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  • Aw, I miss ALL the fun!


    Early this afternoon, I got home from a shopping trip to town, the most excitement being that I found some bargains in vitamins and cat food.  As I get out of my car, my next-door neighbor stops by to tell me that the local gas station had been robbed that morning while I was out.


    The perp had been shot in the process, fled on foot, and had been hiding behind my cabin.  He was eventually apprehended.  I suspect that meth and/or alcohol was involved.  Competant robbers have getaway cars.


    It is probably just as well that I wasn’t home.  Macho dude that I am, I probably would have grabbed one of the four handguns I have in my cabin and apprehended the mutt myself, and might have shot him again.  (I really hate these clowns who give criminals a bad name.) 


    Then I would be giving a statement to the troopers right now, instead of just  blogging about it.


    Film at eleven.

  • Senate Votes to Rape ANWR


    I saw the headline in the paper today.  Ted Stevens and his rich corrupt cronies finally managed to beg, borrow and steal enough votes in the Senate to open up ANWR to oil drilling.  Thus some of the last pristine Arctic wilderness on the planet goes down the toilet, so that Joe Sixpack can drive his fucking SUV to Wal-mart for a pair of undershorts made in China.  I am disgusted, but not surprised.  Thus far throughout history, the domesticated primates who infest this planet have shown all the restraint of a drunk in a whorehouse with regards to wisely using the available resources.


    You know who’s really ticked off?  My grandfather, Red Eagle..  (Five-times great-grandfather, actually.)  He was one of the first radical Greens–wanted his tribe to eschew all European influences, even firearms, and go back to hunting with a bow and arrow.


    I got a flash from him this morning.  “There will be great sorrow.  The earth will not take this intrusion lightly,” he told me.  So don’t be surprised if the drilling is accompanied by loss of life, or if there are major storms and whatnot when the drilling starts.


     Historical note:  He and his followers, the Red Sticks, took on andy jackson (we traditionally lower-case his hated name, as a sign of contempt), and lost–but only because jackson coerced a bunch of Cherokees into fighting for him. 


    He rewarded them with the Trail of Tears.

  • Mysterious Major Mishap


    This morning around eight, three state troopers went zooming up the highway, light bars blazing and sirens screaming.  I figured that something fairly noteworthy had occurred, and I was right. At 9:30 am, I was headed for the library and saw all these flashing lights in the distance.  Turned out to be more than a dozen assorted emergency vehicles–ambulances and fire company trucks and tow trucks in addition to maybe half a dozen police cars.  Someone was directing traffic through the parking lots of  roadside businesses, several hundred yards of highway having  been closed off to through traffic.


    I gawked as best I could, but could only glimpse what looked like a bundle of rags on the roadside and the remains of a small car–maybe half a car, really, both driver-side doors missing.  Sadly, I had missed the best parts, most of the mess having been cleaned up by the time I got there.


    I enjoy accidents, as long as I’m not involved.  I like the colorful flashing lights on the emergency vehicles, the gurneys and the jaws of life and all the other exotic paraphenalia,  the helmeted firefighters scurrying around, the troopers with their official clipboards, and ideally, the sight of  corpses and carnage and death and destruction in general.  It spices up the day–and in the words of Saint George Carlin, it is GREAT fucking entertainment.  Being blissfully free of annoying things like compassion and empathy (except when it comes to critters in general, and  cats in particular), I don’t really give a shit about the “victims.” 


    And as a rule, they are not so much victims as volunteers–almost without exception, every news story of a  fatal accident contains two phrases–”alcohol was involved” and “not wearing seat belts.”


    Film at eleven.

  • Car Clutter Reaches Critical mass: Violence Narrowly Averted

    When I got my fancy “new” (fifteen year-old) car, I was delighted to
    see it had a futuristic curved dashboard, totally useless for storing
    things on.  My old car’s dash was magnetic, it attracted so much
    stuff, I had a stuffalanche every time I went around a corner too
    fast.  So I figured, no more clutter problem.  Wrong!!!! So
    much stuff  has accumulated on the front seat that it cascades to
    the floor every time I hit the brakes.  The clutter has
    metasticized to the center console and back seat, and now has reached
    critical proportions.

    This became glaringly obvious today–I stopped off to feed the feral
    cats at my stand, and discovered that the large plastic mug I scoop the
    kibble with had disapperared in the clutter.  I was on the
    verge of screaming and just throwing out on the ground a few things
    like three large empty pizza boxes, a three by ten foot sheet of
    Visqueen, cassette tapes,  five  knives, dirty laundry, paper
    towels, VHS cassettes, a tube of Tommy Hilfiger hand cream (from the
    dumpster!), a small bottle of Drakkar Noir cologne (also FTD), a 
    book from the Palmer Public Library (also FTD–WTF?), several CDs,
    a can of touch-up paint, a box of Trioxane bars (that were SUPPOSED to
    go to Kathy), a large spray bottle of Windex (ALSO supposed to go to
    Kathy), a set of jumper cables, two empty water jugs,  seventeen
    plastic bags, and a partridge in a pear tree.  But reason
    prevailed–I merely resolved to clean out the mess at my earliest
    possible convenience, probably some time in the spring of 2012.

    What made it even more fun was finding that some of the stuff was wet and icy, meaning that something
    had leaked– and I still don’t know what.  So I was  not
     a happy camper when I got to the gas station, and found that the
    pumps I generally use were useless, out of service.  As addicts
    tend to be, I am a creature of habit–now, habit serves me–makes
    things easier to remember. So I found other pumps, and went in to
    pre-pay.  God,  I miss the old days–you drove your LaSalle
    into a real service station, a neatly-uniformed man would come out,
    fill your tank, clean your windows, check the oil and tires, and give
    you a free ceramic coffee mug if you got a fill-up–of gas that cost 35
    cents a gallon.  Sigh.  But I digress.  I handed over
    $40, asked the counter clerk  if the air hose had been
    repaired–it was out of service the last time I was there, and I have
    slow leaks in two of my tires.    The clerk, a
    vacuous blonde, said she didn’t know..  Well, hell, why should
    she, the ignorant bitch only WORKS there. . . . I stomped around to the back–yep, still out of service. Rats!

    The car “only” took $35.29, so I go back in for my change. 
    “Are you here for your change?” she asks.  Well, duh, I
    thought.  “We’re not giving change back today, we’re keeping it,”
    she giggled, exchanging a conspiratorial look with the  fattie at
    the other register.  I wanted to say “Don’t fuck with me, girlie,
    I am armed and in a bad mood”–actually,  I  really
    wanted to just  shoot her and be done with it.   I
    couldn’t think of the word “mood,” anyway. After lengthy
    negotiations, I finally got my lousy $4.71, and  said “By the way,
    if anyone else asks, the air hose is STILL useless,” and walked out.

    I wonder when moron season opens, I really need to get my license this year.

  • Senior Moment?  Senior Days!

    An old joke–”Of all the things I’ve
    lost, I miss my mind the most”–is assuming new and scary relevance
    lately.  Like yesterday–I am driving from Wasilla to Willow to
    pick up a knife shipment–a small town called Houston is roughly midway
    (really more like a wide spot on the road, but they d reduce the speed
    limit from 55 to 45 mph and they even have a cop) .  So I crest a
    hill, ready to slow down for the speed zone in Houston and –WTF!?!–I
    am in Willow.  I had somehow driven all the way through Houston
    without even noticing it.

    This morning, I am shopping for Kathy at
    Fred Meyer’s.  (Fred’s, for those of you who don’t know, is a big
    box store, kind of like Wal-mart, only with ethics.  That is, they
    do not exploit third world labor, violate child labor laws,
    discriminate against women, bust unions, hire illegal aliens, steal
    from their employes, or withhold health care benefits from new
    hires–this is how Wal-mart keeps their prices so low, in case you
    didn’t know.  Wal-mart is a festering pustule on the ass end of
    American business. But I digress.)  Anyway, if the store was
    any bigger, it would have its own ZIP code, and as I proceed back to
    Duct Tape County, I see a few shoppers sitting on the floor with a
    checked cloth spread out, enjoying the picnic lunch they had 
    packed to sustain them on their trip out of Groceryville.  A savvy
    shopper directed me to the off-ramp for  Duct Tape County, and I
    proceeded to rip one  package to smithereens to see if it met
    Kathy’s specs.  It didn’t, so I decided to shoot the works and
    get  honest-to-gawd, pro-grade  HVAC tape (it was on sale
    anyway– buy two, get one free).

    Anyway, after I passed through the
    security checkpoint where they examine your passport and get a DNA
    sample to make sure you aren’t Osama bin Laden or Martha Sewart or
    Michael Jackson, I did the rest of my shopping.  It was like
    aerobic shopping–I get through the frozen foods, go about a mile and a
    half to the cereal aisle, remember that I forgot to get frozen pizza,
    sprint back to the frozen food section, back tot he cereal, where I
    remember I forget to  get the the hearts of romaine she wanted
    when I was in Produce County, and so on and so on and so on.

    Thing is, I was exhausted this morning
    when I left the cabin–the cats got me up a few dozen times for no
    apparent reason in the early hours, and the bags under my eyes had
    morphed from the usual attache cases to a couple of two-suiters. 
    At last, I finished shopping.  I was so shocked at the total I
    didn’t use plastic, just gave them all the cash I had plus naming
    rights for my first-born son.  The joke was on them since I have a
    vasectomy.  Enjoyed cross-venting with the guy who went to the car
    with me to load the heavy stuff.

    On the way home, I happened to glance at
    the dashboard instruments and saw to my horror and chagrin that I was
    in second gear.  Forgetting that I wasn’t driving a stick shift, I
    hit the brake pedal hard with my left foot, thinking it was the
    clutch.  Luckily, the guy behind me was paying attention, and
    graciously refrained from rear-ending me
    .
    He even saluted.  And the poor guy, he was an amputee.

    He must have been, I only saw one finger.

  • Gun Show Report


    In brief, it sucked.  One, I lost money–between table rent, gas,  money I spent there, and wholesale costs of my merchandise, I spent a good bit more than I took in.  Two, the physical layout was not clement–the tables were placed so close together, I kept bumping into other boothies (and the barrels of the shotguns and Uzi’s and AK-47′s laying across the tables were all at crotch level–woopsie!).  Plus, the tables were laid out in a big U-shape, with no breaks other than the open, far end–which meant that every time I had to go to the men’s room–which was maybe fifteen yards away, I had to walk seventy.  And my damned disease was acting up so much, I could barely walk Sunday morning.  Oh, and one of the other dealers gave me a real good price on an off-brand .380 auto and a Heritage Arms .38 special snubbie and the feds screwed up the paperwork, so I couldn’t get them.  I could have sold the .380 for what I spent for both of them.


    Three thhings kept the show from being a total wash.  One, a boothie was selling trioxane bars (fire starters) that are invaluable to Kathy for getting her wood stove started–I bought him out–got 23 boxes of the things.  Two, the crystal dealer was there–the guy and his wife are money-hungry braggarts, always talking about this show or that show Outsude they went to on rock-buying trips, and they refuse to give dealer discounts, like almost all other dealers do. (They DO have some awesome stuff mixed in with the schlock).  But at the end of the show, they did consent to give me a 10% discount on an included quartz crystal, the likes of which I have never seen in my fifty years of messing around with rocks.  I’ll let Kathy describe it when she sees it, I’m sure she’ll do a better job.  Three, I finally found “my” gun, the perfect gun for which all others have been pale substitutes. ( My  .44 magnum Super Blackhawk is great for moose and bears, but  too big for everyday carry, and my .22 mag derringer is a good backup, but not sufficiently puissant for a main carry gun.) The firearm–drum roll, please–is a Smith and Wesson Airweight BodyGuard .38 special, a hammerless snub-nosed revolver.  The frame is some exotic aluminum alloy, so light you can comfortably wear it in an ankle holster.  It was $350, way more than I could afford.  But now I have something to shoot for.


    So to speak.


    And as always, it is  fun to mingle with other, um, arms merchants.  But all in all, this show did not have a favorable chicken salad to chicken shit ratio.


     

  • A Few Words About that Damned Disease


    SuSu has posted often, and movingly, about her challenges dealing with myalgic encephalomyelopathy/chronic fatigue immunodysfunction syndrome–aka fibro, aka that “damned disease.”  Well, it’s my turn.  I have the same thing only not so severely, and it has been a great blessing–otherwise, I would  have no sympathy for her.  Evidently, when God was handing out sympathy and empathy, I had gone out for a beer.  Usually, it is no problem, except for the odd late-night excruciating muscle spasms, the rare brain-fog, or the driving alone late night blurred vision thing.  Today, I have the cfis thing going in a big way.


    Yesterday was real busy–I had a dental appointment, which meant driving 150 miles or so to the clinic and back.  In the process I delivered a bunch of food and stuff to SuSu and son, picked up a bunch of stuff–including my winter tires, which meant I had to take a whole bunch of my merchandise out of the back of the car to make room for them.  On the way home, I dropped off some books for her at the local library, then went way out of my way to get a Water-pik, recommended by the hygienist.  I got home after seven, tired and wired.  Finally went down well after one–after dealing with a bunch of mail and whlesale catalogs and cats–got up early this morning to go into town to get the winter tires put on, so I could put the stuff back in the car.


    Thing is, with this disease, you really should get as much rest and sleep as you can, and I tend to sleep fitfully and wake up six or eight times a night anyway.  So today, I am running on two or three fewer hours of sleep than usual, and boy, do I feel it.  Like old Bilbo Baggins, after running around forever with the Ring, I feel “thin and stretched.”  Slightly feverish, a tad out of it. Excess lactic acid burning in my legs.  I used to feel this way regularly, after a night of hard drinking and drugging and poor nutrition generally.  Now that I am living a saner, less self-destructive life, I usually feel okay physically.


    Luckily, I am pretty much done with everything I have to do today.  I may open my stand when I get home, I dunno, the weather looks iffy and I have a lot of muscle aches, and the idea of putting all four of my folding tables back into the car has scant appeal.  I HAVE to open up tomorrow, weather permitting, since I had made a commitment to do so. 


    This integrity thing is sorta new to me–I like it.


    Saturday and Sunday I will be working a gun show in Eagle River–anything unusual happens, you will read about it here next week.  Luckily, business was negligible last year, so there is nothing to live up to, and I am learning not to have expectations anyway.

  • What Does God Want?


    Over the years, the various answers to this question have caused an untold amount of suffering.  In days of old, when knights were bold, a bunch of English folks thought that God wanted them to go on a crusade and “liberate” the Holy Land from the infidels–in the process, they killed and raped a lot of people, robbed and pillaged to boot..  A little later, the guys who wrote the Malleus Maleficarum thought that God wanted them to persecute women they called witches, and hang them or burn them–mostly, in reality, for the crime of being female.(By the way, this book was pretty much the law of the land–both among Protestants and Catholics–for two hundred years.)  More recently, many Catholics thought that God wanted them to refrain from eating meat on Fridays, and He was so vehemant about this, that He would send you to Hell forever if you scarfed down a Big Mac on Friday and failed to ‘fess up.  (Apparently God changed his mind on this one.)


    Today in the Middle East, a lot of people think that God wants them to strap on a belt of explosives and blow themselves and as many other people as possible to bits.  Here in America, many people seem to think that God wants us to kill and torture people who think like that.  Others in America think that God wants us to deny basic civil rights to gay people. Still other folks, of the Jewish persuasion, believe that their God wants them to sexually mutilate their infant sons. Just the other night at an NA meeting, a young woman who had relapsed was wallowing in guilt and shame, sobbing as if her heart would break because “God  wants me to be clean and sober. . . .I let God down.” 


    Clearly there is, and has been, a lot of confusion on the issue of what God wants.


    Ty this notion on for size–God wants nothing. 


    No matter what you do or fail to do, God will not punish you.  No matter what sacrifices you may make, God will not single you out for some special reward.  In other words, God is not Santa Claus.  God does not make a list of who’s naughty and who’s nice. 


    God is love, unconditional and infinite.  To want something means that you do not have it, that you lack it.  God is everything, and therefore cannot lack anything. 


    You do not have to pray to God for anything because you have already have been given everything.  All the wisdom and courage and strength and compassion you will ever need is within you right now–you need only to find it, own it, and use it.


    This, in brief, is the message of the latest book from Neale Donald Walsh.  The name may ring a bell–he has already written five books which were New York Times best-sellers. (None of which the Tmes bothered to review, I might add.)  He takes seventy-five pages to lead up to the Big Answer, however, but to me and my sweety and many other people, he will be largely preaching to the choir.  For me, the really good stuff–the stuff that changed my life, filled me with such a sense of empowerment that now, every day of my life is just exactly as good and rich and wonderful as I choose it to be–is roughly from page 182 to page 211. 


    It is not a  big book. It is, however, a great enough book to change humanity, one life at a time.  With all the ernestness at my command, I urge everyone to read this book.  The publishers’ price is $23; it is less expensive on Amazon.  If you choose not to make that investment for any reason, go to your local library and read it for free.  Just read it, think about it, and act on it. 


    And prepare to be amazed.

  • 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.