A Few Words About Life and Free Will

We have all been endowed by our creator with many and various gifts.  Some of us have been born to power and fame; others to comfort and material riches.  Some others, born to modest circumstances, have been given extraordinary intelligence, grace or physical beauty.  To some few of us is given the gift of prophecy.

No matter what else we may have received, of the universal largesse, we all have been given two gifts beyond price–life itself, and free will.   In society, to reject a gift out of hand is generally regarded as ingrateful at best, churlish, puerile, and petulant at worst.  Yet many people either reject these gifts or fail to use and appreciate them fully.  Free will gives us the power to create the universe we inhabit.

For instance, if you decide for whatever reason to see the world as without purpose, and your life as  without value or meaning, that is how it shall be–for you.  If you see the world as I do–as filled with promise and meaning and beauty–that is how it shall be.  Am I being a Pollyanna here–have my bifocals somehow acquired a roseate tint?  I think not.

I know full well that there is much suffering and injustice in this world–which is there because of choices that people have made.  There is much hunger in Africa, for instance, because many of the powerful leaders there have chosen to enrich themselves and their cronies and ignore their responsibities to the people..  Closer to home, in the wake of Katrina, we are hearing more and more about how so much damage and suffering and death resulted from ill-advised decisions on the part of our elected government officials. On a personal level, every day of my life–without exception–is exactly as good or bad as I decide that it shall be.  And so it is for everyone else, whether or not they realize it.

However, it has become fashionable of late to see the world as full of victims.  The notion of accepting full personal responsibility for our lives and our actions is become as quaint and outmoded at the hoop shirt. I contend, however, that we are not so much victims as volunteers.  Take the woman who lives with an abusive drunk, and suffers–she  chose to live with the guy in the first place, and probably knew that he was a  violent drunk–and also, probably, either thought that she could change him, or that she did not deserve better.  Or look at the “victims” who died when their drunken driver wrecked the vehicle in which they –they chose to ride with the drunk in the first place.  And more and more lately, when I read about so-called “victims, who died when their vehicle was hit by a drunk driver– the news story mentions that they chose not to wear their selt belts.  Recently, some reckless teenagers died because they tried to use their canoe like a surfboard in heavy seas–and chose not to wear life jackets.

But what of people who were born defective?  Like maybe, blind and deaf–how about Helen Keller–she managed to create a rich and full life for herself, despite her handicaps–or her being “differently abled,” as the PC police would have us call it.  And then there are the children born into horrible families, or in countries under the yokes of tyrants–I do not know with any certainty, but it may well be, that on their own soul’s journey, it was necessary for them to learn some hard and difficult lessons.  In the largest view, any difficulties we have on the earth plane become irrelevant in the face of eternity, the fact that along with life, we were given a thing called a soul, which is immortal and  beyond harm. Thus, at the highest metaphysical level, there is no such thing as good or evil–these are merely more manifestations of the dualistic fallacy, and at best are convenient labels to indicate that which we do, or do not, approve of.

Still, it may be that blind chance plays a role in our lives–it surely is a vital  factor at the quantum level–at the macro level, the one which we inhabit, I am agnostic.  There are quantum solipsists who maintain that everything that happens in this universe, has to happen here–if for no other reason that it isn’t happening anywhere else.  While I do subscribe to the parallel or multiple universe idea–having seen a few of them–I am not a solipsist–at least, the version of me that inhabits this particularl local universe isn’t.

 I do  know–I do not believe, I know, just as surely as a know what I had for breakfast this morning–that our ultimate purpose in life is to grow spiritually, and  to manifest in the flesh that which our creater could not manifest in spirit.  Fortunately, our creator was not stingy, limiting us to a single life.  We take as many lifetimes as we need in order to grow into spiritual perfection, which I define as attaining the ability to manifest unconditional love for all things and at all times, and to  fully transcend fear. 

Why the 12 Steps Don’t Work: Some AA/NA Heresy

I have been in and out of 12 Step groups since the seventies; spent time in the eighties as an AA whiz kid, doing numerous news articles and media  interviews on the glories of sobriety and rubbing elbows (NOT bending them) with some of the then biggest names in the field–Luceille Fleming, Claudia Black, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, and Rick Esterly, to name a few.  The whole time, I continued to not only smoke dope, but also sell the stuff–after all, I was a good AA member–alcohol was the only drug that mattered.  Anyway, it has not been until fairly recently that I began a real recovery, a key part of which has been transcending the AA programming which had been holding me back.

Take the 12 Steps–please.  They are parroted like gospel; many treatment centers require the inmates to “work” them;  AA true believers insist that “doing the steps” is essential to recovery.  Why then, do so many folks who faithfully work the steps, suit up and show up at meetings, get a sponsor, et cetera et cetera et cetera, ad infinitum ad nauseum–and still go out and get loaded.  For one thing, the 12 Steps are–like the book of Deutronomy–largely a pious hoax.  As written, most of them are either impossible to genuinely carry out, or so subject to misinterpretation or downright ambiguous as to be virtually meaningless and valueless.

Here I intend to look at two of the most egregious, steps Eight and Nine.

“Step 8.  We made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.”  Sounds good.  Also pretty grandiose–grandiosity seems to come naturally to addicts–and totally unrealistic–reality seems not to come naturally to addicts.  Now here is why it does not and can not work in the real world.

The big reason–a thing called the black-out.  Many drugs–alcohol chief among them–causes a condition known as a black-out, in which the person may seem to be conscious and alert, may not even seem to be particularly impaired, but during which time he or she will have no recollection–no memory whatsoever–of what he or she had done.  For instance, I was at a Mensa convention in Connecticut once–Sunday started with a champagne brunch and continued to a wine and cheese cruise in the harbor–by the time I left (late afternoon), I was so loaded I couldn’t walk, and had to be helped into my car for the long drive home.  I vaguely remember stopping at a liquor store for a bottle of scotch, and stopping at a Howard Johnson’s on the Pennsylvanai Tunrpike for some sodas, but when I got home in Harrisburg, pulled up in front of my town house, I remember starting and thinking “Holy shit!  I’m home.” 

To this day, I have no idea what I may have done during that drive–I may have run a vanload of nuns off the damn road, for all I know.  I do know that I have been in public in blackouts so many times, there is no way I could possibly know what I did and who I did it to.  I may have robbed and killed for all I know.  I do know that that one incident made it quite impossible for me to even come close to working an Eighth Step.  And any reasonably sane and honest recovering person will have to concede much the same thing.

Another thing–many people get into AA rather late in life–at least the founders did.  I contend there is no way one could begin to remember “all persons” they had harmed, even if one’s memory had not been impaired.  Granted, many people do write down wehat they remember, and probably get some value, some shoring-up of their damaged self-esteem, at least.  But they are NOT working the Step as written.

“Step 9.  We made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”  Again, this sounds good.  Addicts are real good at sounding good.  But in reality, this can scarcely be done, except in a relatively trival way.  Say you stole $100 from someone and blew it on booze or some other drug.  Fine, you could track them down and return the $100, plus nterest.  But how do you repay them for the sense of violation and loss of trust that theft almost inevitably entails?  You don’t–because you can’t!

Still another thing that sounds good but doesn’t work–that “injure them or others” clause. That is a fine way for a recovering person to get off the hook–anyone can decide–especially with the collusion of a sponsor–that attempting to make any given amends could somehow be injurious, and hence they are absolved. There are precious few recovering people who can read minds.  We have no idea, can have no idea, what may or may not “injure others.”  This is merely more divorcement from reality, more grandiosity.  On many occasions, when an earnest 12 Stepper approaches someone he or she has wronged, the “wronged” person has no recollection of the alleged wrong, and leaves  the encounter feeling puzzled, annoyed and distracted.  On other occasions, it is harmful for the “wronged” merely to have the old incident, the old injury dredged up and thrown into his or her face –  again.  But the recovering addict is now free to blithly go his or her way, serene in the knowledge that he or she at least tried to work another step–never mind that it may well have involved stepping on another person’s face!

One final note–I have observed that addicts are way more prone to NPD–Narcissistic Personality Disorder–than are members of the general population.  Getting into a detailled description of NPD is not appropriate here–suffice it to say, one prime symptom is a pathological need for attention–another is the inappropriate disclosing of one’s personal life, usually to people who have zero interest in same; a third is being manipulative.  What could be better for the NPD case, then, than tracking down people they have screwed over, demanding their attention, bringing up old offenses, and then proclaiming their willingness to “make amends.” It is like giving a kleptomaniac a license to steal.

Days of Whine and Neuroses

T. S. Eliot wrote that April is the cruellest month.  He would have known better had he lived in Alaska–the cruellest month is September.  September is sort of a nothing month–technically, it is still summer, mostly, but the fireweed has bloomed out, the leaves are turning–it is too cold for a t-shirt, too warm for long johns.  September is just sort of a bumper-guard of a month, whose main purpose is to keep the two best months of the year from slamming into each other.

September is the leanest month.  Summer sales are way down, and today is the last day of the Wasilla Farmer’s Market, usually my best  sales day of the week, the one when I am most likely to make some credit card sales–and Wells Fargo charges a hefty fee each month whether or not I make any credit card sales.  Most of my customers at the flats don’t even have a drivers license, much less a credit card.  And it was drizzling this morning at my place, and the streets are wet here, so the last Market may yet be rained out.  As I write, it is slated to open to the public in two hours. We’ll see.

Another  thing about September, it is SuSu’s birthday month.  I have a lousy track record with presents, about which she has written well and at great length.  This month, I lucked out, however–she liked her gift, blogged about it, said some of her female readers were “green with envy.”  Still, she had said that she wanted to go to a motel overnight, so she could soak in a tub–I mumbled something evasive and noncommittal in reply.  I would dearly love for us to go to Whittier for the 26-glacier cruise, plus a motel stay  overnight– but that would cost around $500, more than my net earnings this month so far.  I finally paid off the car I got early this summer, now I can start paying off a huge credit card bill.  Sigh.

I notice that lately I have sighing deeply a lot, followed by a quiet but heartfelt, “Well, fuck.”

Not that this has been a surprise.  I knew it was coming.  Then again, they knew Katrina was coming.  Fat lot of good it did most of them. . . .  September is always lean, it is just a lot leaner than usual this year.

Then there’s the dental thing.  Few weeks ago, I was munching on some most excellant salmon fillet, broke off a big hunk of molar.  Since our clinic offers dental services now, I made an appointment.  It seems that several of my molars are fractured so badly they could break any time.  Now when I chew anything harder than, say, a raisin, I wonder if I’ll break another tooth. The dentist said I should have them crowned, which is out of the question. I also need to have a really bad one pulled.  As it is, I am slated for about $1500 worth of dental work–luckily, being poor and at the bottom end of their sliding scale, I’ll only pay about $150.  Still, it’s a lot of money.   Now I’m starting to chew with my front teeth, I  look like some  immense demented rodent.

What is even worse about this whole thing is that I  can’t just feel bad and be done with it–I feel bad about feeling bad. I keep telling myself that I should be above this sort of fear-based nonsense.  I should be able to transcend these negative emotions.  I keep shoulding all over myself.

I know beyond any doubt that God has not carried me this far just to let me down now. 

I know that God will not lay on me more than I can handle–but sometimes, I just wish He didn’t have so damn much confidence in me!

It’s an Ill Wind. . . .No, Not Katrina

SuSu recently wrote movingly about a recent incident at the flats, in which some ne’er-do-wells absconded and left behind a shitload of clothing and such.  And I use the word “shitload” advisedly–one of the bags I got out of the dumpster was indeed replete with domesticated primate feces.  As I was going through the sorry collection of stuff, I kept thinking, we need a better class of losers here so I can scrounge better stuff.  I also gave thanks repeatedly that I am free of the  human trait known as empathy–otherwise I would have found the experience profoundly depressing.

Still, I kept thinking of the children who had to leave behind their toys and little personal items and clothing.  It’s not like they had a choice of parents–they never thought, hey, I want parents who are drug-addicted, shiftless white trash!  Okay, maybe some of the adults were  victims themselves, maybe they did in fact have precious little choice of circumstances–but I doubt it.  They are here because they made stupid, ill-considered, and probably drug-fueled decisions.  But it really sucks that the kids have to suffer–I don’t like children and  the less I have to do with any of them the better I like it–but I hate to see them abused.

But enough of this mellerdrama.  What is, is–and the powerless, of any age, have always suffered at the hands of the relatively powerful, they always will, and all the tears and hand-wringing in the world will not change that.  On to the good stuff, the stuff that made me glad I spent the time and energy scrounging.

I don’t know what all Kathy got out of the pile for herself.  There was a hand-held SEGA video game thingie with a game cartridge in it. There were two game controllers that Doug could maybe use someday, and a JVC VCR that might be made to work–it needs cords.  There was a pair of pretty good hiking boots that might fit him–I hope so, he needs footgear.  (And since my gross earnings for the last four days came to exactly $26.43, I am not about to be taking him to Footlocker any time soon. As I write, I am mostly  wearing clothing I got out of the dumpster myself–a ripped Alaska t-shirt and OD green Dockers cargo pants.)

 For openers, I got one of those handy hanging wire-mesh  basket sets–right now, it is dangling from a nail in the ceiling, holding a bunch of videos.  I hope the cats don’t discover it.  I got a few little odds and ends, like a brush I can use to groom the cats , a neat plastic caliper ruler thing, 47 cents in cash, and a mostly unused stick of Right Guard anti-perspirant which  went into my shower pack.

On to bigger and better–I got a 35mm Olympus camera, film in it, and a spare roll–it works, I don’t know how well.  I got a SONY  AM-FM Walkman which also works, and a Magnavox CD player that works better than the one I splurged $2 on at a yard sale. There was a cassette tape of some great easy listening jazz, which is in my car stereo right now. I got  the soundtracks on CD from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical episode and Dirty Dancing.  I got upwards of twenty VHS tapes–I haven’t checked them all, but the titles that play include Limbo (the John Sayles cult film), Robot Monster (a fifties cult film, in B&W three-D), Bloodsport, Finding Nemo, and Lemony Snicket.

Finally, one little item which shows to me what an awesome sense of humor the Dumpster Deva has.  Back when I was rich, I had a whole shelf in the bathroom full of expensive cologne and after-shave (now I don’t even have a fucking bathroom, and I haven’t shaved  in almost twenty years–but I digress!)–stuff like Royall Spyce, Geoffrey Beane’s Gray Flannel, and my favorite–Drakkar Noir. Well, I found a little tiny (5ml!) bottle of Drakkar Noir.  I smell like it now.

It makes a nice change from the Tommy Hilfiger I found earlier this summer in the same dumpster!

Updates on cats, and ‘ Flats!

Okay, here’s the good news–Hohner is back!  YAY!!!!  My best buddy, the big black and white guy who went missing a week ago showed up on the porch night before last.  He came in the cabin, chowed down (the kittens seemed real glad to see him, rubbed up against him), then took off again, after getting lotsa pets and kind words.  He seems to be in a new phase, less affiliative than before–maybe he’s just going through some teenage feline stuff, who knows?  All I know is, I am soo glad he is okay. Dingus is still missing, however.

Last night was a first for Frodo and Freaky–they stayed out all night, under the care of Frankie.  The others stayed indoors, slept at the foot of my bed.

Last night I saw Dave, the guy who was shot.  His arm is in a cast–the bullet nicked the bone, he said it was a miracle there was no nerve damage, but he is in good spirits.  He reiterated the story that Gene hit him first, then shot him–he said “Do you really think I’m stupid enough to hit a guy carrying a gun?”  I took that as a rhetorical question.  He added that another local businessman last year commented on the shooter’s temper,  and predicted he would shoot someone within a year.  According to Dave, the incident is still under investigation and charges may yet be filed against the shooter.  I hope so. According to an NA friend of mine who has a cop inlaw, the police believed it was self-defense, but added that if the situation had been reversed–if the Felony Flats resident had been the shooter and the prosperous local businessman the victim–Dave would be in jail now.

Meanwhile, Gene’s wife–Lady Macbeth–verbally ambushed me at her laundromet the other day when I went in for water, falsely accusing me of spreading rumors that gene was at fault.  I tried to tell her that I only talked about it to Ellie, a woman who works for her, and that I merely quoted a few people who were witnesses, or who had spoken to witnesses.  Her  tiny mind was made up, however, and did not want to be confused with facts. 

One of which  is, she is a pathetic, fear-ridden redneck bitch.

My search for another laundromat continues.

A Few Other Things I Love












These first three are Hohner.  I named him that because1) he was born in a box of knives (honer–get it?) and 2) when he was a wee kitten, he made sounds like a harmonica (a Hohner, arguably the most popular brand of mouth organ).  He haas gone missing, sadly–I have’t seen him for a week.  Kathy says he may just be out catting around, but since he and I bonded so strongly, I am not optomistic.







These are Peachy, who is Frankie’s son.  He and Hohner bonded strongly, too–and since Hohner has gone, Peachy has gotten more affiliative.



Peachy with Dingus, nee Dirty Dingus Mc Gee, the meanest kitten you’ll ever see.  Dingus has gone missing too, the same time Hohner did.

Frankie with new kittens.  From the left, there is Freaky Deaky (the mackeral tabby); Albion (the white one); Frodo (the grey-tip Siamese); Campbell (the –I forget what, it is so damn noisy in the library I can’t concentrate–dark one); New Jersey; and Randy on the end.




A little ball of cuteness–clockwise it would be Campbell, Randy, Albion, Frodo’s butt, New Jersey, and Freaky. BTW, Campbell has since found a new home with a cat-loving local woman.  I miss him, too.

A nice shot of Albion on the porch.




Frodo, perched on the sofa cushion I sleep on when Kathy stays over (she gets the bed, which is too small for both of us).



Randy, staring intently at nothing.

The Old Fart with Frodo, on the proch of our cabin–BTW, Kathy took this one and the preceding three–I took the rest with a conventional camera, she scanned the photos and put them here.  (Thanks, and a tip of the Greyfox fedora to the webmistress!)




My car.  I love it. I blogged about it, I dunno, three or four. times.  A 1991 Mazda MPV, it is the best car I ever owned.    Everything works, Pioneer sound system is awesome, big V-6 gets 23 mpg highway and goes like a goosed moose when I floor it,  it is comfortable and stable, and has amenities like a five-speed automatic tranny, cruise control, push-button four wheel drive, and so on. Paid $2500 for it early this summer, FINALLY paid the loan off recently.  Mine–it’s all mine, I tell you–moo hoo ha ha ha.

No clever finish this time.  Life is good.

Shoot-out at Felony Flats:  And I Was There

Okay, it wasn’t much of a shoot-out; only one shot was fired.  And I was not close enough to the action for the troopers to have interviewed me.  But here’s the story, to the best of my knowledge and recollection.

I was schmoozing with Mike the  landlord yesterday, and Beth  drove up and said her husband Gene had shot someone.   Beth and Gene are transplanted Texans, own the Lone Star Laundromat across the highway.  I am not huge fans of theirs–Beth gave me such a ration of shit one day when I told her that a dryer was malfunctioning that I looked for another laundromat; Gene  tried to dicker me way down on the price of a gun, then wanted to trade some gold nugget jewelry for it–this after I had repeatedly said the price was firm, and for cash.  Gene is not a man who takes no for an answer gracefully, copped an attitude when I told him for the fourth time I needed cash for the gun.  But I digress. . . .

He had shot Dave, one of the denizens of the flats.  Now Dave looks like Uncle Fester on a bad day–a huge, scary-looking dude with a shaved head, who subsists on SSI mental disability checks–he is a professional lunatic, in other words. I have never had any problems with him, but one of the other lunatics here did and started packing an old .38.  But Dave  stops by my stand and chats–he is always courteous and lucid–buys the odd item at times, and I get along with him all right–then again, I am a double Libra with buckets of charisma, and I can get along with almost anyone.

They had eighty-sixed Dave from the laundromat, for some reason.  I don’t know why, but I have been told that he has been really testy  lately over a drug deal that went bad and he lost $50.  The alleged seller was a member of AA, I might add.  (And I will, so there!)  Anyway, Gene and Beth drove over to Dave’s place for some reason, and fisticuffs ensued.  Beth said Dave threw the first punch; a less biased eye-witness said that Gene threw the first punch, and shot Dave after Dave hit him back.  Anyway. . . .

Dave had been helping out Mike, doing odd jobs and driving around an ambulance that was out of service–they used it as a utility truck. The vehicle was parked at the crime scene, Mike’s wife asked me if I would go and get it, as she couldn’t bear to see someone who had been shot.  I agreed, not knowing how bad the shooting had been, but expecting the worse–Gene packs a nine mm, and I assume he’s a good shot.

So I go striding up the hundred yards or so to the scene, fully expecting to have to rifle around in a corpse’s pants pockets to get the keys to the ambulance.  Much to my surprise, Dave was ambulatory and really angry, and bleeding from a flesh wound to the forearm.  Evidently, Gene had merely winged him–shit, guys have finished playing a football game with more severe injuries.  But since it was a gunshot wound, there was all this extra paperwork involved.

Anyway, Dave hands me the keys, and  I climb into the thing, noting with relief that it has an automatic tranny.  Fired it up, carefully turned the thing around, and manfully resisted the temptation to turn on the siren and the flashing lights!  Following instructions, I pulled it around behind the cabins near mine, locked all the doors, and handed the keys over to Mike.

Then the real ambulance arrives, lights and siren blazing, and  rushes Dave off to the hospital for a thousand-dollar Band-Aid.  Then the troopers started arriving.  Jesus, you would have thought a fucking riot had broken out, not a piddly-ass shooting!  Fully an hour after Dave was taken away (and Gene was arrested), there were still five trooper vehicles, including a K-9 unit complete with barking canine, on the scene.  The troopers were standing around with notebooks, conferring with each other and any one who would stand still, and looking officious and intimidating in their blues and vests.  Sigh.

Meanwhile, many of the folks in the hundreds of cars who drove by while all this was going on will now be clucking about the terrible people who live at Felony Flats, not knowing that it was one of the upstanding neighbors who was the felonious perpetrator, and  that one of the Flats residents was the victim!

Personal PS–I have often remarked that I am one lucky guy, and this was proven again yesterday.  I had taken the day off to go to Willow to pick up a knife shipment.  Shortly before the shooting occurred, I thought about opening my stand, which is located very close to the crime scene.  Had I done so, I would have been an eye-witness and would have had to be interviewed and most likely would have been called to testify at the trial, assuming there is one.

What’s more, it clouded up and started to drizzle around five.

Foiling the Urinal from Hell:  Circumventing Technology Gone Mad

I am not a complete Luddite–there is some technology I actually approve of.  For instance, after forty years of driving cars with stick shifts, I got one with automatic transmission.  And I recently got one of those neat atomic clock thingies that resets itself every day by picking up a signal from the cesium clock at Fort Collins, Colorado.  (Okay, it is supposed to do that–we are too far away to pick up the signal, I think, but it IS a really neat clock, plus it has an indoor-outdoor thermometer AND it tells the phase of the moon.  But I digress.)

Technology is a great servant, but a lousy master.  Take automated men’s rooms–please!  The one at the Big Lake library is the worst.  The faucets come on automaticlly–thus giving you no control over water temperature or flow rate.  The toilet flushes automatically–while I am still sitting on the damned thing.  And the urinal tends to run forever.

The other day, I went in and the damned urinal was not only flushing but gushing, all over the floor.  I notified the librarian, she moaned and rolled her eyes, said “Oh no–not again!”  So she rolled up her sleeves and went into the men’s room.  I don’t know what she did, but the next time I went in, the urinal was singing “Bicycle Built for Two.”

But I figured out how to beat the system.  Now, when I have to take a leak, I go into the handicapped stall, and stand well to the side of the bowl–the sensor doesn’t even know I’m there, hee hee.

Of course, I do have to wipe  a lot of piss off the floor when I’m done, but it is well worth the trouble.