Seattle

I had a great time in Seattle; I wish we had markets like this, Pike Place Market, in Missouri. Look at the size of those crab legs! I spent a lot of time with Fast Eddie and my nieces, who are incredibly sweet and beautiful. They are so different than I was at that age. Now tonight it's on to Arizona.

God's time, not my time

I had a second interview last week for a job I think I would have liked. The interviews went great and I was in the three final candidates. Friday I learned I didn't get the job.

I was disappointed, yes. But the Program has given me an ability to see the Big Picture, which is that God is often preparing something better than I could have planned myself. So, despite this disappointment, and I admit I was a bit rattled by their decision (always the bridesmaid; never the bride), I didn't let it get me down for long. God is either everything or He's nothing. Today I believe He is everything.

I'm heading up north today to my Arizona home to declutter and move. Since I got clean, I've been a collector. When I got sick last year I had a realization. You really can't take it with you. I am getting rid of things that don't mean something to me, giving them away, putting them on Ebay. Maybe this is just another phase in my post-transplant journey.

My entry on head butts may have helped

In August the St. Petersburg Times profiled Michael Wiley, 39, of Port Richey, FL, an "enthusiastic driver" despite having lost both arms and half a leg in a childhood accident.

Wrote the Times, "He guides the key into the ignition with his mouth. Turns it with his toes. Shifts with his knee. Bites the headlight switch. Jams his stump of a left arm into the steering wheel and whips it around." On the minus side, his license was revoked long ago, and reckless driving charges flourish, including the latest, one day after the Times story ran. And in September, he was charged with domestic assault, with his head."

Thank God someone's reading my blog. I was beginning to wonder.

The meeting after the meeting

The other night in a meeting I used the word 'epiphany.' Wikipedia defines epiphany as a sudden realization or comprehension of the essence or meaning of something. The term is used .. . to signify that a person has "found the last piece of the puzzle and now sees the whole picture, or has new information or experience, often insignificant by itself, that illuminates a foundational frame of reference." To put it in my terms, an epiphany is a major realization, an awakening, a "Wow, that's why I do that" or "Yes, I had some part in that."

Someone in the meeting said "Hell, I don't know what an epiphany is, I can't even spell it." Another member, when it was his turn, said, "I think it's an organ and you can have it removed." We were all laughing by then and at "the meeting after the meeting," it was decided unanimously that we could have epiphanectomies if we needed them to remove epiphanies. However, there's probably no moving an epiphany if we keep moving forward in recovery.

By nature, at least in my experience, these major "aha" moments means a change in perspective, and usually in action. I call these major awakenings "bitter chunks of truth about myself," because they normally come to me after some turmoil or lack of acceptance. Remember the clique "As we learn better, we do better"? That's been true in my case.

When I'm going through "issues" in my life and I'm not happy with mine or someone else's behavior, sometimes I simply have to cut myself, and by extension others, a break. I sometimes in frustration will say "If I could do this one bit better, I would. At this moment in time I'm doing the very best I can" and try to remember others are, too.

I heard someone say in a meeting that "As a rule, others are doing the best they can and as a rule, it will never be good enough for me." Those words ring so true for me. We are all slogging through life, at least the majority of us, doing the very best we can. That includes me. So today, at 4:36 a.m. when I cannot sleep, I am going to cut myself a break, read a few chapters from a mystery, and stop thinking for awhile.

Kinky still gaining ground, amazingly

Kinky Friedman, that outcast candidate for Texas governer, was recently interviewed by Tucker Carlson on MSNBC. I usually root for the underdog, and I've gotten a bit of traffic on the blog with my post on his campaign. I'm not a Texan, so my opinion doesn't really matter, but after watching the interview, I was not impressed. Here's a few reasons why.

Carlson asked Kinky what was the first thing he would do if he were elected. I think if he was as honest as he bills himself, he would have said "Smoke a joint." What he did say was that he would set up a phone line so that Texans could call him without being screened. Okay, that should help.

Next, he wants to legalize gambling in Texas casinos, or something to that effect. I wasn't aware gambling wasn't legal in Texas (it's everywhere, it seems) so he can lower property taxes and fund education. I believe gambling costs society more in the long run with the problems it fuels when people gamble irresponsibly, or is "gamble irresponsibly" an oxymoron? Just my opinion, but hey, it's my blog.

Next, he held up his middle finger to show off his Indian ring (I guess the tribes have something to do with the gambling) and flipped off the camera. He thought that was cute, as did Tucker Carlson, whom we've already discussed is pretty lame.

Anyway, we can sleep better tonight knowing Kinky is "winning over" Tucker, as Tucker, ever the objective journalist, said in the interview. Like football, though, maybe Tucker is MSNBC's "color commentator." He's pretty sad, whatever he is.

With Ann Richards' death recently, Texas really lacks a colorful governor or ex-governor and Kinky is that. I'm just not sure with all the problems we face in America that more color is what Texas needs right now. Just my two cents.

The street where I live

When doors keep closing,

how long do we wait for a window to open?

Burning Man festival burns again

A colleague of mine, an insurance geek with a Ph.D., attended Burning Man this year and sent me these photos. If you've never heard of Burning Man, it's probably best to go to their website at www.burningman.com because it's not really explainable. It's like a be-in allegedly without drugs.

Burning Man started in San Francisco (where else?) in 1986 and has become an annual event where quirky inventors, flower children who never quite bloomed and other societal misfits (probably like me but braver) gather in 100-plus degree temperatures for about a week. The event culminates in the burning of a giant wooden "icon" of a man. It seems that this event is a slam against technology, but it's hard to imagine what the event means to participants who come each year to celebrate. It's now held each year in early September in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada. What started with 80 participants now harbors about 35,000 and it appears to grow each year.

Life is short. I don't want to wait any longer to do things I've always wanted to do. I want to live more authentically. So to next year, in Nevada.

Redux Beverage sucks

In case you get thirsty after tooting, a beverage maker in Las Vegas is producing this drink, which contains 280 milligrams of caffeine. According to its inventor James Kirby, "As soon as people look at the can, they smile." (At least those with decayed teeth from tweaking do.) The drink is being billed by its manufacturer as a "legal alternative" to the street drug. According to Kirby, a "throat-numbing" secret ingredient has been added to mimic the cocaine experience.

I'm looking at the can and I'm not smiling. Neither are those carrying the anti-drug message. If you'd like to comment directly to the manufacturer about your feelings regarding this pathetic marketing technique, here's their messed-up website www.drinkcocaine.com. They have a link to drug abuse clinics and resources that combat addiction on their site. Do they actually in their deluded minds think that absolves them of any corporate responsibility? What amazes me is that they are so puffed-up proud of themselves. Is looking in the mirror any easier each morning if you frame it with $100 bills? Is selling out the only way to get rich in this country today? These are a few questions I posed to them in my email. I encourage you to contact them with your comments. On their website, click on the "contact link" and there is a media link that will take your email to their email. Redux Beverage bites.

I suppose I shouldn't get my undies in a bunch. It's not really much worse than Calvin Klein, who for years has used children pathetically posed as sex objects to sell his trash garments. I personally vote with my pocketbook and don't buy from manufacturers that I find are unethical, at least if I have any money, that is. Not that anyone cares. Americans want cheap Chinese stuff and plenty of it and don't care how it is advertised, who is exploited or how much it ultimately costs America when all our jobs are gone. (Unless, of course, you happen to have an MBA from Harvard or Princeton and can help companies outsource their manufacturing to foreign countries utilizing slave labor or slightly better that we shouldn't be trading with, anyway (forget Spanish! Make sure your kids learn Mandarin.)

But I am ranting, so I am going to paint. The kitchen is almost done, you will be glad to hear. I have another job interview (my second) with an agency on Monday then it's off to visit Fast Eddie and on to Arizona. Until tomorrow, don't get your undies in a bunch. Mine are in a big enough bunch for all of us.

Old dog can learn new tricks

I forgot to tell you, I now know old dogs can learn new tricks. I thought I had finally outsmarted Romy by putting my meat in the refrigerator in the meat bin. "No way can she open that," I thought. I was wrong. She not only opened the refrigerator when I failed to bungee it, she then pulled open the meat bin and ate a pound of bacon.

This lays waste to the rumor that old dogs can't learn new tricks. With Oz arriving soon, I wonder if she can teach him to open the doors? Some dog trainers say dogs don't learn from one another, but I beg to differ (I don't sit up when I beg, though). I believe dogs learn bad behavior from other dogs that carries an intrinsic reward quite quickly. I'm sure we'll soon see.

Next week I'll be heading to Seattle to visit my brother Fast Eddie then on to Arizona to get Oz and visit my pals. I can't wait. It's cold here today and cloudy. I'm arriving in Arizona at the best time of the year.

Until tomorrow, friends, I'm begging off.

Fall nips the air

I love dog metaphors, don't you? I never tire of watching my dogs; they ground me. But they also tie me down. Today I found myself thinking, as I watched Romy lie on the sun porch watching the neighborhood go by (she's getting used to who lives where and rarely barks unless the dreaded mailman appears on the porch or another dog dare walk by her house), when you're gone, I'm going to travel. It's a good thing she can't read my mind. She'd probably bite me.

It's a beautiful day; it never got above 70 or so and a few leaves are beginning to turn. The squirrels are ignoring my generous feeder and running around like tweakers picking up acorns. Today I put out tulips and iris and put a few tulips in pots to force blooms indoors. I love flowers. Daffodils are usually the first to peek up in the spring, so no doubt I'll plant a few of them, as well. They always cheer me up on those gray March days when it's still colder than dry ice and gloomy to boot.

I picked up a newcomer fresh out of prison and took her to a noon meeting. The meeting was great; the topic was "God as we understand God." Because the AA program was based on biblical principals (see www.dickb-blog.com for an awesome look at AA history), it's truly the Grace of God, or as one priest who was in attendance at today's meeting said "the Holy Spirit" that gave Bill W. and the old-timers the insight to put "God as we understand him" in our steps rather than a Christian-based God. They knew there might be that one knucklehead that just would not be able to swallow the concept of a Christian God, the atheist who would let the God concept drive him away. This simple concept has probably helped more people recover than anything else, because not only can we choose our own loving Higher Power, it has allowed our Fellowships to spread throughout the world.

Last night I was listening to Bill Maher, a devoted atheist, who is usually hilarious and often very insightful, if not a bit outrageous. He commented on the outrage in the Muslim community from the Pope's careless statement about Mohammad. Maher said, quite rightly, that it simply amazes him that the Muslims are listening to anything the pope has to say, because even Catholics ignore the pope's comments. "Don't use birth control? Are you kidding?" Or "Eliminate the death penalty? Hell, no, burn him!"

Maher's right, I think. Many, many Catholics love and honor the pope, especially the late John Paul II, but they pretty much ignore the Pope's mandates. I know from first-hand experience, having been raised in an Irish-Catholic home. It's much like what they tell us in the Fellowship as newcomers: "Take what you want and leave the rest." Maybe that's why the Kennedy's have been able to be such staunch Catholics. Not that I'm knocking Catholics, as I heard one guy say in a meeting, "I'm not judging; I'm just reporting."

After the meeting I pulled wallpaper all afternoon. Then it was the 1000th trip to Loews to buy more stuff for the house, this time hardware for the kitchen sink. I could spend hours in Loews looking at stuff, sinks and fixtures and ceiling fans and think about my dream house I hope to build some day.

I am tired and sore and not looking forward to tomorrow, because there's still much more wallpaper where today's wallpaper came from. It's late and I am at the tail end of a good crime book, so I'm heading south. Until tomorrow, may your Higher Power as you understand him bless and keep you.

Dog arrested, fans howl

As more people than care to know, Duane "Dog" Chapman the Bounty Hunter, that mullet-wearing Hawaiian hunk (not) was arrested by U.S. Marshalls in Hawaii along with his son and Timothy Chapman last Thursday. They allegedly "kidnapped" convicted rapist and Max Factor heir Andrew Luster in Mexico in 2003. Luster fled California after he was convicted of raping three women using GHB, known as a "date rape" drug.

Allegedly, Dog and his kin (or is it pack?) were partying in Puerto Vallarta in 2003 when they recognized Luster and kidnapped him. Local police in Mexico then took them all into custody and Dog posted bond but he and pack members failed to return to Mexico for a hearing. Three years later, a Federal judge signed a warrant for Dog and friends and the police kicked in his door. He has since been released on a $300,000 bond.

As fond as I am of dogs, it amazed me that so many people are blogging and commenting on this issue. There are hundreds and hundreds of comments on blogs and articles proclaiming allegiance to Dog and his family, mullet, white trash outfits and all.

Here's my thoughts. Yes, capturing a rapist is a great thing. But breaking the law in any country, well, not so great. And failing to appear for his court hearing after posting bond? Dog, you should know better.

Hey, I'm tryin' to sleep here!

Romy and I slept in this morning. It's a beautiful pre-fall day; the air is crisp and cool and the birds are raucous. They, too, must know the cold weather is coming. I wore a light jacket last night plus a long-sleeved shirt. When the leaves change (and they may be excellent because we've gotten a lot of rain recently), I'll try to get fall photos for the blog, but my photography can't do justice to the fantastic Missouri colors.

Romy and I took a drive to the post office today and I stopped downtown for a cup of coffee. Normally I drink it here since my percolator makes such good, cheap coffee, but since I had to mail some important insurance reimbursements personally, we decided we'd stop for coffee and a muffin. Romy always weighs in on the food side or just for a ride in the car no matter what else might be happening at home.

I read the St. Louis Post as we shared a muffin and I talked to a few people who passed by that I know. I live in a town about the size of Prescott, so it's not unusual to run into people from the program when I cruise through town. I always light up when I see a kindred spirit, because it's like having a mini-meeting when I run into them. It's similar to how I felt when I traveled in South America during non-tourist season and would run into an American, like an ex-patriot found.

Last night was my turn to get speakers for my home group and I had a husband and wife share who had a tremendous story. The wife has about the same amount of recovery as me, and when she had about 19 years, her husband relapsed quite badly. He went into treatment about six months ago and when she shared about the pain of his relapse, it was very difficult for him to hear. But he gamely spoke after her and talked about how bad he felt about the torment he had caused her and their four kids. And he highlighted, as I have said before in this blog, about the insanity of addiction and how it would take him away from the most important people in his life.

It was a really good meeting and everyone remarked how much they enjoyed it. When people speak from their hearts, there sure doesn't have to be a lot of bells and whistles in their talk because it's that heart-to-heart connection that keeps us coming back. As we say in NA, it's "the therapeutic value of one addict helping another."

As I was driving home, I saw a homeless man with a scrawny dog walking not far from my house. I wondered if his dog needed food. Then I thought, boy, this is crazy. Why is it I'm more willing to give his dog food than I am to hand out a few bucks to him to eat? I've operated under the rule since I got sober of "if I have to work, so does everyone else." I almost never give money to bums. But in light of where I am in my life, by God's grace, and in light of what I'm slowly learning about Jesus' true nature and what I believe the message he brought is (love), I am beginning to reevaluate my stance.

I am grateful today that I was given the gift of another day clean. By the way, my brother is out of the hospital and back on his way to Seattle today. Please keep him in your prayers because this is where the rubber will meet the road. Well, I can't put off painting any longer, although I wish I could. Until tomorrow, my friends, have a great day.

Another good blog

Check out dryblog www.dryblog.blogspot.com It has links to many cool recovery blogs, including twodogs.

Have a good day; I'm trying to. Question: Why are men so, well, men?

Electrician has a short

I was painting the kitchen today when the phone rang. The caller ID showed a hospital in Nevada. My brother was in Nevada looking for retirement property where he could build a house so I knew immediately it was bad calamity. I picked up the phone and my brother's voice said my name. "What's wrong?" I asked.

He asked me if I was sitting down. I sat down on a small kitchen chair holding my paintbrush like a scepter. He'd had a heart attack, he said. He had been at a motel in a small Nevada town when he realized what was happening. Once he could breathe, he said, he got to his car and drove 45 minutes to Winnemucca. From the hospital there they airlifted him to Reno. He'd been sedated since Friday morning.

My mother used to say "He'd squeeze a nickel 'til the buffalo shit," and we'd both laugh; but he's incredibly generous when one of us is having a rough patch. When I was recovering from my transplant and getting ready to move back to Arizona, he decided he'd visit me. He arrived, stayed a few days, then told me he would pack up a rental truck and move my belongings back to Arizona. Then he wrote a check to pay off my mortgage and told me to take as much time as I needed to pay him back.

And he's one of us. He just hasn't admitted it yet. We grew up together in a house that, he once said to me sadly, "Had very little joy in it." Maybe because of that, maybe because we were so much alike, we were united against the world. God help anyone who picked on me because the Wrath of Fast Eddie would descend on them. We drank together; smoked together; barhopped together; watched the Vietnam War tear my family to shreds; I watched him narrowly avoid Vietnam by serving in the Coast Guard; and we both came out of the same womb pissed off, so we understand each other. And as much as I love and understand him, I can't help him. The sad truth is we can rarely help those we love the most.

Early in my recovery I would talk to him about his drinking. He sobered up for quite a few years, on his own, but he seemed more miserable sober than when he was drinking. He finally went back to drinking and continued to function at work, but he's been miserable for years. I stopped mentioning anything to him about his alcohol consumption years ago after my stints in Alanon.

I know his two beautiful and talented daughters (one plays violin in a small symphony and she's only 20 and the other is studying to be a nurse) suffer along with him but that, too, hasn't brought him to the rooms. Maybe this incident is his wake-up call, his epiphany. God knows his guardian angels were working overtime. Who suffers a heart attack then drives 45 minutes to get help then lives to tell about it? (Perhaps someone from the same gene pool who would drive the biggest U-Haul trailer available with two dogs and a cat from Missouri to Arizona when she was in the final stages of cirrhosis, only a few months away from death. No one ever said anyone in my family was very smart.)

When I asked him why he drove to the hospital instead of calling an ambulance right then, his answer amazed me at first. "I didn't know what to do," he said. At first I was stunned by his response. "How could he be so dumb?" I thought to myself. "Why wouldn't he call 911?" Then tonight as I sat in my home group, I remembered what I was like in the insanity of my drinking. I could barely balance a checkbook when I got here. Most everything I learned about life, including any common sense I possess, I learned in the rooms. To date, he hasn't availed himself of this gift of recovery, despite watching me for 22 years. Maybe I'm not such a good example of recovery, or maybe, for some reason I can't fathom, he never will come along for the trudge. God decides who comes and who goes; it's God's grace that gets us here and our hard work and more grace that keeps us here.

I can tell he's shaken. A touch with death makes us, at least for a few days or weeks, question everything. There's nothing I can do but pray and listen if he wants to talk or go to him if he needs me. The same Higher Power that protects me protects him, too. But when those you love the most are suffering, you hurt, too.

I do know this -- I can't think of any gift I'd rather have than to have my brother join me in the rooms. I've been waiting a long, long while. So today, please say a short prayer for Fast Eddie, the electrician extraordinaire. He can fix anything except himself.

A Voice for God

I'm taking a 30-day meditation course, probably modeled on A Course in Miracles, available free at this website www.thevoiceforgod.com

If nothing else, look at the introduction for an awesome flash production. As I work to strengthen my spirituality, I'm going through this course to see if it helps. I'll let you know if I find that it assists me. While spirituality is a private journey, I know that it's a common denominator in the rooms. We're all trying to find a way to become closer to what our Higher Power's will is for us, aren't we?

Until tomorrow, God is waiting for us to listen.

Can't you read?? No solicitors!

Hazeldon bombs --

Rejects my book. I'm disappointed but I will keep going. At least they did it quickly. I know that many great authors were rejected numerous times before their books found a home. Maybe there's hope; in any case, I will continue to keep working on it and sending out queries. As a last resort, I'll self-publish because I believe in the concept of my book and know that it will help others in recovery.

I have often wondered "Why am I here? What is my purpose in life?" I used to think I was destined for great things and maybe, had I been less distracted, great things would have happened. Or maybe great things have happened and I'm just not viewing them as great. I know that not only is my glass usually half empty, there's usually a hole in it. Gratitude is not my strongest asset by a long shot, nor is objectivity especially in regards my life.

I know that I have survived a great adventure. As one of the most spiritual people I've ever met said to me, "I've lived many lives in this life." So have I. My life has been an amazing adventure. It puts James Frey's A Million Pieces to shame because it's true. (In my opinion, any addict who read his book, as I did, would have said at the time of reading, as I did, that "This guy is full of it" because his tales of heroic dope-fiendism were so absurd.)

Just looking at Frey's picture spoke volumes and it was volumes of "This guy is delusional." He did not look like the tough guy he portrayed; more like the dentist who worked on his teeth, if that did occur. He has a softness in the face that belied his self-aggrandizing toughness. It shows who's editing books. They have no street sense, certainly, and probably very little life experience to detect total bull when they read it.

Dope fiends are by nature cowards. We're afraid of facing the world around us so we self-medicate. We're afraid of losing our supply so we do what we need to do to keep it uninterrupted. Frey was the ultimate coward because he sold out the truth to get published. I hope that he moves on in his life with greater clarity and self-honesty, because he can write.

Back to my book. This is part of the work I felt I still had to get done before I left the planet. Whoever ultimately publishes it, or if I self-publish, makes no difference. It's just easier to have a publisher who believes in it. I know my book will be published and I know it will help people stay clean and sober.

So until tomorrow, keep a positive attitude even when you don't quite believe that the light at the end of the tunnel isn't a train. And remember, if you get hit by a train, it ain't the caboose that kills you, so take it one day at time.

PETA: Take note, please!

Here's a squirrel getting a little tail (before he loses it)

Hook, line & sinker: Mepps buying squirrel tails

We usually mean fishing t-a-l-e-s when it comes to telling stories about our fishing exploits. But, this time, we're talking fishing t-a-i-l-s. Mepps, the company known for making hair-covered spinners with that enticing throbbing action in water, has put out the word it is offering a bounty on squirrel tails to use in its manufacturing business. There is one proviso: The company only wants tails from squirrels that were hunted for food. Mepps does not condone harvesting squirrels for their tails alone.

You won't get rich selling tails to Mepps, which has been buying the hair for 30 years. Premium specimens net only 20 cents if you sell fewer than 100 at a time. That climbs to 26 cents each if you sell more than 1,000. The cash value can be doubled if you take the bounty in tackle rather than money, which most people do, the company said.

Store tails in a freezer, salt the tail butt liberally and keep the flies away, the company says. Do not store them in plastic. Put them in a package with the count, your name and address on the inside and ship them to Sheldons' Inc., 626 Center St., Antigo, WI 54409-2496. Shipping is refunded on 50 tails or more. Ship by UPS or surface parcel post only. Visit www.mepps/squirrel.com for details on the offer and handling instructions.