Oops, I Dropped Something

Car vs. bicycle usually means the cyclist looses, as in this case. Cyclists should realize that on a brisk Saturday morning, the most a cell-phone-toting weekend driver is concerned about regarding such confrontations is the minimal paint transfer a collision would incur. So running a stop sign on a slow traffic morning is morally justified. Boy I’d like to shove that cell phone up that beige Volvo driving mother puss bucket’s arse!

The above accident happened Saturday morning while I was trying to push the limits of both bicycle and cyclist. I was racing, estimated 30 mph in top gear, to a regular morning meeting giving myself just the required ten minutes to make it on time. Shoes tied tightly into toe clips, MP3 box playing that forgotten song, I didn’t hear the approaching car, but I saw it. Because of that, I narrowly missed it by turning my front wheel sharp, too sharp to stay upright. I kind of knew it was going to result in a pitchpole of the front forks. With feet securely attached to pedals, the bike and I were one. With all the energy of forward momentum transferred to pavement via my back and head, I hit the deck. Well, I shouldn’t say all; I do believe I took flight. When I finally made contact with Mother Earth it was in the form of a spank to my back and a pop of my head; a bounce is more like it. Thanks to the sacrificial Schwinn helmet, my scull was never touched nor damaged by the pavement. This was by design. However, I’m out one helmet.

When all had stopped, I lay motionless on my back staring at the Volvo that caused my injuries. While taking inventory of my injuries I was distracted by what I can only describe as a Jewish soccer mom who while keeping constant eye contact stopped the offending vehicle from doing more damage by running me over. Later I would learn there was a reason for this.

“Are you alright?” she responded. While still in the midst of inventorying, I stopped to answer, but in doing so took a deep breath and discovered I’d been winded. Like a prize fighter with the wind knocked out of him, I felt like I was punched in the gut, only from behind.

“Can you get up?” she asked. Good question, I thought. Continuing my bodily inventory, I realized the crowd forming. My urgency to get up was tempered by the feeling a football player must have when his internal couch reminds him the world is watching.

“Wait. You might be injured. Don’t move,” the soccer mom warns.

Screw that lady, “I’m fine. Help me up,” as I painfully expel air without wincing. I force my outstretched hand in greeting style in order to elicit a hand shake gesture, which she habitually responded to. I reach a bit further and grab her hand giving her a signal pull to notify her that yes, you are going to lift me. As she pulls me up, I let out a whimper of pain. “Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea?”

“I’m okay, really,” I reply.

“I watched you as you hit ground and kept eye contact.” And why was that,, I thought? “I’d slipped on ice this winter, hit the back of my head, and lost consciousness. It didn’t seem like you did. Your helmet is broken pretty badly.” Oh, really, as I removed it, looked at the damage, then rubbed my scull where it took the hit and felt no pain, bump, warm blood, nothing.

My back is a different story, and as I type it is still bothering me. I was in so much pain that it justified a hospital visit. The nurses put the fear of God in me, talking of CAT scans and X-rays. When the doctor examined me and my urine, he reported nothing but muscle trauma, gave me the Rx equivalent of aspirin, and sent me on my way. I didn’t fill them for fear of cross addiction.

I’ve got other minor scraps and bruises, and one badly scraped ankle. Because it was attached to me at the point of impact, the only damage to the bicycle was a derailed chain. My back is okay today. We’ll see how it pans out over the next week.

Without Wax,

A Full Five Months

Like many a recovering alcoholic in Saint Paul, when the weather gets good, the drunk get cycling. Unlike the West Coast where I grew up, cycling in the Midwest has seasons. There’s only one A.A. that cycles all year round here and he’s a few clowns short of a circus. But many of us embrace the new spring freedom and happily mount up.

Lately I’ve tried combining two modes of transportation with mixed results. Our buses have bike racks. Being the procrastinator that I am, I’ve become quite the racer when it comes to buses. If you can’t catch the bus you want, why wait for it? Just run it down! I’ve discovered that the two modes of transportation have three comparative points worth mentioning:

1. Buses must stop at red lights where bicycles can negotiate them,
2. A bicycle is like an express bus in that it doesn’t make all stops,
3. Buses power up and coast down hills where bicycles crawl up and race down.

This gives the cyclist several advantages and disadvantages when it comes to racing the bus you’re interested in using to terminate your spring ride. Unfortunately, it meant never catching the bus that would take me to my one meeting that I know would score me a five month medallion. Saint Paul lies several hundred feet below surrounding suburbs, being that the Mississippi River runs through it. Although I was only five minutes late, and could easily make up the time by taking advantage of the first two points, it’s the latter that botched my efforts.

You have to dig your way out of the river front communities. I caught up with the bus by taking a few short cuts that the bus had to avoid in order in order to pickup as many fares downtown as possible. I was yards away from the bus when it made its critical turn out of town and up a steep hill. No problem, I thought, I’ll just catch up on the downslide. But there was none. In its place was another hill. That combined with the fact that I don’t really pay close attention to all the turns a bus makes while I’m riding it (and the fact that Jesse Ventura was right, drunk Irish men really did design the streets of Saint Paul – I’m Irish so blow me all PC types), I lost the bus, along with my sense of direction. It being an overcast day and all, I ended up heading south on a street I clearly intended to be heading north. Thankfully, a local fireman who happened to be out for a stroll pointed me in the right direction. He must’ve thought I was a drunken Irishman.

So, what planned on being a short bus/bike trip lasting only twenty-five minutes became a healthy hour and a half bike tour. Alcoholics are punctual and unforgiving folks when it comes to disrespecting meeting start times. Suffice to say, I didn’t earn a medallion for my efforts. Five month medallions are difficult to attain. They’re rare and I thought because I received a four month there that it would happen today, but alas it was not to be. Either it’s rarer than I’d thought or burbs don’t respect cycling: I parked in an empty bike rack.

Short but sweet; I did make the meeting’s tail end. You do tend to get more out of meetings when you can hear everyone speak. This will not repeat itself.

The bus rides that followed the rest of the day were typical for milestone days. I over heard a young man discussing the Camel Club, a since deprecated dry bar for A.A.s. I asked him about it in a way that wouldn’t reveal to a non-A.A. our true subject matter in order to respect what anonymity he felt like protecting. The way in which he responded did appear to be anonymous. We mourned the loss of the Camel Club.

On my way back from the meeting, after mounting my bike on the front of the bus, I’d taken the seat on the mostly empty bus near the front usually reserved for elderly, handy capped, and the full-legged lady in short skirt that any decent gentleman would care to relinquish his seat for. Such an opportunity presented itself when an older lady stumbled on the bus. Distracted by tying up my gear I failed to notice her getting on the bus, but couldn’t miss the waft of Whiskey breath as she passed. Being that she was voluntarily disabled and elderly, I offered my seat. This compounded her perplexity as she turned to confront me and promptly fell flat on her patootee. I reached down to help her up at her rejection, which quickly turned to comfort as I forcefully righted her to standing position rather quickly. In her drunken state, I believe it the most erect position she’d attained in hours; she thanked me. In an inebriated slur, she said, “I forgot my bag,” which was brown and promptly retrieved, she took my seat. From my own drinking days, I could easily identify it as a 1.75 liter plastic bottle of cheap bourbon, brown bag molded by grip around its neck.

I have a gift for guessing a woman’s age. I had initially thought her in her 70’s, but after closer inspection, discovered her to be much closer to my own age. Horribly aged by booze no less, she made a fool of herself. So much so that the young man I’d just been having a discussion with early regarding the Camel Club who was closest to the action said nothing when she fell just left of him. He didn’t bother to help her at all when he clearly was in range. I smiled gracefully, treated her like a lady as I helped her up, while giggling all inside. Most people don’t find alcoholism as entertaining as I do I guess.

I interviewed a new sponsor. I like him. We spent an hour in The Café and he agreed to endure my existence.

After nearly falling asleep at plasma, I decided against my better budget judgment to treat myself to a shopping excursion at Wally World. I bought only staples: hotdogs, milk, etc. It was my attempt to recharge my cell phone’s minutes that brought me to the counter that I made my next purchase. Loitering around this big bin filled with old and unwanted DVDs for $5.50 a pop was a beautiful young blue-eyed lady from Europe; excuse enough to play in the bin. There I found North Dallas Forty, a movie I grew up with and coincidentally was just thinking about buying the day before. It ads to a growing list of traditional seasonal movies: The Music Man for Fourth of July, A Christmas Story for well, Christmas, and American Flyers for spring cycling. This last one I just broke out of storage because I’m getting back in shape for cycling season.

It was this old movie that made me think of North Dallas Forty, you know, for football season. ‘70s drug culture meets the corporate world of football and all it’s politics; it’s a classic. The story is as true today as it was during the sexual revolution. Professional football teams pump their star athletes with drugs just to get them out on the field, and then penalize them for using recreational drugs. It’s the dramatized auto-biographical novel of a Dallas wide receiver made into a movie. It’s “far out.”

Five months is a lonely milestone I guess. No one remembered; no one called. I simply went home, popped in North Dallas Forty, and crashed on the sofa.

Without Wax,

New Department

Morning! After working at my new job for two days, I have to say I'm very happy! It's the same company, just a different division.

Enjoy the scenery.

Without Wax,

Follow Up On Previous Post

Some continued info on yesterday's post:

All I know is what Barry told me, and he didn't meet with me yesterday to collect rent as agreed upon. I left a voice mail for him to contact me the next afternoon.

However, I did go shopping for sober housing and what I found out was very enlightening.

A) A couple of friends I went to Treatment with know of The Escape and say they're very efficient at taking disadvantaged addicts' and alcoholics' money.

B) None of the sober houses had ever heard of The Escape.

C) All of the sober houses said that, by my description of events, what they are doing violates laws they themselves are governed by and that I should seek legal help.

Since I'm working an honesty program and more interested in remaining sober than any legal satisfaction I may achieve over this, I wouldn't think of getting distracted at this point with a legal battle. If I took this to a lawyer it would only excite they're curiosity to the point that they'd probably sell me on pursuing this and that's not what I want over this. I'm also not on a crusade to make sober housing safe for all alcoholic-kind. I watch a lot of super hero’s entertainment, but that's as far as that goes: fiction.

However, there is one thing that I just can't let go of: In the short month that I've lived here I've fallen in love with this house.

Without Wax,

What Else Can He Throw at Me?

Our sober house got bought out by one of the largest non-profits in the Twin Cities, which shall remain un-named (unless of course an inquisitive reader requests it via e-mail), and has decided to make some changes for the better. I’m guessing better profit quota, but who am I to say? I’m a mere alcoholic; what do I know? I mean, for a non-profit, they’ve got quite an impressive Web site. Nothing like efficiency when cashing in on the disadvantaged.

Okay, enough of the slamming. Let’s get down to brass tacks. After our new manager’s second meeting with me he’s asked me to leave. His intention was immediately, but after some cajoling, I was able to swing staying until the end of the month, given that rent is paid in full in two days. As illegal as that sounds, without access to a lawyer, I’m not sure what legal ground I stand on in regards to sober housing. The contract I signed was too simple to be of any legal help to me; I need a specialist.

With his extensive experience as an armature psychologist (amateur, armature, either works) he’s diagnosed me as ADHD. This coming from a man that can claim the highest achievement in his professional career as cook, Barry H. M. is a chronic relapsers who’s barely achieved two years of sobriety. Most sponsors have more time than that. Even asking the proper questions, such as are you on medication, have you gone to a psychologist, etc., he somehow dismissed these facts in his diagnosis, which leads me to believe there are other motives involved.

This leaves me two days to decide whether to pay this month’s rent and stay for just one month, or cut and run with rent to another sober house. I would be leaving on good terms both financially and otherwise, and I’d get back my $200.00 deposit.

The fact remains though, that because of an obscure rule in the Sober Contract, I’ve been voted off the island. All agreements must be democratically decided by house members. However, since two members have already left because of the take-over by The Escape, leaving two other than myself, I don’t see how that’s technically possible. I know how one of the members would’ve voted. I am left at taking Barry’s word. The Cuilinn House is prime real-estate, set in the Victorian district of Saint Paul. All she needs is a little love. I’m sure The Escape wants to start on a clean slate, although this is clearly contrary to their advertised policy. After I and the other guy who’s looking for an apartment leaves, there’ll be only one man (and I use the term loosely) left.

I’ve never relapsed, attend four A.A. meetings a week, and am the cleanest resident by far. I don’t know where this is coming from, but the reality is that I’ve been uprooted again. This is pissing me off. I’m in walking distance of everything in my world right now: Gym, Café, numerous meetings, shopping, etc. Not to mention I just changed all my addresses over. This is the second time I’ve changed addresses for rebate checks. Each time I do there’s another several week delay. I’m never going to see that money.

My best female friend in the program turned me onto her house and I’m considering it. Close by, the rules are much more lax, and rent is cheaper. Plus there’s the added distraction that you can have a friend of the opposite sex spend the night; clearly not in my plan, but a man has needs.

So, Higher Power, if you have Internet access, enough with the tests please. I will do your bidding, be of service, send up the useful prayer morning and night. But please, I beg of you, one break; just one break on this one please? I’m at my wit’s end.

Without Wax,

Redneck Robert

There comes a pivotal time in every relationship when one must take inventory. When a man has befriended you in a way that clearly shows no self interest, he gains implicit trust. Such is the case with Robert D. That’s why these words are so difficult to pen.

Four men from The House comfortably seated in a sedan on their way to an A.A. meeting, jovial atmosphere replacing the all-to-common tobacco odor. We were doing the right thing as men and it felt good. Then what upshot occurs t’was a racial slur of the black flavor, not uncommon from a house filled with men, half of which are African American. By this time, these comments only slightly peeked my defenses; one must be alert for any fight that might break out. This was not the case, since the slur was too playful.

Then another chimes in, and yet another. Not paying close enough attention, distracted by some young thing walk the streets, my mind only works the math: one, two, three, that leaves me; to do what? By this time, the black man in the car should’ve defended himself verbally. Eyes up, where’s the token black dude? It wasn’t until then that I had realized that I was in a car filled with only white men. So was it my time chime in?

Senses acute now, I relieve my distractions from the slut on the street and pay attention to what is going on inside the car. Take inventory of the men you’re surrounded by: Are they known racists? Two of them are. But that last joke was anything but humorous. It was downright antagonistic. Who was it from? I turn my head to lock retinas with the third and last speaker who, grinning like an ignorant redneck, is clearly waiting for my response. It’s Robert. I respond with nervous laughter.

Mistaking that for acceptance, he voiles off another racial slur. One man responds, “He called me a racist. I said, ‘You’re the only racist in the room.’” I know the black man he’s referring to, and he’s right: he is a racist. What is clearly going on here is white men venting, an all too common phenomenon not unexpected in our close cramped environment. The racial social experiment The House advocates engineered to inflict upon the overcrowded residents for our own good has built up to somewhat of an unhealthy venting release.

But the racial jokes start coming out like rapid fire from the man sitting to my left, far too many for me to keep up with. He’s said more black jokes in five minutes than I know and I’ve failed to find the humor. Okay, so Robert’s a redneck; big deal. Just put it aside and deal with it when we’re alone. But my mind can’t let it go, so it works the problem subconsciously. Why would a good man like Robert choose to harbor such resentment towards blacks?

Some time passes and the answer comes. Robert so happens to be standing next to me later that evening enjoying a smoke outside in the privacy of cubic yards of thin cold air. I drop my stare, put on my most sincere understanding face, and ask, “Your sister was raped by a black man, wasn’t she?”

“Yes she was,” Robert intensely replies.
“I understand.” I take a deep breath, squint my eyes, and decide to leave it hanging in the bitterly cold night air. I let a moment pass and change subjects. How does that justify your vengeful attitude towards an entire race? You’d think that by murdering her violator, serving in the military in lue of prison time, and expressing his guilt in closed meetings would relieve him of the anger that is clearly tearing at his moral fiber, but it has not. Because of the racial mix of such meetings, the minor fact of the race of her attacker remained concealed. Some internal pain is necessary to motivate a man. But this is not a healthy inspiration. It does no good; not for him, his violated sister, and especially not for the uninvolved black men in the world. This unjust induction is evil.

I begin to question our friendship. I once had a friend that was a racist. He was my best friend growing up, Edward N., who was married to a temperate, if not dedicated, woman Gretchen N. who taught him the error of his ways. But at his peak, I’d never met a more racist individual. Edward and I are still best friends to this day. I searched my heart for enough compassion to harbor another racist in my life but found a void. There comes a time in a man’s life that he must take his stand against what he believes in, and as far as racism is concerned, I can no longer tolerate its existence. I believe I’m the closest I’ll ever be to understanding the moment Martin Luther King, Jr. had the first inspirational thought that gave birth to his “I have a dream” speech.

I am a pluralist. I no longer consider Robert D. my friend. I’ll send up a useful prayer for his soul.

Without Wax,

April’s Fool

With little warning, April brought with it a new owner for the Cuilinn House. Since my sponsor was also our manager, he ceased to be employed at that job. One would think this a good thing for Wax since it eliminates the conflict of interest obvious in my relationship with my sponsor. However, his hasty escape after the seven course meal I’d prepared for a dozen men was served without even indulging; you’d think I’d have a clue.

It wasn’t until after the meal, consisting of two pork loins, roasted potatoes smothered in gravy, green beans, garden salad, buttered rolls, pineapple chunks, and English toffee cookies; at our weekly house meeting, that the phone call came. The announcement from Tom S. read like a telegram: I just wanted to tell you that I’m no longer your manager; and I’m no longer your sponsor. No real explanation. Just the standard cop-out: “I don’t feel you’re working the program.” Yah, whatever pal.

I can’t say I didn’t see the writing on the wall. I’ve never been a sponsor before, so I haven’t read the rule book, but if there is one I’m sure it would have in it: Thou shall not hang up on your sponsee. If it doesn’t, common sense would dictate that your conscience would have a field day with you if it caused a relapse. Tom’s must be on vacation. For a man that spends thousands of minutes a month on his cell phone, you’d think he’d be a better communicator. Lately, he ended most of our phone conversations by hanging up in frustration. That makes me wonder how he ended the phone conversation prior to his only other sponsee's relapse?

He has been acting weird lately, even given the stress he’s been under. But I’m sure that doesn’t excuse his behavior as a sponsor. Anyway, he’s been recommending things I should work on that he states are in the Big Book, but are clearly not. For example, no sexual relationships in the first year of sobriety. Good advice, but not in the Big Book. And that you must be honest to everyone: employers, female relationships, etc. The Big Book says to be honest with yourself, the title of which is Alcoholics Anonymous. What can you expect from a sponsor with less than one year of sobriety: a highly recommended requirement.

In retrospect, I did not choose this sponsor. He may have chosen me. As a manager, he had a quota to make; beds to fill. He said early on that he gets more out of this relationship than I, but that Big Book quote’s been used to death. If he was honest about that, I can't see the reason for termination. Next time, I’ll choose my sponsor more carefully.

And since we’re being brutally honest, my sponsor reads this blog.

To you Tom S.: You are no longer welcomed here at my personal Internet space. Please loose it’s address and never disclose it to anyone.

Your April Fool,

Without Wax,

Unfortunately, Speed Is A Factor

Just got word that Mark J., my sponsey brother, former roommate in treatment, and best sober friend, has lost his job...today. And to add insult to serious injury, his supervisor is also his sponsor. He got laid off for being too slow.

I talked to him today and he sounded completely depressed. Not drunk, I'd be able to tell. But he just had no energy at all. I'll call him later when I get home.

Laptop's still down, so unfortunately there's not artwork. I'll focus on fixing it tonight. I have a lot of posts backing up that I really want to get off my chest.

Still sober after four months and one week.

Without Wax,

Laptop is screwing with my FLIAT

My laptop is down again, only this time it's acting like it did when the CPU popped out. I fear it's happened again and I must go back home and disessemble it completely down to the CPU to fix it.

I'm trying to use my laptop to send out a resume to a technician who asked me to. This is screwing my FLIAT (Financial Luxury I'm Accustom To). And the posts are backing up.

With luck, I'll post tonight.

Without Wax,

Hard Drives Are My Specialty

Finally repairing the hard drive on my laptop, I was present when a group of executives of a prominent corporation held an impromptu meeting at the table right behind me at a coffee shop. Before they started I made the statement, "I'll have this hard drive repaired before your meeting is over." I did and a senior rep. took my resume after a mini-interview.

Got to go to a meeting.

Without Wax,

Hard Drive Status

I'm currently recovering and repairing my existing hard drive. I've recovered the latest things I've been working on and plan to multitask repairing the laptop's hard drive and publishing posts on another computer. I've got a lot to say. A lot has happened, not all good. However, I'm 122 days sober.

Without Wax,

Laptop Down!

To all concerned, I made it through St. Patrick's Day sober to celebrate my four month milestone. Unfortunately, my laptop took a dump again; not nearly as bad as before and I feel I can repair it with the right software tools, but it's definitely down right now. I wish it was up because I've written several intriguing posts I'd like to publish, all on the hard drive.

I'll let you know more as I get online other ways.

Isn't sobriety great?

Without Wax,

My Demise

Just after moving into The Cuilinn House I had hoped that Internet access would be a breeze. It’s been anything but. Like every other promise that has presented itself with pretty wrapping paper and bow, it comes with contingencies. It doesn’t always work. So I post when I can and write less often than I should.

It is for those concerned of my demise that I be more diligent regarding publishing daily. Although I got ‘F’s in high school English, passing only by getting ‘A’s as a photographer on Year Book and Newspaper staff, I now consider myself a writer, and a writer writes every day. One day, I may take a class. But for now, I thinks of things to write in this blog every day. Sometimes I think they’re just to everyday to write about. Sometimes I’m afraid to write. Sometimes there’s a particular post that I’m working on in my head that I wont publish until I’m ready to let it go. I have four right now that I’d like to get off my chest that haven’t been committed to bits: She, Angel, Redneck Robert, and The Last 4th Step Workshop: The Absent Enemy. I also have a lengthy profile to complete, so it’s not for lack of material nor pot that this sot sought.

I really do appreciate the concern expressed in comments, but it is not for you that I write this blog. Once, in jail, I had a terribly strong urge to drink while in solitary confinement for 23 hours and, being that I had only the guards over a tinny intercom to speak to, knew that it’s was going to be a long lonely night. That’s when I discovered one way to stop the urge: write. And it’s worked ever since. The other reasons I now journal are but a plus, and I am grateful for the interest, however when I’ve got The Angry Reds, you’ll know why I’m writing that day.

I am truly grateful for the concern and with that I will post nearly everyday.

Without Wax,

Suicide Housewarming

First week on the job, I’m home for a little over a week, and Roger B. attempts suicide...on a work night no less. How inconsiderate? Albeit I’d only met the guy, but was there ever a man more stressed. Having driven a commuter bus for one of the largest companies in town for years, he let alcoholism end his career. Not that he’d ever driven drunk mind you, but alcohol has ways of destroying a man’s life other than by direct approach.

See, my sponsor seriously thinks by surrounding me by examples of lives gone chaotic that this will somehow have a positive affect on my sobriety, that scenes like these will have a chilling effect – hell, a sobering effect – on my sense of conscience. A wise man, my sponsor. And while I’m on the subject, there’s a double edged bragging right I flaunt with recovering alcoholics, ironically humorous and serious: “My sponsor can beat up your sponsor!” Like kids in a playground, we often joke around about the fact that many of us have maturity frozen in time since our first drink. “Yah, right pal!”, is the response I unusually get, however quickly stifled by a serious smirk that says, believe me, you don’t want to find out. If not, “He bench presses 285,” usually changes the subject right quick. The other edge to the sword is that he can easily bench press me.

But the real reason I take him at his word is that he’s endured more pain in sexual relationships than anyone I know and survived. There’s a time to shut up and listen and that’s usually when his lips are moving.

I was introduced to Roger one week ago at my first weekly house meeting. He appeared then like a man on the edge. Loosing the only decent job you’ve had in your life can break a man, especially when it goes along with your pension, professional reputation, and ability to move horizontally to another bus company. Although legally in the wrong for disclosing the terms of termination, the word got out to competing companies. No one will hire him. A potentially winnable lawsuit will not restore order to his life.

So when faced with the consequences of taking the mandatory drug screen and walking from Cuilinn House, Roger walked straight back to his bedroom, barricaded the door, and swallowed all his prescription medication. Roger is a big man, not one to walk away from anyone, but the manager bench presses 285.

It took the police of two squad cars the remove Roger handcuffed from his suicide note littered loft, a site comforting to most neighbors watching. The question in my mind now is: Are we on good enough terms with our neighbors that they’ll feel comfortable discussing the evening’s events? So far the silence is deafening, which doesn’t really tell me whether or not, who or whom knows that this is a sober house. Such facilities tend to attempt to build up a reputation that never begs the question.

Roger is recovering at the hospital right now in fairly stable condition. He did not do any major damage to himself physically. I can only imagine he’s there for the psychiatric assistance and housing. Our landlord summed it up eloquently when he responded to reporters and other sober house landlords’ voyeuristic phone inquiries as to his death, “Yah, he died! There was a wake. We buried him in the backyard!”, slamming the receiver down.

I don’t make hard fast rules about suicide, but I believe like most people that it is purely a selfish act. However, since working the program I’ve learned to take June B.’s past suicidal threats seriously. It’s hard for me to face the reality that I made the one person I’ve ever loved the most want to commit suicide.


Without Wax,

Office Space

A cubicle doesn’t seem like much office space, but it’s mine, however temporary and small. Compared to my half of the bedroom, it may be bigger. But it’s far removed from the world I’ve been living in.

This morning, having made coffee and shaven, I was only slightly prepared for the phone call from the staffing agency to get my butt downtown by 9:00am. Rushing to make the bus fully dressed, I skipped the shower having done so late last night. Dress shoes and shirt, tie that matches most things, throw on a coat and I’m as prepared as needed. Blowing off the trust-funded unfamiliar roommate’s complaints about turning the bedroom light on so early in the morning, running a mental check of possibly forgot items, I sprint to the bus stop.

Preparedness, although not necessary in the recovery program, can keep you from lapsing over little things, like being late your first day of work. Not a problem, or so I thought. I’d planned the route to the office, actually visiting the lobby. Checked the bus schedule to find a route that would place me downtown within fifteen minutes and yards from work. Had placed all needed paperwork in one manila envelope at my disposal.

First it helps to enter the correct building. Why I did this I’m still trying to discern. I knew something was up when none of the surroundings were familiar. Panic crept in. Thy will be done, Thy will be done. Where the hell is my 3rd Step prayer card when I can't recall it from memory? No big deal, I know I’m close. Just ask for directions. An attractive young lady I’d stopped pointed me in the right direction, towards the express elevators.

Still relatively calm and early, I’d stopped to ask more accurate directions from the security guard at his desk, and for the use of a lavatory. Having explained this is my first day on the job, and dressed so, he pointed me to a secured bathroom down the hall. Relying on my newly acquired ability to run fast I booked down the marble tiled hallways towards the tinny sound of his vocal directions coming from an intercom mounted outside a chrome door. The thought occurred to me that I was being watched by him since his directions could not have been more acute, yet he was out of eye-shot. It’s a nice feeling to be protected by closed-circuit video when working downtown. As fait would have it, a restroom stop helped me notice the tissue still hanging from my chin from this morning’s close shave.

Stepping onto the express elevator, I quickly realized how useless they were when going to a floor in the lower half of the building. I kept choosing wrong elevators and arriving on lobbies with two doors: the elevator and a secured entrance. My preplanned time buffer rapidly evaporating, I visually grabbed an elderly government employee with the blue eyes June said I should bat during interviews and pleaded with her for the sanctity of the first impression on my not-yet fully acquired new job. With the excitement of a young schoolgirl she quickly explained the needed for such a complicated elevator system and showed me the quickest way to my destination, shaving off the precious minutes I’d squandered in terror. I arrived one minute early.

My supervisor hasn’t yet arrived. Good! Time to take a deep breath, gather my thoughts, review employee handouts, and wipe the sweat from my brow. Sweat!?! Where’d that come from? I haven’t had a drink in 100+ days, I’m on time, I’ve no need to be nervous; I don’t understand? It wont stop! It’s because I think I’m nervous, that’s it. Stop thinking you’re nervous! It can’t be. There must be a reason. That’s it. I’m screwed. They’re probably thinking, not another hung over lush. I’ll be politely asked to leave after a half day’s work. As I wipe the last sweat from my forehead, it occurs to me that it may be from running. Right then I stop perspiring.

The door opens and I meeting my trainer. I’m handed a permanent security badge that I use to enter the office.

Upon crossing the threshold of entryway double doors, I am immediately embraced by the smell of civility; that sense that is only a culmination of your existing five other mortal ones: The sight of tightly clad, barely dress-code, well maintained female form, the sound of women discussing their politically correct weekend’s, the touch of state-of-the-art office equipment, the smell of over indulged cheap perfume, and the taste of a fine cup of java.

Respect is the first order of the day. You are here under contract to serve your employer, supervisor, and co-workers. They have a need you must fulfill. The ladies, although dressed very attractively, are not doing so to please your senses. They command respect in the way they dress and demand to be treated as co-workers. So when John Henry starts to think for you, put him in his place. Just be thankful you are surrounded by attractive co-workers and leave it at that. You have a job to do.

I amazed myself at the skills I used to complete these tasks, none of which appear on my résumé. I know I couldn’t have done them in the decrepit state my alcoholic mind and body was in six months ago, not with the hand tremors and forgetfulness. This, to me, is one of the most important promises the Big Book prophesized. I have a lot more work to do, but tonight I have a lot less to agonize over.


Without Wax,

First Day On The Job

I took a part-time job working at a coffee shop in downtown Saint Paul. Some people would think this work beneath me, but I don’t...especially after my first day on the job.

Of course this has to happen the same day I move into Cuilinn House. With all the hassle so far getting into this house, someone on the other side tells me the entry code for the front door leading to what will become my bedroom. On the second floor, I find a sleeping student who apologizes for not responding to either the door or the phone.

First things first. I boot up my laptop, a parting gift from a dot com bubble burst long ago, and find to my relief access to the Internet! It’s not as spotty as I’d feared. In fact I’m accessing the Internet for this post on the first floor, so the RF signal is not bad at all. Next I start moving my stuff from the living room next door to my bedroom. A tenet next door offers to help. I think, Why do I need help moving stuff from one side of a duplex to the other?, but feeling I should take him up on his offer as to not be rude, I answer, “Thank you. That would be very helpful.” However, upon descending the stairs from my first load, I’m wondering why haven’t I passed him? Maybe he feels uncomfortable violating the newly acquired space of my room? I’ll most likely find my belongings at the base of the stairs. No, there’s nothing in the living room. So how is he helping me move? Oh, there they are, my belongings piled on the wet porch between the entryways (it snowed for the first time in weeks). Ah, the get-your-shit-out-of-my-living room-please type of help. “I think that’s about all of it,” he incorrectly assumes. I just don’t even say anything and grab the rest of my stuff. I’m running late as it is.

With everything piled on my twin bed, I examine the bus schedule and realize I have little time to change into boots, much less the cloths I wanted to wear to make a first impression. My roommate and another housemate throw rock-paper-scissor fists at each other to determine who will fairy my late ass to the bus stop. I’m on my way to work. It turns out that if I’d changed my cloths to what I wanted to wear, I’d feel more out of place.

My first day was simply an employee meeting, an introduction to all I’ll be working with, some basic rules that are more common sense than brainstorms, and opinions by the employees on what could be done to better the efficiency of the job. Although being initially overwhelmed by the staff who all of which are half my age, with every passing minute I felt more at ease. I started thinking of how I could contribute to the discussion and found myself blurting out relevant suggestions. When the delicate subject of dealing with the homeless situation in downtown Saint Paul came up, I could smell the discomfort that the boss Harry T. was feeling while searching for an appropriate term to describe them, so I chimed in with, “indigent”. “Indigent, yes thank you Wax,” he responded now at ease. Near the end, I even felt the courage to make technical suggestions for Wi-Fi customers.

I came away feeling a desire to start working immediately tempered with the fact that I might not get as many hours as I’d wished due to a decent proposal from a temp firm that supposed to start me sometime this week. It’s a good feeling when you want to go to work.

But then I got outted. Penny L., a petite spirited youth shared an observation with me. “So, are you in the program?” As luck would have it, I was staring at the iMac surfing the Web when she laid this bombshell on me, otherwise she’d pick up on the involuntary fluctuation of my pupils, an instinctive sign indicating stress for the fib I’m about to lay on her. Trying to appear distracted by the screen, I respond, “What program?” Oh God, she’s onto me. My mind racing trying to recall what it was that I said in the short time that she’s known me that would indicate that I’m an alcoholic. Indigent! It had to be my suggested terminology for the homeless.

But why? Why would she care? Does Harry know? He must’ve. I’m not concerned with my boss knowing that I’m a recovering alcoholic; I assumed he knew something was up from our first phone interview. His attitude is more matter-of-fact: Can you do the job without your character defect getting in the way? A newly divorced middle-aged man seeking employment is not uncommon these days. Everyone deserves a fresh start, I imagine are his thoughts. He felt comfortable hiring me.

But Penny is different. A young, bright, mischievous liberal intent on discovering a character flaw in this new employee that could endanger the delicate ambiance of the café. She could be concerned about physical harm I could inflict. Mind racing, I must immediately assess the situation, decide on a plan of action, a tack to take. What do all red-blooded American males do when confronted with the truth by a female of the opposite sex? Deny, deny, deny!

Okay, you can only run interference long enough to come up with a plan of attack. What do I want? I want to stay anonymous when it comes to the workplace. Revealing I’m an alcoholic freshly in the throws of recovery on my first day of work is not my idea of anonymity. I also do not want to lie. What does she want? Satisfaction. She wants to know whether or not her observation is correct. Her blue eyes, short auburn hair, and trusting smile tell me I should be comfortable admitting my addiction, especially since she thoughtfully chose to query at a time when we were relatively alone. She’s smart. You have to think around her intelligence if you’re to put her question to bed.

“You know, the substance abuse program,” she continues prodding. Youth tends to believe truth is the answer to all problems. My sponsor is a big believer in the truth and says you should be honest with employers and lovers, and everyone. This is not what the Big Book says when it speaks of honesty with one self. “No,” I pertly answer.

“No, you’re not in the program?”
“No,” I stick to my guns trying not to panic.
“So you are in the program?”
“No,” stubbornly.
“Wait, that’s a double negative.” I woman after my own heart, she argues like me. I feel one side of my mouth curl up in delight. I’m loosing this squabble already. Quick, think faster, chose a topic slightly off subject and engage. With a deep breath, I turn from the monitor to finally stare her straight in the eyes to discuss a slightly detoured subject.

“When living and working in downtown Saint Paul, we find people in various stages of life, from the homeless addict to the stressed out executive,” God your eyes are beautiful, “and we often must choose how best to serve them in our context of both
barista and humanitarian.” Her grin grows as I feed her this line of B.S.: She’s engaged! Don’t loose her before getting back to the subject she initiated or she’ll call you on it. Keep her occupied long enough to decide where you want to go with this line of thought. Yada, yada, yada, “When a man is found panhandling in front of our store, I can either ask him to leave, or give him some money hoping he’ll make the right choice to buy a sandwich instead of a bottle.”

“Or you could offer to take him to lunch,” she suggests. She bought it. It was on sale.

“But that would only make him feel you’re controlling his will. He must make that decision for himself. I can’t help him with his decision.” Now time to come back around to answer her question. “What I’ve found is that a person’s decision to make the right choice must come from within or it simply wont take.”

“That’s true,” she agrees. “Say, have you ever been to the Day By Day?”

“Day By Day? I’ve heard of it,” in a hopefully not too deceiving tone, “but never been there,” not a lie. It’s a sober café, like coffee shops aren’t, but it’s known for doing service work. She’s onto me.

“So, do you know of a market downtown?”, fully changing the subject. I’ve answered her question and softly avoided it at the same time. I considered afterwards whether it would’ve been more appropriate to simply respond, None of your business, but it wouldn’t nearly have the same effect. She was pleasantly curious and I found no danger in her knowing. If she really wants to know for sure, she’ll have to meet me in a closed meeting. Even then, I could choose leave, but probably wouldn’t.

Having successfully skirted the question, I volunteer, “My Father taught me a lot of things. I mean he told me a lot of things, usually things not to do...I’d do them completely out of curiosity. Like when I was five my Dad was working on the car and had pulled the battery; he told me not to touch both posts at the same time: black thumb.”

“You had to learn the hard way.”

“Yah, like what he told me about sex.”

Clearly curious, she asks, “What?”

“Never date a psych-major...”

“Oh definitely not. Their the worst.”

“I did anyway, my first girlfriend in fact…and ten is too young.”

”What?”, she exclaims.

“I was twelve,” I confess.

“Oh, that’s okay then.” Hmmm...makes me wonder at what age she lost her virginity?

“When he told me not to do something, I’d usually do it anyway. What he taught I’d never forget, and usually practice. He taught me not to wear my heart on my sleeve.” It is said.

With retinas locked, she confesses, “I understand.”



Without Wax,

House Chores

One of the privileges of living at The House is daily chores. It’s called accountability. The first chore a new resident is often given is cleaning the bathroom every morning. It teaches the virtues of humility, duty, and hygiene. Try to keep this in mind while unclogging the toilet, dissolving leftover after dinner mints in the sink, washing the snot off the shower wall, or scrubbing the crap off the porcelain alter. You’re cleaning up other men’s filth.

It doesn’t matter who you are, sooner or later anger will build up in you, which may lead to resentments. You start telling yourself, This work is beneath me, or Why am I cleaning up after total strangers, I’m not this filthy, or How exactly does this help me recover from alcohol and drugs? This is when I reach for my Higher Power.

Being a former atheist, I choose my late Father as my Higher Power. Having joined the Navy just after the bombing of Pearl Harbor at 16, about the age I was when He passed away, He must’ve experienced similar indignities. These young men, cocky and full of piss & vinegar, barely able to hold a job in the real world, on their own for the first time in their lives most of them, all had a singular goal. All were united in achieving this same goal. And all were in the same God forsaken boat.

Not far from the description of the dynamic going on at The House. Two dozen men, maturity frozen in time since the early days of using, living in close cramped quarters, shitting, pissing, showering, and eating with little privacy. We’re cleaning up after ourselves and others, maybe for the first time in our lives. Eventually trying to find work in the real world. All trying to stay alive.

So when I do these chores and feel anger grow inside me to the point of thinking, I didn’t make this mess, I don’t live this messy, why should I even do a good job? Just what’s required is all that’s needed, I remind myself of the indignities my Father endured that shaped his character and I press on.


Without Wax,


Chronological note: This was written much earlier in time and just now posted. Having 24/7 access to the Internet has afforded me the luxury of submitting old stories.

Y.A.R.V.

My last day at The House has me running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off. I was supposed to be packed yesterday, but had to weigh the advantages of $30.00 extra from plasma donation against a guaranteed moving ride to my new sober house, Cuilinn House. I blew off my ride in trade for the peace and serenity of packing slowly and organized. Fore I did not know what chaos lay ahead.

Packing was mixed with the excitement of a new place, the sadness recalled from leaving my only Minnesota home with June N., and the comfort of knowing were everything has been packed. I could take my time, being thoughtful about where necessary items were stored. This calmed me down knowing that all would be right.

Time to take a break. Having most of my packing completed, I wander to the upstairs TV room to find The Italian Job playing. Not a moment after seating myself to enjoy this exciting action flick, in roars Macombu W. demanding, “All four of you in the office, now! Having just arrived, I know I’m not in trouble. The fourth man to take the breathalyzer, under protest, tests positive. Yet Another Relapse Victim.

Brian J. is a black man who feels oppressed by society for the color of his skin. He previously relapsed because of the late opening time of the downtown library on Mondays. He tried in vane to make an argument that the system was conspiring against him, even implying that because of the color of my skin I was part of it. We have much experience with his short temper when he drinks. Whether it was his loud angered tone or smell of liquor that did him in this time is in question, but he is no longer welcome here. When you relapse for a second time at The House, you roll the dice with your residency. I hope he finds serenity at The Mission.

With my impatience getting the best of me, I ask one of the residents of The House to give me a ride to Cuilinn House this morning. I offer to pay him $5.00 and he agrees, but wont accept it upon arrival. Admitting I could use the cash and appreciate his gesture, I tell him that if he ever needs computer repair to contact me.

My instincts were correct. No one at Cuilinn House answered phones nor doors. I was finally let in by a resident who wasn’t informed of my arrival and felt he wasn’t getting paid enough for the job of welcoming new residents to their new home (I use the term loosely). I was allowed to place all my worldly belonging in the somewhat cramped living room while I wait for a bed to become available. It’s my understanding that one is waiting for me on the other side of this duplex and that I could simple open the constantly unlocked front door and find it myself. I don’t know what’s more unsettling; the knowledge that door is always left unlocked or the fact that it isn’t.

I’m sending this post from the only place I know of that receives Wi-Fi, the third floor. The Internet access here is spotty. Still waiting for a bed, hungry for lunch I must provide myself, and planning were to get dressed for work this afternoon, I complete this post. I’m missing The House already. Isn’t she a beautiful old Victorian House?


Without Wax,

Update 3/6/2006: Brian J. was found in detox last night.

Early To Rise

Up before the alarm clock, in search of coffee, wondering how this will affect my sleep. Grabbing my shaving kit, I head downstairs towards the kitchen, detour to the head for to pinch a loaf, clean the coffee pots as to attempt to start brewing, let in the relapsers. After all, it is the day after.

Walking down the long hardwood floor hallway towards the bathroom I spy an unidentified black man in the entrance hall gently tapping on the door. Halting in my tracks, trying to muster up alertness without aid of caffeine, I examine my watch: 5:16am. That explains why he’s rapping on the door, it’s locked, but doesn’t explain who he is and why he wants in.

“Get Macombu,” the vaguely familiar man demands. Okay, so he’s got to be a resident; he knows staff member Macombu W. Still shaking the sleep off without the benefit of coffee, I realize that this guy is strangely more alert than myself. I wonder what he’s on? Doesn’t he realize us old men need morning java before running up and down stairs to wake staff. He must not have been a resident long for me to be that unfamiliar with him. Boy I’m full of double-negatives this morning. I think he is Steve B.

Duty done, it’s back to the kitchen where the resident elderly coffee coinsure is patently monitoring my brewing techniques. Just as I complete the task, Peter D. is patently staring back at me through Winter filthy windows with that Mervyn's ‘open-open-open’ look on his face. I flash him the index-finger-to-watch combined with a stern head-shake sign language indicating that it’s too early to open the back door. He nods in understanding. Five minutes later I’d have let him in avoiding waking the entire house by setting off the exit alarm.

When you’re abruptly woken for the first time by this alarm you instinctively throw on just what’s required to exit a burning building. If you yell, “Fire”, while trying to save others’ lives, you’ll be spotted immediately as a newbie and laughed out of morning meditation. The intent of this alarm is usually to catch those who crave a smoke between midnight and 5:30am, but also for those with more nefarious plans.

Upstairs to wake Macombu again to let the whiner relapser Peter back home. Why bother? The guy isn’t grateful for what he has. I should not be taking them man’s inventory, but when a man jumps down your throat for almost confusing his girlfriend with his wife on the phone, complains that the food served is too fattening, and mentions in our bitch sessions that people should use the bathroom closest to their room, you realize that you’re all out of slack to give. Macombu informs me he’s already disarmed the alarm, and with that I let him in with, “Welcome to La Casa Country Club.”

That morning’s meditation meeting we learn of yet a third man AWOL who hasn’t returned. Peter tested positive, having broken a curfew from a previous relapse. He will be asked to leave and will not be able to return to The House for six months if the county allows him. Steven being still on his first week customary 9:30pm curfew relapsed on his cross addiction to sex, not an excusable offense, but guaranteed to abstain him for two weeks.

All this on the morning after the first of the month when everyone in The House receives their GA (General Assistance) checks: $91.00 that can pay for a month’s worth of essentials or an evening’s worth of trouble. And I haven’t even cashed mine yet.


Without Wax,

Coincidental Cusp

I’m between a rock and a soft place, that coincidental cusp that only happens twice a year when back-to-back 31-months leave a recovering alcoholic with neither 90 days nor three months sobriety. I can’t tell which is the rock or the soft place, the 90 or the three. But on this 91st day of sobriety I’ve been asked by George D., my first sponsor, to proudly announce in our Ultra Defective meeting my achievement. I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t jinx the whole thing by asking me to speak of what I haven’t achieved yet, but who’s kidding? It’s Sunday night in Minnesota. Bars are closed and the closest liquor store is in Wisconsin, an expensive cab ride away, one I would have to take after he drops me safely off at The House. But it didn’t take much effort for my daemon to hastily put that plan together.

Having survived Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years in various stages and places of recovery, I felt it relieving to share my discomfort. Thanksgiving was probably the worst, since I’d checked myself into treatment the day before and for the next five days listened to people whine about missing family because either they weren’t welcomed or locked up in this short-staffed treatment facility. Not having family to miss only added to my resentments. Nothing happened. For nearly half of my short twelve-day stay in Treatment I neither got treatment nor mugged. I guess that’s something to be thankful for. Christmas and New Years were markedly better having by then moved into The House. I was simply happy to be spending the silly season in a nice warm house then under a bridge.

Prior to this day, I was so close to completing Step Three and was wondering what was holding me back from deciding to turn it over? Why couldn’t I give my will over to a God of my understanding? I was almost so willing, but there was something holding me back.

This morning of the cusp I had a spiritual epiphany. Having woken at 4:00am and could not get back to sleep, I decided to read in the study as not to disturb my roommate with my reading light. Making a short kitchen detour for coffee, I snuck the beverage illegally into what is now referred to as the upstairs TV room. A slight bang on the thermostat ignited the cement logs within the gas fireplace next to which sat a fairly comfortable armed chair. It was there while reading Dan Brown’s Angels & Demons that I learned of it’s first murder victim’s oxymoronic calling: a Catholic priest physicist. His belief was that God’s existence could be proven scientifically. Closing my eyes, I threw my head back in disbelief. When I opened my eyes I was staring up at the illuminated Saint Paul Catholic Cathedral. Having all at once realized where I was and how I got there, I came to the understanding that if a physicist could be a Catholic priest, a computer geek could believe in a God of his understanding.

I’m now ready to start making my list.

When I got the news Friday from my doctor that all major organs’; liver, kidney, pancreases; test results had returned negative, you’d think I’d be happier. But I know my daemon. He fooled me once before. However, my doctor put it very sternly: “Wax, this is not a license to start drinking again. Just because your blood work shows no sign of damage doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It means we can’t detect damage with these tests and doesn’t justify to an insurance company paying for a liver biopsy, which would clearly identify the damage you know exists.” Dr. Chris J. is my new doctor, and came highly recommended by my previous doctor who left the Twin Cities to pursue an opportunity up north in Duluth. His endorsement, although not disappointing professionally or in any other respect, did leave out one minor detail. Dr. Chris, despite lack of chronological maturity, does seem to have experience dealing with substance abuse patients that demonstrates compassion, knowledge, and temperance, especially when making the patient feel comfortable about sharing intimate using experiences without empowering them.

“So what’s your plan?” Taken aback, I can’t help but think this comes from some experience with recovery programs. This delivered austerely from the comfort of deep warm brown eyes, attractive round dimpled face, short obese stature of a young brunette woman showing serious concern. My first female doctor, the detail my previous doctor failed to mention. He’s known for his sense of humor, but crossed ethical boundaries just a tad. I’m going to have to retaliate somehow by pulling a George Clooney on him. Yah, that was really funny when that lady doctor stuck her finger up my patutey. In her defense, she did offer for a male nurse to perform the rectal exam, saying, “You’re forty Mr. Wax and you need this.” Weighing my options, I chose her by responding, “Just strap on the latex, play some romantic music, and I think things will be just fine.”

Sensing that I’d crossed some ethical, moral, or couth-like boundary, she replied, “We don’t do that here Mr. Wax.” Be cool. It’s not the first time a beautiful woman had her finger up your butt. Okay, this is probably going into the TMI range.

“My plan,” I explain, “Is to continue going to meetings, call my sponsor everyday, get employed so I can stop feeling sorry for myself and can get into a sober house, and read the Big Book.”

“Well listen: If you go back out there and start drinking again, it wont be like last time. Your organs will fail much faster. You may not be able to recover as successfully as you have this time. I’m worried about you,” she confesses.

Head down, I utter, “I know.”

“You have to rely on your willpower!”

“No,” I solemnly say, raising my eyes to meet hers, “My Higher Power.”

“Whatever...”, sounding too much like a Valley Girl, she catches herself and continues, “...works.” That all too familiar Darwinistic tone proudly exhibited by young medical students fresh from the trenches of biology courses. Call it evolution-on-the-brain. A glance at the rear of her car would probably reveal her multi-legged Ichthys symbol with the word “Darwin” inside.

She’s now probably labeled me a bible thumper, but if she really knew the spiritual, theological, and scientific battle that’s ensuing in my mind, she wouldn’t be so quick to judge. I’d explain to her that the phrase, “Thy will be done, not mine,” has guided me through more potential lapses than sheer willpower ever did, but I thought I’d save that speech for someone who needs it; one of us.

The good news of my test results were more expected, so I was less excited about them, and I shared that with the group at the meeting. That would explain why I was not happy upon hearing of the results; nervous would be the word. I’m afraid my daemon is smarter than I. Why not? We share the same brain.

The cusp has passed and I’ve set out this morning to celebrate my three month milestone by receiving a medallion at one of my favorite alanos, Frost House. If you’re still working on the immediate-gratification-character-defect, there’s no place like the ‘burbs for medallions. Every alano has their pin day, usually the same first given weekday of that month, where they properly present medallions. The person presenting the medallion would be someone who knows the graduate a while, hopefully their sponsor, and has witnessed his/her progress. But I thought I’d throw caution to the wind and see if I might pick one up at my favorite morning alano, The Frost House. It could very well be the last weekday I visit this alano in a while, since I’ll be starting first-shift work soon.

My Higher Power must’ve been willing to entertain my eccentricities today, for he has sent me an angel: Paula T. Paula was the first person to recognize me when I came back to Frost House after being out for two years. An attractive lady with a good heart who’s maturity has been kind, and intelligence that defies her blonde roots. Although I had been visiting the Frost House on a weekly basis, time and financial restrictions have made it more difficult to attend. This has made the chance of encountering Paula slim, but unbeknownst to me she has been following my progress.

She was one of the first persons I spied when entering the house and she lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw me. I bee-lined to her and whispered in her ear, “Could you present my three month milestone?”

“I’d be happy to. Let me grab a medallion,” she replied. I’ve got to stop doing this!, I thought, but justifying that it will be a full three more months before I’ll ever receive another medallion, I just chalked it up to yet another unresolved character defect: immediate gratification.

When she presented me, I was shocked when she revealed that, although we hadn’t seen each other much, she’d been following this blog. I told her of it when I first started it two months ago, but she’d never left a comment, so I’d totally fazed it out. I was hoping she wouldn’t reveal it’s URL to the group, as she wisely didn’t; attraction rather than promotion. If AAs want to find this blog, they’ll have to search for it.

I spoke of how I did it and included how this blog has helped me. One day in jail while we were on routine 23-hour lock-down in my cell all alone, I had a major craving for Jack Daniels. It was bad. There were plenty of inmates I could talk this out with just yards away, yet not within speaking range. Solitary confinement is an inmate’s worst nightmare. Some men just can’t handle it. That’s what books are for. Forgive me Big Book thumpers, but no book can help you when you really need to talk something out. That’s why Bill W. created phone lists. But phones are not available during lock-down. I was looking forward to an all-night longing for whiskey. So I journaled. I frantically wrote for an hour and in half that time the thirst was gone. I’d discovered a way to kill the craving. That’s one of the reasons I started this blog. The less people in my life that know about it, the more openly honest I can be in it.

As of press-release time, I’d read far enough to a point in Angels & Demons to read this spoiler (be forewarned, this is giving away crucial plot material):

The uncertain shadows that had fogged Langdon’s mind all morning, in a single instant, solidified into a vivid image. As he stood there in the swirl of confusion, he felt a door inside him open...as if some mystic threshold had just been breached. The ambigram. The murdered priest/scientist. The antimatter. And now...the target. Leonardo da Vinci Airport could only mean one thing. In a moment of stark realization, Langdon knew he had just crossed over. He had become a believer.

Five kilotons. Let there be light.

It seems our main character has too had a spiritual awakening.


Without Wax,