Debbie and Me

Reading the paper yesterday, I perused an article on our current unemployment situation in the United States. Peter S. Goodman of the New York Times writes that job seekers exceed openings by 6 to 1, and it is unlikely that this ratio will improve any time soon. This fact did not strike me as news. However, an interview with a fifty-one year old woman by the name of Debbie Kransky of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, was of particular interest to me.

In the interview Kransky described what it is like being out of work and the struggle to find a job. She talked of how she has run through her life savings of ten thousand dollars and the anxiety she feels at being out of money.

“I’ve worked my entire life,” Kransky said. “I’ve got October rent. After that, I don’t know. I’ve never lived month to month my entire life. I’m just so scared, I can’t even put it into words.”

Obviously, it’s sad that this woman is experiencing this kind of anxiety. She lives in a one bedroom apartment and soon may not even have that. But these aspects of her case were not my primary interest, though they did tug at my heartstrings.

The thing I couldn’t stop thinking as I read her words was: I’ve always lived month to month. I’ve never been ahead of the game by ten thousand dollars. I’ve been upside down financially since the day I graduated – from long before that, in fact. And I rarely give this a second thought. It’s totally natural for me to scrape by, surviving on what the moment provides. And while I haven’t been homeless – truly homeless – I’ve been pretty close more than once. And when these times came, I always had a plan on how I would survive without a roof over my head. It didn’t scare me that much. In a perverse way, I got a little thrill out of the prospect. I’ve always gotten that thrill out of just surviving. I feel like Mike Tyson (see quote from August 25) – “It’s as if I have to live at the top of the world or the bottom of the ocean.” And since I’ve never lived at the top of the world for longer than a night, a week, a short vacation, the bottom of the ocean feels just right to me.

Why the difference between Debbie and me? I could go into the fact that Ms. Kransky is a woman and I’m a man, she by nature a nester and I a hunter, ect. But I don’t think that really addresses the truth of the matter. I think the answer lies in the fact that the functioning addict is always teetering on the brink of destruction of one kind or another. And because this state is the only constant, it becomes a security blanket of sorts, the thing that defines our personhood. So many people say, “If I only had the money, time, space, privacy, I could do X, Y or Z.” I think that, maybe, if I had the money I’d be lost in a way, searching for, artificially creating even, a new struggle with which to balance my life.

So what gives me anxiety, the same as what Debbie is feeling right now? I guess it would be actual destruction, losing the “functioning” part of the title and letting my addictions destroy my life. That’s what I really fear. But it is this possibility that makes the life so attractive and interesting, the only life for me. The other day this guy was reading Eckhardt Tolle to me. I won’t go into the details, but Tolle is very Dao and very much into teaching you to live a more balanced, satisfied, ego free existence. Nothing could be more lost on me. The whole point is this: obviously I don’t want to live a balanced, satisfied existence. I want to struggle with it all and fail or succeed within certain parameters. I don’t want a ten thousand dollar nest that buys me only a fraction of time against the certainties of my existence.

But I’d take a million bucks any day. So go figure.

All Night, All Right?

It was last Wednesday at approximately 2:00 p.m. when the party began. When I left the house at 9:00 a.m. on Thursday morning, I knew there would be a price to pay. But I don’t think I approximated the fee accurately. In fact I’m sure I didn’t – for how could I have knowingly committed myself to such a course of action being in full possession of the future costs?

There’s nothing in the world like the all-nighter. It works on so many different levels. I take incomparable joy from knowing that while all of the west coast is sleeping at 3, 4. 5 a.m., I am still going strong, experiencing life at a frequency that is unheard by the majority. Some never know in all their lives what I am talking about. Others taste it – in college perhaps – and know its intrinsic beauty, but then abandon the all-nighter as an immature facet of their past.

As time marches on into the night it also quickens. I look down at my watch one minute and it is midnight and then in what seems like only a second later it is 2:30 and I know I will not be going to sleep while it is still dark. The conversation is alert and conscious, and yet contained in a kind of atomic soup which bends and distorts what some call reality. We speak of quantum physics and it all makes sense to me. There are moments of calm and reflection as well as chaos and heightened perception. Inexorably, daylight comes. And responsibility too comes knocking on my guilty mind.

Meetings have to be made, phone calls received. I need to shower, brush my teeth, get to work, change my clothes…all petty tasks that take immense concentration and effort. I estimate when I will be able to lay down my head on the pillow and determine the time to be around 3:00 p.m. When that blissful moment arrives my last conscious thought is, “I made it. I pulled it off.”

But the cost hasn’t even begun to be counted. For even after getting fourteen hours of sleep I am still buried in a haze on Friday, tired all day and unable to think of anything other than getting more sleep. A friend comes for a visit, which is a welcomed distraction. But the minute he goes home I am back to bed for another twelve hours with the sandman. The next day and the haze is still there, could it be even stronger, more potent? I need a three hour nap in the middle of the day just to make it till midnight, when I then sleep another ten hours. Sunday already? Yup, and another nap in the middle of the day just to make it till 11 p.m. when I crash easily and without tossing and turning to get to sleep.

Now it’s Monday. And yeah, I’m back and in full form. But is that just a little hint of Wednesday/Thursday still lingering in the back of my head? I’d swear that it is. And so I say: I love the all-nighters. I just can't take 'em like I used to.

Talk About a Happy Meal

A male teenager who ordered a couple bags of food got a little bonus this month at a Charleston, South Carolina McDonalds drive-through: a third bag containing a loaded handgun and several plastic bags of marijuana.

Police said the third bag contiaining the handgun and marijuana were intended for the car behind the teen at the drive-through. These people then followed the teen to a local gas station and demanded that the teen give them the bag. He intelligently complied. These people have not been located and no arrests have yet been made.

All I ever received with my food was a crappy plastic toy.

A Quote From Shakespeare

“Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion…”

Falstaff, Henry IV, Part I

Addict Recommends: (Music) Sloppy Drunk Blues by Sonny Boy Williamson

John Lee Curtis “Sonny Boy” Williamson was one of the greatest blues harp players in the history of the genre, and certainly the very best of the prewar period. Time and again in his career, he reached pinnacles of performance which defined the music of the day and set the stage for the rock and roll artists who would, decades later, reinterpret the blues for a new generation of listeners.

He also performed what can only be described as an addict anthem, the legendary “Sloppy Drunk Blues.” Click on the link below, press play and give it a listen. And then maybe go out and get sloppy drunk yourself.

http://new.us.music.yahoo.com/lee-sonny-boy-williamson/tracks/sloppy-drunk-blues--176723593

It's All Addiction

The first and the essential addictions: sunlight, water, chlorophyl, air, the attraction of molecules, sleep, food, sex, shelter...

Time passes. Evolution asserts its sometimes glacial, sometimes dramatic effect. We begin to beat nature. Sex is no longer necessary solely to create progeny. Genesis: "be fruitful and multiply...and fill the earth and subdue it." It has been achieved. The minute we had time to spare beyond eating, drinking, fucking and sleeping we had to find something to do. The overwhelming excess energy, which grew and grew as we surpassed our animal needs had to find a place to call home.

Politics, the wars of nation states, religion, philosophy, deviance, addiction...

Too much leisure time. My energy drives my addiction. I wish I was creating art, music, beauty, aesthetic. I'm glad I'm not personally creating war or violence, at least not directly. Hopefully, this force will continue to evolve - and though we have questions about its ultimate destination - it will lead us to a place that we cannot know but where our energy finds its destiny.

Written by Dr. Loud, Freddy and The Functioning Addict.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Croupier (1998)

Starring: Clive Owen, Gina McKee

Director: Mike Hodges

“Chapter 13. Its all numbers, the Croupier thought. Spin of the wheel, turn of the card, time of your life, date of your birth, year of your death. In the book of Numbers the Lord said, ‘Thou shall count thy steps.’”

The narrator is the main character Jack Manfred, an aspiring but struggling writer who has taken a job as a croupier at a middle of the road London casino, the “Golden Lion.” Raised by his father in the abnormal environment of South African casino-hotels, Jack is skillful with the chips and deft with cards, a true professional in the seedy underground world of the gaming employee. But his true skill is observation, the way in which he holds himself aloof from the degenerates that occupy the other side of the table. However, things change for Jack when he breaks one of the cardinal rules of the house – never socialize with a punter (player) outside the casino – and he is gradually dragged down into an existence and a scheme which affects everything that once mattered in his life.

A young, gaunt Clive Owen delivers a slick performance in this intelligently written film which has a touch of noir and plenty of good dialogue. Gina McKee, as Jack’s girlfriend Marion, plays the earnest counterweight excellently, as she fights harder with each passing scene to save their deteriorating relationship. Also worthy of note is David Hamilton, who portrays the cynical casino supervisor flawlessly.

For a film displaying such good writing and creativity, the movie closes somewhat ambiguously, some might even say illogically. But this obscurity, even if it offends the viewer, is worth the first-rate portrayal and inspection of the gambling world from the dealer’s point of view. This examination is particularly valuable and insightful, well worth the price of admission, especially for those of us who are used to seeing and experiencing casino life from the opposite perspective.

A Quote From Dylan Thomas

"An alcoholic is anyone you don't like who drinks more than you do."

Tired, Baby

I’m feeling really low on energy today and it’s affecting my thinking. Stopped in to the local card room and bought in for two fifty at the 50-500 no limit Texas Hold ‘Em game. Didn’t play a hand for about twenty minutes; then, I was holding pocket queens. I raised to 25, was reraised to 50 with one caller and went all in for the rest. One guy matched me. He held K-Q suited – I was a gigantic favorite. Unluckily, a king flopped and I lost the hand. This sent me on a tailspin and I lost another 250 in the next half hour. Brutal - dropped five hundred in fifty minutes.

I’m ready to go home and get some sleep. It’s been a long and arduous week on so many different levels. In the words of Carlito Brigante, “Last call for drinks.”

The Chicken or the Egg?

I was working on an important document earlier and I just couldn’t focus. I resented the effort, despised each word I was being forced to create. My mind wandered and I got up periodically, searching for some excuse to leave my toil behind. I began washing my clothes and cleaning the kitchen. These are petty tasks that normally annoy me. But today they felt like relief from the slave driver that is my job.

It’s easy for me to blame my history of drug and alcohol abuse for my lack of concentration. I think of all the mushrooms and LSD ingested, all the dope smoked, ecstasy popped, cocaine and speed snorted and booze guzzled down. And of course there have been cerebral as well as physical consequences of all these years of bodily neglect. It’s impossible to believe otherwise.

But there’s also those distant memories of little me, eleven years old, hunched over the kitchen table with my mathematics homework, wanting nothing else than to be free of the burden and go outside and play. I can remember the feeling that welled up within me in school, at church or as the adults droned on at the dinner table: a sensation of unlimited frustration, of being trapped like a prisoner in my own body. I desperately wanted out then just as I do now. So I know it’s impossible for me to blame my bad habits alone.

And I don’t want to make excuses. I’m not trying to be like some parent declaring, “My kid suffered from Attention Deficit Disorder.” But still, I have to wonder where this frustration, impatience and longing for escape came from. It was there from the beginning, right? I’ve exacerbated it through my compulsive behavior, right? Is my compulsive behavior a byproduct of this thing that has lived within me from before I was ever exposed to booze or drugs? Was it a predetermined condition, something that scientists will one day be able to test for in the womb? Or was it something I chose to develop?

And it’s okay that there will never be any definitive answers to these questions. But I do believe that I will be asking them for the rest of my life.

A Quote From Samuel Taylor Coleridge

"My case is a species of madness, only that it is a derangement of the Volition, and not of the intellectual faculties."

Addict Recommends: (Literature) The Dice Man (1971) by George Cockroft (pen name Luke Rhinehart)

Luke Rhinehart, the protagonist (and nom de plume) of the novel The Dice Man has a problem. He’s bored to death: with his personality, his choices, his professional goals and responsibilities as a psychotherapist. His dilemma is well fleshed out in chapter seven, in a discussion he has with friend and colleague Dr. Mann at the conclusion of a late night poker game.

Rhinehart: "I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm sorry but that's about it. I'm sick of lifting unhappy patients up to normal boredom, sick of trivial experiments, empty articles –"

Mann: "These are symptoms, not analysis."

Rhinehart: "To experience something for the first time: a first balloon, a visit to a foreign land. A fine fierce fornication with a new woman. The first paycheck, or the surprise of first winning big at the poker table or the racetrack. The exciting isolation of leaning against the wind on the highway hitchhiking, waiting for someone to stop and offer me a lift, perhaps to a town three miles down the road, perhaps to new friendships, perhaps to death. The rich glow I felt when I knew I'd finally written a good paper, made a brilliant analysis or hit a good backhand lob. The excitement of a new philosophy of life. Or a new home. Or my first child. These are what we want from life and now... they seem gone, and both Zen and psychoanalysis seem incapable of bringing them back."

Mann: "You sound like a disillusioned sophomore."

Rhinehart: "The same old new lands, the same old fornication, the same getting and spending, the same drugged, desperate, repetitious faces appearing in the office for analysis, the same effective, meaningless lobs. The same old new philosophies. And the thing I'd really pinned my ego to, psychoanalysis, doesn't seem to be a bit relevant to the problem."

At the conclusion of this conversation, Dr. Mann departs Rhinehart’s home, a little disgusted with what he sees as his friend’s childish attitude. Rhinehart, left alone, searches for a missing die from a pair the poker party had been using earlier. He realizes that it is sitting beneath a playing card, the queen of spades, covered but propping the card up slightly. It is at this point in the novel that the central character takes the momentous first step that is the hinge of the story.

"I stood that way for a full minute feeling a rising, incomprehensible rage: something of what Osterflood must feel, of what Lil must have been feeling during the afternoon, but directed at nothing, thoughtless, aimless rage. I vaguely remember an electric clock humming on the mantelpiece. Then a fog-horn blast groaned into the room from the East River and terror tore the arteries out of my heart and tied them in knots in my belly: if that die has a one face up, I thought, I'm going downstairs and rape Arlene. 'If it's a one, I'll rape Arlene,' kept blinking on and off in my mind like a huge neon light and my terror increased. But when I thought if it's not a one I'll go to bed, the terror was boiled away by a pleasant excitement and my mouth swelled into a gargantuan grin: a one means rape, the other numbers mean bed, the die is cast. Who am I to question the die?"

On turning over the card, he sees “a cyclopean eye: a one.” And so Rhinehart departs his apartment to fulfill the command of the die by “raping” his friend and neighbor Arlene. When he returns, his philosophical transformation is complete. He is now a devotee of the dice, proclaiming: “I must always obey the dice. Lead where they will, I must follow. All power to the die!” From this point forward, all his decisions are made in consultation with the dice. Sometimes there are two choices and a single die is used to decide: odd or even. In other situations, six choices are presented and a die is rolled, each number representing a corresponding option. In still more complex situations, two dice are used in combination. The more various and complex the choices, the more dice and mathematical possibilities which come into play. The choices range from the most simple and banal to esoteric or immensely important. But no decision is made without the dice. They control all. And so the world of the protagonist and all those he touches is permanently altered.

At the center of Rhinehart’s philosophy is the idea of giving voice to the minority self. Each individual has a number of competing desires within their psyche. However, we generally allow the majority voice, often controlled by the precepts of society, to have the ultimate say. Thus, while ten percent of our will may desire A, twenty percent B, fifteen percent C, five percent X, twenty percent Y and thirty percent Z, the majority voice, Z, will win out a disproportionate number of times, far more than it’s thirty percent stake. And possibly, that five or ten percent desire will never win out, not even in a sample size of several thousand choice scenarios.

Allowing the dice to determine action based upon mathematical representation assures the dice user that his or her minority urges will be fairly represented in the real world. It frees the individual from the tyranny of the majority voice and the social order.

From this point, the novel goes on a number of unpredictable twists and turns. The philosophy of the dice grows and is shared with others. One character, in an attempt to cure his fear of death, rolls three dice every morning with the following oath: three ones on a single roll and he must commit suicide. His fear of death is instantly overcome.

There are some who read this book and are unimpressed with the writing style or the direction the plot takes later in the novel. These criticisms are well founded. This is not in all passages the most well written book, especially considering its significant cult following. There were moments in the plotline where I felt uninterested, detached and disillusioned at the course of events or character development. Also, there are philosophical problems and inconsistencies within the fundamental principles of dice life. However, ultimately, I couldn’t help but relate intimately to the notion of leaving fate to the caprice of chance and thereby experiencing life more freshly, fully and in the moment.

On the cover of the American-published paperback it reads, “Few Novels Can Change Your Life. This One Will.” A big claim – and one I would never want as an author if I published a book. But you know what? In the case of The Dice Man it just might be true.

Football Still Fun

I was getting crushed financially on hoops and baseball. It took me about two and a half months to drop just over eight thousand dollars. I should have known better. I’m an ignoramus when it comes to baseball and not much better with basketball. But I’m also a compulsive gambler, so reality and good sense are completely out the window. What is understood and planned by the intellect is overruled by the animal; a classic case of survival of the un-fittest.

Finally, it must be four months ago now, I had to call my bookie and cancel my account. And don’t get me wrong: I knew that didn’t mean I was going to quit gambling on sports. But it did mean that I wouldn’t have a line of credit and all too easy access to the drug. Now, if I want to bet on sports, I have to drive all the way to Reno to do it: which, by the way, is something I’m planning on doing very soon. But at least in that scenario I only lose the money I intended on losing, not thousands more than I can reasonably afford.

But it had me worried coming into the football season. Although I was a basketball player in high school, football has always been my favorite sport. It’s the most purely American of the big three, though I know several baseball enthusiasts who will argue vehemently with me over this claim. Anyway, I’ve been betting on football since I was ten years old – I even had a bookie back then, my buddy Nathan’s older brothers’ friend Matt, who took full advantage of our youth and inexperience. For me, football and gambling are practically synonymous.

I wondered if the interest and passion would still be there even when I didn’t have action on the game. I wondered if I would be able to watch without a personal stake. But so far, it’s been great. The first week of college ball had me transfixed, even though my beloved Oregon Ducks looked like pathetic chumps against Boise State. I took in the Steelers/Titans NFL season opener in its entirety and was thoroughly engaged. I just watched the Wisconsin/Fresno State contest and was screaming my support at the Bulldogs through the television. Unfortunately, as was the case last season, they came up just short against the Badgers.

Yeah, I’ve got the itch. That’s something which will never go away. And I’ll get my bets in eventually when I travel to Nevada. But I simply can’t be trusted with a bookie. It’s like having a cocaine Cornucopia in my living room.

A Quote From Julius Charles Hare

"Be what you are. This is the first step toward becoming better than you are."

Sayonara, Comcast

I haven’t paid for cable in seven years, though for the bulk of that time I enjoyed more than eighty channels of television entertainment. No, I wasn’t stealing. I simply plugged the cable into my set and it worked: not my fault that Comcast didn’t have their shit together. Well, yesterday they axe finally fell. And of course I knew it was coming, all those commercials about the big digital cable changeover had me worried from the first. I thought my concerns were fully manifested a month ago, when my available channels were reduced to only about 30. But when I got home and turned on the tube at 6:00 last night, there was nothing but ethereal fuzz. I was crestfallen.

I’ve been a television junky since my first memory. It’s my most embarrassing addiction, because I like to think of myself as a reader. Four, five hours in an evening: that’s nothing for me. How many times have I wasted an entire day hung over in bed watching the idiot box? I shudder to think of it.

My problem began when I was a child watching reruns. Leave it to Beaver, The Brady Bunch, The Jeffersons, Lost in Space, Father Knows Best, The White Shadow: all of these and dozens more were like surrogate parents to me. Of course, I watched contemporary shows as well. My brother and I would sneak out of our rooms late at night to watch The Morton Downey Jr. Show: a pioneer in the field of crap, a man a decade ahead of his time, half Michael Savage, half Jerry Springer. Hanna-Barbera cartoons were also an important ingredient in the mind numbing cocktail, Scooby Doo, Hong Kong Phooey and Captain Caveman being particular favorites.

So many of my fondest memories are built around the hearth-fire that is the television. In college, we used to gather together, guys and gals, to watch the newest episode of Beverly Hills, 90210 or Melrose Place. It was a much smaller, more select group of connoisseurs that got together Sunday at midnight to take bong hits and watch Thunder in Paradise, an awful adventure drama about a hero and his Scarab super boat which starred Hulk Hogan and Carol Alt. During its first season, we must have seen ninety percent of the Conan O’Brien Show offerings. I can remember all of us knowing with perfect certainty that such intelligent comedy could never last. And now Andy Richter is back on the show and it has taken the place of Jay Leno.

So what now? Should I break down and pay for cable? Or perhaps I should go out and buy one of those digital tuner boxes to get the basic airwaves activated. What about football? The season is just beginning. (Interesting timing, Comcast assholes.) The cheap part of me just wants to say fuck it – I’ll live without the television. But in the end, I’ll probably break down. I don’t know if I can get along without it.

Addict Recommends: (Bar/Restaurant) AA Bar and Grill, Eureka, California

There’s something about Eureka I find extremely appealing. Maybe it’s the cool climate or the dense fog rolling in off the Pacific Ocean into Humboldt Bay. Perhaps it’s the illusion of isolation: I know of few other towns of similar size so far away from everything yet having such a very real sense of place and history. It could be the lush, verdant mountains which contain some of the last of America’s great Redwood forests. Then again, it’s possibly all that good green bud that saturates every square inch of the city as well as the surrounding land. Ultimately however, it’s all of these things, united with a feeling of real independence from the people, regardless of whether they are hippies, fishermen, professionals, meth-heads, hunters, cowboys or farmers.

And in the center of it all, there is the AA Bar and Grill. Located in the heart of “downtown” Eureka at 929 Fourth Street, the AA is a real classic, the best of a handful of places that simply should not be missed on your next visit.

First of all, the AA has the best steaks in Eureka without question. You can get a large variety of cuts, from ribeyes to top sirloin, all of which come at a generous discount if you buy two of the same. But for me, there’s nothing like tackling the forty-nine ounce porterhouse, a genuine colossus in the world of meat which I am sorry to report I was unable to finish on my last visit. But if steak is not your thing there are a number of other items on the menu that are sure to satisfy, from prawns to the French dip, a burger to the fish and chips and a number of items in between.

It’s almost strange that they even serve food in the place, as it is definitely more bar than grill, at least in the physical structure of the interior. The room is dominated by a large, long horseshoe bar and has only three dining tables, so most people eat at the bar. (This setup is augmented by a dining patio outside.) The theme of the place is strongly nautical, with a number of ships’ wheels and stuffed marlin and sail fish on the walls. There is also a handsome fish tank located at the very center of the bar, which adds a peaceful underwater feel. For amusement, they have a good shuffleboard table and a faded but still working Ms. Pacman machine.

Well mixed drinks are $3.25 and they have a special on 32 ounce Michelob for $5.00, so you can down your fill on the cheap. Keep your eye out for Donna, the septuagenarian bartender with the smoky voice and kind demeanor. Also, look for half dollars with your change, a signature of the place that I found very charming. One word of warning: the AA generally closes at 11:00 p.m., unless there is a large group still drinking.

There was a time about a year ago when I completed a professional visit to Eureka extremely early, probably about 11:00 a.m. I had the rest of the day and a beautiful woman to share it with, so we meandered over to the AA after my appointment. Thrilled at my work-related success and the prospect of a whole day to squander, I bought the three or four other patrons in the bar a couple of rounds. The buzz was just settling in when I got to talking to one of the other fellas, a nice guy who had been out on his boat that very morning. He asked me how I liked the town. I told him I loved it, but would love it even more if I had some chronic to smoke. A moment later he left the bar with my female companion. She returned a few minutes later with a mason jar full of sweet, stinky buds, probably a half ounce or so. Recompense for my initial gesture in buying the drinks, she informed me.

Now I can’t tell you you’re going to have the exact same experience as I did, but I can tell you that’s just the type of spirit and kindness you will encounter at the AA.

The Happy Hedonist

In the movie Let it Ride, Richard Dreyfuss, portraying the compulsive horseplayer “Trotter” repeatedly exhorts, “I’m having a very good day.” That’s how I’m feeling about my weekend. I’m walking tall, riding high. Allow me to share with you my tale of good living.

On Friday night, I traveled to Sausalito to the home of good friend and comrade Doctor Loud. He had his two great kids for the weekend, so I joined the trio and we set off for a very pleasant evening. We started out cruising the tail end of a small famers market downtown, the good Doctor picking up some odds and ends, including some spectacular peaches and raspberries. We then walked the waterfront until dusk, the kids playing on the rocks, searching successfully for crabs and other sea life. From there, we went to Mollie Stones, where we picked up some fresh Coho Salmon, New York Strips and Stolichnaya, among other things. The night was filled with Martinis, a nice Bordeaux, good conversation and a dinner of the aforementioned meat and seafood paired with glazed carrots and zucchini. The carrots were so sweet and caramelized they would have made a delicious dessert, but were even better suited for a coupling with delicious savories.

The next morning I awoke to the sounds of the Doctor busy again in the kitchen, this time preparing a breakfast of delectable peach pancakes, spicy Italian sausages, cappuccinos, screwdrivers and carrot juice - for the eyesight, he informed me. We lounged over our breakfast, the time passing languidly, my slight hangover gradually being cured.

At about eleven, I departed for the City. By twelve-fifteen, I was sitting outside at Pier 23 with my cousin Lila enjoying our annual tradition of cheeseburgers and sparkling wine. Pier 23 has really stepped up its food, and the Gloria Ferrer went perfectly with the burgers, as always. They also serve a very interesting potato salad which I enjoyed, filled with onions and almost pureed in texture.

Liia and I went back to her place to have a beer and catch up on the day’s college football action. Regrettably, the Nevada Wolfpack did not come to challenge Notre Dame and the contest was a one sided blowout for the Irish. We also watched a bit of the US Open men’s action, with Andy Roddick losing surprisingly and disappointingly to American Josh Isner in an exciting five set match. After his performance at Wimbledon this past year, I had hoped for Roddick to make a real run at the Open.

After a while, I left Lila’s and went over to my brother’s pad in the Richmond District. We chilled out for a while, ultimately hooking up with his buddies Jim and Mark. The three of us went out for pizza and beer at the Village Pizzeria on Clement Street, where the food was average but the pitchers went down smooth. Afterwards, we tried to get in to see the movie District 9, but were thwarted at the box office, being informed that the show was sold out. The attendant, seeing my initial disappointment, tried malevolently to rub it in, saying with the slightest smile on his face, “kinda ruins your plans, doesn’t it?” But it was like water off a duck's back, as the four of us then proceeded down to Harry’s bar, where there’s always a gaggle of hot young chicks to leer at. We finished the night over at my bro’s just hanging out, drinking Pilsner Urquell and enjoying each other’s company.

Up and at ‘em at 9:00, I left the comfort of brother’s couch and proceeded downtown to the sumptuous Big Four Restaurant at the Huntington Hotel, where I was supposed to meet my buddy Daren. A breakfast of orange juice, bloody Marys, coffee, fresh fruit, salad and huevos rancheros gave me the base to tackle another beautiful day. The only pity is that Daren, who I am now informed partied until 6:00 this morning, was unable to attend this first rate meal.

Tonight, its off to Rick’s place, where a group of us will celebrate the fortuitous anniversary of his birth with dinner at Espetus churrascaria, a renowned Brazilian bastion of meat, where the flesh only stops coming when you tell them so. I am also informed and believe that Rick will be bringing a 1996 Burgundy as well as his prized magnum of Dunn Vineyards for our consumption. How could we go wrong?

And as if that’s not enough, tomorrow it’s up to the parent’s house where we will possibly be picnicking at a Sonoma County winery or some other choice spot.

So why the litany of my life? Why the recitation of events? It’s simple. Because this, for me, is what it is all about. This is the jackpot, the cosmic payoff for all the choices I have made in the past which afford me the freedom to live this way. Certainly, these choices have led to a number of difficulties and roadblocks as well, and I, like any other sane person, often wonder if I would change my decisions if I could get into the way back machine and do so. And I am reminded of and will close with the lyrics from the song Dear Mr. Fantasy by Traffic:

"…please don’t be sad, if it was a straight mind you had, we wouldn’t have known you all these years…"

A Quote from PJ O'Rourke

"Anyway, no drug, not even alcohol, causes the fundamental ills of society. If we're looking for the source of our troubles, we shouldn't test people for drugs, we should test them for stupidity, ignorance, greed and love of power."

Addict Recommends: (Bar) The Little Shamrock, San Francisco, California

Whenever I drink at The Little Shamrock, I become overwhelmed with a sense of history. Considering that it is the second oldest bar in the City, (and the seventh oldest in the United States, according to sloshspot.com) this should come as no surprise. Since 1863, drinkers have been coming to this legendary establishment and imbibing brew, wine and spirits to ease their minds. When you become ensconced in the old furniture and take in the dark wood bar, antique cash register and clock that reputedly stopped ticking at the moment of the 1906 earthquake, you get the feeling that the liquor bottles don’t contain the only spirits that occupy the joint, that the place is filled with boozy apparitions who do not wish to cross over into a phantom plain that may not serve alcohol.

Man does this place know how to party. The mixed drinks are strong, they have Guinness on tap and the Irish coffee’s are exemplary. It’s both neighborhood hang out and destination spot. It’s also a gamer paradise, with two sturdy backgammon tables, darts in the back room and an assortment of board games with which to play. If these don’t suit your fancy, bring in a deck of cards and settle in.

Located at 807 Lincoln at Ninth Street, there are few spots in San Francisco more perfectly situated. Across the way is Golden Gate Park with its many museums and amusements. The surrounding neighborhood is teeming with restaurants, cafes and shops such as Park Chow, Le Video, the Beanery, Tart to Tart and Naan n’ Curry. (It is lamentable that Irving Street lost Black Oak Books.) If you are a Muni rider, the 6 and the 71 pass directly by headed both east and west. So if it’s rainy or cold outside, step in for a little pick me up while you wait.

The bartenders are terrific as well. Drew, who has been an anchor at the “Shammy” since long before I can remember is a friendly and efficient professional. Look also for Tavahn, who is fast becoming a local legend. And keep your eye out for Val. He’ll be sitting at the bar in his inviolable stool, but chips in from time to time with odd tasks when the going gets rough. Between the three of them, there is more abstract music knowledge than an encyclopedia, so the tunes are generally good.

The Little Shamrock is in a building that also has a couple of apartments situated above. I have often fantasized about how great it would be to live just upstairs from one of my very favorite bars in the world. Though I don’t live in the City anymore, I think I’d move back if one of them ever opened up.

Maybe then, in a hundred years, I would be haunting the place.

Well Done, Luca Zaia

Rome

In an interview with car magazine Quattroruote this week, Italy’s Agricultural Minister Luca Zaia said that attempts by the Italian government to completely ban drinking and driving were “criminalizing” wine and threatening one of Italy’s most lucrative industries.

“We have to stop considering drunk someone who drinks two glasses,” Zaia said. “There is an ongoing criminalization that is killing one of the most important ‘made in Italy’ sectors.” Instead, Zaia suggested, authorities should focus on drivers using drugs and tranquilizers that make people fall asleep at the wheel.

Italian law currently allows a maximum of 0.5 grams of alcohol per liter of blood while driving. However, the parliament is currently considering passing a law that would make illegal the presence of any alcohol for drivers who have had a license for less than three years. And there have been calls from many special interest sectors around the country as well as the conservative government for a complete ban on drinking and driving.

In his interview, however, Zaia said the rules should remain as they are. “…At the current level, you are sober and perfectly capable of driving.”

Predictably, relatives of accident victims and health officials were up in arms over Zaia’s comments. Emanuele Scafato, head of the alcohol observatory at the National Health Institute, told Italian television on Tuesday, “(The minister’s comments) had little to do with scientific evidence and more to do with the economic interests of the wine industry.”

Undoubtedly so. But this does not make the Minister’s position any less legitimate. The law as it exists in Italy as well as the United States is intended to punish drunk drivers, people so intoxicated by drinking that their driving is impaired. I have no scientific evidence to support my claim, but anecdotal evidence and personal experience leads me to know that I, for instance, am perfectly capable of having two glasses of wine at dinner before driving home. For some people, the number may be less: perhaps only a glass of wine or half a glass. We all need to remember, drinking before driving is not illegal – driving while impaired, or with a blood alcohol content higher than a certain statutory degree is.

Without question, it is a tragedy when anybody is killed in an automobile accident, especially one that involves a drunk driver. But the irresponsibility of a few bad apples does not justify criminalizing a perfectly rational, safe and responsible majority. Of course, the MADD Fascisti will tell us that there is no responsible level of drinking before driving. I submit this is a distortion of the truth, which is a nice way of saying it’s a bald faced lie.

Television commercials exhort us, “Buzzed driving is drunk driving.” Okay, but what’s next? “One drink is drunk driving?” “One sip is drunk driving.” Bullshit. Haven’t we come far enough in one direction? Give us a break. Thank you Luca Zaia, for speaking up on our behalf, even if you did it for self serving reasons.

Hoarder?

The walls are gradually closing in on me, inching nearer day after day. I notice it when I bump inadvertently into that new bookshelf that is placed too close to the right hand turn past the hallway, or have to maneuver around the dining room table and its pile of magazines and newspapers to get into the kitchen. It is utterly apparent when I look into my closets, distended with boxes full of keepsakes, ancient paperwork from my past, photographs, obsolete computer components, unused fishing tackle and sporting goods. My walls are so crammed with paintings, pictures, posters and prints that I imagine how I will rearrange them when the time comes to add yet another. Dust piles up on the numerous flat surfaces as the enclosure becomes ever more tomblike with mostly meaningless belongings.

Yet I still go to the thrift stores and stop at every garage sale I pass, unable to resist the siren’s song of bargain priced possessions. In the middle of my work day I find myself browsing ebay, often purchasing expensive objects to add to my many “collections.” The menagerie continues to grow, and the larger it gets the more things it requires so that I may rediscover some surreal plain of satisfaction.

Sometimes I fantasize about selling or throwing away half of it, but in my heart I know only the most desperate necessity would bring me to this solution. Now I’m considering moving in to a two bedroom apartment, even though I live alone, so that I may coexist comfortably with my beloved chattel.

In his novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, author Phillip K. Dick calls it “kipple,” this useless trash that surrounds us and grows greater and more powerful as time goes on. And I consciously realize that it’s mostly useless, meaningless and unimportant in the extreme. I tell myself that almost every day. But I’m not going to part with any of it. And it’s a certainty the mass will continue to grow. I think I will move in to that new apartment, after all.

Levasole: Yikes!

Nearly one third of all cocaine which is imported into the United States is cut with a dangerous veterinary drug named Levasole, scientific studies report. The drug, which is normally used as a de-worming treatment for livestock and occasionally in humans for colorectal cancer, has been blamed for three deaths and at dozens of illnesses.

It is well established that Levasole severely weakens the body’s immune system. So why are they finding it in cocaine? Studies suggest that the drug might give the cocaine user a significant boost in high, as it is believed to cause reactions in the dopamine pleasure producers in the brain. But it was not found present in cocaine until January 2008. Which begs the question: why the new cutting agent?

Some believe that, as the war on drugs created an economic pressure on cocaine producers and smugglers, and decreased supply made prices higher on the streets, Levasole provided a cheap and effective means of cutting without severely reducing the impact on the user’s experience. Authorities say that the Levasole is being added in Columbia and other locations south of the border before being packed for distribution to the United States and Canada to be sold in powder or rock form.

And so we have reason number 1,254,367 to legalize drugs in this country.