would probably take a re-installation of the operating system, a job he was not willing to do without getting paid. He also instinctively recognized that John was not your common layman when it came to computers: he was a moron. Not wanting him as a non-paying, high-maintenance client, Wax never revealed to him this ultimate solution. He later found someone else to re-install his operating system. Ryan C. the cook offered his father’s assistance it in exchange for word-of-mouth business, that never came to fruition.
          One late evening after he’d spent all day online for the first time at school, he came back home and started dicking with security settings in Internet Explorer. Both he and Wax were tired at the time, but he even more so due to just having taken Seroquel. Wax was too tired try to repair the damage John may be doing and just told him, “Just press the ‘Default Settings’ button and put it to bed.” This guy is definitely high maintenance. After this re-install went off successfully, Wax hadn’t heard much about him.
          It wasn’t until a week ago when he was moved to one of the three beds in Wax’s room that he had a premonition of tonight’s events. John complains about everything, and you’d think he’d be grateful to not be sharing a room with Stan W., a notorious snorer. But no, he just complained that the weekend advocate was incompetent. You could say Wax was less than comfortable with the move.
          Wax started to get to know him better after playing Texas Hold’em Poker with him. He eventually won, but they settled for him lending Wax his bus pass while he bought him Jolly Ranchers. He was on a two week restriction for relapsing on meth, and so couldn’t leave the house. He considered the dollar he’d won in poker a wash for his delivery service.
          Yesterday, the power cord on his laptop’s A/C adapter shorted out and he’d asked Wax to repair it. He told him he was too tired after donating plasma and needed sleep. He left pouting, which made him finally realize how immature this elderly addict was. This in turn caused Wax to revisit his own immaturity, how it’s measured, and when, if ever, he will eventually grow up himself.
          And as before, he found someone else to attempt a repair on his power cord. Attempt would be the word, because the kid who worked on it only made his job harder. Yesterday morning, he spent half an hour repairing the cord on his power adapter. He looked at Wax, this bad ass bald man and said, “I can’t pay you anything,” as he assumed.
          Wax replied, “I know what it’s like not to have a working laptop.” He smiled ear to Ross Perot ear. It was understood he’d be in debt to him, not a bad position to be in with a guy who can get things.
          With three days left before he’s out of the house, and no job, he was feeling some pressure. I guess that was excuse enough to do what he did tonight. The only question is: when did he start drinking? His drug of choice is meth, and being less than a week off restriction, he easily found some. He was acting kind of hesitant when he showed up at Nina’s Café, but Wax thought nothing of it at the time. Neither did drinking cross his mind when he sat down on his bag of bottles on the bench, thinking back now, one of which could’ve easily been vodka. They played online Poker, but not together since that’s not technically possible.
          When Wax arrived home, he was already in bed. He crawled into bed himself an hour later and quickly fell asleep. He was abruptly woken at 1:00am while he was singing along with the movie ‘300’ he was watching on his laptop. It was obvious from his joviality that he was more drunk than wired on meth, especially when he clumsily ran into a coat rack. Snowball, our cat, finally had enough of his drunk ass and crawled into bed with Wax.
          As sleep gave way to the realization that John was truly not sober, the thought that they’re in a sober facility and this is inappropriate slowly entered his conscience. But, since he was having a good time, in a pleasant mood, and not bothering his sleep all that much (at least not for what he had to do that next day, which was donate plasma), Wax wasn’t too concerned. He was obviously drunk and would eventually sleep it off. It was only at one point when he gave him his DVD of ‘300’ that he actually disturbed him. He gave Wax the impression it wasn’t his though. The fact that he told him three times that this was in trade for his service to his laptop that it occurred to him that he might have been drunk at Bella's Café, since he’d told him four times that he wasn’t actually there, but at an A.A. meeting.
          My other roommate, Red F., an elderly black gentleman who finally had enough of his drunk ass, tried to pick a fight with him. Red is a skinny old man who’d easily get his ass kicked by John, and was pissed off at his racial comments. He eventually woke Ray S. (who was probably sleeping with his hearing aids out) up who promptly kicked his drunk ass out.

(to be continued…)

Without Wax,

It’s Never Enough

2008-06-19T21:50:00.003-05:00

Although he knew it would cause a loss of time, Wax kept chugging away at the Canadian Whiskey. He needed the time alone to gather his thoughts before facing the reality of the situation. Being evicted without a job caused him to crawl even deeper into the bottle. Make it come faster, he thought; the hammering buzz, the serene carelessness, then eventually black out. Cheap Whiskey in a plastic bottle allows his to squeeze more of it down his throat. It’s never enough, popped into his head from an old ‘80s song, Shell Shock by New Order.
          Flashback from just before treatment, Wax’s memory is jogged by a spiritual guest on ‘Speaking of Faith’ on NPR. His analogy is of having a cigarette after sex, as if having the most natural pleasurable experience of an orgasm wasn’t enough. This is the mind of an addict. These are the attributes we share.
          When trying to explain this feeling to June W., Wax realized she had no idea what he was talking about. His first response was to e-mail her the tune, wanting her to share in understanding this revelation. But later he realized that she probably doesn’t want to go into the mind of an addict. It’s too painful and represents all that she lost in him.
          Art Car reminds him that someone thought one bumper sticker wasn’t enough.

Without Wax (speaking in the third person),

The State of Sobriety

2008-06-18T16:09:00.003-05:00

Mr. Wax had many much more important goals to accomplish today than journaling, but when an overwhelming feeling came over him this morning, he set out to post his thoughts online. It had just been too long; a month and a half, almost two months since he’d posted anything really revealing. So, he promised himself to commit to one post per day, six days per week (on the seventh day, this bloGod™ would rest). Heaven knows, as well as his PDA, he’s built up enough material to write about.
          It’s been just over four and a half months since Without Wax has had a drink of alcohol. His feelings about this accomplishment are mixed, but mostly he thinks it’s not a great deed. He’s had a lot of help along the way. What’s helped has been the typically recommended support, like a healthy minded sponsor (that would be Stewart L.), fun and friendly meetings (Mar League), and a sober environment (The House) to which if you relapse, you’ll have severe consequences. What really worries Wax is how he’ll respond to relapsing out in the real world. His job really had a major impact on his lack of sobriety last time, so this too will be looked at closely.
          Suffering from wet-brain for the first three months of sobriety has caused him to avoid writing his thoughts out, since they hadn’t come as clearly as they did last time two years ago. Thoughts of readership dropping off had actually influenced the mind of Mr. Wax, not typically an admitted motivation for blogging. We miss your comments. Feeling afraid of journaling web-brained non-sense kept his from really wanting to document this clearly embarrassing stage in his recovery. Not feeling clear headed enough to ambiguously express his thoughts in words was not a major motivation. Not knowing if and when it would end scared the shit out of him.
          Using dreams for him have been more entertainment lately than cause for anxiety. He clearly remembered that buying a $7.99 0.75 liter traveler’s bottle of vodka would cost him exactly $8.75 with the extra 2-1/2% liquor tax added to the already 7% state sales tax. These are normal calculations Without Wax would go through when unemployed and broke in order not to embarrass himself at check-out. Even though his favorite liquor store regularly caters to such drunks, he still didn’t want to tarnish what little of his reputation he had left, as if he’s leaving his options open for future employment or something. One such local (within walking distance) liquor store actually refused him at the door after drunkenly slipping on ice across the street. He showed him: next time he attempted to buy liquor there he dressed in his best suite and approached from the side of the building. He was treated with respect, unlike the way he treated his expensive suite by stripped it off as soon as he arrived home, just to get that first drink down. When he woke he’d realized there was no need to budget since he had enough money for a large bottle of his favorite Jack Daniels.
          Housemates come and go with varying reasons. They all come to get sober, but we soon learn that’s not the most important thing for many inmates…err, residents here at The House. Speaking openly of embarrassing reasons to stay sober is at a premium here; for that you must find a good outside meeting. Many residents relapse and come clean, get on two weeks restriction and become resentful. This is one consequence that Wax would wane gracefully. So many other consequences keep him sober: June W.’s disappointment, sponsor’s grilling, homelessness, and the sheer falling from grace. The one thing he can really appreciate now is that consequence factor into his decision not to drink; this never happened before because, frankly, not many people cared. When asked bluntly if she cared about him, June’s response was hesitant, and less sincere than he’d expected. She said she loved him, but isn’t ‘in love’ with him any more. That wasn’t the answer he was hoping for.
          Darla V. was an experiment in futility. Can Wax seduce a woman half his age and get her to move in with him? Sure, if she a pot head.

Sleep all day, out all night
I know where you're goin'
I don't think that's actin' right
You don't think it's showin'

-- Funk #49 by Joe Walsh

          Darla would get home at 4:00am and sleep until her shift the next day at 10:00am, or for twelve hours if she had no work that day. The first thing she’d do once she woke was make her morning call for ‘trees’, her anti-police slang for marijuana, like they wouldn’t know. It was the most important thing to her, to get high, priority #1. That’s when you can tell someone’s truly addicted. Having someone like that in my life was safe for me to use. Her car was car-jacked at gunpoint when she was in an area she was not supposed to be looking to drugs from dangerous people. Shit like that doesn’t happen to people normally. She’d constantly park her car in a tow-away zone and have her dad pay hundreds of dollars to get it out of impound. When Wax told her he was being evicted and checking himself back into treatment, she was the only one in his life who wasn’t proud of him. In fact, she gave him a look like, ‘rehab’s for losers.’ He wasn’t too concerned that she too would have to find some where else to live, but then she never contributed to rent even when it was necessary. She won’t be missed.
          To him, she was confirmation of his masculinity and sexual prowess; that he could seduce a woman half his age. Never mind that he’d never done so fully present, neither him nor her. When he picked her up at Hunan Garden that night, he bought her Long Island Ice Teas while he drank club soda. He remembers feeling this power he’d never experienced before, making advances sober, considering many alternative ways to pursue this chance encounter and calmly, wisely choosing just the right thing to do or say…and remembering it the next day. When she stumbled off her barstool, he’d sensibly convinced her to allow him to drive her car home. It relieved him of the guilt of getting her too drunk to drive, but shifted the burden on him. Not having a valid driver’s license caused his heart to jump into his throat when he passed a cop car going the opposite way. Just as he noticed the cop, she’d asked him to make an illegal U-turn. This is how many DUI occur: someone drunk gives bogus directions and the driver obliges. Had he been drinking as well, he’d have violated probation and her car would be impounded. She was most likely carrying, so she might have been arrested too.
          There’s a simple way to avoid all this clatter and cutter and ridiculous ritual: just do the right thing. That’s what he’s decided on doing from now on.
          Although his sponsor doesn’t give much credit to Rubik, his cube has had a profound influence on his pre-employment days. Even before the fog of wet-brain cleared, in his first two weeks of sobriety, he’d remembered how to solve the 3x3x3. It took him a while to recall all the moves from childhood, but when it came back, it was like a flood. Solutions 8 – 10 minutes at first, but his personal best of just under two minutes was his ultimate goal. After achieving this, he was hampered by both the speed of the cube itself and the tedious solution he’d memorized. The latter is something he’s working on with help from the Web, but as for speeding the cube, he located several Web sites, Instructables being one of them, that had given conflicting ways to clean, lubricate, and in general speed up the cube. Today he’s come up with what he thinks is the best solution so far: disassemble the cube, sand all surfaces with 400 sand paper, spray with Teflon silicon lubricant, and let it dry several hours. His personal best was 1:34, but now it’s down to 1:24 and dropping; and that’s only because he’s not used to how loose it is. Suffice to say, it has been a tremendous source of confidence for him…and a wonderful conversation starter to boot. However, he’s having second thoughts about bring it on an interview next time…he doesn’t think it helped.
          Diabetes has been a major concern for Without Wax. He’s still surprised that after all the damage he’s done to his organs (liver, kidneys, spleen, etc.), there isn’t more damage. He’s not diabetic, not yet. He’s been diagnosed prediabetic, which means his glucose levels are high, but not high enough to be considered diabetic; so he’s borderline diabetic. If treated like type II diabetes, he’ll avoid becoming diabetic. That means eating less, avoiding complex carbohydrates, and exercising. It could be managed by taking diabetic medicine, like Metformin. But, if he can avoid such medicine by doing the other things, he’ll lift a large burden from his liver, since it has to work overtime. How Metformin works is not fully understood, but it is the most prescribed drug in the United States. It often causes gas. He is now seeing a primary provider doctor who has not decided on medicine just yet, but wants him to loose 50 pounds.
          What’s important to him is that he’s healthy enough to still donate plasma. He’s been going way out of his way to donate in the suburbs. It takes a full six hours out of his day, twice a week; something he wouldn’t be able to do once employed. But now that his doctor has cleared him for plasma donation, he’s off the deferred list at City Plasma. One of the nurses there, Rehan N., really has it out for him; she swears someone once heard him talking about living in a sober house. Being an alcoholic or addict excludes you from donating plasma. He believes that being an alcoholic is an anonymous affair and none of their business. And she basically believes he’s lying to her, which he is, but can’t prove it. All the other nurses really take a liking to him; he uses this to hit on them. This is dangerous on several levels: he really shouldn’t start a relationship, but most of all not with an employee of City Plasma who could discover he’s living in a sober facility, which would end his plasma donation probably everywhere. He donates for three important reasons: $260/month, his health and sobriety, and the service commitment…in that order.
          The distraction of beautiful women has started to overwhelm him quite a bit lately. Having coffee at his favorite Internet café has its benefits: beautiful women. At first, he thought being so overweight would be a major turnoff, but all it has done was make him more insecure. Now that he’s become more confident, he’s finding women are more likely to start up a conversation. One thing leads to another and the flirting starts…and we’re going to leave it at that for now.
          The most important thing for him right now is finding a job. He’s got feelers out there, but no bites. If he doesn’t find a job in two weeks, he’ll be out of The House. If he moves into a place, he’ll no longer qualify for General Assistance (GA), which pays for first month’s rent and deposit. He has a sober house lined up, but he’s agreed with the landlord not to move in without a job. The GA lady says if he moves in to a sober house without a job, he no longer qualifies for assistance. So, in short, things would be much better for him if he gets a job soon.
          The effect of his housemates leaving constantly has had little influence on his sobriety; he’s learned to stay with the winners. Most leave just because they can’t handle living with 27 other addicts and/or alcoholics, but many relapse. He’s had several roommates relapse, one of which happened in the room with a bottle of vodka, but that’s another story.
          His 4th Step is due today, but he’s putting it off in order to blog. He feels this is something he has to get off his chest before he gets resentments and fears off his chest in his fourth. It’s waited this long, it can wait another day.
          As far as his sponsor is concerned, again this is a totally other story that deserves its own post.
          He thinks of June a lot, can’t help it…thinks of what it would’ve been like, what it could be like with a sober him. Was she, is she attracted to addictive personalities? Would it not be fun for her any more with a man who cannot drink? He has to live with these questions for the rest of his life.
          What he has realized is that he really does want this anonymous feedback on this part of his life. The personal face-to-face feedback at meetings is important, but there’s a value to anonymous emotions expressed here. He only wishes his comment count would increase, so please contribute.
          Oh, and about the photo, he thought it would make a fitting tribute to his last visit to Suburb Plasma. This is what Midwestern adolescent suburbanites do for fun on a Friday night.

Without Wax (speaking in the third person),

Tiddy Toilet

2008-05-05T13:59:00.001-05:00

Oh my God! I laughed my ass off, and thought I should share...please leave your comments.

When Pressed to Think

2008-03-25T18:16:00.002-05:00

Lately I haven’t really been pressed to think about anything. I know this sounds like a terribly uninteresting subject, but it goes to my state of mind. I’ve been itching for something interesting to do and I’ve come up dry. I solve Sudoku in the morning and have started on crossword puzzles, but I want something more. I’m going to make this post a short one because I want to buy a Rubik’s Cube to keep myself stimulated.

I was going to post an important journal entry, but realized after attempting to proofread it that I hadn’t actually completed it. I tried to finish it while in the café, but it’s an especially painful one. I want more time with it.

I think I really need performance goals.

Without Wax,

Doorknob Crashed…Again!

2008-03-23T12:20:00.002-05:00

Happy Easter! Like Jesus, Doorknob has been resurrected! Not to take away from the righteous dude on this festive day, but it happened two days ago. I’m just posting it today.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, Technical Difficulties, my laptop, affectionately known as Doorknob, crashed again. As it did back in 2006, the cause was similar: the CPU board popped out, only this time it was warped; both due to the underlying cause of a broken CPU fan. It took me two weeks of moping around trying to think what else could’ve been the problem before successfully repairing it. A lot of that time was unproductively spent blaming myself for being a failure. In a sense, I still do, because what tool it took to repair Doorknob was already on my key-chain. I made the excuse that without my computer toolkit, I wouldn’t be able to complete the repair. So, I waited until I had a chance to travel to Mark J.’s house to pick up some stuff he’s graciously storing for me; the toolkit being the major item I needed for the repair.

Wanting to save up for a better laptop kept me from diving into repairing Doorknob also; he’s so out of date: Pentium II w/ 96MB RAM, 3GB hard drive, and Windows 2000. But, like me, Doorknob trudges on. It gives me more breathing room to shop for his replacement, but don’t tell him that; he might get jealous (of course, this is being typed on Doorknob). I can’t imagine sell him since no one in their right mind would buy such an out-dated piece of equipment. But then there is one born every minute.

The most important things is that I can just type up my journal at anytime and spend hours at any café on the Internet daily spending quality time responding to others in the sober community. It’s a healthy release for me.

Without Wax,

The Bridge

2008-03-20T18:39:00.003-05:00

by vgm8383
Nothing moved me more inspirationally than the documentary The Bridge. It didn’t have to move me very far either, just a little nudge to throw me off track.

The track that I’m referring to is my repeated cycle of use. I get an urge, I find enough money, buy a large 1.75 liter of Canadian whiskey, and start all over again. Maybe just to maintain or to really kill some daemons, or celebrate a minor victory or a major defeat, whatever excuse, but I must get sloshed. Sometimes I’m trying to avoid passing out; other times intending to. Sometimes I’m trying to avoid blacking out, but it happens anyway. Sometimes (very rarely) I’m intending to blackout. Either way, I’m happy to see a good portion left when I wake and sad when I don’t. When I finally run out it means either another trek to the liquor store, or if I don’t have money, suffer through withdrawal and possible Grand Mal seizures. When all is done and over with I somehow find the funds to buy another bottle and the cycle repeats.

It’s like a NASCAR track. I pull into the pit to fuel up and I’m off and running. I may hit a grease spot on the track, slide and crash. I may make it completely around, where I run out of fuel and have to gas up again.

All I know is that I’d like to get off the track all together.

Late night, early February, just after my last drink, but before my first meeting, I’m scanning the cable guide for something to watch and come across an interesting documentary: The Bridge. It’s described as a video documentary of 24 suicide jumpers from the Golden Gate Bridge in the year 2004. My morbid curiosity is peaked and so I switch to it thinking if it gets too depressing I can always change the channel. Truth in advertising; within the first few minutes a common everyday man climbs over the railing and drops to his death.

The Golden Gate Bridge holds a special place in my heart. I drove to San Francisco when I’d lost my first job. I walked the seven-mile span of the bridge, looked over its railing, found it awe-inspiring. It is, for me, the most beautiful romantic bridge in the world. What better place to end your life?

More people commit suicide from the Golden Gate Bridge than any other place in the world. I didn’t know this until watching the film and definitely didn’t make the romantic connection when I walked over it. But, I guess this idea has an attraction for suicides.

The crew would film these suicides using telephoto lenses, and then interview the family and friends. All the suicide victims had so much in common with what was going on in my life: drinking, job loss, homelessness, etc. However, I didn’t want to commit suicide. So, I thought I’d better get into action.

The next day Stewart called and asked if I wanted to go to a meeting. He took me to my home group Mar League. It didn’t have to move me far, just a nudge into action.

Without Wax,

Savoir Stewart

2008-03-16T13:51:00.002-05:00

It wasn’t enough to admit powerlessness, realize that alcohol was not the greater power that was to restore anything, nor turning my will over to God, I needed the help freely given to me by my savoir Stewart L. He knew more about me than I’d consciously let him know. A man dedicated to service, Stewart has helped hundreds of men and witnessed even more slip back into alcoholism, and die. Being a Big Book scholar, he’s a sponsor I really look up to.

Stewart remembers our first conversation considerably better than I. He often uses is it to humiliate me at meetings. I was extremely drunk when I called the Night Owl line. Stewart called me back and asked if I wanted to go to a meeting. I explained that couldn’t because I needed a new Big Book. I’d used it as a coaster for my whiskey bottle and had spilled alcohol all over it. I couldn’t imagine bring a Big Book reeking of whiskey to an A.A. meeting.

Merely four days sober, he brought me to my first A.A. meeting at my home group Mar League. I was so much suffering wet-brain that I could not remember anyone’s name, yet everyone remembered mine. Aaron S., who maintains the phone list, had just brought a new stack. I remember having once had that service commitment. Quickly grabbing up one, I looked for my name on it:

Wax W.
Cell: (XXX) 555-3467
Sobriety Date: 08/22/2005

Tears welled up in my eyes for those lost years of sobriety and service I yearned for. Quickly wiping them away I took a seat in the front row. There were many touching poignant things said by fellow A.A.s before Britney T. asked me to speak. It is a great honor to be one of a handful of people chosen to speak in a room filled with over a hundred. I choked up when spoke and almost lost it completely, yet I don’t remember what I said. I remember saying that Chapter 3, ‘More About Alcoholism’, was just what I needed to hear. I thanked one lady for coining a phrase I now use often: ‘drinking at people’. I laughed out load when she said, “I’d drink at my father just to get back at him, and he’s dead.” Like that will make him turn over in his grave. People thanked me that night and the next week for what I said. I kept me coming back.

The following nights Stewart took me to a half-a-dozen meetings, and I found another half-dozen within walking distance of my apartment, all different locations, sometimes with the same people. That was spooky because it was messing with my memory. I couldn’t recall if this was someone I just met a few meetings ago or from two years ago. Again, they all remembered where and when they met me, yet I didn’t. This wet brain has finally subsided enough to where I feel somewhat normal.

Stewart and I spoke much of the Big Book, working the program of 12 steps; what his part would be. Before my last sobriety date of February 1st, 2008, Stewart told me he couldn’t be my sponsor because he felt he was doing most of the work. He said if he feels he’s doing more work than I, he wouldn’t sponsor me, and at that time it was true. I vowed never to ask him again. Well, he must’ve witnessed my sincerity to become sober because he asked me for permission to sponsor. I took it as an honor and agreed. I highly respect this man.

Now lately I’ve found him a little short tempered with me. Maybe he sees that I’m not all that serious, but I don’t dare ask him for fear he’ll through in the towel. He often has a habit of spreading himself too thin and he has been lately. Chocking it up to that, I’ve doubled my efforts in my studies of the Big Book and 12x12. That seems to have sufficed for now.

However, in my weekly men’s meeting, Problems & Solutions, or as Michael M. would call it, tears and cheers, the subject of finding a new sponsor was brought up. One of my counselors at treatment said it’s okay to have more than one sponsor (up to three) and I’m considering finding a second one. But like girlfriends, I imaging letting one sponsor know of the other may cause your life to become complicated. There’s also the hierarchy approach: letting the latter of the two sponsors know of the other, but not visa versa. This is a nasty sneaky thing to do with women, but is it of sponsors? All’s fair in love and war, but sobriety and serenity? For now I’m shopping for my second sponsor in a group Stewart does not attend, just to cover my bases.

Without Wax,

Technical Difficulties

2008-03-12T13:40:00.003-05:00

A few days ago, I started posting in my blog, but then a few things happened.

No, I didn’t get drunk and stuffed in a shopping cart. Something worse than last time though, and for some reason I didn’t freak. I dropped my new camera and nearly broke it. Then my laptop failed to start up for no reason. The later being the biggest reason I haven’t posted in days. The camera still works, although I have to baby sit the lens. It fell on the lens when it fully extended in telephoto mode.

Unlike last time, I don’t fell I can repair this laptop. I don’t know why it failed this time. I tried popping the CPU back into place like last time, but that didn’t work. I also don’t feel as motivated to repair it this time. I just don’t think I can do it. I’m also a little concerned about totally killing it since it’s now my only method of charging my Palm Pilot via USB cable. My Pilot’s DC charge socked it not working lately.

I’m used to creating my thoughts in a word processor, so I’ve been a little bummed out over the past few days. We have a computer at The House and I should be using that, but I have limited access. I don’t think I’ll be able to upload pictures from my camera. I should try though.

I’m currently composing this post at the library. I am able to transfer from a USB flash drive, so if I can compose and transfer to that, then head to the library, I guess it wouldn’t be so bad.

I should just go with the flow, expect the unexpected, and always remember this A.A. phrase: “Expectations are Resentments waiting to happen.” So, I’ll chalk it up to His will for me and not stray from the path.

I’ve ask June W. if she knew someone that’s trying to get ride on an old laptop and she knows someone. It’s a Dell Pentium 4, 40GB hard drive going for $250.00. I think I could swing that if he’ll take a majority of it as a down payment. That would be sweet.

I only have 30 minutes left to finish this post, so I’ll sort of fill.

Today is my third day in outpatient meetings. I try to keep my mouth shut about most thoughts that creep into my head, but I can’t help taking other people’s inventory. And since this is my private anonymous blog, I feel that what’s said in the group, stays in the group…and my Weblog. Those who don’t agree can stop reading now.

Billy D. is an alcoholic who’s trying to generate sympathy for his cause, and not very successfully from the group’s response. He’s upset because his wife filed an order of protection (a type of restraining order) against him for strangling her. In his defense, she did start it, but then she always does. Only this time, he fought back.

He was drinking heavily when he locked himself into the bathroom and started taking copious amounts of Zanex. His wife got pissed, broke down the bathroom door, and fought with him to flush them down the toilet. At this point he did something that, he claims, he’s never done before: he strangled her.

She called 911, police came, found red marks on her neck, and promptly arrested him for domestic abuse. In my humble opinion, he should know better that men do not win in a domestic fight. And frankly, he did try to choke her.

So, he moves out to his parents’ house. Still drinking, he plows into the back of an SUV and leaves the scene. Good for you, Billy! He drives his totaled car back to the house, parks it in the garage, then drives back to the scene of the crime in his dad’s truck, still drunk, to see if anyone is injured. He sees only one police car, no ambulance, and assumes no injuries. He’s lucky there were none.

After driving back home, he hides in the basement until the police knock on his door. He’s receives a ticket for causing damage to property and leaving the scene, a gift. It should’ve been hit and run.

Time’s up…I’ll see you tomorrow.

Without Wax,

Sincere Effort

2008-03-07T12:26:00.002-06:00

It’s been one month and one week since I stopped drinking and started this last attempt to stay sober. February 1st is my sobriety date, which coincides with the anniversary of the Space Shuttle Columbia disaster in 2003, the year my slide into utter alcoholism started down the steep grade. I am sincere in my effort to do whatever it takes to live a sober life, for the rest of my life.

My counselor, Lucy L., convinced me to restart journaling in my blog. She was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’d decided to make some entries when I first started to get sober this time, but hesitated for one reason or another. I will faithfully backfill with the complete ugly and beautiful details from where I left off. It won’t necessarily be in chronological order, but it will be thorough.

From day one coming into The Pit Stop everyone was friendly, staff and patients. It’s a far cry from The Treatment; I’m so glad I don’t have to go back there. I did not get along with my assigned counselor.

Lucy is a very thoughtful, intelligent, and beautiful woman. She’s been described as a blonde Teri Hatcher. I think she looks more like Virginia Madsen. Looks aside, we communicated very well on our first meeting. We easily spoke of my drinking habit. I then felt comfortable enough to turn the tables on her and ask her of her using history. She readily opened up and shared that she was a methamphetamine user. She used that experience to springboard into her career helping addicts. She’s good people.

There is so much to express about this concerted attempt to work the program that I cannot even attempt to articulate it in my first post. There’s much more to come.

Please visit this blog often since I will be updating it as frequently as possible. I appreciate all feedback, positive and especially negative…err, constructive.

Without Wax,

I need...

2007-08-31T23:12:00.000-05:00

I'm barely making it...but I'm making it.

My Wildcat

2007-08-21T09:25:00.001-05:00

She crawls all over me. She's sweet and doesn't judge. She's knows my weaknesses and still supports me. She's not perfect, but neither am I.

And she snores. But, she is beautiful, in every sense of the word. She has these crystal blue eyes, these pouty lips, cute dimples, legs that are so shapely, and curves all over her body. I love spending time with her.

I gave her a key to my apartment, against my better judgment. She hasn't abused it. In fact, she's been helping me clean up this place. She's become a little homemaker. It's kinda weird, but sweet.

Sincerely Yours,

-- Without Wax

Darla

2007-08-19T11:20:00.000-05:00

Darla's back in my life and my space. I let her move into my little apartment: I gave her keys. She took over chores, like she folded my neighbour's socks. That was cute...he liked it.

I like her because she'd beautiful and smart. I can't do this drunk, and she knows that. She gets annoyed when I don't make drunk sense. She knows me and she knows that I'm better sober than drunk. She tells me, and she knows that if I sober up...

Whatever...We leave little notes about how we can clean up this place and store some of our massive amounts of stuff into a place that is actually livable. It's weird, because she's working towards living together.

She's beautiful. I mean, she doesn't have a killer body, but she has this face and eyes that are hypnotic. Everything that she wears makes her look like a model. Her legs are stunning, her eyes are crystal blue, cute dimples, plump (you know). She's fine.

I'll fill you in more later.

-- Without Wax

Disulfiram

2007-08-14T09:22:00.000-05:00

I knew there was a reason I didn't want to have my property brought back to me from June's storage. I found Antabuse. It's an old prescription that was forced on me in Los Angeles after my DUI.

I have more boxes to go through in this closet. Can't wait to find all the other skeletons.

-- Without Wax

She is

2007-07-07T14:05:00.000-05:00

When I think about June, I can only think of fun.

I'm going to try to make this my last drink.

Without Wax,

I'm a fool

2007-06-30T04:48:00.000-05:00

I see so many things when I’m inebriated. The clarity of sobriety allows me to explain things. What needs to be explained is no longer irrelevant. I no longer have no need to stay sober.

Or, I have to find a new reason to stay sober…I guess.

I can’t drink forever.

Without Wax,

New Sponser

2007-06-08T21:29:00.000-05:00

I’ve made a choice that I will share work related stuff with this blog. I thought that by making a clear distension between AA and work I would be able to help AA people who read this blog, but I was wrong. Work is related to sobriety.

Yaco, my new sponsor understands me so much. In just one phone call he told me he drinks Jack Daniels, a drink that I’ve avoided because of how crazy it gets me. I called him out of total desperation. He called me out!

I’m at an impasse. I want to drink and I want to get sober. I need to get sober because of the work I need to do to open the new store, and what I need to do at the transition store. However, I need to drink because my muscles don’t work properly without alcohol. They do if I sober up after a few days, but… it takes a few days.

So, I’m going to try this. I have no reason to do this. June W. doesn’t love me any more, I’ve lost my crew at both stores, and I have no real boss. Yah, I want to drink about it.

But, I have Yaco. Today. If my muscles fail, I’ll let you know.

Without Wax,

Memory is your Enemy

2007-06-02T06:07:00.000-05:00

For someone who have made many mistakes in life, memory is your enemy. I just got off the phone with my ex-wife June W., who I still love and am glad to still have relationships with, but she doesn’t understand out history.

My memory of our relationship is in question. Her interpretations of my actions are in question. She is a master at manipulation: she will always turn any issue into her own favor.

I always thought that if I became sober that I could see through this. I did for a time, but it didn’t help out relationship. All it did was tell me that she could manipulate the facts of a situation to fit her needs faster than I could.

So, I became sober. I thought that the most wonderful woman in the world would respect that. In that respect, I thought maybe we could still have, you know, a relationship. Well, yah, I got laid, and I still talk to her over the phone. But no, she’s gone and I’ve lost her. Our time to be together has past. This is the way she feels and I don’t blame her.

But I was once married to a woman ten years my senior ten years ago.

Without Wax,

Detoxing at Home is a Lonely Job

2007-05-24T15:21:00.000-05:00

You have no one to play with. Ex-wives don't return calls. Current, so called, girlfriends don't want to listen. Delivery doesn't understand your hours. Cable TV sucks. Must I go on?

Does it sound like I'm bitching? Umm...Yah!

I am. Wait, let me look down first; yes I still have a penis.

BTW, I sat through all of CBS's Sea Change by author Jesse Stone. I see (no pun intended) a lot of him in me. It was hard to watch, but a sat through it. It's a good story.

Without Wax,

P.S. I'll let you know when I've started my sober run.

-=-

First of all, drunks need to crawl on the floor with a flashlight to find software to re-install. Why? I don't know.

My Brother

2007-05-16T01:36:00.000-05:00

I wish he knew what it really meant to be sober, and honest. He's been calling me and saying that he loves me. It's only recently that he's been saying these things. It' also the first time that he's fallen in love with a woman.

I just listened to him dis me for 30 minutes as he accidentally clicked on his cell phone. It's strange to hear him change my mind about how he manipuliates people, how he changed his new girlfriend's mind. Listening to how he did this over the phone made me convinced that he hasn't changed in his method of changing people's minds.

He's a distaster.

Without Wax,

The Hardest Part of Staying Sober!

2007-05-12T08:52:00.000-05:00

Moving on from June W. is the hardest thing to accept. So what if the damage has been admitted, it still doesn’t repair everything. And I still love her; I still have passion for her. 17 years of desire does not disappear easily. I used to sing to her, sometimes over the phone from 1500 miles away, sometimes in person (in Spanish). Neither of us understood the words, but the motions and emotions were obvious. It was sweet.

Sitting in a chair, June sat there like a prisoner accepting the punishment of my voice and body on top of her. She just sat there with a willing smile on her face while I sang to her in broken Spanish…she just loved it. It showed in her smile and smell of her inner juices. I don’t know how or when to brake the prisoner/pleasure barrier, but it really felt right that night. She’s fine, there was no reason to stop. I don’t remember what happened afterwards.

She asked me later to do it again. I couldn’t, because I couldn’t duplicate the same emotional explosion…it was simply a spur of a moment type of thing.

June and I once challenged each other to quit an addiction: hers was smoking, mine alcohol. We wrote little books chronicling our bi-polar failed attempt to become better. She succeeded; I did not. I hold onto these books. I really felt that I could be the sober man for her that she met, not just married, but became the partner in life.

Without Wax,

Fiction It Is!

2007-05-09T23:50:00.000-05:00

Since I cannot find a decent reason to stay sober, have almost lost all faith, and felt that truth has not served my quest, I feel that fiction is my only savior. I shall write a story. From now on, I will blog a fictional story; not in this blog, but in the next.

This blog is still a true story.

I’ll link to this blog with a new blog.

Without Wax,

NCIS Explains Women

2007-05-01T19:58:00.000-05:00

She fell for his plumbing skills. If you’ve seen this latest episode, you’ll notice she suspected his intentions weren’t true, until he revealed the real damage that he repaired; it was extensive. She melted in his arms.

I felt this way about June W. and her house when I moved in. I did everything I could do to repair it, including learning plumbing skills on my own. Unlike the fiction of NCIS, it wasn’t enough for her to understand how deeply I cared for her.

I remember a time in South Padre Island, where we first vacationed, when she bought me a T-Shirt together with a similar plumber imprint as the one above.

The point is that she asked me to do things I was not qualified for; but I did them because I thought it would show how much I loved her. I was only qualified as a Software Engineer. Yet after all I learned to maintain her house, it still was never enough. So, she divorced me.

Oh, and that I was a total alcoholic.

Some regrets can never be forgotten, neither hers nor mine.

Without Wax,

I don't know what she found in me

2007-04-17T20:58:00.000-05:00

I don't know what any woman can find attractive in me. All my relationships have started with alcohol. Alcohol kills. June used to love me. She doesn't now and I don't know if or when I'll ever be attractive ever again.

Without Wax,

New Store Transition

2007-04-14T13:12:00.000-05:00

I chose to drink after finding my own place. I don’t know why I chose to drink. It’s solved and caused problems. Memory problems are the best: you get to avoid them. This, in turn, causes other problems, like managerial responsibilities. Booze does that. You can avoid serious review incidents, but eventually it will catch up to you.

I have a man that needs to be fired and I don’t know how to do it. I can’t do it hung over or drunk, so I must do it sober. The fact that I can’t easily fire him as a manager frustrates me; and I have to admit that I drink about it.

You know what would be a better solution: one without alcohol.

Doing it alone has been the way that I’ve survived for the last six months. I think it’s time to walk over to an AA meeting and ask for help. But I’m afraid I’ll run into zelots that preach the Big Book way. I’ve been down that path; real honest communication is the only way it works.

Don’t get me wrong; the Big Book has true honest experiences that came out good. We can all learn from them. All the stories in the Big Book are written by people that have come to the conclusion that their horror stories of using can help others. I’ve got them too; I’m just not ready yet to put them down on paper. June knows most of these horrible stories probably better that myself and I’d really like to partner with her before putting this all down in words. This is one of the promises that the Big Book describes: although I didn’t get to patch things up completely, she’s still a friend.

My New Place

2007-03-31T17:31:00.000-05:00

...Is my old place.

I moved back into my old efficiency apartment. The rent was cheap and the drunks from the so-called sober house are gone. I’m on my own now and employed.

However, I’m drinking again.

I have to stop. I’m on my own and feel unaccountable. It’s the worst thing for a responsible alcoholic.

I came to the realization that I can’t actually perform my job without being able to pay attention to needs and tendencies of my team members. You can’t do that hung over.

So, I’m using this weekend to sober up.

Without Wax,

Valentine’s Heart Break

2007-02-15T00:54:00.000-06:00

It’s Valentine’s Day and I was hoping to sign a card for June W. before she got here to drop off some financials, but she came early. I was in the middle of training a new co-worker when she arrived and I think the confusion was mutual.

Alison M. is an eager student of photo lab who has taken advantage of the opportunity of missing team member to fill in and cross-train. Why she wants to learn this complex work-center is beyond my grasp, nor question. She, like many other young students of photography, has showed an interest in learning the working technique. They want to know how it actually works.

June showed up unexpectedly. Since I don’t have a checking account, nor deserve one, June has been cashing my paychecks. She has decided to make out a cashier’s check to my old/new landlord so I can move back in to the efficiency apartment that I was evicted from; you know, the one I love with the BLT. This solves a lot of happiness problems: expecting coffee, creamer, clean sink, lost food, ice cream, to be there normally, not to mention broken cups, people falsely accusing you of steeling, etc. Am I bitching?

However, today this eager student has mistaken my interest in June as a training lesson in customer service. Little does she know how much I really would love to service June on this Valentine’s Day, both horizontally and vertically, landscape and portrait. Alison stays close as I’m talking to June until she realizes its personal, then she gives us a little distance, as much as she can in this little lab.

June has this look about her this afternoon that sort of reminds me of the first time we fell into wicked love back in El Toro, CA, when I glanced at her passion after a wonderful Japanese meal. It invokes a feeling deep inside me that will never be forgotten and, I’m afraid, can never be buried.

The ‘Magic’ I used to spell over June is long gone. I’ve decided to move out of the sober house I’m living in. June has unwittingly decided to help once again in my, what will become fifth or so homeless move, in one year. None of these times has she invited me to simply move back in with her, share the rent, forgive all, do the smart thing, yada, yada, yada, etc. I guess my blue eyes have faded. I can’t put on the charm I used to.

I fear that June’s key to happiness is simply financial security. After the tech bubble burst in 1999, she felt Wax was waning. Although I have a technological advantage over most people to understand machines, she’s not sure how it translates to dollars. So, after fifteen years of love making, two short years of marriage, a tech bubble burst, an embedded alcoholic addiction, and her inherent need to fix everything that’s broken, she’s given up on this piece of shit hopeless romantic. She fell deeply in love with me once, and I fear she will never fall in love with anyone as deeply, me or anyone else, ever again. I’ve cursed her for life.

The added benefit of anyone else ever falling in love with her is merely selfish. After the massive damage I’ve done to her, I wouldn’t blame her for falling in love with the right man.

But she hasn’t...yet.

It is hard. Like many steps in recovery, there are chips in the pavement along the way. I became strong enough to develop the two-dozen rolls of film taken when...I don’t remember. There were a lot of memories; a lot were fun, a lot were drinking, a lot were wild. There is an infamous photo of me passed out on the floor. June had decided that she had to capture this moment in time. She does that. She’s more journalistic than artistic in her photography.

So, I’m torn. She needs financial help, yet she doesn’t want me to move back in. I guess she doesn’t love me that much any more. I need to move out. This place – this sober house – is dysfunctional. She’s short on money and I could pay her rent while we patch things up (a dream state). I think her pride is stopping her from entertaining the idea.

It sucks! I can’t feel anything for anyone else. I don’t want to. Girls and ladies are asking and I just don’t feel like it’s the right time, nor right thing, to do anything about it. However, June doesn’t want me back. She’d rather me find some other woman.

What she doesn’t understand – and what I don’t understand – is why we can’t fall back in love. When someone falls deeply in love with you, and they’re a good guy, don’t blow them off. I am deeply in love with June. I guess I’m not a good guy.

I wish I was younger so I could convince a younger June of our future together. Just like the view of this photo, everything is a little esker.

So, Happy Valentine’s Day on that thought!

Without Wax,

Why Doesn't God Help?

2007-02-03T08:31:00.000-06:00

"Why does this have to be so difficult?"

Working in the lab, a co-worker who’s going through recovery asked me this question. Normally, I stay anonymous at the work place, but I’d been discovered by one who recognized my medallion photo on a sample CD I created. I’d totally forgotten to remove those images when I created it.

“I mean, I work hard, I stay abstinent, yet people still treat me like shit.” I guess she’s thinking she’ll find a sympathetic ear. Darla scares me because I want to stay anonymous in the work place. However, she did find me out through the anonymous medallion. I mean, really, nobody knows about that unless they’ve been exposed to it.
“I do what I’m supposed to. I show up on time. I cover shifts. Why can’t I get the hours?”

My answer, “Sobriety is difficult. You’re exposed to life as if it’s the first time. If you want to participate in life, you must re-learn the rules that you were taught young and chose to ignore. And sometimes, you have to do it without a teacher.”

“Will you be my teacher?”

God, “I don’t know.” I gave her no promises.

Without Wax,

Taking Work Home

2007-01-16T04:35:00.000-06:00

I’m trying not to bring my work home with me, but I am guilty. I blame my addictive personality. I’m getting into being this Photo Lab Manager, and it’s creeping me out, a bit. I didn’t become a manager because I wanted to manage. I did it because the lab was in shambles and it was frustrating to work with failing equipment and people who didn’t care about the end product. What I’ve learned since taking over the position is that it’s a lot easier to fix the former than the latter.

I’ve also learned something from the name of the work-center, One Hour Photo. It really is all about service. Come, drop off film or digital photos, do some shopping, pick up quality photos and leave. It should be like dropping off a prescription. They’ll be done by the time you’re ready to go. Like I said, it’s easier to deal with the apparatus than it is with the co-workers. I have to be careful though. It’s a lot easier to deal with machines drunk or hung-over than it is with people.

What I’m learning though, is that it’s easier to deal with co-workers I’ve trained, and it’s so easy. It’s tempting to just chuck all those subordinates that don’t listen. What I’ve been systematically doing is reducing their hours in the lab. Some respond to this, others are so complacent that it doesn’t matter where they work. Still, it doesn’t solve the problem, and I’m all about solving problems.

Enough on that, for now.

I have to put together an agenda for my first meeting that I’m holding this week. For the first time, I’m working on something without taking a drink. That used to be my MO: have a drink before you start any project. I started getting sober a little over a year ago, and after one relapse, I feel completely different about alcohol. There were so many reasons to drink, so many triggers. Now, thank God, there are very few. But it took this last year to get to this stage.

I’ve built a small life from my former being. It’s enough right now. But work has a lot to do with it. So, I take it home for now. I have to; It’s the first time for me being a titled manager. I’m not a born leader. I’m a teacher, and that’s how I’ll lead. As for taking work home with me, I’ll live with that, for now.

Waking up this morning, I couldn’t sleep, so I left June W. in bed and ventured out into the living room with my latest novel: Michael Connelly’s Lincoln Lawyer. Thinking of the coincidental parallels between the main characters life and my own is entertaining. I’m at a part in the book where he’s at his home with his ex-wife, who he called from a bar drunk asking for a ride home. They’re talking about how their marriage failed, something June would really like to avoid. But then, I never thought a year ago I’d ever see June again, much less spending the night. We’ve seen each other for Christmas and her birthday. If you stay sober, some promises keep coming.

Relaxing with my book on the sofa in the living room, I look over at the window and start to laugh out loud. I see her kitchen pair of scissors hanging from the window crank, Photo Lab style. It’s a habit I learned from work and must’ve unconsciously done last time I was here. I wonder how long she’ll notice they’re missing from the kitchen?

Without Wax,

Not Too Bored

2007-01-05T06:09:00.000-06:00

Exhausted from working late, coming from donating at City Plasma, I’m approached by a panhandler at the Saint Paul downtown bus stop. He is a black man wearing, what appears to be, everything he owns. His direct advance causes me to mentally locating my pocketknife (outside backpack pocket). “Excuse me sir, could you spare a few dollars for a bed down at The Mission?”

Having panhandled for Mission money in the past, I sympathize with the man. However, if he simply was honest about his need for money, like say for booze or crack, I’d me more inclined to donate. 4:00pm is the cut off time for buying a bed a The Mission, wanted to say. “I’m sorry, I just got done paying rent,” I replied. A white man carrying a grocery bag is a prime target for panhandlers I guess.

... and I’ve run out of time, must leave for work...

When I started this blog over a year ago, a goal of mine was to show how a man like me stayed sober. By not posting to this blog, I haven’t really done that lately. I would also not recommend the method I’m currently using, which is not going to meetings, not seeking a sponsor, and working my ass off at work. However, tomorrow will be five months sober, so I’m not doing too badly.

Without Wax,

I'm Still Here

2007-01-04T23:05:00.000-06:00

I was a little concerned about going out for New Years, so I stayed home alone and watched rented movies. I felt like writing tonight, but then got tired. I should sit down this weekend and update this journal.

I pray everyone had a safe and sober New Years!

Without Wax,

Life Can Be Scary

2006-11-10T06:11:00.000-06:00

The young lady walks through the living room wearing black sweatpants and a string tank top. “Excuse me,” she says politely, as I watch that perfect little body go by. Every time Eva B. passes, thoughts of malevolence run through my head. She’s a fine looking lady, an addict at least a decade younger than Dan M. I have to constantly reminding myself she’s his girlfriend. It’s good to exercise one’s daemons. It teaches you that morality is not inherent.

Lying in bed, nearly falling back to sleep way too early in the evening, thoughts of June W. run through my head. I couldn’t stop the anger from building up in me from the day before. June had said we’d have time to spend together that evening, or so I thought. There are so many feelings about her that are coming to the surface that I wanted to discuss with her. But then she changed her mind and decided she didn’t have time to spend with me because of an important party she’s throwing for her boss and colleagues.

With June it’s always too early to discuss our current relationship. She doesn’t even want to admit we have one. My belief is that there’s always a relationship between two people, any two people. If the human mind is the most complex thing in the known universe, the relationship between any two must be the most complicated protocol known to man. The fact that she is not interested in expending one ounce of effort to try to understand or define it after our divorce is so negligent.

Then it clicked! What really makes June tick: money. She’s attracted to money. That’s what attracted her to me. I was a Software Engineer (well, I guess I still am) who made a decent wage. And at that time, before the technology bubble burst, anyone in the computer field had a promising career ahead of them.

However, June never could understand what made me tick. I never got into the computer field for the money. I love programming computers. After the technology bubble burst, many surviving companies decided the computer field would be measured by the bottom line. That’s when outsourcing the technology trust became a popular choice for American CEOs. Programming computers for the fun of it was now relegated to the technology centers around the nation, like Silicone Valley.

I never would’ve imagined that my job would be outsourced to India. Now American’s complain that they are discussing their private financial records on an over-seas call with someone who’s native language is not English; how secure is that?

So Wax falls back on this first love, what he majored in college originally: photography. And what better way to get your feet wet than to work in a photo lab. Being constantly depressed about my situation, I looked forward to going to work instead of the harsh reality of my life.

Being turned down for the Photo Lab Manager position was not devastating. I really took away from that experience a healthy lesson in failure. We must reach for the stars if wish to travel to the Moon. I had my regrets afterwards, which made me question motives of The Store. But the complicated machinery of a highly successful corporation is not always understood by one cog.

Soon, I fell back into my old comfortable position of the repairman, a habit that dies hard. I was always trying to fix things in my marriage, not realizing that when June was complaining about problems, she didn’t always want her man to fix them; sometimes it was enough just to listen. But sometimes she did. I never could distinguish which though. At work, I distracted myself by making sure all machinery worked flawlessly. It’s a busy job, but it paid off. As a consolation, I was moved full-time to Photo Lab, instead of two day there and three days in Electronics.

Simon P. called while I was working frantically in the lab. “Hey Wax, when you get a chance, please stop by my office.”

“Is this about that dreaded news you’ve been scaring me with?” I jest.

“No, no, nothing like that.” Of course, no more detail than that. He’s got something important to tell me, but it must be face-to-face.

“Okay, I’ve got a half-dozen one-hours to process. Can it be in thirty minutes?”

“Sure, whenever you finish, come meet me in my office,” he says.

It’s fallen on Simon to discipline me for working way past my scheduled hours. It’s got to be that. Simon is the executive in charge of Photo Lab, its manager’s boss. He has a keen interest in making sure the lab runs smoothly and has thanked me on several occasions for going above and beyond the call of duty. In fact, he’s the only one who appreciates my efforts. Who else better to deliver bad news?

“Latisha, can you hold down the lab for a little while? Simon wants to see me in his office,” I ask.

“Is it good news,” she asks with a shit-eating grin on her face. She knows something. Latisha A. is their choice for Photo Lab Manager, one made more for her leadership skills then her photography.

“Now how would I know what he wants me for?” I reply.

Simon invites me into his office and shuts the door. “How would you like to be Photo Lab Manager?” he asks.

Without Wax,

Don't Have To Drink About It

2006-10-31T09:54:00.000-06:00

Briefly, I didn't get the promotion. I was disciplined for staying late to fix a major problem with the printer. I basically feel unappreciated. I really want to find a meeting.

However, I must run because something good has happened: My protein levels have risen high enough for me to donate at City Plasma!

So, all have a safe and happy Halloween. I, on the other hand, am going out tonight to capture party animals in costume. I know it’s neither safe nor sane, but I really missed St. Patrick’s Day with my camera.

Without Wax,

It’s A Banana Stand

2006-10-26T23:48:00.000-05:00

“I was wondering what that was,” Dan M. said.

“It’s a banana stand,” I explain. One of the many things I chose to unpack from the efficiency apartment in order to make our kitchen feel a little more like home seems to work. After finding a coffee cup hanging from it this morning, I felt it was time to go grocery shopping. Saying that I’ve moved into a guys house is an understatement. No one in the house understands the concept of no drying important cloths completely. Everyone smokes inside the house, except myself. They’d probably freak if I produced a salad spinner.

Dan is the owner of the Flower House, a sober house of his own creation, one light on restrictions: No drugs, no booze, no shoes, and clean up after yourself. A man my age fighting hair loss with hair plugs, his addiction is coke. However, to meet him, you’d think that he was on coke constantly and that if he ever did stimulants, he’d pushed into psychosis. A constant coffee drinker, he’s definitely what you’d call an A+ personality. All things considered, I had a good feeling about him when I came to move in nearly a month ago.

He must’ve scene something in me to, because it cost me a mere $100 to initially move in. Since then, I’ve made rent on time and paid $100 towards the $350 deposit I still owe him. I haven’t missed a day of work and haven’t drunk at all. I’m coming up on three months sober.

I also haven’t been posting many blog entries either. But today it’s important. I’ve applied for the manager position of the Photo Lab at work. The executive team lead that interviewed me for the promotion asked me to work tomorrow morning on my day off. We have an inspection tomorrow that we failed in the past and he feels I should be there. Later on that day, the decision will be made as to who will fill the manager position.

Although the cards are not stacked in my favor, I have a feeling I may end up becoming the Photo Lab Manager. There are six other candidates applying for this position, all of which are internal. There are only five other employees who work in the Photo Lab, so I can only imagine every one of them has applied. Every one of them also has more experience than I. And I’ve only worked at The Discount Store for merely a month and a half, not even having had a 90-day review. However, they are looking for someone who is passionate about photography, and I was told in the interview that I am.

I’m the right age for management and I’m ready for this at this point in my life. One of the first thoughts I had when considering this position was that I could never come in hung over. I told this to Dan and he made the pat A.A. response, “You’re planning your next drink.” The fact of the matter is that I could care less if I have another drink or not. I don’t care if it means I restart my sober day count. I’m not going to stress out about whether or not I drink again. I’m worried more about the consequences of my actions, of which there was be many, if I drank again.

I’m ten days away from being three months sober. During this period in my quest to stay sober, I have not worked the program. That is, I have not read the Big Book, gone to meetings, gotten a sponsor, and in general have not worked the steps. I thought about going to a meeting last week, but since I’ve moved to the dreaded East Side of Saint Paul, many things are distant. Just traveling by bus to work takes one hour. When I discovered there’s not an A.A. meeting on the East Side of Saint Paul, the disillusionment for me increased ten fold.

Now, after having my first permanent full-time job in over two years, I’ve found something that’s been missing from my life. That is frankly, a job that I take pleasure in. I actually enjoy going to work. In fact, at the time I’d moved in, I was so down about everything else, I looked forward to avoiding the depressing state of my life by escaping to work. Although this is not the apartment I fell in love with, I do feel this is the place I should be at this point in my life.

One major reason I feel happy about myself is that I stayed sober enough to hold a job long enough to replace my digital camera. Using the store discount, I can afford the Canon PowerShot A540. It, like everything else in my life lately, is a compromise. It doesn’t completely replace the PowerShot G1 that I shorted out, however it has nearly twice the mega pixels. I love it though.

Another was the incredible day that I had with June W. the day I purchased the camera. She cashed my paycheck and drove me to pick up the camera at another one of our discount stores. I couldn’t buy it at my store on account that I’d sold all the A540s currently in stock. I’d experienced two distinctly opposing emotions from June. First when I paid her the first $100 towards what I owe her; I saw in her eyes a range of emotions from financial relief to respect, and a closeness I’d longed for. Then she bit my head off for whistling at her. She grabbed a cart right when we entered the store and started off in the wrong direction. I called her name, she didn’t respond, so I habitually whistled. She said she felt like she was being treated like a dog. The way she responded reminded me of one trigger for drinking. When she gets that angry in a public place, she actually looks ugly. I’ll never whistle for her ever again.

Tomorrow I open the Photo Lab on my day off at the request the man that interviewed me, which is a good sign. There will be an audit by the same district manager that gave us a failing grade last month. Sometime afterwards, the decision will be made as to which candidate will become the Photo Lab Manager. I’m prepared for either outcome.

Without Wax,

New Digs

2006-09-26T11:37:00.000-05:00

In short, I'm living in a new house with sober guys. Half past midnight, I come to my new home after work, put away my bike, dress for bed, and pray for those less fortunate. Having only to relieve myself before crashing in bed, I dress somewhat appropriately. Opening the door of my bedroom, I run into a beautiful half-naked dish-water-blonde, whom I can only assume is the owner's girlfriend. She's got the same idea I do, which is dash to the
bathroom as fast as possible. Dressed in only a man's flannel shirt, she smiles and apologizes. I shut the door in embarrassment instead of introducing myself.

I think, this place is not that bad.

Without Wax,

James’ Bun In Oven Not Worth Two In Proofer

2006-09-15T20:03:00.000-05:00

Somehow, James idea of living in my previous precious little apartment has come to the same conclusion as my Deli job. All risen bread needs to rise, usually in a proofer, as I have risen to the occasion of finding two fine jobs I can work with. However, all cannot happen at the same time without honesty.

James failure was not being honest about his live-in girlfriends rising belly. Mine was not making the grade at the Deli. I guess my bread rising skills suffer.

Bertha W.’s upset with James because he moved in with the intention of having his momma-baby live there permanently. He put her on the mailbox, but not on the lease. I can see Bertha’s point of view: Having a ready-made illegitimate family in a one-room efficiency apartment. What next: a cat?

A landlord with honesty. She asked me for strict rules: no pets, don’t give your keys out, don’t copy keys, no subletting. I obeyed. So, I called her.

One, two, three, four, five rings...I’m expecting the answering machine to pick up. A groggy voice answers, “hello.”

“Hello, this is Craig,” I announce. “Bertha?”

“Yah?”

“Hi, this is Craig,” pausing, wondering why not an angry response. She’s familiar with my Caller ID, so why the slow response, I think. “Um, you asked me to call you about the apartment and I was wondering how James was working out?”

And now is the time I always dread: listening intently to those who ramble trying to get to their point. June W. always told me I was a good listener. That was because; well, because a lot of things, mostly because she has the sexiest phone voice I’ve ever experienced; anyway, listening for things.

She’s slow, definitely no anger in her voice, but displeasure at James way of deceiving her. Something about diversions in Vegas, women, lying about workdays, etc., things a normal landlord should not be concerned with, but she did come to one point: There’s a woman living there who was not on the lease, and she’s five months pregnant. How that measures on the Bertha anger scale of having violating the pet-clause is no man’s guess.

Introducing a pet into an apartment is much like having an unplanned pregnancy. You fall in love, playfully, touching, petting, snuggling, then something happens. You fall; either in love with the pet, or madly in bed with the woman. Either way, something unexpected happens that you have to live with for seven to eighteen years of your life, depending on the species. It’s only then that you think to call your landlord to get permission.

Five months is a little to late for Bertha. When you fall in love with a pet, you call to find out what the pet-deposit is. When you rent an apartment, you better not have plans to move a five-month pregnant woman in without putting her on the lease. You can always decline the pet.

Which reminds me, Darla V. asked me if she’d like to move in with me. I didn’t mention it to Bertha when she brought the subject of a second tenet up, but at least I know how to handle it: upfront and honest. And I’m not sure how I’d feel about Darla living with me. We’re only somewhat compatible, and she has different hours. She’d have to have her own keys, so she’d have to be on the lease. Her father has told her she has to move out, so she’s motivated. It’s not ideal. We’re not that compatible in bed, and it’s be awkward at best to have another sleep over.

The pressing need to escape The Mission leaves me with violent solutions to this morning’s shave. A black man, all up about himself that he must put down every white man he meets while showering and shaving confronts me with violent threats while I’m trying to shave. This is so fucked! This little boy of a man needs to be taught a lesson, I’m so thinking. He pushed me aside to intentionally anger me so we couldn’t share a mirror, which he then smears with water just to piss me off. Teach this guy a lesson. Take his knees out! Reminding myself that I don’t know how to fight, that I’ve been trained to disable an attacker, I choose to acquiesce to this rude man’s demands. However, it does not stop me from staring him down. I wonder, how can a man be so cocky about living in a place that you cannot call home?

Oh, this violent mirrored racism pours over to the bus I board. I hear from the black back of the bus the all too common black racist complaints usually reserved for the late evening. However, this morning, a black girl speaks out load, “Black people don’t usually read papers anyway!”

I reactively stand up to confronter her and find a black woman just across the isle also standing in protest. She was ready to get into it! We look at each other with mouths open ready to attack, when both become smiles. At the same time, a black woman and a white man stood up on a bus to protest this lame bias. We both smiled at each other, realizing the polarization of races was both correct and incorrect in the same audible space, and both laughed it off and smiled. The crass young black girl eventually was asked by the bus driver to stifle her words or get booted. Shit like that happens all the time in the back of the Saint Paul busses when black people ride together. I call it Jim Crow Back Lash. Hopefully, eventually, it’ll stop. But most most of my friends feel that Jim Crow will not halt in their life time. I, unfortunately, agree.

It’s amazing. Not too many cities name a street adjacent to their capital after Martin Luther King, Jr. Yet, black people from the south think we’re still prejudice. Arizona was denied a Superbowl because they refused to acknowledge this important holiday. I was blown away! This group of football jerks thought that it was important enough to respect this man’s great thought to pull the most financially beneficial nod to their city because of...of what? Well, because race is only an issue, if you make it an issue.

I met same good friends today in search of my next bed. Many of them black. They never hesitated to acknowledge me, and I knew them, but didn’t know their names, nor where I’d met them. There’s been so many places that I’ve lived in Saint Paul. There’s been so many that I’ve like to forget, yet there are people I’d like to remember.

I hate looking back, but I chose to live in Saint Paul.

It’s my only day off. It’s good though, since I really only have so many things to do, and so many hours to work. I need the hours.

Riding up the steep capital hill, I remember...just that evening before, arriving on the LTD bus just past the capital building. I’d missed my stop and arrive at the bus stop that places you right in front of the state’s capital. Explaining, in vain, my mistake not to pull the stop trigger in time before the bus diverted from it’s normal route, I’m left pulling my bike from the bus in a completely unpopulated area.

The bus drives away. I’m left standing in front of a fully lit capital building. All her marble exposed to the retina in 11”x14” splendor, actually better than that. She, unlike other great photographers, who usually wear glasses, I’ve been blessed with perfect vision. So, when I stepped off that bus, all I saw was beauty. Crystallized marble in all directions in a manner of resolution that you can only imagine in the finest film, yet it was in person, in front of my eyes, fully lit, ready to be captured. And me with no camera.

It reminded me of a tour of the capital I once had that disclosed the fact that Abraham Lincoln was out first president. I was exposed to his image, without trademark hat, in a senate room. The tour guide had said, “This is our first president.” Okay, he’s great, but he’s not our first, I thought. Then he explained, he was our first president that we’ve elected. That made me very proud to live in Minnesota.

The capital’s image has been latent in my retina; I’m sure it’s be replicated on film soon. Digital will not do it justice. But, there are so many other things I could do with her image, I know.

Sleep has become the major factor, as it has been in the past. Only now, I have little control over it. I share a bed next to a bunk that has a man that clearly has anger issues. Round about 3:00am he goes into these fits where he talks in his sleep. He acts out violent encounters. I mean it’s like you’re their and defending yourself. In the morning, he wakes and acts like nothing happens.

I can’t sleep like that. I need another place to sleep at night.

I finally got all my hour for the next two weeks from The Discount Store and they leave me with almost 40 hours of work, which I needed, and a schedule I can present to The Deli. However, that’s too late.

I will wait out my schedule and find another job that fits my Discount Store schedule. Until then, I’ll just sit tight.

So many things happened today that I used to instinctively know how to handle, yet felt a need to rethink how I should respond to them. Much less, towards June, but much more towards others. I’ve done wrong, and I may have already paid for it, and may be able to correct it, but I have to continue.
I have found God, in the unlikeliest places, but he’s there. Jesus, I’m pretty sure, is his son. The rest, I’m not so sure of. I’m not really sure if that’s all important to life on Earth, but I know that people search. That’s what we do. Whether God or science, we all look for an answer. It’s the marriage of the two that perplexes me, why not?

I am blessed with the best ears for my struggle through this strangely sobering experience. I can’t say that I have the feedback of the worst of my protractors. What I’ve done is made a mistake in the eyes of every expert when it comes to twelve steps. That’s fine. I haven’t backed these twelve steps, as I shouldn’t. I’ve failed.

But, I’m ready to sleep on it. Tomorrow, I’ll go to work.

I love the fact that I can just type out what I think, before I go to any meeting, before I go to work, before I get on any bus filled with racist blacks angry at the white man in the North. I can just let my mind put myself back to sleep.

Tomorrow, I’ll solve the suburbs’ photographic world’s problems. Tonight, I’ll merely solve those of a man who can’t find the fine difference between a line and a fine lady.

Without Wax,

More Landlord Trouble

2006-09-08T21:17:00.000-05:00

Working the register, my former landlord approaches me. “Find another place yet?” Bertha W. asks.

“No, I haven’t. How’s James working out?” I’m referring to the tenet she had replace me. Had she not had a guaranteed tenet, she probably would’ve worked with me.

“He’s not,” she angrily responds.

“Would you reconsider renting to me?” I ask.

Considering this, she replies, “We’ll talk about this later.”

This is the first time she’s been civil to me for months. Part of me wants to tell her to shove that little apartment up her patooty! However, after the Thursday layover in downtown Minneapolis surrounded with farmer’s market flowers and vegetables, wanting to take them home and make myself a wonderful home cooked meal...well, you get the idea.

I really am getting tired of The Mission.

Later,

Without Wax,

New Job at One Month Sober

2006-09-06T16:39:00.000-05:00

After a surprisingly good rest last night, I woke up early, skipped the shower, ate breakfast, and left The Mission to plan my day. Having a few hours to relax, I delved into my next novel, Dan Brown’s Deception Point. After finishing his prequel to The Da Vinci Code, Angels & Demons, I’m starting his second of four novels. I’ve read all the others and wait impatiently for his follow up to The Da Vinci Code.

While reading this excellent novel, I think of sending a text message to June W. about my one month of sobriety and first day of work. But before I can, she sends me a text message:
GOOD LUCK TODAY! Stay calm,
You will be GREAT!
-- June

This refers to our last in-person conversation about how we both this might be the causes of loosing four previous jobs. My inability to know when I’m being over-confident, appearing too cocky. Just stay alert, pay attention, let people know when you understand enough to work on your own, and always remember to be of service to all around you. No one likes the carry the burden of a slacker. By doing your job fast, efficient, and friendly, you help everyone on the team.

Playing a shell game between my old apartment’s storage, and the lockers at The Gym and The Mission, I planned to get the right stuff in all the right places for this evening’s Job Orientation Meeting at The Discount Store. I wanted cleans cloths and shower supplies at The Gym, along with my laptop. My bicycle was moved from The Gym this morning to The Mission. I accomplished this today with one fare and six bus trips within the allotted two and a half hour expiration of a transfer. With all appropriate tasks performed, I finally had a huge lunch at The Mission, took an extra long shower at The Gym, dressed for work, then walked my laptop across the street to The Café to relax before heading off to my first day on the job at The Discount Store.

Fighting for hours at The Deli is something that makes me uncomfortable since that’s how I lost hours at The Pizza Joint. Unfortunately, Wednesday mornings are when the schedules are made, and Wednesday night is when I find out my schedule for The Discount Store. I guess it doesn’t matter, since any hours I get at The Discount Store will trump The Deli. After making a call for hours, I find they haven’t even scheduled me for anything this week; just the same as The Pizza Joint. That’s unfortunate, since I’ll miss out on tips and will have to rely on plasma money until I get my first paycheck.

However, this does make things at The Discount Store honestly simple. I currently have no conflicts with the other job. The Discount Store knows of my other job, but not the other way around, and I’d like to keep it that way. So, when I talk to the manager of The Deli, I’ll have a schedule I can work around.

I’m ready.

Without Wax,

Short Sighted Future Endeavor

2006-09-03T16:30:00.000-05:00

Heading out this morning, into the wake of the early morning’s storms, I find the sky mindful of unsheltered travelers. She’s rained on my bicycle, which I abhor, yet it was necessary. Spending the night at The Mission, I sacrificed my bicycle’s health for my own in buying a $6 bed to the night. Having stripped her of every possible item that could possibly be stolen, I left only it’s frame and wheels chained to a bike rack yards away from any window or door. I did not feel safe.

Living on the street, this time, with my yellow bicycle as a supplemental form of transportation, has proven both a asset and a burden. I can carry so much more, but I must worry more about her. As I said to Robert R., “Possessions possess you.”

He responded, “Yah, well, I’d never thought of it that way. Yes, they really do.”

Seated across from me at The Café is a lady in pleated wool skirt, tight white blouse, long legs, pale skin, pert lips, brunette hair, dark eyebrows, reading the Star Tribune so elegantly. It’s picture I just want to snap against pale yellow wall. I think my mind is setup to work in still photography. Ever since I lost my digital camera, life has lost it’s meaning. I want to capture life in images, then document them.

It’s not like she’s striking. But she has a tranquil peace about her. It’s a Sunday morning, and she’s just relaxing at her favorite little café reading a paper. It’s a perfect image, with no depth, a flat wall. From a distance, she could be years younger, but in abstract, she’s simply a beautiful relaxed woman. It’s a shame to have to capture it in words instead of images. I really miss my digital camera.

I will buy one soon if it means not eating.

When I came to wake at The Mission this morning, I found my old friend Robert R., on all things, on the thrown. My dorm was out of toilet paper, so the man told me to visit the next dorm and borrow some, “from Peter to pay for Paul.” Well, Peter was out, and I found Robert with a handful of napkins. Evidently, he’d thought ahead. Nearly all the toilets were depleted.

Robert R. is a gentleman who reads a lot of detective novels and speaks easy of others. A tall slim man, with silver hair, a gentle demeanor, he’s respected by all he encounters. When he swears, which is rare, he always catches himself and apologizes. I don’t know who he’s apologizing to, but God.

I told him of my homeless plight, and he filled me in on the ways and means of living an extended life without a home. We originally met just before starting this blog, before I ever had the idea of journaling my experience online. It was the first time I’d connected with an individual while on the streets.

Dark crime novels were my only escape at that time, eclipsing movies, music, and television. They encompassed both the darker side of my anger, and the vigilante urges that motivated me to stay alive. I saw so many moral crimes that I knew would escalate into violence that I felt, at that time, I could prevent them, given the right moral pressure at the right time. Everyone, except the totally immoral sociopath, will succumb to reason. I felt, that being of sober mind and body, I could change the path of some of our darkest neighbors.

There are lines that are drawn in crime. Lines of stealing, burglary, assault, rape, murder. As these crime escalate in the mind of the criminal, the moral value of man’s mind changes. The line in the sand that’s drawn changes. What’s he’s ready to do next is shifting. If he’s ready to go to the next step, it’s easy for him, but terrifying on the community.

All these things enter your mind when you live on the street. You want to know who you’re sleeping next to in a dorm full of 38 men who happened in that evening. Even then, I opened myself to a few men with property such as mine, (a cycle, bags, etc.) and they told me, “Don’t trust anyone here. They’ll earn your trust, then steal you blind.”

I don’t believe that. I cannot believe that. I will not believe that. I know I’m not protected by God, but I’m not ignorant of the fact that so many things in my life will be pulled out from under me. I cannot live that way.

I also don’t believe that God has a master plan for us all. No! People that believe that are numb to this world.

This is what I believe: God is all around us, and binds us; it shows us everyday what we are made of, the four elements: Earth, Air, Fire, Water. All of these elements are still not within man’s control. Instead, we are meant to understand how these elements co-exist with us. When something unexpected happens, just try to understand how this could possibly be in tune with God’s idea of his learning experience for you.

But, just never, ever think you’ve got his plan down pat. Just continue on. Remember, if you’re not dead, there’s still a plan for you. Thy will be done, not yours.

Okay, enough of the finer things.

I slept Friday night at the apartment, against landlord Bertha W.’s will. She said, “I’ve alerted the police.” Yah, right, I thought. It worried me enough to sleep at a local church for ten minutes until I had the wicked urge for vengeance. Knowing that the police are not going to be staking out an empty apartment for a dead-beat tenet, I took it on myself to exact my revenge for her insinuate behavior.

Just before leaving that evening, she’d taken a plaque off the wall of the Serenity Prayer. Handing it to me, she said, “God is a crutch.” My jaw tightened! June W. gave this to me years ago when I was going through my battle with alcohol way before moving to live with her. It meant to much to me then. Years later, when I’d moved to be with her, I’d hung it in the guest bedroom. One weekend, when her brother Mark U. came to stay with us, he’d taken such a liking to this inspiring plaque that he’d asked if he could take it home with him. He asked us both at the same time. Mark is a very imposing man, I would normally say yes to him, but I just looked at Lori, and knowing what it meant to me back in Los Angeles, she answered for me, “We just can’t. It really means so much to us. You understand.” Shocked, he answered slowly, “Um, yes, I do.”

When Bertha held it in her hands and declared it’s weakness, I knew it was time for revenge. I took it from her, packed in a bag I knew would eventually end up in June’s hands, I plotted my revenge. Nothing too evil, but vengeful, just the same.

So, being pissed that Bertha wouldn’t allow me to sleep in a vacant apartment, resting at a church instead, not being able to sleep, I did it. I planned my evening.

Using reverse telephone lookup from the Internet, I’d determined that Bertha’s home address was just a few miles from my apartment. Knowing that I had the right tools at hand, I headed towards her piloted address. Already knowing the cheap nature of the woman, I’d expected her to keep her vehicle on the street or driveway; anything but garaged. I wasn’t disappointed.

When exacting revenge, one must always account for payback. If you allow for the variance of chance, one can always disable a victim without them even being aware. Valve stems are one of these attacks. My bicycle has inner tube caps with value stem removers. By removing or loosening a valve stem, you make a completely functional tire appear flat. All it takes to repair it is a pump. But, to the untrained eye, you have a punctured tire. One flat tire means you have to install your spare. Two means you need a tow truck. Unless, of course, you realize, that all you need is air. If you don’t have a pump handy, you’re screwed. Hence, you need to call a tow truck.

It’s the simplest way of saying, “Possessions posses you.” I slightly released one valve stem, the let out a little air out of another tire. When she arrived, she had no clue what had happened. She’d installed the spare, instead of inflating the perfectly fine tire, and drove on the low tire. She never suspected that I’d been the culprit. I felt better. I don’t want to say the God works in mysterious ways, but sometimes Karma needs some help.

To this day, I don’t believe she’s spent the $250.00 to file for eviction. I’d asked her, but she said, “I’m not telling you.” If she hasn’t, all I have to do is pay off the utility bills and I might be able to rent again soon, once I get back on my feet.

Back at The Mission, I ran into so many old faces, from before I’d started blogging. It was difficult to remember their names, but was said a lot that there are so many people who choose to live this life. I was just happy having a place I could call my own, one where I could make a healthy BLT! It was fine by me. I just dropped the ball as far as keeping a job to support rent.

Again, many of the same old faces. It’s hard to believe that after almost a year, these people choose to live this life. Not having a place to call home is taxing on a man. I don’t know how I can live like this for long.
Faced with a 50-something old man wearing an Eddie Bauer T-shirt, I’m struck with the culture clash. My mind works it out: It’s funny, but sad. Young people, who can’t make it, exchange their cloths at The Mission for other clean cloths, and so do everyone else. So, older men, which mostly populates The Mission, end up with trendy T-shirts.

I see all these old faces from just nine months ago, and I wonder how they continue. I’m depressed from not moving forward, and now actually moving backwards. They all seem happy by simply skimming the surface.

All I want to do is catch up. I want to find a way to live a life where I can choose where to go next. I want to stand on my own two feet. I fell this time. I wish I could say I know how to avoid it, but I don’t.

I know this: It’s not that I don’t have a sponsor. It’s not that I stopped going to meetings. It’s not that I stopped reading the Big Book. It’s not that praying morning and night. It’s something deeper, and more in tune with my nature.

A.A. meetings teach you that anyone that’s against recovery is wrong. It’s not as simple as that. I wish it was, but it’s not.

It was simple, when all I knew what that as long as I stayed sober, everything else would somehow fall into place. That blindsided me from the truth.

The truth is this: In some communities, you will find groups of people that will help you stay sober, if you follow their rules explicitly. Then, when you do, if you don’t follow their way of life, you’re out. Then you’re either a drone, or you’re not supported my the group.

If, however, you find in your own friends, a way to communicate that you have a problem with alcohol, and you’re willing to be honest with them, they will help you. They won’t trust you, as far as they can throw you, but that is best. They’ll at least know you. They’ll know you’re spirit and willingness to contribute to the whole. And at another time, they may come to ask for your help in the same embarrassing manner.

I’ve trusted gung-ho A.A. enthusiasts, only to find their exotic remedies too extreme. Sobriety is simply a choice. Your friends, true friends, will always be there to tell you when you’ve had enough. And, if you’re a true friend to them, you’ll muster up enough courage to say, “You know, I believe you’re right. Here’s my keys.”

I remember. I remember a small period of time when June W. and I, and our friends, had that relationship.

Without Wax,

First Homeless Day

2006-09-02T21:54:00.000-05:00

First day homeless in Saint Paul again leaves me sneaking back into the apartment with a set of keys I made without permission. I knew no one would be there. I didn’t sleep at all. The closest I came was at 2:00am when the neighbor came home and slammed the door. I never got back to sleep. Setting the alarm clock for 6:00am, I wake at 5:59am and turn it off. Make the last of my tuna salad sandwich, I leave for Boyd Park to capture maybe 45 minutes of sleep; it doesn’t come.

I call landlord Bertha W. at 7:00am as requested to complete moving the rest of my property into the storage unit. She agrees to meet me at 9:00am, but runs late because of a flat tire.

Surprisingly, my belongings almost all fits in the small space. What’s left are cloths that should probably go to Goodwill. However, I have to go through them because I know there’s some jewels amongst them. She says I can keep them there for two months.

Since I’m writing this from work, I’m going to keep this brief. I went to The Mission and booked a room for evening; it cost me $6. Reading the description of the place, I was heavily disappointed to learn that I won’t be able to come there for a bed tomorrow night after getting off work at 3:00am. However, when they learned of my job, they said it would be no problem.

I’m heading home to a bed tonight. They say that after staying five consecutive days, I’d be eligible for a locker. There’re pretty big too, however I didn’t have time for pricing. I just barely had enough time to shower. Actually, I didn’t, since I missed my first bus and had to cycle to the next transfer.

I’m really tired and just want to sleep in a real bed.

And I’m missing June W. something fierce.

Without Wax,

Last Post from The Apartment

2006-09-01T08:48:00.000-05:00

I'm checking out of the apartment today. I'll be living on the streets of Saint Paul once again. I'll be in touch when I can.

Without Wax,

Negative Drug Test Result

2006-08-28T12:47:00.000-05:00

Monday morning begins with trekking to City Plasma to learn the results of my blood work, and hopefully allow me to donate. I could really do with $25.00 today as well as being able to donate locally instead of spending five hours traveling to Suburb Plasma.

The dreary drizzle sets the tone for today’s news. Instead of cycling, I choose to walk it the half-hour in light rain. It gives me time to prepare myself for the bad news, which could be either they won’t let me donate because I’ve donated in less than a week at another plasma bank, or my blood work results indicate low protein levels. Needing the money, I can’t help but feel depressed. I haven’t heard from The Discount Store yet; I was hoping I’d hear good news by now.

Bertha W. called me for her eviction reminder. Oddly enough, she’d stopped calling daily since she learned of my recent job offers. It may be that that old witch as a conscience after all. However, after speaking with her, she’s convinced me that she will not sway when it comes to me leaving at the end of the month, just a few days away. My neighbor said he’d talk to her and try to convince her to change her mind, but she’s accepted money from the new tenet. I don’t think she’ll go back on her word. Frankly, I’m not ready to move out and live on the streets again.

Arriving at City Plasma, I sign in as normal, hoping that everything will go as normal. An hour later, I’m told that my protein levels are still slightly below normal. I’ve been sober for three weeks, so I take another test. This time, they say to come back in one week instead of two. This is very bad news.

I return home, get the mail, and I’ve got a letter from The Discount Store. Fearing bad news, I get settled in the apartment before opening the letter. The interviewer said that the store would not contact me directly if I was turned down, but rather the corporate office would do so, probably by letter. If I were accepted, the store would call me. So, I’ve been waiting for a positive local phone call, but fearing a Minneapolis letter or phone call.

Opening the letter, it reads:

RE: Negative Drug Test Result

That’s it, I’m buying a bottle and just get plastered. I read on...

The Discount Store has received information confirming that your recent drug test is negative.

That’s it, negative. Everything is showing up negative today. I might as well get drunk and call in sick to The Deli! I read on.

You have passed the drug test.

Oh, that’s right. Negative test results in medicine are positive news. Taking a deep breath, I go to fix lunch and prepare for work this afternoon.

Without Wax,

Without Dripping Wax

2006-08-28T06:10:00.000-05:00

In celebration of the third week of sobriety, I've launched a new Weblog, Without Dripping Wax. It's an outlet for my more eccentric mind drippings, which has little or nothing to do with staying sober. Please check it out!

Thy will be done, not mine.

Without Wax,

Darla’s Disappearance

2006-08-26T22:53:00.000-05:00

Neon signs plugging beers and better times illuminate the only visible signs of life through the windows of the Hunan Garden, across the street from the 6th & Cedar bus stop in downtown Saint Paul. As the current transit station for our fair capitol city, I imagine a temptation for many a recovering alcoholic is inherent, since you can’t go anywhere in Saint Paul without traveling through this junction. FYI, it’s soon to be replace by the Smith Ave. Transit Station.

One evening, what seems like years ago, yet only months, I felt strong enough to venture into The Garden before heading back home to the halfway house. Armed with only a black trench coat, my copy of Angels & Demons (which I just learned, and expected, will become a movie in 2008 featuring Robert Langdon, our fearless symbologist from The Da Vinci Code.

Really craving the company of the bar atmosphere, I felt strong enough in my sobriety that I could sit with my book, reading glasses parked on my nose, studying the exotic lexicon Dan Brown is known for, sipping club soda. A fine young lady across the bar kept eyeing me while text messaging someone. Noticing her noticing me, I played with my eyes behind the glasses, always keeping attention on both her and the book. Something told me she’d come over, and she did, to sit next to me, but with two other men. I think it was an excuse to get closer.

We ended up talking, sharing text messages under the table as she smoozed the older gentleman buying her drinks. I bought her one strong drink as well, and wanted to buy more, but I was short on funds. The old guy (relatively) kept buying, so I just let it happen. At one point, I knew she was leaving with me; where to, I had no idea, since I lived in a halfway house, populated with men, where woman are tolerated, but not allowed to spend the evening.

Her passion shown through when at one point I was messaging her feet at the bar while she winced. It felt good to know that a beautiful young woman, such as Darla V., could be aroused by a man twice her age. It wasn’t until she got up to leave that I knew the wrong I’d promoted.

Darla stumbled. She had grabbed my hand when the other gentleman had left for the bathroom, looked at me and said, “Let’s get out of here.” Nodding my head, batting my blue eyes, I responded with a resounding, ‘Yes!’ But when she stumbled, I felt pangs of guilt for contributing to her intoxication. Being of sober mind and body, I switched to protector mode.

At this point, I knew enough about her that she admires strong older men. Being as sober as I’d ever been in my life, I knew I had to act quickly, yet subtly. I had to get her car keys. How does one meet a total stranger at a bar and convincer her in the short distance to her vehicle to relinquish her car keys so as to drive them home. Please remember that at this point, Darla has no idea that I’m sober. The bartender has been my ally all this time, serving me club sodas at first, then switching to cola when Darla drank rum & Cokes with me. Bartenders know and respect when a man wants not to drink at all, and will serve them for free most times.

My mind, being clearly present, went into overdrive. How do I get these keys away from her? I knew how: Use your charm. I simply explained that I didn’t want her to find any trouble this evening simply trying to get home. All I wanted was for us to leave downtown for a friendlier environment. I pulled out all the stops, things I normally would use to seduce a woman, but now I knew I was doing God’s work. The only agenda was for her not to drive home. I felt guilty, since I’d contributed to her intoxication, and even encouraged it. Now it was my turn to step up to the plate and make sure this fine young lady made it home safely tonight.

I got the keys! “Take care of my baby,” she begged. Since she lived in Hudson, WI, across the border, she didn’t want to go home. She gave me directions to a friend’s house not to far from downtown. Her directions, as I’ve learned from drunker days, have often led to a cop stop. Sure enough, it almost came to that. We were driving down Summit Ave. when she realized she didn’t know where she was and asked me to make a U-turn. I smelled, ‘drunk friend directions’, getting me pulled over. Just as this happened, a cop appears coming the opposite direction towards me just before I make an illegal U-turn. I stop in time to make it into a left turn, and the cop passes. Hiding my fear of being arrested for driving without a license, I turn to her and explain, “I know where you want to go. Let me take you there.”

We arrive at Robin’s house. There are many young people doing all kinds of recreational things. Actually, it was very tame, but I noticed that Darla was having a problem with pot smoke. Long story, short, she confessed to me later that she’d been through a six-month religious-based recovery program (probably Teen Challenge) for marijuana addiction.

It didn’t stick. She started lighting up trees faster than a forest fire. When she started rolling them in the apartment, I put my foot down! I told her, “This is my sober house! Can you imagine what would happen if a sober friend came over, found a pot seed, then relapsed? You never asked, and I never gave permission. Don’t bring that it in here.” Oh, my God, she was pissed. It was like she was told she can’t smoke weed in her own home.

Then I drank. It wasn’t long after this incident that I’d decided that I could have a drink and be normal, just like Darla said. Oh, God, I was buying into her belief: that she’s cured and so am I. All this time, my boss at the Pizza Joint is not calling me back for hours. Since he wanted me for morning openings, and Darla was working late night hours at bars, and crashing at my place, I started pushing the limits of sleep. Waking with a hangover was all so familiar, but being sober for seven months, I’ve learned that the body and mind play a cruel game of cat and mouse in the waking hours. It begs the question every morning, ‘Are you really sober?’

This feeling, like many others of my brothers can attest to, basically sucks! I mean, it’s bad enough to have using dreams, but to wake completely sober and feel hung over is just a cruel way of saying, “You’re never going to be normal again, ever.” I get it. I also get that my friends, family, and former lovers, will also never accept me as normal ever again.

So, why not got to a bar where nobody knows you?

Okay, I laid down the ground rules, then broke them. .
Then I lost my job, not for drinking, just hours dropped off.

She started spending more time here, sleeping mostly. The pot took all of her energy out of her. She just slept off of the time. My so-called sober house ended up being a flop-house for her. I catered to her, made her breakfast, lunch, wonderful dinners. But there was always this one thing that was more important to her than anything else: weed. If she couldn’t find it, she’d get pissed. When she was high, she was never fully present. It ended up where she simply slept here, that’s all.

This screwed up my schedule, since I opened at the Pizza Joint. She’d get in at 3:00am, then snore all night long. She ended up so high that she couldn’t function in bed. Then, she’d get pissed that I wouldn’t let her roll her joints in my apartment.

It ended with a text message: “I’m being evicted.” She never replied. I always thought she was a taker, not a giver. My only regret is that I never taught her that it was so obvious.

As far as June W. is concerned, she will always be the ideal woman for me. However, it’s clear that she either doesn’t realize that, or feels so strong that she can get past her the love of her life. I don’t know what she wants in life. All I know, is that I’d love to spend the rest of my life with her.

There is one other issue: My ability to pass on the Wax family name to a male offspring. I can’t do that with June, since she’s had a hysterectomy. I didn’t mind when I married her, and I don’t mind now. But, one has to ask, “Am I supposed to pass on the Wax family name?” Three sisters, one boy. Two brothers, two girls. No Wax men to pass on the family name.

Am I supposed to find a young woman, and finally father a child? Is that what I’m supposed to do? I love children, and I’d love the opportunity; but, I don’t see his mother in my minds eye.

Some commenter asked me about asking my friend to be my sponsor. I have to say, I’m burnt out on sponsors; either that, or their burnt out on me. I’ll get back to you on that. The bottom line is that he as better is a sponsee brother than a sponsor.

How did she disappear? I simply told her, in a text message, that I was going to be evicted. She never called back. She’s a taker, not a giver. This was a life lesson.

Without Wax,

It's My Blog And I'll Play What I Want To

2006-08-24T22:23:00.000-05:00

I have no idea why I like this video. Oh, that's right, I'm a read blooded American male.

I was in the midst of journaling a very depressing thought that occurred to me, until I came across this video and felt like sharing. It shook me out of my depression. Although the job prospects have been pouring in lately, I’m less than optimistic about my future.

I really won’t feel comfortable until I’m hired full-time at The Discount Store. The Service Station career path is tenuous at best. The Deli is going to be another Pizza Joint as far as fighting for hours every week. I need a predictable schedule. I don’t mind working extra shifts; I’m more worried about not depending on hours.

For example, I have three days until I work again at The Deli. I’ve got money in my pocket. The readers that comment on this blog know what’s next. If you do your algebra, money + free time = booze - lost time, the common denominator is a degraded morale. This is how it happened the first time when I was working at The Pizza Joint. I lost hours, had money, and decided to buy a bottle, my first. I thought, I’ll just sober up when they give me some hours. I liked wallowing in my self-pity so much that I never picked up the phone and asked for hours. Now I know you have to fight for hours at these food service jobs and be ready to work at the drop of a hat. You don’t have the luxury of a day or two to sober up.

Running on three hours sleep, I came home from Suburb Plasma, ate a big meal, and fell asleep. When I woke, I’d turned on the TV to discover Northfield’s being pelted by baseball-sized hail. The clock reads 8:14pm, past closing time for liquor stores. I felt sad instead of relieved. Remember last time you tried to drink between plasma donations? Yah, shut up. My protein levels dropped and I had to find another plasma donation facility.

Wednesday I had an interview with The Service Station way out in the suburbs. Although the store I applied at is walking distance from home, I have to trek all the way out to the ‘burbs for an interview. It took five hours of travel for a one-hour interview, but these are the things unemployed men do, especially when they don’t have a car. The bus route that takes me to the interview in the morning does not take me back until 4:00pm. So, I mapped out a return route that would involve some cycling until I got to a bus route that would take me back home.

I was asked the all too common question for a man of my age: “Are you looking for a manager position?” I am, after all old enough to know Doris Day before she was a virgin. Instead of shying away from these questions, I entertain them, as I did in this interview.

All went well during the interview. I’d parked my bicycle far enough away from the office so that my interviewer would have no idea I don’t have a car. There’s a service station adjacent to the office the interview is held in. When it was over, I jumped on my bike, pedaled off, then when I was far enough away I looked at my map. There was something wrong. From the bus map, it appears that the bus should’ve dropped me right in front of the office, but it turned the other direction. This threw off my sense of direction. Since I had to pee, I thought I’d return to the service station, get directions, and relieve myself. I got directions and found a line for the restroom. I thought of leaving my bike helmet on the bike so I don’t look geeky, but thought I wouldn’t have to wait long. Out of the restroom comes the gentleman I’d just interviewed with. He said, “Hi,” but then hung his head as he returned to his office. I could tell I’d just blown it. Corporate people like that don’t hire assistant managers who can’t manager their own lives enough to own a car. I don’t think he’ll be calling back.

Oddly enough, another manager from the same company called about the other Service Station I applied at. It turns out, although both these service stations with the same name are just a few blocks away, they’re not managed by the same company. If the other guy doesn’t call back, I might call this one. Again, the interview is out in the suburbs, only I have a feeling the bus route will be kinder. Another advantage is that this other service station is closer and in a nicer neighborhood.

The problem with The Discount Store’s background check is that it could take too long. If I’m hired by them before the end of the month, I might be able to convince my landlord not to evict me. It’s what I’m most worried about.

Well, it’s time to sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll call the Deli for hours on Friday and Saturday, big tipping days. I’ll also do some chores, like dishes and laundry.

Good night,

Without Wax,

Minneapolis Central Library

2006-08-24T14:38:00.000-05:00

Minneapolis Central Library has got to be the most restrictive library in the entire Minnesota library system. I only have an hour before my bus transfer expires, so I thought I'd check out Dan Brown's
Deception Point, then update this blog. Well, they don't have that book. And I can only use the Internet for 30 minutes, as opposed to 60 minutes in Saint Paul. Since I'm short on time, I really didn't want to get into it with the clerk about why someone who lives in 'The Other' Twin City couldn't obtain a Minneapolis library card, nor use their existing one.

I have a Ramsey county library card, which I understand is the problem. I explained that Saint Paul is in Ramsey county, but he thinks for some reason I should have a Saint Paul library card. Whatever bureaucratic bullshit floats your boat. It's a shame that such a beautiful library should be wrapped in red tape.

60 minutes is not enough time to explore this facility. I'll have to come back another day and spend the entire day here.

Every exterior wall is glass. Most of it clear, but some are etched with snow and tree scenes. I just hope no one gets the idea to throw rocks.

Job hunting update info: A large service station franchise interviewed be yesterday. They asked if I'd like to be assistant manager full-time with benefits. They're going to call me back after a background check and make an offer. Then I'd go for training. There's a lot more about this company and the interview that I'll expand on when I return home.

Right now, I'm running on three hours sleep after working ten hours last night until 3:00am. Unfortunately, I only earned $9 in tips since a lot of co-workers were clocked in, even though most weren't really working. Therefore, our tips got split pretty poorly. It sucked, because when I called for work, the guy making the schedule said that a new hire called to cancel last night, so I took his shift. Then he comes in anyway for a bit and he gets a full share of the tips.

I'm in between transfers right now, coming back from donating plasma. I have money again, and the urge to drink is stronger once again. If I don't bug The Deli today, I won't work until Sunday. That's three days of drinking...YAH! No! I have to donate Saturday morning, else I won't get paid $30. Just a sip, I'm thinking. Stinking thinking is what it is. I'm tired and should just go home, put in some laundry, a good movie (maybe rented from the library), make soup, and crash.

Sounds like a plan.

Signing off!

Without Wax,

Two Jobs, One Week

2006-08-22T04:09:00.000-05:00

Have you ever had one of those weeks where you’re just wanted? My simple interview turned into a four-person meeting. I spent so much time interviewing that I barely made it back home before my transfer expired. Arriving back at my apartment, I witness landlord Bertha W. arriving. Normally, I’d avoid her, but I’m on a mission.

I enter the apartment building right after her and surprisingly I don’t run into her. Tossing leftovers in the microwave, I jump on my computer and map out my next destination: drug screening. I’m not even there for more than a minute before she’s knocking on my door. “Hi. Come on in,” I respond.

“I’m not coming in there,” she insists.

Suit yourself, I think. Leaving the door open, I return to my computer, concentrating on choosing which of these drug-screening labs would be the quickest route. She predictably walks right in as if she owns the place...oh, that’s right, she does.

“I see you’ve made headway in packing up,” she says. Astonishingly civil today, I attribute it to the dress shirt and tie.

“You’ll have to excuse me. I just got a job offer from The Discount store and I now have to take a drug test,” I say.

“Well, I hope you’ll pass.”

“You know I will,” I persist.

“I don’t know. You still have to be out by the end of the month. I’ve given you enough chances.”

“I know,” I reply, not looking up from my screen. Thankfully, she leaves on that note, allowing me to concentrate on my trip planning. She seems much more courteous than in the recent past. It makes me think there may be a way to convince her to allow me to stay and pay back the back rent. But having to plan for all contingencies, I know better.

The Discount store offered me a full-time position, two days in the photo department, and three days on register. They want to give me more time in the photo department, but it’s not currently available. There’s also the matter that I have no actual photo department experience, but I convinced him that my experience building my own darkroom, high school and college darkroom experience, and my professional wedding photography experience convinced the interviewer that I was competent to do the job. I also expressed that I believe I could service the company well in the electronics department selling digital cameras. He was very receptive of these ideas. He asked me my rate of pay at The Deli and Pizza Joint, and he responded, “Oh, I think we can to better than that.” Far out, my smile expresses. He did show concern about my current employment at The Deli, but I assured him that this is the place I intended to work full-time and that The Deli hired me on the spot, meaning I worked the same day I was hired. I will gladly adjust my schedule to accommodate The Discount Store.

I have to wait a week for the background check before I can start working. The drug screening comes back in a few days. The interviewer asked me about the DWI I disclosed on the application. “What consequences became of your DWI? What have you learned from that mistake?” he asks.

“I learned that I’m through with drinking and I’ve been sober for nine months,” I fib. No need to discuss my latest relapse and its consequences. With corporate don’t-ask-don’t-tell attitude, he doesn’t dig deeper. Most people would ask if you’re in A.A., attending meetings, maybe even ask if you have a sponsor, but I’m glad he didn’t expand. I want to keep this interview positive.

After reviewing the possible schedule I’ve been asked to accommodate, I may have to drop most, if not all, of my hours at The Deli. No need to alert them until I’m officially hired. Working a normal first and second shift at The Discount instead of the third shift at The Deli solves another problem: where to sleep. By working only first and second shift, I can either sleep and eat at The Mission, or find shelter at a halfway house. Working third shift leaves me no bed.

My plan this morning was to sleep in, go to the interview, and visit The Pizza Joint to see if I can get my morning job back. Having spent most of the day dealing with this new job offer at The Discount, and running on only three hours sleep, I decide to buy something to treat myself, go home, and relax. I passed so many liquor stores, and with money in my pocket, I was tempted. However, I decide on Kung Pao Chicken. It wasn’t until arriving home that I discover my choice was poor. I don’t recommend the Tia restaurant at the corner of Selby and Dale. I ate this over-priced meal, the entire thing, and then fell fast asleep thinking of the one-liner; “Jeffrey Dahmer once ate an entire Chinese family and was hungry an hour later.”

Without Wax,

Are These Men Sober?

2006-08-20T13:03:00.000-05:00

Just for fun! Thank you MS FIT!

My feet hurt from working on them for over ten hours at the new Deli job (no pun intented). So, I'm going to let these guys do the foot work. But, I don't feel too bad. I earned nearly $30 in tips and brought home two sandwiches.

But I must sleep fast, since I've got six hours to sleep before having to prepare for my interview at the Discount store in the morning.

Good night.

Without Wax,

Two Weeks Sober

2006-08-20T05:33:00.000-05:00

Deli Sandwich
Originally uploaded by ew4n.

Heading out this morning, into the chilly wind, the short bike ride to the bus stop did not prepare me for the day’s accomplishments. Starting the morning with a large meal and packing a large lunch, I examined my wallet to verify I had both bus fare and enough money, combined with today’s Suburb Plasma donation, to buy 500 minutes of pre-paid cell phone time, now down to only three.

Looking into my wallet, I can’t help but calculate how many 1.75 liter bottles of whiskey I could buy, and amazed that I’d lasted two days without buying at least one. Many A.A. people speak of the subconscious planning the next relapse. I remember not too long ago when I we never nervous about thinking of a drink; it just would never happen. Now, it’s on my mind constantly. It’s Saturday and the liquor stores are open, which later will play a role in the day’s events.

I’ve gotten so used to this bus route, that near the end, I looked up from my novel, examined the surroundings, then my watch, and feet we had gone astray. We’re not in the right place for this time. Placing the bookmark, I move to the front of the bus where I discover the on-going conversation with the driver and a rider iss actually a training session. “How late are we?” I ask the driver.

“We’re not late”, replies the student.

I explain my reason why we are, stating that we’re not even at the next checkpoint, and we’re ten minutes behind. Both driver and student are dumbfounded. Okay, whatever; I just have to book to my appointment. I arrive just on time.

Donation goes off without a hitch. Again, I look into my wallet: I’ve got $60.00, three bottles of whiskey. I’ve been waiting two weeks to recharge my cell phone. Without that phone, I can’t get a job, call A.A. for help, nor communicate effectively. Right now, all I’ve got is e-mail. When I’m homeless in a little over a week, I’ll have little opportunity for e-mail access. Scarfing down my lunch on the bus, I think of how to best to spend the rest of the day.

Back in Saint Paul, the first stop is Wal-Mart to purchase 500 minutes of cell phone time. They charge $48.67 for a $50 phone card, which comes to $52.08 after tax; the best deal in town. What’s left is just enough bus fare for Thursday’s donation. Come Saturday, I’ll be able to pay the gym bill, so I’ll have some place to shower and change. The Monday after that, I’m going to try to donate locally at City Plasma. If they suspect I’ve donated someplace else, they’ll defer me for a week. But, I have to try.

The rest of the day is devoted to job searching. I apply at a nation-wide discount store on location at their kiosk, since I’ve tried online and they don’t have Internet job applications. There’s even a Website devoted to complaining about this national discount chain’s lack of online job applications. It’s a good thing I was dress fairly well, because as soon as I completed their job application, I had an interview with the hiring staff. They are looking to hire immediately, and I’ve found that there’s an opening in a few weeks in the photo department; something I might be able to move into.

Sprinting home for a pit stop, I change shirts, and plan to hit the small local retail outlets for job applications. Rushing to avoid running into my landlord, since she called and left her daily mentally degrading voice mail, I know she’s on her way over. I quickly change shirts, and prepare to walk out whatever door she doesn’t knock on. This apartment, unlike most efficiency apartments, has a back door. She usually parks near the front, but today, she didn’t. I hear her rapping on the back door and I silently squeak out the front. I don’t want to deal with her crap today. I’m on a roll. I want to look for work with a good attitude.

Finding four small retail stores that are hiring within walking distance is a good sign that school’s back in session. An ice cream parlor is hiring. My old pizza job is looking for a morning cook, so I’ll stop by there tomorrow and speak with the manager again. The Deli next door is also hiring for 3rd shift; I’m told to fill out the application and come back at night to speak with the manager. And finally, the local liquor store is hiring. Okay, not the best choice, but I’d rather be selling it that drinking it. I’m told the hiring manager will be in early Monday morning.

Evening comes and I’m back at The Deli. It’s late at night and, to my surprise, they’re still open and full of activity. The late evening crowd is a little too jovial; I witness one man bitch-slap another, and you’d think a fight would break out. But it didn’t, so I guess he really is his bitch. Speaking with manager Ryan B., who’s a hard-working man, I discover that he’s looking to fill out his employee roster. He asks if I’m willing to work 40 hours, and I agree. It’s a little busy, but he takes the time to go over the schedule and finds several openings for me. “Can you work tomorrow night?” he asks.

“Sure can,” I reply. I’m given a W-4, the menu to study, and a firm handshake.

“I’ll give you an extra $20 just for memorizing the menu. See you tomorrow night.” I’m employed! With a mental check of my wallet, I’m tempted to purchase a sandwich to go, but that would deplete my bus fare. Not wanting to beg for one, I think of the tuna sandwich I can make at home. I’ll probably go home tomorrow night with a meal.

Closing my thoughts, I’ve staved off a liquor purchase, recharged my cell phone, started The Deli job at night, and possibly will be working at a large discount store next week. Now, if I can only convince my landlord to keep me on. Because there’s a conflict with my new job: I can’t sleep at The Mission at night if I’m to work at night.

I'm looking forward to my next A.A. meeting.

Update: The discount store called for an interview Monday morning!

Without Wax,

Suburb Plasma

2006-08-18T07:53:00.000-05:00

When all else fails, punt. City Plasma doesn’t want to allow me to donate for over two weeks while they send out my blood to an outside lab for testing, fine. I found another plasma bank in the suburbs on the Internet. I researched their Website; found out everything I thought I needed to know to attempt donating at this plasma bank outside the capitol city limits. Only having 10 minutes left on my cell phone, I decided not to call for answers, since all they’d have to do is put me on hold and my phone would be useless. A pre-paid phone with no minutes disables voice mail. There were some unanswered questions, but then, aren’t there always?

Monday:
Suburb Plasma is open Monday through Saturday, and closed on Sunday. My plan was to map the closest bus route at three one-hour intervals, leaving approximately at, 8:30am, 9:30am, and 10:30am. No matter how you slice it, it’s a three-bus, approximately 90-minute ride with a five to ten minute bike ride kicker.

The second bus leads me from the darkest parts of Saint Paul to the structurally blissful downtown Minneapolis. I’m dropped off on Nicollet Mall with a long wait for my last bus. I’m in awe of the way people are dressed, some stylish, others in business attire, still others in wild summer outfits. Everyone’s busy, talking, and happy. Yes, there are black people here, not as many as downtown Saint Paul, but they’re all wearing ties.

I hear dinging to my left. It’s the light rail, just yards away! This is the first time I’ve seen it in daytime. I rode it one night, but you really have to see it in the daytime. I have thirty minutes until my next bus; maybe I should ride it for a few minutes, then back. Well, maybe next time.

IMG_2633.JPG
Originally uploaded by Peter Lemon.

To my right, I see the Federal Building with its parabolic inverse arch of windows. This building housed the Minneapolis Central Library between the time the original was torn down and the new one erected in its place, which is just down the street.
All of these changes in architecture were just starting when I used to work downtown as a Software Engineer. I’m really missing my digital camera now.

Halfway there, I realize I forgot to bring a postmarked utility bill for proof of address. Oh well, I’ll just use the ID I have from The House. Although it’s not my real address, who cares? In retrospect, I’m thinking: Are you stoned or stupid? Being sober, I don’t even want to entertain the alternative.

My bus arrives. After a short ten-minute bike ride, I arrive at Suburb Plasma. My first impression is, so plasma banks do actually look clinical. Suburb Plasma looks just like a regular doctors office you’d find at a clinic. City Plasma, on the other hand, looks more like a fast-food joint (i.e. White Castles). There were young healthy Caucasian looking donors in the waiting room instead of poorly dressed, malnutrition blacks or white-trash smoking outside waiting to be screened. The staff members treat you with respect and are very professional. At City Plasma, if you’re not being hit on by staff, it usually means their simply having a bad day. It’s very relaxed there. If there’s not a non-politically correct comment being floated every few minutes, it’s usually because they’re actually dealing with an emergency. I mean, you can say things in there that would get you fired or sued for sexual harassment in the corporate world. It’s really like a singles bar, only drawing plasma instead of pouring alcohol.

The only differences that really matter is that they don’t appear to have any qualms about accepting people living in treatment facilities. This is good, since my latest ID has the address of The House, which is a halfway house. That and they pay less: $20 + $30 for two donations per week compared to $25 + $35 at City Plasma. That’s $50 instead of $60 per week. Beggars can’t be choosers.

In the process of my initial mini-physical, it comes to mind that there’s going to be questions about the injection sites in my arms. I just won’t tell them about the low protein levels. They ask me how I got the injection sites and I tell them about City Plasma. They contact them and discover I’ve donated six days ago. I cannot donate until after seven days from donating at another facility. I go home empty handed.

Tuesday:
After checking in, having passed the customary verbal and blood screening, I continue onto the initial mini-physical. No more than five minutes in the nurses office and I’ve misspoke. The nurse was asking why am I traveling all the way out to the suburbs to donate instead of donating at City Plasma. Not wanting to reveal that my quarterly blood screening came up low on protein, and eventually having to lie about having just recovered from binging, I said I was looking to move to the Minneapolis area and that “I spent the night there last night.” Why I lied about that, I do not know.

Well, this opened up a huge can of worms. “Where did you spend the night?”

After actually spending the night at home, I found myself recovering from this lie pretty poorly. Fumbling for another lie, thinking of Mark J.’s place, a recovery center that could easily pass for on office building or apartment, I gave the street name. Well, it turns out that although that street is named after an adjacent suburb, when it passes through Minneapolis, there’s nothing but recovery centers dotted along its path.

Why did I lie, why did I lie in the first place? I thought. She was about to permanently defer me when I convinced her to have her manager talk with me. After a lot of non-eye contact ass covering, we agreed that I would simply come back with proof of residence in the form of a utility bill postmarked less than 30 days ago.

Seeing that I’d traveled so far twice to donate, the manager paid me $20 for the effort, what I would normally be paid had I donated. That was very kind of him; something City Plasma would never do. They asked when I’d like to schedule the next visit, maybe Wednesday, but I opted for Thursday since I had job interviews that day. I’d planned on donating Tuesday and Thursday, the usual 48 hours apart.

On the ride home, I thought why this happened, why I lied in the first place, why I didn’t trust good people anymore. All I could come up with was that I was in such an untrusting mood after being hounded by my landlord, Bertha W., everyday. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but her constant daily borage of complaints, letting herself into the apartment without being welcomed, while I showering or sleeping, pounding on the door everyday asking for rent; it’s just got me in a paranoid mood.

Wednesday:
Having thought long hard about making up bogus mail for a previous address, I came to the conclusion that this would be simply digging a bigger hole for myself. Suburb Plasma keeps calling to confirm the appointment and I simply let it go into voice mail since I’m now down to eight minutes on my cell phone. Answering their calls and actually talking to someone in a vain attempt to cover up with another lie was just as horrific as facing the truth. The manager said that if I lied about my address, than not only will I be permanently deferred, but that City Plasma will also be notified.

City Plasma does not have my current address either; they have June W.’s address. It was the only picture ID I had at the time. I still have it and considered using it, but Suburb Plasma states on their Website only a valid drivers license will be accepted. Since mine is clipped, I’m afraid that will lead to my DWI, alcoholism, and eventually deferment. That’s why I used the ID I had for The House. On their Website, they don’t disclose that if you’ve ever been to a treatment facility, you’d be exempt. Had they recognized the street address of The House on my ID, they would’ve deferred me.

Seriously tempted to simply take that $20 Suburb Plasma gave me, buy a huge bottle of whiskey, cancel my appointment and crawl into that bottle, I instead resolutely decided to purchase a $10 cell phone card and some grocery staples (milk, butter, bread, mayo, mac & cheese, etc.). I put off the $10 cell phone card a day. I went home, made some mac & cheese, sealed the windows and turned on the gas...well, made mac & cheese, my comfort food.

Thursday:
Heading out for my Suburb Plasma appointment with proof of my current address, decide to buy the $10 cell phone card, but the usual stores don’t have that denomination. With time running out, I head for the bus stop for my second bus (it take three buses to get there, but the second bus stop is not too far away). It happens that there’s a cell phone store at this bus stop that has a $10 cell phone card. I’m early and can catch the next bus, so I’ve got time. Should I buy the phone card, call Suburb Plasma, explain my situation, plead pure stupidity and mistrust, and ask if I would simply come clean, give my actual current address, may I donate. I take the chance of never donating anywhere ever again.

That can’t be. Coming clean, telling the truth, being honest; these are things that will get me in trouble? How can that be? All I’m trying to do is donate plasma, something most people would never consider doing because of the implied risk.. Something is telling me this is not right. The clerk at the cell phone store is jerking off his computer for some customer. The first bus is arriving. I can buy the card, make the call, and catch the next if they say all if fine.

Or, I can give it up. I think, Thy will be done, not mine. I get on the bus. Whatever happens is meant to be. Diving into my Angels and Demons novel, I put the consequences out of my mind.

I get off the bus, jump on my bike, and the chain derails. I just roll my eyes. Is this a sign? I quickly put the chain back on and make it there just in time. I find some new people working the front desk. I take a deep breath, take out my bills with current postmarks, and approach the counter. “Excuse me, I’d like to update your records for my current address.”

“Certainly,” the clerk responds. As he asks for verification, I catch an error: he forgot to include my apartment number. He apologizes.

Okay, so that wasn’t so hard.

The rest of the mini-physical goes completely normally, mostly because I didn’t have to deal with the same nurse. We even joked about AIDS being discovered in 1977, when both of us were going through puberty and wishing the bar scene wasn’t so dangerous when we grew up. I have two much older brothers who frequented bars, brought home women, and enjoyed good clean fun sex. I looked forward to this pleasure, only to find that by the time I was of legal drinking age, the stakes of the game were raised, mostly due to the AIDS scare. I answered all questions truthfully, except for the fact that I’m an alcoholic.

There’s a very important reason why plasma donation centers are not willing to take alcoholics. An alcoholic can become positive for Hepatitis B from liver damage alone. I learned this in treatment, where they tested me for the disease, and which it came back negative. So, when asked if I’d ever tested positive for Hepatitis B, I honestly answered, “No.” My urine test passed with flying colors. They’re looking for common recreational drugs, alcohol, and unusually high or low levels protein and/or insulin. This means that my liver and kidney are functioning well enough to donate plasma.

So, this last relapse was not as much damaging physically as it was financially. Actually, I think it was more of an emotional and spiritual hit than anything else. I lost my way.

Donating plasma in the suburbs is more like you’d expect a clinic to look like. There were no movies playing, so I read my book mostly. But I couldn’t keep my eyes off the actual machine that extracts the plasma. It’s a vertical machine with all its parts exposed. The process extracts your blood, separates out the plasma, then returns your blood cells, then repeats. It did this a dozen times, which is twice as often as City Plasma’s machines. You can watch how your blood mixes with the anticoagulant. Then it spins in a centrifuge in order to separate blood cells from plasma. They have a different twist in that the centrifuge has a filter was well. I could tell it made a difference because my plasma, as well as others around the room, was much clearer. The staff was also much more knowledgeable. At the end, you can watch the 500 ml of less-than-body-temperature saline (0.9% sodium chloride) drains back into your body to replace the 880 ml of plasma extracted.

I check the bus schedule, and I’ve got just enough time to check voice mail using the center’s phone. Afterwards, I signed out, made my next appointment for Saturday, and as I was unlocking my bike, the cash register clerk ran me down and gave me the $20 I’d earned, but forgot to take. After all that, I’d forgotten the money.

I bike to the bus stop just in time for this hourly bus. Feeling light headed, I eat a tuna fish sandwich I’d prepared before hand and slices of a cantaloupe that June W. gave me the last time we saw each other. You know, cantaloupe doesn’t taste as bad as I’d thought it would.

On Saturday, I will donate a second time this week and earn another $30. Overall, they will have paid me $70 for the week. Subtract from that the $13 in bus fair, that’s still $57 for the week. I’ll wait until Saturday to buy a $50 cell phone card worth 500 minutes, the best deal available.

With the rest of the time left on my bus transfer, I head to The House to eat a free dinner. I talk to my old advocate there and he informs me that starting September 1st, alumni are no longer allowed to eat meals. That coincides with the time I’ll be living on the streets again. I guess I’ll be eating at Salvation Army.

I’m in the neighborhood, so I stop in at the gym to check my account. I’m a few weeks late on my quarterly payment of $27 and am not allowed to use the facility until I’m paid up. I ask if I can make that payment a week from now and they agreed; this will have me pay up through October. This is important, not only for the physical exercise that really helped me stay sober, but also to be able to shower and dress for work at any time of the day. If I can afford it, I could also rent a gym locker.

With a full stomach, money in my pocket, and a little more hope for the future, I head home. I do not stop at a liquor store, nor do I feel the need to. I slept hard for the first time in a long time.

Without Wax,

Eviction Decision

2006-08-13T15:10:00.000-05:00

I was prepared to move out tonight, but something happened that made me change my mind. When I went to donate plasma yesterday, I was deferred. The reason is that one of my blood samples tested low for protein levels. I know why: a donation I had given after a dry-out day when I didn’t eat. The test results won’t return from the lab for two weeks. That’s about $150.00 I won’t earn from plasma donation over that time; money I desperately need right now.

If I’d had that money coming in, I could live on the street, shower at the gym, look for a job, sleep and eat at The Mission. But, now that’s not possible. I have $8.00 in my pocket. I need a job before I can leave this place. If I had the plasma money, I’d feel like I could survive on the street. So, I’ve decided instead to use this time to stay sober, find a job, and take the financial hit incurred by a court eviction. That gives me 18 days to improve my situation before the sheriff evicts me.

I spoke with several people at the plasma bank about low protein levels. The nurse said, this might be due to malnutrition. But, it’s what Dave W. said that most concerned me. Dave is an employee at the plasma bank that I’ve known since I started donating. We are movie buffs and talk about them all the time. Whenever I discuss certain movies; old flicks, party films, complex plots, etc; he occasionally has memory problems due to too many drinks. He used to donate, until he started working at the plasma bank. That’s just policy. But I found out today, that’s not why he started working there. It’s because he couldn’t donate anymore. He had several consecutive low protein tests due to heavy drinking and not eating. When you drink heavily, you can’t eat food for days.

Dave W. was a binge drinker, but I do not see him being an A. A. He talks about having a beer after work from time to time, but I don’t think he’s binge drinking any more. If he was an active A. A. member – a friend of Bill W. – I think I’d be able to tell.

I made this decision sober. I did not buy whiskey. Even though I had enough for a small vodka bottle, I did not buy any on Saturday.

I came to this decision after packing up the storage unit. I’m not ready to be homeless yet. I hope I made the right choice.

Without Wax,