Back at the Helm

Well, I’m back after coming off a brutal bender that began Wednesday and continued almost uninterrupted through last night. There was much celebration and indulgence this Thanksgiving holiday, an excellent cocktail party in Sacramento on Friday and the 49er tailgate and game yesterday turned into a long night out on the town afterwards. The result: my mind feels mushy and dull and my body dog tired. It might take a few days to fully recover.

Now that my favorite holiday has passed, we enter the bitter month of December. I don’t dislike Christmas, but I loathe the days and weeks running up to it. Every year, my indulgence goes way overboard as the month degenerates into a long booze-soaked haze of holiday parties filled with banal small talk and finger foods. The prospect is a little bit daunting, I must admit.

Thanksgiving Greeting

Thanksgiving: our national day of excess. What a truly wonderful holiday, by far my favorite. How can I list all the ways it pleases me? From beginning to end, it is the one day of the year where even the most puritanical abstainer gorges at the table of gluttony.

I’m anticipating the deviled eggs, cheeses and brie, pate, copious breads and who knows what other pre meal savories. The turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, creamed onions, green beans, cranberry sauce: these are dancing in front of my eyes. The deserts - Apple and pumpkin pie, ice cream and cookies. And all along the way, a parade of beers, wine and mixed drinks to benumb my senses and prepare my appetite.

And as if all of this were not enough, there is the unending stream of pro and college football games that will be on from the moment I arise until just before I pass out, emotionally and physically satiated.

I would like to extend my Thanksgiving greetings to all of you who may read it. As long as we live in a world where a day like tomorrow is allowed to flourish, where people can come in fellowship and family and test the limits of their personal consumption, there will always be something here worth living for. I hope you all enjoy your turkey day as much as I intend to.

History Lesson

I was seventeen and sitting in history class. The teacher’s name was Lochran. She was a good teacher, someone you could tell wanted to be instructing young people. We meandered off the lesson plan, and got on to the subject of aging. She said, “The one thing about getting older is, you don’t have the emotional highs and lows that you do now. You plateau. And you experience life differently.”

How awful, I thought. And I specifically and deliberately told myself, “I never want that to happen to me. Anything but that.”

Addict Recommends: (Music) Sleepytime Gorilla Museum

Sometimes in life you come across something beautiful and important, unique and resounding by complete accident, if such things as accidents exist. Last Friday night, by a fortuitous, happy aligning of the planets, I thus came across Sleepytime Gorilla Museum.

I was in the City after a day at the races with my brother, having dinner with my old friend Syed at Sutros Restaurant at the Cliff House, at the end of the western world in San Francisco. As we were completing our first martini and just about to head outside to smoke some hash, he made a suggestion.

“Should we a-call the Double A?”
”Yeah, let’s call Doubles. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that guy,” I replied.
“Good.” He dialed the number and handed me the phone.
“What’s up you crazy Paki?” AA answered.
“No, Dubs, it’s me,” I said. “I’m with the Paki. We’re having dinner at the Cliff House. Get your butt over here.”
“I can’t. I’m at a show with Adolph at the Independent. You should come over when you’re done.”
“Will do,” I replied. “See you in a couple of hours.”

Syed and I then continued with our evening, which consisted of a lovely dinner, several cocktails and two delicious bottles of wine. As we were leaving, I exhorted him to come along, but he had family in from out of town so he politely declined. As he staggered away from the car I continued on to Divisadero and Grove, not far from my old neighborhood, to see if I could find the boys.

AA was outside talking to some girl, as always seems to be the case. He gets more ass than a toilet seat. I honked at him as I passed, parked the car not far away and hugged him at the door.

“How’s the show?” I asked.
“Terrible. There was some opening band and the lead singer had his cock hanging out the whole time.”
“Oh, not good.”
“This show sucks,” he said, annoyed. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“All right. But let’s go in and get Adolph first.”

I followed AA inside, but lost him almost immediately in the crowd of perhaps two hundred and fifty people. Along the wall, however, I saw Adolph by himself. I approached and we began talking.

“Double A says the show sucks.”
“The opening band was terrible,” he informed me. “But we’ve got to stick around for the show. You’re not going to believe these guys.”
And so I decided to stay. And man, was I happy that I did.

The core musical component of the band is what most people would describe as heavy or even death metal, so if you are turned off by the genre and can’t get past it then you should probably read no more. But to pigeonhole this group to any one musical style would be totally myopic and unfair. Within the show, there were elements and influences as diverse as tribal and gospel, classical and art-rock. The band consists of five members: Nils Frykdahl, Matthias Bossi, Carla Kihlstedt, Michael Mellender and Dan Rathburn. Frykdahl, the vocalist and guitarist, has a deep Tom Waites voice that ascends to a hearty growl when performing the heavier metal lyrics. The band is overwhelmingly talented, playing an array of musical instruments, many of them homemade and invented by the musicians themselves. I think a good word to sum up the experience is contrast. The music is at times melodic, at others atonal and dissonant. The content of the band’s lyrics cover a number of topics and themes. And yes, Satan is among them.

The crowd was as diverse as the band. I saw neo hippies, rockers, punks and intellectuals all in attendance. Some people were smoking dope, others were completely sober, concentrating intently and shushing thoughtless drunks – like myself – for talking too loud during the softer musical interludes. The bar was not doing good business; I know this to be the case because I never had to wait in line for a drink. That says something in itself. There were a few fantasy gamers there too, dungeon and dragons types: you know who you are. The one thing that seemed to unify the audience was their love and appreciation for the band.

Reputedly, the name Sleepytime Gorilla Museum comes from a group of artists, Dadaists and Futurists who founded a “Sleepytime Gorilla Press” and a museum of the future that opened on June 22, 1916. The sole exhibit was a fire that then permanently closed the museum. The band’s first album was appropriately named Grand Opening and Closing and their first concert was on June 22, 1999. Something tells me that Man Ray, Marcel Duchamp, Umberto Boccioni and F.T. Marinetti would approve of this dynamic, technological, avant-garde and nonlinear musical aesthetic.

When the show ended I had no idea how much time had elapsed, but I did know that I wanted to hear more, much more of what the Sleepytime Gorilla Museum had to say. The booze and weed was wearing off, so we called Gary, the friendly neighborhood cocaine dealer, to save the night. And so he did. But now I’m heading into another story altogether.

A Poem by Charles Baudelaire

I'm sure this poem reads better in the original French. But I unfortunately do not speak French, and the meaning is wonderful in any language.

Get Drunk

Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

World’s Strangest Addictions: Body Integrity Identity Disorder

This is perhaps the most disturbing strange addiction I have come across. The word “compulsion” is probably the better phrase to use in reference to this, though I think plenty of time has been thus spent on this blog discussing the meaning of the word “addiction” and its myriad synonyms and related words and phrases, as well as their scientific, psychological and social significance.

Body Integrity Identity Disorder (BIID) is the overwhelming desire of an individual to self-amputate a part of their body, often leading to gruesome attempts – sometimes successful, other times not – to cut off their own healthy limbs. Sufferers of this rare affliction attest to a sense of great relief when they succeed in finally removing the offending limb. More often than not, they will then tell friends, family, coworkers or strangers that they lost the limb in an accident or it is a birth defect.

An online article in Newsweek explores this compulsion. It can be found at this link:
http://www.newsweek.com/id/138932 In the article, the author interviews “Josh,” a man who had a strong desire to cut off his left hand and finally succeeded. In the interview Josh, “says he was fully prepared when he amputated his left hand with a power tool. He says he had tried to cut it off before—once putting it underneath a truck and trying to crush it (the jack didn't collapse right); once attempting to saw it off with a table saw (he lost his nerve). He even spent countless miles driving around with his hand dangling out the window, hoping to get side-swiped. But this time he was determined to succeed. Josh, who insisted on anonymity because his family thinks he lost his hand in an accident, says he practiced on animal legs he got from a butcher, and he was equipped with bandages to stop the bleeding and a charged cell phone in case he got dizzy. Now, years later, Josh says he feels wonderful without his hand, that his amputation finally ended a ‘torment’ that had plagued him since middle school.”

Sufferers say the only safe, secure way to deal with this compulsion is to allow them the option of surgical amputation so that they may feel they live in the right body. This is not so different than transgender individuals changing sexes, a condition so common and well known I would not even bother to classify it as “strange.” There are two locations on the web that address the issue of BIID: one is transabled.org; the other is a Yahoo Web group of BIID sufferers, many of whom say they are “resisting” the urge to amputate.

Death of a Housecat

There was this woman I was trying to sleep with about six years ago. I was working as a maitre d’ at a downtown San Francisco hotel restaurant and she was one of our booziest regulars. She would come in and get hammered on martinis on a nightly basis. She was a pretty good looking woman, tall, a narrow body and a pretty face. When she walked across a room her movement was lithe and dignified, except when she was shitfaced. And she was fun as well as impeccably damaged. So I was into her. After a while, she let me take her out a few times, and I got very close but never closed the deal. It was fairly apparent that she was looking for a sugar daddy. I’ve always been a failure in that department.

But even though we never slept together, I really did like her and considered her at least a casual friend. I think she felt the same way. Anyway, our story begins with a distressed phone call she made to me one morning. It was the penultimate time I would speak to her. At first, I couldn’t make out what she was saying through her bursting sobs and tears. But after a while, she calmed down enough so that I could at least understand her words.

“I need you to come over and help me.”
“What’s going on,” I asked, concerned.
“My cat’s dead and I don’t know what to do.”
“Jesus,” I sighed, knowing as an animal lover just how traumatizing the death of a pet can be. “I’ll be right over.”

I got in my car – a barely running 1968 Volkswagen bus – and trekked over to her place. When I got there and she let me in sure enough, there was a smallish tabby lying on the bed, stiff as a board. I looked at the girl, mascara smeared all over her face and said, “Go clean yourself up. I’ll take care of this.”

There was a shoebox in the corner of her bedroom. I dumped the shoes out of the box and placed the cat, which barely fit, inside. I then covered the animal with newspaper. Soon, my friend had returned. I handed her the box as we were leaving the building and heading toward the jalopy.

“What’s this?” she queried.
“C’mon, what do you think it is?”
“Oh.”

We departed. Just as the car hit the road, she opened the box and removed the dead cat. She cradled it in her arms and stroked its head; her lips touched its inanimate nose repeatedly and lovingly. You could almost hear the thing purring from beyond. She seemed inconsolable so we didn’t say much to one another. But, as it was about eleven o’clock a.m. and I hadn’t been awake for long, at some point in the journey I pulled over at a local café for a cup of coffee. I asked her if she wanted anything. “A large half-caf latte with three Splendas,” she replied without missing a beat in the mourning process.

On the road again and becoming more caffeinated and awake, she expressed her gratitude for my assistance. I felt a rush of emotion for this woman whom I was able to rescue and immediately realized that her desperate situation and neediness turned me on immensely. One of my sicknesses, I guess.

We were well inside Golden Gate Park, directly across the street from the buffaloes when I pulled over. I instructed her to put kitty back in the box and follow me. We entered a heavily treed area far away from the road or any trails. I located a flat piece of wood of decent size and began digging the shallow grave. Of course I knew that it was only a matter of time before the raccoons got to the carcass, but I figured she wouldn’t be thinking about that. The hole was about a foot and a half deep. I turned to her and said, “It’s time.” She placed the box in the ground and I covered it up as best I could, patting down the earth and covering it with leaves and twigs for concealment.

“Do you want to say anything?” I asked.
She stared down at the ground. “You were a good friend when things were bad and I’m going to miss you very much.” Tears streamed down her face. “I’ll always remember you and I hope you are in a better place.”
“That was very nice,” I said. “I think it’s time we leave, though. This burial wasn’t exactly legal.”
Driving back to her apartment, her mood cleared up quite a bit. It was as if putting the cat in the ground had given her some kind of closure. She stared out the window and mused:

“It was for the best.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was suffering so much. It was the right thing to do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My kitty had cancer and was in pain,” she replied offhandedly, “he was suffering so much. Putting him down was the right thing to do.”
“Putting him down? What the hell?”
“Well, I gave him one of my oxycontin pills and held his little mouth shut until he swallowed it. He was dead within half an hour.”

I was outwardly stoic, but inside it was all turmoil. How could she, I wondered? Euthanasia was one thing, but offing a pet by yourself is something else all together. Who knew if she had even visited a veterinarian to determine if the cat had cancer or not? As far as I knew, she had felt a benign lump and diagnosed the poor thing herself. Or maybe the cat had just become a burden and she created a fiction in her mind. Maybe she was a black widow waiting, training for eventual human prey. I felt like screaming. I felt like laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all. But I was still interested in sleeping with her, so I kept my mouth shut.

Disadvantage at the Pawn Shop

I’m flat broke. Until several months ago, I had numerous credit cards and as long as a healthy line of credit existed I was never really busted because I’d just charge up more. But the madness had to end, so I did away with the plastic. Things are very different now. When I’m tapped out it can be a pretty desperate feeling. Verizon calls about my past due bills. PG&E sent me a notice saying if I don’t pay my balance within two weeks they’ll shut my power off. I still have an outstanding invoice with my dentist. Oh – and this is my favorite – when I’m a dollar over drafted on my checking account they charge me thirty five bucks. The poor only get poorer, I realize. Of course, I’m owed money by a number of individuals myself. But you can’t squeeze blood from a stone.

On Tuesday I cashed in all my change. It was a pretty impressive haul: three hundred and twenty-two dollars. That covered my rent and bought some groceries. On Wednesday I redeemed my collection of bottles and cans and received seventeen bucks. Still, I woke up this morning with about two dollars cash in my pockets. And since I have plans this evening as well as the aforementioned bills to pay, I had no choice but dig into my personal possessions, my meager treasures, for financial assistance.

I have a gold Waltham pocket watch I purchased thirteen years ago. It’s from the 1930’s and keeps good time. Its only value is in the gold weight, as nobody wears pocket watches any more. I also have a couple pairs of gold cuff links. So after a walk around the block and a visit to the library to peruse their collection of free DVD’s for my personal viewing, I grabbed the watch and my sea shell links and went off to the pawn shop for a much needed infusion.

Pawn shops are a necessary functionary in our society. I would call them a “necessary evil,” but I don’t really believe they are evil at all. When you really need a loan, when it is a matter of putting gas in the car or food on the table, a pawn shop can come in very handy. I am no stranger to these places and at one time visited them with some regularity. It has been several years, however, since I last needed pawn services.

With the high price of gold today, I figured I could count on coming away with three hundred bucks. I presented my items to the gentleman at the pawn shop and he eyed them warily.

“You want a loan or to sell?”
“A loan,” I replied.
“What were you hoping to get for them?”
“Three hundred.”
He whistled. “That’s a lot.”
“Not really,” I replied. “I figure all up its worth six, spot value on the gold alone.”
“I’m not giving you three hundred.”
“What will you give me?”
“A hundred fifty.”
I sighed. I was really hoping to get at least two sixty. “You can give me two hundred.”
“How do you know I can give you two hundred?”
“Because you make money either way. Actually, you especially make money if I don’t redeem. It’s a sound business decision. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“All right, then. Two hundred it is.”

He wrote up the ticket. We had a really nice conversation too. I don’t take his low balling of my possessions personally. The man is in the business of giving out as little as he can for the most value. And since I know with certainty that, barring death, I will redeem the items, the lower amount of money just means I pay less in juice on the back end – which will probably be in a week or so. Imagine that: I pay thirty five bucks in interest (The same amount as my overdraft fee, ironically.) on a loan of two hundred and the man will probably have his money in less than ten days. Not a bad bargain for him, to say the least.

And the lesson I take from this experience is elemental and a non-revelation: money is power. The more dough you got, the more terms you dictate. I just wish I was better at making money a priority in life. Try as I might, it simply doesn’t move me the way it should. Maybe, in the end, Gordon Gecko was right; that “greed, for lack of a better word, is good.” Do I need to get greedier? More ambitious? Maybe so.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Barfly (1987)

Director: Barbet Schroeder

Starring: Mickey Rourke, Faye Dunaway, Alice Krige and Frank Stallone

At first, I made a halfhearted promise to myself that I would never mention Charles Bukowski or Hunter S. Thompson on this blog. I’m pretty sure I made this promise because I didn’t want to be found out for the intellectual thief I really am. Then I decided that I would wait until I had more stuff on here, so at least I could hide the reference and obvious influence like a needle in a haystack. What the hell. Now is as good a time as any.

I’m a huge fan of Bukowski’s books, both poetry and prose. When he was at his best, he was almost certainly a better poet than a novelist, despite the fact that his poetry is extremely prosaic. This is not to say that his novels weren’t absolutely fantastic. I’ve read most of them: Ham on Rye, Women, Hollywood, Factotum and Post Office all have a place of favor on my bookshelf. Whether you love him or hate him – and there are plenty on both sides of the aisle – there is no denying that Bukowski did something new and revolutionary in the world of literature.

The film is the perfect introduction to the writer for the person who has never read his books. This is largely based upon the fact that Bukowski himself wrote the screenplay, despite having no prior experience with the form. Within the movie there are bits and pieces of his several novels strewn about, sometimes mere shadows and allusions, other times passages from his books are re-presented. One criticism of the writer that always sticks with me and strikes me as valid is that he was very repetitive.

The film follows the life of Bukowski’s alter-ego Henry Chinaski, (played by Mickey Rourke) a drunken, brawling poet-bum through the superficially meaningless events of his skid row existence, from which the protagonist takes ultimate significance. “Some people never go crazy,” he writes in one scene. “What truly horrible lives they must lead.” And basically Chinaski takes this tagline and makes it a way of life as he wanders the concrete earth in search of a good drunk, beautiful women and a contrarian’s cause to champion. He loves classical music, hates obviousness and machismo and seems to have little or no regard for his personal health or hygiene. Along the way he does battle with “Eddie” the bartender played very well by Frank Stallone and manages through his haze to make love to two pretty great looking women in “Wanda” (Faye Dunaway) and “Tully.” (Alice Krige) He also gets discovered as a writer, which is in a way an afterthought to the events of the film, other than the fact that it brings five hundred sorely needed dollars into his life, which he quickly proceeds to spend at the bar buying drinks for “all my friends.”

I’ve done a lot of thinking and had great trepidation about the statement I’m about to make, but I’ve decided to make it anyway. This is, bar none, the best movie about drinking ever made. And the main reason for this is the fact that there is never a hint, never even a consideration, that Chinaski will ever quit drinking. It is undoubtedly bad for his physical and probably mental well being, but the bottom line is that this is who the man is and he will never change. Far too often a great addiction story is ruined in the end by what comes off as a false redemption of the main character. For most, there is no redemption, no story book sobriety that leads to a new life and an optimistic future. This story literally ends as it begins, with the protagonist continuing in what many would call an insane journey. This strikes me as authentic: the way it is and the way it needs to be.

A Quote From Thomas de Quincey

"Thou hast the keys of Paradise, oh, just, subtle, and mighty opium!"
Confessions of an English Opium Eater

Burnt

The life takes its toll, there’s no doubt about it. Anybody who tries to sell you a story to the contrary is out of their minds. Yesterday, I slept in until noon and never showered. The only time I left the house was to walk down to the A&W for a “Big Papa” burger, fries and a root beer. (BTW: the Big Papa is a pretty decent burger.) The rest of the day I watched movies with my cat. (Still no cable) It was a festival of black and white classics: From Here to Eternity, To Kill a Mockingbird and The Day the Earth Stood Still. Mockingbird stood out, way out, as the best of the bunch. I’ve got to say I thought Eternity a little overrated. I’d heard so much about how great it was but I must admit I don’t see what all the fuss is about.

But I was feeling pretty low; and it wasn’t just that I was hung over. Rather, I was beat up and torn down from a cumulative combination of work, party and a tinge of depression. Every time the phone rang I cursed or muttered to myself. The cat, getting a little edgy with all my inaction, scratched me on the face while jumping up to play. I tried to read the paper but failed miserably, perusing only the article on the execution of Mr. Muhammad, the Washington D.C. sniper.

I accomplished nothing. A day of my life is now gone. And I have to remind myself that this is what I bought in for, this is one of the sacrifices, the result of my dubious decision making and lifestyle. I want to waste time; I yearn for inefficiency. How many people get to watch movies all day midweek and get away with it? But it does bring me down sometimes. And the price is rightly and deservedly measured.

Elephant Conquers Heroin Addiction

Okay, so this story is a year old but I still thought it too interesting not to post here. I found it on Digital Spy. The author is Simon Reynolds:

October 23, 2008

An elephant in China has overcome an addiction to heroin but will not be allowed back into the wild.

Four-year-old Xiguang spent three years in rehab on the island of Hainan, where he was given regular doses of methodone to beat an addiction from bananas spiked with drugs by animal smugglers.

Pan Hua, deputy manager of the island where the animal was treated, said: "Three years of domestic life and a huge amount of rehabilitation medication has changed the physical situations, odours and habits of Xiguang."

As a result of the medication, the elephant will not be allowed to head back into the wild as it will be vulnerable to attacks from other animals.

Original Impressions

I was twelve or thirteen the first time I gambled in a casino. My friends and I already had a regular after school poker game going, we played blackjack in the bathroom stalls between classes and the older kids took our bets on sporting events, manipulating the spread to such a degree that it was almost impossible to win. But when my parents took my brother and I to the Cal Neva Hotel Casino on the north shore of Lake Tahoe during a summer vacation I experienced the lights, the sounds, the darkness and the action of a live casino first hand. I put a few quarters into a slot machine and gave it a whirl: no luck. I tried again and also failed. My mother noticed my activity and pulled me away. But I was hooked. I knew then that this was a place I wanted to be. It felt warm, comfortable and familiar despite my standing as a youthful neophyte. The lake? I can’t remember a single detail of it from that trip. That great, deep, mysterious, dark blue jewel in the bosom of the Sierra Nevada mountains is a forgotten detail in a memory of a dirty casino floor.

I was fifteen and attending a very expensive, exclusive private high school. I’d drunk alcohol before, but only sips, little tastes out of curiosity. Some buddies – basketball teammates, actually – and I went to a party that was hosted by some beautiful girl in my class that was dating a junior. I guess I felt socially awkward, but I can’t really remember. It was exciting when somebody handed me that first beer: I knew I wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but everybody was doing it and I wanted to be a conformist. Soon, I’d had three or four and all that social anxiety had slipped away. I was soon blissfully drunk, feeling for the first time in my life that I hadn’t a care in the world. It was a sublime sensation, freedom from all oppression and doubt. Soon, some of the other guys noticed my condition and passed me a can that had chewing tobacco spit, cigarette butts and a splash of beer in it. I drank from it heartily before I coughed up the rancid contents. They all laughed. Still, I didn’t care. I had been given freedom from all concern. When I tiptoed carefully into my bedroom that night, I knew I’d be drinking again soon.

It was only a few months later when I tried marijuana for the second time; the first time a couple of years earlier I had intentionally not inhaled out of fear. But this time I did and the effect sent me floating up into the clouds on the wings of some magnificent bird, my heart and soul soaring with wonderment and exploding joy. I was truly changed at this moment, and I can recall thinking, “I want to feel like this for the rest of my life.” For the first few months, the feeling persisted and recurred every time I smoked the stuff. It was a glorious time.

LSD then entered the scene and again, everything changed. It wasn’t so much the high, I think, but the way the drug made my mind wander and seek out new discoveries. It was my belief that the starfish-like tapestry pattern that covered my field of vision and breathed, controlling the movement of what some called “hallucinations” was in fact the way the world was truly constituted. It was, I believed, a revelation to be on the drug and the true hallucination was our day to day lives. Soon, however, my tolerance for the drug became so high that I could no longer see the pattern. By college, my interest in the drug had completely waned.

There was this dude, a guy maybe a couple of years older than me. He worked at the BP station down the street from my house. He said that BP stood for “Baked People” and somehow at sixteen years of age I thought the pun really amusing. We smoked out pretty regularly. It was convenient for me, because I could tell my folks I was just taking a walk, go get really high and be back within half an hour. One day, he offered me a line of cocaine. I liked him so much and wanted him to like and respect me, so I snorted it. The high I then experienced can best be described as an intensified nervousness and I wanted it to go away. It’s a riddle how this of all the illicit “hard” drugs has stayed in my life for so long, but I know, of course, that it has a great deal to do with my excessive drinking.

There have been many other drugs and many other vices: but these are the ones that formed my current existence the most. More than anything else, I’ve been driven by these original impressions, chasing that first high ever since. They talk about gateway drugs. I think that whole concept a fallacy. The drug, drink, cigarette, gamble: that doesn’t create anything, doesn’t in fact open up any new world, even though that is how it feels at the time. They do, however, reveal us to ourselves in all our beauty, sincerity, compulsion and imperfection. There’s something people almost always forget: we get high for many reasons but one of them, perhaps the most important, is because, for a moment anyway, we feel more ourselves than at any other time in our lives.

Addict Recommends: (Film) The Cincinatti Kid (1965)

There are few names more synonymous with great movies than Steve McQueen. Everybody has their list of favorite actors, but nobody who knows anything would deny McQueen a place at or near the top of the heap. A perusal of his filmography is essentially a recitation of the coolest movies of his day. The Magnificient Seven, The Thomas Crown Affair, Bullitt and The Great Escape are only the most recognizable titles from a career of great acting that was unfortunately cut short by cancer. All of them are favorites of mine. But ultimately, I’m The Functioning Addict, so I’m going to recommend The Cincinnati Kid.

The plotline of the film is classic poker movie and is well executed. In short, McQueen portrays Eric “The Cincinnati Kid” Stoner, (I’m not getting started on the name, people.) the best stud player in the city of New Orleans, and a guy whose reputation is beginning to be well known nationally. Through connections he has in the city, he sets up a game with Lancy Howard, the greatest, best known stud player in the nation, a merciless cutthroat who goes simply by the moniker, “The Man.” A powerful local takes a financial interest in the outcome of the match up, and does all he can to spoil the fairness of the match in the Kid’s favor. But the Kid wants the game to be completely square, so that when he beats Howard he will know that he is truly the best. The denouement of this state of affairs is as surprising as it is effective.

If it was just McQueen carrying this movie it would be really good but not classic. What makes this film great is the incredible supporting cast, a veritable who’s-who of acting in the twentieth century. Edward G. Robinson’s portrayal of Lancy Howard is one of his strongest performances in a career that began in 1916 and ended impressively in 1973 with his supporting role in Soylent Green. Karl Malden is at his best as “Shooter” an earnest, honest, percentage playing gambler who struggles with his ethics when he finds himself between a rock and a hard place. In many ways, Malden is one of those actors that always seems to be playing himself. (See his portrayal of Father Barry in On the Waterfront or his role as General Omar Bradley in Patton: it’s that same sincere character in a different guise and situation.) And, as usual, it works perfectly here. Ann Margaret is at her sexiest as “Melba,” Shooter’s wayward gal. Tuesday Weld pulls off the country girl gone city excellently as “Christian.” Cab Calloway brings his unique style in his appearance as “Yeller." And finally, a young Rip Torn plays the part of “Slade,” a bitter local millionaire looking for revenge against “The Man.”

The movie is filled with great scenes and dialogue, but for me nothing matches up with the opening, where The Kid pitches dimes against a young shoe shine boy while a traditional New Orleans funeral procession – complete with jazz band and umbrellas – marches into the cemetery. I can’t think of any juxtaposition more essentially gambling movie than that: death side by side with and even ignored in the company of the thrill of the wager. It reminds us that we gamble because the excitement of risk fills us with life.

The Kid beats the young boy and tells him, “You’re just not ready for me yet.” Is The Kid ready for Lancy Howard? Go out and rent this movie and find out.

Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Travel Centers of America, Redding, CA

It began three weekends back, when I was returning from my fishing trip to Dunsmuir, California. I was in Redding, running low on gas and getting hungry when I saw the sign on the side of Interstate Highway 5 calling me to the "Country Pride" restaurant. I don't know, I guess I just liked the name "Country Pride:" it sounded like a place that would have cheap, hearty food. I pulled in and saw that the restaurant was attached to a Travel Center of America. I was pleased to see that both birds would be killed by one stone.

My funds were running low: there was twenty-five dollars in my pocket and I was hoping that would get me fed and get me home. I sat down at the counter, began to watch the football game that was on television and ordered the biscuits, gravy and eggs and a cup of coffee.

The food was pretty darn good, though the coffee was swill. But the real revelation came when the waitress returned and picked up my plate.

"You want another, hun?"
"Uh, no thanks," I replied.
"You sure? It's all you can eat."
"Huh?"

She proceeded to inform me that, at this particular Travel Centers of America, the Country Pride offered unlimited quantities of food for the hungry diner. You order your plate, finish it, and are then allowed to order yet another...and if need be another and another - all for the same price. It doesn't matter if you are having a Denver Omelet or Fried Chicken, you get to keep eating until you are no longer hungry. This is not a buffet - this is hot, fresh, prepared food cooked, plated and served to you by a waiter or waitress. Unfortunately, I was not hungry enough for a second plate at the time, but I filed this experience away in the back of my mind and saved it for this past weekend.

Now, nobody - and I mean nobody - loves unlimited quantities of food like Rick. The buffet is his stock in trade and there are few individuals out there who can surpass him in his domination of the buffet line. (He at one point seriously considered a career in competitive eating.) So it was with great glee that I told him about the Travel Centers of America offer and we agreed that we would stop in on our recent trip north to Eugene, Oregon, where we were going to witness our alma mater demolish the hapless University of Southern California Trojans. (Go Ducks - Fuck the BCS)

We ordered the "smothered" sirloin steak dinner. It came with unlimited soup and salad, as well as potatoes, vegetables and a couple of slices of Texas toast. The twelve ounce steak was more than palatable, but admittedly the sauteed mushrooms, onions and a generous coating of A-1 sauce helped. At the end of our meal our server, a fairly nice young man, came to us with the bill in tow. We looked at him disparagingly.

"Um, we'll take another," Rick said.
"Both of you?" he asked incredulously.
"Of course," I retorted. "What do you think we're doing here?"

And, without question, he left the table and we sidled outside for a smoke. When we returned, two more plates awaited us. Yes, this time the steak was an eight ouncer. But it still satisfied. Upon easily completing our second plate, Rick and I pondered ordering a third but stopped short, knowing that our point had already been made. But God damnit, we would have finished that third plate without any great difficulty. Our server brought us the bill: thirty one dollars and change - and that was with drinks. And it leaves me with only this to say: what an incredible, almost unbelievable bargain for the compulsive eater.

FYI: the TA has a few rules that go with the all you can eat meal, and it is only offered in some TA locations, so check on your location in advance. The rules for this amazing offer are provided below:

Rules:

1. Menu pricing has remained the same.
2. Please - no sharing a single entree.
3. Re-order item must be the same as original item.
4. Soups, salads, breads and sides can be re-ordered at any time in the meal.
5. Re-order will be placed after consumption of the original menu item.
6. All beverages are auto-refills.
7. No doggie bags - all food must be consumed in the restaurant.
8. Management reserves the right to terminate meals that are being stretched for an unreasonable time.

PS: Wouldn't you love to be that guy who forces the management to invoke rule #8!