Coincidence

After the hards rains a-fell last weekend (the night before the 49ers' humiliating defeat), I was in the basement, working out on the elliptical.  Ever since I bought the machine, I've noticed a considerable improvement in my arthritic hip.  Of course the secret with any sort of exercise routine is actually doing it, something the revolutionaries at the local gym should have stopped doing right...about...now.  I don't have to worry about that.  Thank God for OCD.

I've been using the elliptical twice daily, which has made a huge difference, since it harnesses a full range of motion, like running, but without the hard pounding. Anyway, this second run at night before I go to bed has made sleeping and walking easier, less pain, less waking up.  Except for the six times I get up to take a piss because my prostate's probably the size of a pomelo.  Love getting old.

Last weekend, the storm was brutal.  We got these big ass trees up here on the hill and I was waiting for one of them to come crashing down on the house.  The wind and rain relentless, I wouldn't have been surprised if the foundation uprooted and we went spinning into the sky...

So I'm grinding away on the elliptical, flipping through the stations, bouncing back between ESPN and NFL Network, listening to the pundits talk about how Alex Smith has finally arrived and predicting the big game he's gonna have the next day, when I notice one of the basement walls looks like it's sweating.  Not gushing water, or even trickling, but you can clearly see where it's wet, spreading down the concrete. This is not good.  I call my wife to show her, and she's freaking out that it's going to cost a fortune, which gets me all worked up.  Which is not hard to do.  I was actually calm for once, thinking this sort of thing must happen all the time. Concrete is porous; it's gonna crack.  The house was built in 1961.  We spackle some shit on it or whatever and we'll be fine.  By the time she's done with me, she has me half convinced I'm going back to living under the freeway, eating roasted black swan stew.

On Monday, I call our fix-it guy, Mario, to see what we can do about it.  He comes over on his lunch break.  Won't be cheap, he says.  We're looking at close to 10K. Just fucking terrific.

I'm thinking, What the fuck?  I just bought this house and now there might be major structural damage?  Insurance isn't going to cover this.  A full-on gusher, maybe. But not this.  So I'm just going to have to wait until my walls start crumbling? Or shell out ten grand?  Why's this shit always have to happen to me?

Mario says he wants to check under the house, see if the wall is leaking elsewhere (he's guessing it is, hence the steep price tag). We have a crawl space where the hot water heater is, some old paint, a ladder.  I'm cursing under my breath as he crawls up in there.  And sure enough, more water. All along the edges.  We're going to have to reinforce the entire western front.

"You smell that?" Mario asks.

"Smell what?"

"Smells like...gas."

All the drugs I snorted years ago robbed me of (most of) my sense of smell.  I can't smell jack.  Fucking deviated septum.  I spend hours in that basement, never smelled a damn thing.

He asks me to get some Windex, and then he starts spraying around the hot water heater, which was newly installed when we moved in.  He hits one of the valves and it starts bubbling like crazy.  Gas leak.  Even if I hadn't abused cocaine, I never would've thought to spray Windex to find a gas leak.  I'm just not wired that way.

"This is really bad," Mario says, grabbing his wrench.  "Whoever installed this didn't tighten the valve.  If these things are tightened properly, they are designed to never loosen."  He smiles.  "No worries.  I fix."

Mario hopped down.  "That was as bad a gas leak as I've ever seen.  I'm surprised there wasn't an explosion or a fire."

That heater was installed almost a year ago.  Who knows how long it'd been leaking, or the next time I'd have a buddy over who still smokes.  All it would've taken would've been one little spark.

And if it hadn't stormed so hard last weekend, if the concrete hadn't cracked and my walls weren't leaking, I might never have known until it was too late.

*

I don't believe in coincidences.  That Pink Floyd tune synching to the Wizard of Oz scene is some freaky shit, man.  If you've never tried it, you should check it out. Trippy.  Like the track "Money" kicks in right when the movie switches over to color and the streets turn gold.  I don't think Gilmour and Co. sat down and watched WoZ when they were recording Dark Side, but the cohesion is downright eerie.  And I watched that shit stone cold.  I can't explain it.  It's sorta like the opening to Magnolia.  (You can skip to the 2 minute mark.)  A series of events on a string. Like Schrodinger's cat.

So many years have gone by since my old drug life.  I don't feel it any more.  I can remember some of it, a choice detail here or there, but the bone-ache, gut scrap that once haunted my nightmares, I don't feel.  They are nothing but snapshots, a clipped scene culled from an old movie or book I came across a long time ago. Still, I often ask why.  Especially when I start getting misty over all the years I missed. This hurts a lot when I look at my boy and think of my mom.  She would've loved nothing more than to meet Holden.  But she died before I could get my shit together.  I kick myself, wondering why I couldn't have sobered up faster, at least given her a few years with him.  I knew she was dying, and I tried (oh, dear God, how I tried).  But I was too late.  Why did it have to happen the way it did?

I don't know the answer.  And it's OK that I don't.  It's one of the things that tripped me up in the first place, this pressing need for an answer.  It's why I denied God (or whatever you want to call it).  I used logic and the sum of my vast experience and knowledge and tried to force a picture.  And that might've worked if I had 99 out of 100 pieces. But what if I only had 3 of a thousand?  Six hundred and forty seven million? Pretty distorted view.  It's one of the nice parts of getting sober.  There is no burning need to figure it all out, the whys and hows.  Better yet, you learn not to force your will on the world.  Lord knows, I am not an AAer, but I like their bumper stickers. At first I laughed at "Let Go, Let God."  OK.  I still laugh at it.  But it doesn't make it any less true.  God.  The Universe.  Mother Fucking Nature.  The Collective Unconscious.  Whatever It is.  It's like the old joke.  I've learned two things.  1.) There is a God.  And 2.) I ain't Him.

Really, I'm not getting Holy Roller on you, promise.  But there is a relief, especially when you are an obsessively compulsive mutherfucker, when you accept you don't have all the answers.

Or to quote the old MTV ad.  "What do you do when you are 26 (or 41) and realize you're not meant to save the world?"

Generally don't post on Fridays, and certainly not this late in the day, since the Internet pretty much closes for the weekend, or so I am told by fellow blogger Greg Kim.  But a couple reasons I write.  1.) I was contacted by a former classmate in Miami, who has asked if I will appear via Skype for the writing class she is now teaching re: blog writing.  It's funny to me that she thought she had to ask.  I've been pretty clear about my willingness to appear in any and all forums to promote my singular agenda: taking over the world getting publishers to notice me.  My pimping knows no bounds.  The topic she would like me to discuss with her class concerns writing in exile (i.e., living among the fray and fringed).  Good topic.  I've always felt marginalized.  Or as marginalized as a good looking, well-off, white guy can be.  Marginalization is a state of mind, a lifestyle, a decision to build walls high on your hill, where you are safe from those who wish to do you harm.  Even if these enemies are entirely manufactured and the result of what your doctor calls "delusions."

But the other thing that caught my eye was this, which is trending high on Yahoo News, the only reliable news source (http://tinyurl.com/d26otq).

Internet Addiction

SIGNS, SYMPTOMS, TREATMENT, AND SELF-HELP

Risk factors for Internet addiction and computer addiction

You are at greater risk of Internet addiction if:

• You suffer from anxiety. You may use the Internet to distract yourself from your worries and fears. An anxiety disorder like obsessive-compulsive disorder may also contribute to excessive email checking and compulsive Internet use.
• You are depressed. The Internet can be an escape from feelings of depression, but too much time online can make things worse. Internet addiction further contributes to stress, isolation and loneliness.
• You have any other addictions. Many Internet addicts suffer from other addictions, such as drugs, alcohol, gambling, and sex.
• You lack social support. Internet addicts often use social networking sites, instant messaging, or online gaming as a safe way of establishing new relationships and more confidently relating to others.
• You’re an unhappy teenager. You might be wondering where you fit in and the Internet could feel more comfortable than real-life friends.
• You are less mobile or socially active than you once were. For example, you may be coping with a new disability that limits your ability to drive. Or you may be parenting very young children, which can make it hard to leave the house or connect with old friends.
• You are stressed. While some people use the Internet to relieve stress, it can have a counterproductive effect. The longer you spend online, the higher your stress levels will be.

How do people become addicted to the Internet?

To relieve unpleasant and overwhelming feelings

Many people turn to the Internet in order to manage unpleasant feelings such as stress, loneliness, depression, and anxiety. When you have a bad day and are looking for a way to escape your problems or to quickly relieve stress or self-soothe, the Internet can be an easily accessible outlet. Losing yourself online can temporarily make feelings such as loneliness, stress, anxiety, depression, and boredom evaporate into thin air. As much comfort as the Internet can provide, though, it’s important to remember that there are healthier (and more effective) ways to keep difficult feelings in check. These may include exercising, meditating, using sensory relaxation strategies, and practicing simple breathing exercises.

For many people, an important aspect of overcoming Internet and computer addiction is to find alternate ways to handle these difficult feelings. Even when your Internet use is back to healthy levels, the painful and unpleasant feelings that may have prompted you to engage in unhealthy Internet use in the past will remain. So, it’s worth spending some time thinking about the different ways you intend to deal with stressful situations and the daily irritations that would normally have you logging on.

Whenever people hear I used to be a junkie, I almost invariably hear a variation of the following:  "Never did hard drugs.  Used to smoke cigarettes though.  Which I hear is harder to quit than heroin."  Like it's a pissing contest or something.  No, no it's not.  Quitting smoking is removing a splinter to kicking dope's Chlamydia test. To quote Jules, they ain't in the same fucking ballpark; they ain't even the same fucking sport.

Took me a while to figure out why people always say that, or why they will introduce some other element of having been addicted to something.  There is no glamour, no glory in being addicted to anything, and being addicted to drugs is about as low as a man can sink.  You do awful, awful things that you will be ashamed of for the rest of your life when you are an addict.  You allow yourself to be humiliated and relegated to a second-class citizen, and will seriously do just about anything for a fix.  There are great number of addiction stereotypes that aren't true, like you don't make any real friends while you are using, or you'll never have a high as good as your first. But that one is true.  If you are one of the lucky/blessed ones to get clean, you will have a lifetime of memories to look back upon and cringe endlessly over.

So why is everyone in such as race to compare dick size?  The word "junkie" gets dropped so casually, attached to everything from "pop culture" to "fashion."  Way back I received some hate mail (http://tinyurl.com/3z9ny4w), and if you read that letter you'll infer the same twisted logic.  I don't want to say "jealousy" because only a brain-dead turd could possibly envy someone giving handjobs for nickel backs behind the Gas 'n' Go, but it's not that far off.

When I hear about stuff like "Internet Addiction," I have the same reaction, as though there is pride in affliction ("Ooh, me too, me too!").  You can spend too much time online, sure, and if you look at those high risk categories, I am pleading fucking guilty, right down to the "moody teenager" defense. But "addicted"?  It reminds me of Bob Saget at the AA meeting in Half Baked.

Some doctors say it's hard to define addiction.  But I think the "I sucked a dick for it" is a pretty good barometer, whether figuratively or literally (and, no, I never got that bad.  I was about...a...week...away).

That's probably enough for today.  Besides I haven't checked my e-mail in seven minutes.  And I might've missed that acceptance letter from Norton!

Teen Angst

Rock critic Gina Arnold once wrote that Cracker couldn't hold a candle to Camper Von Beethoven.  I disagree.  I like Cracker more than Camper, even if Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart might be one of the greatest ten records ever made.  It's the same rationale I apply when I say I'd take Dave Gilmour over Roger Waters, even if you compare their two best solo efforts, About Face and Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking, which Roger wins, hands down, despite About Face being a damn fine record.  About Face is terrific; Pros and Cons is a masterpiece.  I'll take the body of work of Cracker over Camper.  Not to mention, Camper simply didn't possess the pop sensibility of David Lowery's second band, and in particular that of one perfect pop nugget, "Teen Angst."

Always liked that term, teen angst, since it so deftly encapsulates everything I stand for.  I wrote earlier in the week how I think I'll be able to avoid that teenage rite of passage with my boy, Holden, his hating me in his teenage years, since I never really matured past the age of 16 myself.  "Teen angst" explains so many of my problems away.  There comes a time in one's consciousness, which usually coincides with the onset of balls dropping (or whatever the fuck happens to girls, which I don't understand; they are a mystery to me), where we start to recognize a certain hypocrisy governing the action of adults.  The priests who have been preaching sermons turn out to have been diddling little boys.  The politicians chastising gay marriage are discovered boning their pages.  It's across the board, a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do mentality that suddenly is exposed as fraudulent, disingenuous, corrupt and dishonest.  Teenage years offer no perspective of course, just the realization, which is a dangerous combination.  There are no extenuating circumstances.  Just black.  And white.  Which fills you will ire and rage.  Because you know you are right.

You get older, and, well, those shades soften.  It becomes harder to hold a grudge against your father when you become a father yourself, and you are, once again, fighting about the gas bill, having not received a credible blow job in three months. You recognize that everyone, in a sense, is doing the best with what they have, however piss poor the results.  And you are forced to let go of the some of the fist raised to the sky rhetoric.  Which, honestly, gets exhausting.  Not that these things aren't wrong anymore; you simply learn, to quote Billy Joel, that just surviving is a noble fight.

Could've gone with young Billy, but like Pete Townshend's "I hope I die before I get old" lyric, there is an intriguing juxtaposition that occurs with the later-day artist still railing against the system.  Except Billy isn't exactly railing any more. Regardless of whether you like Billy Joel (and I am pretty sure most of the people reading this will fall into the "fuck no" category), you have to appreciate the...honesty (it's such a lonely word.  sorry)...in his basically pulling up self-righteous stakes and saying, "Hey, I've got money now. Good luck with that whole 'taking on the man' thing.  I'll be over here paying someone to polish my 86 pairs of really expensive shoes." Which appeals to me, for obvious reasons, even if Billy Joel will always be as lame, at least to the hipster, indie set, as a one-legged biblical leper on roller skates.

Now I don't know what Billy Joel, or Pete Townshend, think about privately, if they still clench their fist and hold it up high.  They seem like grown-ups to me, though. Maybe that's just because they are bald, and all bald people seem like grown-ups to me.  You can't see what's inside another, and when it comes to fading rock stars who are still prancing and singing about getting some at 60, you can either believe it's sincere or that it's an act.  I take it at face value, because that is what rock 'n' roll is all about, after all. Even if Meatloaf changed his lyrics to reflect a shift in the conventional paradigm, I still want to believe in sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll.

Only that is a young man's fight.  Partying too hard in your 20s?  Somewhat cool. In your 30s?  Not so much.  And in your 40s?  You're a pariah who doesn't get invited to Thanksgiving dinners and who has really bad teeth.  And you really don't want to neglect your gums.  Nothing is as unattractive as someone who has neglected his or her teeth and credit score.

They say the number one treatment option for drug addiction isn't AA, or religion, or any of the myriad fringe theories like Rational Recovery or Moderation Management; it's maturing out of it.  You simply grow up.  Which I guess is what I did.  I certainly didn't do AA, whose rigid, dogmatic, my-way-or-the-highway approach gave me a terrific pain in the ass.  I have a lot of good friends in AA (or as good of friends as I can have.)  And there is always an undercurrent implication that part of my, shall we say, miserable disposition is attributable to my not working the steps and addressing my character defects.

I, however, would pin that one squarely on the shoulders of teen angst.  Yes, I am still angry about politicians blowing their pages and all the phony bastard, talking heads who've lost touch with their younger selves, even if the mere thought is somewhat laughable when it comes from a 41-year-old, home-owning dad who is in the process of refinancing (what can I do?  These interest rates are insanely low!).

It becomes the lesser of two evils, which one do I find less objectionable: a man my age who still listens to Blink 182, or a cop pepper-spraying the shit out of college kids sitting on the ground?  Or to quote Johnny Cougar (Mellencamp), growing up means growing old and that means dying, and dying to me don't sound like all that much fun.

And I know my case might be made a little stronger were I to select less shitty musical examples.  But I am a pop guy.  I make no apologies for that.

It's what you identify with.  I never left blue jeans and white tee shirts.  I never put away Catcher in the Rye.  I never learned to incorporate tempered expectations with a "that's just the way it is" mentality.  Too much old school Old Testament still in me I guess.  Righteous anger and all that.  (What you rebelling against?  What you got?) I am the other side now.  I can't tack up James Dean posters to my walls any more, because once you get out of college, you can't tack up posters; they need frames.

Then again, maybe it isn't about an age, the physical years worn on a body, and it is all about a state of mind, however juvenile.  Instead of viewing this perpetual adolescence as a character flaw, perhaps it should be embraced.  That first glimpse of right and wrong is habit forming, the outrage of injustice, from bankers and insurance companies stealing your money to your old man tell you not to smoke when, yes, that hypocrite smokes two packs a day (or rather, he used to, until the cancer got him).  Because I'll always believe if you take a look around and aren't at least slightly pissed off, then you aren't awake, and if you ain't awake, then you're dead.  And Johnny Cougar is right.  Dying to me don't sound like all that much fun.

They Don't Know Nothing about Recovery

When I was in Miami, I had a band, briefly.  We never got around to even naming the damn thing, that's how short we were together.  But we didn't sound half bad.  It was my first band since climbing on that wagon.  This was one of the songs we covered.

It's a pretty standard take on the classic junkie tale, but it has a catchy beat and clever lyrics, and I love the energy and pop/punkish qualities.  I especially like the chorus:

                       They don't know nothing about redemption /
                       They don't know nothing about recovery...

I really hate the term "recovery" (recovering from what?  Cancer?  Being a dumbass?  From having dug yourself a hole and climbing out?).  But here, for whatever reason, I embrace it.  Maybe it's singer Tom Gabel's impassioned delivery, the way he makes it seem like he owns the word, like there's some real urgency behind it.  Usually, the word feels like a wet noodle, an all-encompassing, perfunctory catchphrase for a new healthy and positive club that's replaced the old unhealthy and negative one.  I never felt part of that club.  I have certainly used the expression, but I always feel like a phony when I do, like a devout atheist attending Midnight Mass to make his new mother-in-law happy, or wearing vintage '80s T-shirts with ironical facial hair.

The Litquake festival http://www.litquake.org/ is underway in San Francisco, 8 whole days where it truly feels like books and writing matter.  My reading series, Lip Service West, will be part of the Lit Crawl this Saturday.  I'm sure I will be bombarding you all with more details in the coming days.

It's hard to get out to readings these days.  Finding babysitting for my own gig (and, yes, I will be reading at the LSW event, though I still don't have any idea what) was tough enough.  With Justine in grad school and working extra shows as a faerie, finding a babysitter to buy a couple hours so I can go to someone else's reading is too much work.  But I wanted to go to tonight's event.

Tom Pitts, ex-junkie and former running partner (who will also be reading this Saturday night for LSW), called me the other day and asked me if I wanted to go. I don't leave the house for many people; I'll leave it for Tom.  "Re Write: An Evening of Prose from Writers in Recovery" did seem pretty apropos.  Plus, the night was being sponsored by several publishers who specialize in the field of the junkie memoir.  I figured I'd...schmooze.

And of course I didn't schmooze.  Because I am a social retard.  The world of addiction and recovery is pretty incestuous; everyone knows everyone, especially when a lot of the smarter addicts and drunks who kick the habit turn to writing about it.  I am friends, or at least acquainted, with many of the readers who read last night.  Like Wendy Merrill, who has read for Lip Service West in the past, and the always hilarious Bucky Sinister, who I've met a half dozen times, but who like Jim Hall, still has no idea who I am (http://tinyurl.com/43hxr6u).  Tim Elhaji also read.  I never met him, but Tim recently published one of Tom's stories.  Unfortunately, I missed his reading, which I hear was excellent, because Holden wouldn't let me pass him off to the babysitter, clinging to me, little tears filling his eyes, crying Da Da...  What kind of heartless bastard isn't melting over that?  Cutest goddamn thing the way he'll hold onto you when he wants you (conversely, there are many times when Mama is holding him when he'll just push me away).

There were a few more readers I didn't know, but the evening closed with my friend Alan Kaufman (who may not have recognized me either.  I think I need to get out more).  Alan's new memoir Drunken Angel comes out in November.  Alan is one of the most gracious writers I know, and was kind enough to blurb my memoir, Junkie Love.  The guy has repeatedly gone out of his way to help my career, and if something ever breaks for me, I will owe him a great deal.  The very least I can do is plug his first memoir Jew Boy and his remarkable (fictional) account of his days in the Israeli Army, Matches.  The mutherfucker can flat out write.

The memoir--my memoir--was why I was there, in part.  I mean, I wanted to hear Alan, and it was nice to actually go out at night with a friend, even if it was just to a reading.  But I, too, have a memoir, and a career I want, and I was hoping to meet...someone.

But the shit really depressed the fuck out of me.  And I didn't have the heart to schmooze.

And I think it's that goddamn word.  Recovery.

All the writers drew heavily on AA rhetoric and dogma in their respective pieces. There was a time when I would bash AA any chance I could, mocking their reliance on a Higher Power, their subjection to the group/mob mentality.  It took me 18 rehabs before I got clean; and every time Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob were shoved down my throat, I revolted like this Bruce Springsteen song.

When they said sit down, I stood up.  (Which actually makes controlling me exceptionally easy.)

Every time I'd come back through those hospital doors, a little older, more beat up and ragged, missing shoes, no jacket in the dead of winter, a new court case hanging over my head, some new girl driving me nuts, blisters lining my lips, giant sores on my face that I tried covering up with pancake makeup, they'd say, I told you so.

"When are you going to realize, Joe, you can't beat this thing through will power alone?  When are you going to realize there is only one way out and that you can't do it on your own?"

Except I did do it on my own.  Took a fucklot of time.  But I dug in my heels and I did it...

I was very proud of that.  I saw it as I somehow had fought the good fight and won. Except no one had ever been fighting back.  All these counselors and 12-Steppers were just trying to help an addict who needed guidance (and a firm hand), and say what you want, but AA (NA) fucking works.  I was an idiot to fight it the way I did, especially when you consider that my biggest sticking point was my refusal to believe in God (and all that Higher Power stuff is nice; but it's a Christian program. You close meetings with the Lord's Prayer, it's a Christian program).  But I ended up backing off that claim, returning to the faith of my youth.  We were married at St. Marks.  My son was baptized there.  I write for the church newsletter.  And these days I actively practice much of the AA philosophy.  I just don't go to meetings, or have a sponsor, but I draw heavily on all those slogans I used to mock as trite before.

In the end, what does it matter?  I got here, too, regardless of the crooked path I took.  And despite knowing how foolishly I acted in rejecting AA, my tenacity of having to fall and fail on my own, there is still some satisfaction I glean from knowing I did it like Frank and the Boss.  But I also probably missed out on a lot too.  Not the least of which, I am still saddled with just a few "character defaults" that AA might've helped me get rid of.

I always thought of AA as brainwashing ("Well, maybe your brain could use a little washing...").  Of course it's not.  There is a great deal of breaking down to build back up, because your best thinking got you there, you can't be trusted as an authority on your own life, which is why I kept failing.  I do envy the look I see in the eyes of AA graduates, the peace and growth I know I lack.  But I am also still 100% me, and AAers will say that's the problem.  Admittedly, I am a miserable, angry bastard.  I can be petty, trite, violent, and temperamental.  And I can get sick of myself (like Jerry says on Seinfeld, "Just once I'd love to go somewhere without me...")  But who doesn't?  At least once in a while.

This is the path I chose.  I know there are people who may get tired of hearing about the drug stuff (believe me, I get tired writing about it).  But two events define my life: the addiction and the accident.  The one thing they have in common (besides my being incredibly stupid to have landed in the mess in the first place) is I powered my way out through hardheadedness and sheer will.  And I am glad I still have me--stubborn, ornery, donkey souled--to help me out.  'Cause I don't think the fight ends simply because you put down the bottle or spike.  It goes on and on and on...

And this guy can be a neurotic mess at times, especially when the heat is on, and he can act like an impetuous child when things don't go his way, but I can't think of any guy I'd rather have by my side when the chips are down.  Or rather when those walls spring up.  Because they will.  And it takes a certain kind of guy--call it stupidity or determination--who will bang his head hard enough and long enough to pave/carve/get his way.  Or he'll die trying.