Drunks Outlive Abstainers, Study Finds

This story was forwarded to me by Senor Duarte, a wise and learned soul of the FA set. The staff here at The Functioning Addict are eternally grateful for his keen eye and submission. The article was found on yahoo.com. The author is John Cloud.


One of the most contentious issues in the vast literature about alcohol consumption has been the consistent finding that those who don't drink actually tend to die sooner than those who do. The standard Alcoholics Anonymous explanation for this finding is that many of those who show up as abstainers in such research are actually former hard-core drunks who had already incurred health problems associated with drinking.

But a new paper in the journal Alcoholism: Clinical and Experimental Research suggests that - for reasons that aren't entirely clear - abstaining from alcohol does actually tend to increase one's risk of dying even when you exclude former drinkers. The most shocking part? Abstainers' mortality rates are higher than those of heavy drinkers. (See pictures of booze under a microscope.)

Moderate drinking, which is defined as one to three drinks per day, is associated with the lowest mortality rates in alcohol studies. Moderate alcohol use (especially when the beverage of choice is red wine) is thought to improve heart health, circulation and sociability, which can be important because people who are isolated don't have as many family members and friends who can notice and help treat health problems.

But why would abstaining from alcohol lead to a shorter life? It's true that those who abstain from alcohol tend to be from lower socioeconomic classes, since drinking can be expensive. And people of lower socioeconomic status have more life stressors - job and child-care worries that might not only keep them from the bottle but also cause stress-related illnesses over long periods. (They also don't get the stress-reducing benefits of a drink or two after work.)

But even after controlling for nearly all imaginable variables - socioeconomic status, level of physical activity, number of close friends, quality of social support and so on - the researchers (a six-member team led by psychologist Charles Holahan of the University of Texas at Austin) found that over a 20-year period, mortality rates were highest for those who had never been drinkers, second-highest for heavy drinkers and lowest for moderate drinkers. (Watch TIME's Video "Taste Test: Beer With Extra Buzz.")

The sample of those who were studied included individuals between ages 55 and 65 who had had any kind of outpatient care in the previous three years. The 1,824 participants were followed for 20 years. One drawback of the sample: a disproportionate number, 63%, were men. Just over 69% of the never-drinkers died during the 20 years, 60% of the heavy drinkers died and only 41% of moderate drinkers died.

These are remarkable statistics. Even though heavy drinking is associated with higher risk for cirrhosis and several types of cancer (particularly cancers in the mouth and esophagus), heavy drinkers are less likely to die than people who have never drunk. One important reason is that alcohol lubricates so many social interactions, and social interactions are vital for maintaining mental and physical health. As I pointed out last year, nondrinkers show greater signs of depression than those who allow themselves to join the party.

The authors of the new paper are careful to note that even if drinking is associated with longer life, it can be dangerous: it can impair your memory severely and it can lead to nonlethal falls and other mishaps (like, say, cheating on your spouse in a drunken haze) that can screw up your life. There's also the dependency issue: if you become addicted to alcohol, you may spend a long time trying to get off the bottle.

That said, the new study provides the strongest evidence yet that moderate drinking is not only fun but good for you. So make mine a double.

Tara Reid Back in the Saddle

After her sixty day stint in rehab, I was saddened to hear the American Pie and Taradise star remark, “'Rehab saved my life. Before, I used to think about tomorrow and I hated it. Now I can't wait…The hardest thing was walking through the door for the first time (and) finally admitting that I had a problem…My focus is to get back in my career and stay sober, and keep on having a better life one day at a time.”

Another legend bites the dust, I thought. I once had a dream that she and I were raging at the Playboy mansion together, but now apparently it was never to be. NOT SO FAST! Last week, the indomitable Ms. Reid was seen partying on consecutive nights in a St Tropez nightclub. On the second of these nights, she was joined by fellow rehab veteran Dennis Rodman. (BTW: great work, Dr. Drew.) In photos taken at the scene, Reid is seen dancing, hugging and kissing the night away. At one point she even plants one on spaceman Buzz Aldrin’s cheek. That old fucker.

Didn’t some dude do a film called “My Date with Drew,” about his ambition to go out with Drew Barrymore? I have a similar goal with Tara. She’s super hot and parties so damned hard. Who could ask for anything more?

What do you say, baby? Gimme a chance. Oh, and could you pay for my flight out to France…and the hotel…and the bottles of Dom…and all our meals? Thanks.

Radnich Celebrates Ignorance

I was listening to syndicated sports radio personality Gary Radnich yesterday. Usually, I enjoy his fairly entertaining program, more for side characters “P-Con” and Dan Dibley than for the host himself, who is an aging curmudgeon who only stays abreast of current trends by utilizing talented youthful underlings. (And for this, I do have to give the man credit.)

The guy has something against gamblers and, I suspect, indulgence in general. I’ve heard him remark negatively more than once on the subject, and it always ruffles my feathers because it seems to me that his opinion comes from a place of complete ignorance. (He played basketball at UNLV, but claims he avoided the casinos almost completely.)

Yesterday, however, his fatuousness and lack of knowledge reached a real zenith. He remarked on his show, “There’s no such thing as a happy gambler,” or something very, very close.

It always fascinates me when someone rails against an activity they never took part in. I dislike golf; but that’s because I’ve tried the sport and found myself to be really terrible at it. Being competitive, I don’t like things I’m bad at, so I can’t stand playing golf, though I admire it as a spectator sport. But somehow, Radnich thinks it’s his place to remark on the personal joy experienced by a whole group of people he obviously looks down upon from his lofty perch atop the intellectually sophisticated world of sports radio. It’s frustrating and insulting to hear this halfwit posit opinions on subjects he has – admittedly – little or no authority to comment upon.

I’ve got news for you, sir: millions of people in the world enjoy gambling. Along with other obvious examples, it is one of the oldest leisure activities known to humanity. It is an exciting pastime which can test and illuminate the quality and makeup of an individual’s intelligence, daring and – believe it or not – character. It enhances meaning by creating a personal stake in events that would otherwise be completely lacking in importance. Just ask your friends at the NFL.

As with almost anything else in life, when taken too far, gambling can create problems. And yes, there are unhappy people in the world in almost every endeavor, including gambling. But don’t further insult those of us who have passion for the activity by broadcasting the notion that we’re all miserable. Just so you are on notice: I’m a gambler as well as a happy person. You really don’t know what you’re talking about.

A Poem by Theodore Roethke

This is a really beautiful one I discovered just today. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

My Papa's Waltz

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

Man Cashes Out, Drives Lambo Across USA

Here's a story that was forwarded to me by Onkel A, about a man, a machine and a dream...


http://jalopnik.com/5559767/i-sold-everything-to-buy-a-lamborghini-and-drive-across-the-country

A Quote From Robert Browning

"When the fight begins within himself, a man's worth something."

The Subject of Lindsay Lohan and the Recklessness of Dr. Drew Pinsky

I would guess most of us are probably aware that “notorious party girl” (the words of an ABC News anchor) Lindsay Lohan’s legal troubles continued yesterday in a Los Angeles courtroom, where she was found in violation of her probation for missing a court date and ordered to wear an alcohol detecting ankle bracelet, attend substance abuse classes and remain in Los Angeles, despite the fact she is working on a project in Texas.

Now I have nothing whatsoever to say about the decisions of the court. Ms. Lohan obviously failed to live up to the terms of her probation, a situation that apparently has been going on for some time. That’s her problem and her responsibility.

However, I take umbrage with the dishonorable and uninformed opinions on the subject of Ms. Lohan spouted by Celebrity Rehab’s “Dr. Drew” Pinsky on the Larry King show last night. Mr. Pinsky, along with a representative of the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office and Mark Geragos, overrated attorney extraordinaire, were invited to Mr. King’s show to discuss Ms. Lohan and the recent events surrounding her life.

The attorneys were professional and unremarkable in sharing their legal analysis of her situation. But Mr. Pinsky, who to my knowledge has never personally diagnosed Ms. Lohan, had a number of outrageous opinions to share with America, despite the fact that he has no personal knowledge of the real facts of this woman’s life. In response to some Mr. King’s questions, Mr. Pinsky was heard to remark, “She’s an addict… she’s not thinking clearly. She doesn’t have the usual priorities that the rest of us do… how far down is she going to have to go?”

This isn’t the first time this fraud has shared his opinions on Ms. Lohan’s life. In a famous “warning” he issued in 2009, Mr. Pinsky said:

"I'm convinced that she'll get sober one day. But I'm afraid that between now and then, she may get a nearly mortal wound of some type. I'm really convinced that something horrible is going to have to happen to her before she really gets over it and embraces sobriety. She needs to give it up. And it's going to be a while before she does. I have this image that she's going to lose a limb or something before she does. And it scares me."

Who does this guy think he is? No matter how well intentioned, his opinions are irresponsible, uninformed and slanderous. To go around calling someone you don’t really know an “addict” is the height of recklessness, especially from a person who is supposed to observe the highest ethical standards. Would we tolerate a doctor diagnosing an individual as insane on national television without having ever conducted any kind of medical investigation into this fact? Of course we wouldn’t. But because the subject is addiction and this guy presumably is motivated by a desire to help poor, suffering Lindsay, he gets an incomprehensible pass. (But what are his real motivations? They couldn’t possibly be related to his burgeoning career, could they?) And what in the world is this “image” he had of her losing a limb? Please Doctor Soothsayer, look into your crystal ball and tell me my future. Very scientific, so professional.

The facts of Lindsay Lohan’s life are completely irrelevant, most importantly because none of us really know anything about it. What is at issue here is far more important. Just say no to Doctor Drew Pinsky: quack with a soapbox.

Our Many Splendored Things

I was watching television last night, and came across a Hoarders marathon on A&E. I am quite simply in love with this show and the people it portrays, with whom I feel an odd kinship. I watched two or three episodes in a row as I cooked dinner, consciously, deliberately and unhappily not drinking or getting high.

Sometime during my meal of short ribs and asparagus, there was a dreaded commercial break, so I switched over to the History Channel, where the fairly new show American Pickers was on. For those of you who are not familiar, American Pickers features these two huckster scoundrels who scour people’s farms, warehouses and homes in search of their hidden and largely unknown valuables, then offer these folks a fraction of the value of these possessions in order to procure their sordid profits. At the end of each episode, the show tallies what these guys paid for the items versus what they are actually worth. It is a truly repulsive display of greed and opportunism in our national life.

What makes this juxtaposition particularly interesting to me is the fact that many of these people who are being taken advantage of in American Pickers are in fact hoarders themselves. So we have, side by side on our TV “dial,” one show where health care professionals enter people’s homes to inform the pack rat occupants that: 1) their possessions are valueless and 2) they are mentally ill for keeping them, and another show where two assholes roam the country making a very good living raping these same character types of their “hidden gems,” which reinforces to the viewer the whole reason for hoarding in the first place.

Now, I’m not saying that the people on Hoarders don’t need help. They are the most extreme examples of a pretty common method that humans have of externally and perhaps inappropriately dealing with stress and attempting to exert some level of control over their existence. (We’ve all heard of pregnant mothers “nesting,” for instance.) But there is a certain level of unacceptable contradiction in the message these competing programs are sending.

People in general, but American’s in particular, love their possessions. Some might call this love “materialism,” but I think there is an important difference in the common usage of the word that differentiates the two, at least much of the time. And it seems quite logical that we should love and be proud of these things of our making, for what else separates and distinguishes the human race from the rest of the animal kingdom more than our ability to shape and form the natural world into these myriad manifestations of our will?

This little discourse is not meant to solve the riddle. But, in watching these two programs last night, I couldn’t help but wonder where that hidden boundary between sickness and normalcy lies. More importantly, I wonder what our societal motivations and consequences are in creating these seemingly imaginary, constantly moving lines of acceptability.

Another Quote From Fyodor Dostoyevsky

"At that point I ought to have gone away, but a strange sensation rose up in me, a sort of defiance of fate, a desire to challenge it, to put out my tongue at it. I laid down the largest stake allowed-four thousand gulden-and lost it. Then, getting hot, I pulled out all I had left, staked it on the same number, and lost again, after which I walked away from the table as though I were stunned. I could not even grasp what had happened to me."

- The Gambler

Grandma Caught Slingin’ Rock

Here’s a lovely little tidbit I found today. I once smoked weed with my buddy’s seventy-five year old grandmother, (“This is some good shit,” she remarked as she inhaled deeply.) but Ms. Ola Mae really takes the cake. I found the article on about.com. The author is Sean O’Reilly.


PENSACOLA, FL -- An 87-year-old Escambia County woman is out of jail after being arrested for selling crack cocaine.

Ola Mae Agee is charged with one felony count of selling cocaine after deputies say she sold a $20 piece of crack to undercover deputies.

The Sheriff's Office conducted an undercover narcotics investigation over the past month in the area of East Desoto Street and Dr. Martin Luther King Drive in Pensacola.

Investigators say surveillance video shows an undercover officer knocking on the back door of Agee's house located on the 900 block of MLK Drive. Deputies say Agee answered the door and took the officer to a room in her house where she retrieved crack from a couch and exchanged it for money.

Investigators believe Agee wasn't the only person selling crack cocaine from her home. Deputies executed a search warrant at Agee's residence on Thursday in their ongoing county-wide narcotics investigation.

Sgt. Ted Roy, a spokesperson for the Sheriff's Office, said deputies suspect the other people who sold crack at Agee's house also sold cocaine from other homes throughout Escambia County. Detectives anticipate making additional drug-related arrests stemming from this investigation.

Family members took Agee to the Escambia County jail so she could turn herself on an outstanding warrant. Roy said Agee was released on her own recognizance because of her age.

Agee had no criminal record prior to her arrest on Thursday.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

The good Doctor and I had been planning a big night out for quite a while, but something, usually employment obligations, always got in the way. Finally, last Friday, we were able to make it work. But the Doctor was concerned that we not lose a single moment in our quest for a proper buzz.

“Let’s start the party in the early afternoon, so we get in bed at a reasonable hour and have something left for the next day,” he suggested. I agreed, and we met up around 3:45 at Scoma’s in Sausalito for a drink. After two vodka-tonics, he suggested we call my connection in the City.

“Can’t do it,” I informed him. “He doesn’t begin his rounds until eight o’clock.”

The Doctor sighed. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted to get started early?”

Not really believing in my new mission, I began scrolling through the numbers in my cell phone for some inspiration. When I came across the Jew, the proverbial light bulb went off over my head. He was always down for a good time, and fairly well connected. I called him and he luckily answered. Even more luckily, he informed me that he was sitting on a gram and a half of blow right there in his apartment.

“We’re coming over,” I said brusquely. He agreed.

Our journey from then on out was a tale in itself, a book of stories and adventures, many of which we will hopefully explore here someday. We drank, we smoked, we talked and danced and sang. We met a motley host of companions, all friendly and full of life. Dealers came and went throughout the evening. What else can be said? It was one of those nights.

And at seven forty-five in the morning, after fourteen hours of partying, back at the Doctor’s house in Sausalito, as the sleeping pill was just kicking in and the last drink was being polished off, I couldn’t help but observe:

“Good thing we got started early, buddy. Now we can truly tackle the day.”

A Quote From George Orwell

"Many people genuinely do not want to be saints, and it is probable that some who achieve or aspire to sainthood have never felt much temptation to be human beings."

Slam Dunk

It was my junior year in high school and three of us were walking to a well known and often used wooded area just off campus on the banks of a small, trash laden stream behind the football field to get high. The weed was Melinda’s, a friend I had known since we were five years old. With us also was Caleb, a sophomore and relative newcomer to our expanding group and the lifestyle we were so vigorously pursuing. I remember him in the months that surrounded this day displaying an enthusiasm for his nascent drug use which was sometimes fatuous and at other times absolutely contagious.

We were talking about something as we passed through the basketball courts, and I recall experiencing an odd feeling, like the three of us were somehow outsiders to the scene. At this moment a ball bounced and then rolled my way. I used my foot to stop it, and then picked it up in the manner of a soccer player to get it into my hands. I dribbled the ball a few times. I hadn’t played ball since I flaked on the varsity squad, much to the chagrin of the coach.

“Hey, pass it over here,” on of the guys on the court called out.

I dribbled the ball a few more times, feeling the exterior, rough and worn from outside use.

“You deaf or something,” he called to me again. “I said send it this way.”

I began running toward the hoop, pounding the ball into the concrete. I rose up as I got near and dunked it down with force. It felt good and reminded me of my recent athletic past, which I was not yet consciously aware was gone forever, at least in an organized sense.

The ball fell to the ground and I walked back toward my friends. Caleb was beside himself.

“Awesome, man,” he said, grinning as he patted me on the back. “You give us druggies a good name.”

At the time I was so proud to hear this from one of my mates, because that’s exactly what I was going for. Today this memory is fraught with complexity and paradox and I don’t always know what to make of it.

Classic Anti-Pot Commercial: "I learned it by watching you!"

Okay, folks, one more commercial for the archives. This has to be one of the most memorable anti-pot ads from my youth. I remember wishing that my parents smoked weed. Too bad that wasn't the case.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-Elr5K2Vuo

Great Anti-Drug Commercial: Oh Meth!

I really enjoyed watching this one...hope you enjoy it too. Very catchy tune.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fY1Pl1zGowc

A Quote From Alexander Dumas

"When you return to this mundane sphere from your visionary world, you would seem to leave a Neapolitan spring for a Lapland winter - to quit paradise for earth - heaven for hell! Taste the hashish, guest of mine - taste the hashish!"

Good News For Smokers

Finally, a reason to be proud, smokers of the world: you think quicker and remember better. This article was forwarded me by Onkel. My thanks. The source is DiscoveryNews. The author is Teresa Shipley.

SMOKING IS GOOD FOR YOU

*Um, not really.

But nicotine does enhance our ability to think, perform and take tests. Thanks to new research, scientists now know it increases our memory function, too.

Up to now, results about nicotine's effects on boosting human performance were mixed. Dr. Stephen Heishman, a scientist with the National Institute on Drug Abuse (part of the National Institutes of Health) said that in the past, researchers kept doing studies on the effects of nicotine and human performance without taking into account the drug's harsh withdrawal effects. Instead, they'd ask subjects to go eight or 12 hours without smoking before testing their brain functions. He says it wasn't surprising that as soon as nicotine was administered in those cases, performance improved.

"Without knowing what their baseline level of performance is, you can't really say whether that increase is a true increase or whether you're just bringing that person back to their baseline," Heishman told Discovery News. "Those early studies didn't provide the pre-deprivation performance, [as in], what's their performance when they're normally smoking?"

So Heishman and his colleagues studied all the literature they could find on nicotine and performance published between 1994 and 2008. In all, they reviewed and coded 41 studies and looked at how nicotine affected everything from fine motor skills to short term memory. Their results were published online in the journal Psychopharmacology.

What they found surprised them. Not only does the drug help with fine motor skills and alertness, it improves short term memory for tasks like remembering a list of items.

"We knew that the effect on attention was well known, but I was somewhat surprised about the effects on memory," Heishman said. "Smokers say that one of the reasons that they smoke is to help them concentrate, focus on tasks and do their work, and obviously a lot of our daily work involves memory. So on the other hand, I guess it shouldn't be too surprising."

Having a better understanding of nicotine's effects, including withdrawal effects, can lead to more effective quitting tactics, Heishman said. If we know that nicotine is the reason why we feel more alert when we smoke, for example, developing medicines that mimic nicotine's role can make quitting seem like less of an impossible task.

Near Misses Are Like Wins to Problem Gamblers

This is a very interesting article I found on medicalnewstoday.com. I can attest anecdotally to the accuracy of these findings. The article was posted yesterday. The author is Becky Allen of the University of Cambridge.


The brains of problem gamblers react more intensely to near misses than casual gamblers, new research from the University of Cambridge has found. The results could help explain what keeps problem gamblers betting even though they keep losing.

The study involved scanning the brains of 20 gamblers using functional magnetic resonance imaging while they played a computerised slot machine. Participants' gambling habits ranged from regular, social gamblers to those with severe problem gambling.

Dr Luke Clark of the University of Cambridge, who led the study, found that the parts of the brain involved in reward processing - the so-called dopamine centres - were more active in problem gamblers than in social gamblers.

During the experiment, volunteers played a computerised slot machine with two spinning wheels of icons and won 50p when the two icons matched. An icon mismatch was a loss, but when the wheels stopped within one icon of a match, the outcome was considered a "near miss."

Dr Clark found that near misses activated the same brain pathways as wins, even though no reward was given, and that this reaction was stronger in those gamblers who had more symptoms of problem gambling.

In particular, the study found strong responses in the midbrain, an area that is packed with dopamine-releasing brain cells. The dopamine system is associated with addiction and targeted by drugs of abuse. The study also found the near misses were linked with increased activity in a brain region called the ventral striatum, an area associated with reward and learning.

The results help explain why problem gamblers find it hard to give up.

According to Dr Clark: "These findings are exciting because they suggest that near-misses may elicit a dopamine response in the more severe gamblers, despite the fact that no actual reward is delivered. If these bursts of dopamine are driving addictive behaviour, this may help to explain why problem gamblers find it so difficult to quit."

Dopamine, a neurotransmitter, plays an important role in signalling "rewards" such as money and chocolate, and the dopamine system is also targeted by drugs of abuse.

"The results highlight some of the links between problem gambling and drug addiction, and have implications for both psychological and drug treatment for problem gamblers," Dr Clark says.

The findings are published in the new issue of the Journal of Neuroscience.

Me and Timothy Leary

It was 1993, and I was with my buddy Danny and a few other college chums at Lollapalooza in Mountain View, California. Primus and Alice in Chains were the headliners, though Danny and I were most excited about the side stage offering, a fairly new band we were into named Tool. It was sometime toward the middle of the festival that we headed over to check them out.

The crowd was only a couple of hundred strong, and we made our way toward the front. A few minutes later, an elderly, frail looking, grey haired man meandered out on the stage and said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce some good friends of mine. Put your hands together for Tool.”

The mushrooms and alcohol I had been consuming that day clogged the rusting gears of my brain, but eventually visual recognition kicked in. “Jesus Christ,” I yelled in Danny’s ear as the deafening music began to play, “I think that was fucking Timothy Leary.”

The show was great, though I remember it as pretty short. Lead singer and frontman Maynard had hardly broken a sweat on the scorching day before the band left the stage. I recall being a little disappointed as the two of us headed over to the bar for a drink.

But then, to our collective glee, we saw that Mr. Leary was sitting at a small, round table in the bar area with a fortyish, heavy-set man. Leary was staring into space and his companion seemed to be looking for something to say or do. We approached them aggressively, unable to contain our excitement.

“Mr. Leary, oh God, it’s so amazing to meet you,” I exclaimed. “You’ve been a big influence on me. You’re life’s work is, like, an inspiration.”

The Acid King said something, but I couldn’t hear him.

Danny chimed in, “You like Tool? How long have you known those guys?”

The Harvard professor mumbled and muttered unintelligibly. His eyes looked upward, as if searching for just the right word or phrase. Alas, the proper verbiage eluded him, though he continued speaking in his incomprehensible tongue. We waited for what seemed like several minutes on his every garbled word for some piece of wisdom, some kernel of truth; we waited in vain.

“Mr. Leary is very tired, gentlemen,” his companion-handler finally interceded haughtily. “I’m going to have to ask you to give him some space.”

We turned and departed the company of this legend of drug culture, disillusioned by the unexpected lesson we had received.

The Chameleon

The Oakland A’s have a “Tuesday Night Free Parking” promotion. So, being the cheapskates we are, Rick and I decided to head over to the game last night after a devastating session at Hometown Buffet. As the crowd was pathetic (an announced 10,125, but not even close to that number) our nine dollar tickets got us decent seats not far from the A’s bullpen.

We were taking in the game when Rick recognized Dave, a sixty-something supervising usher and former colleague. Dave came over and we all started talking. Soon the conversation steered toward the days when the stadium allowed access to the upper level. (Two years ago, the club decided to tarp over the highest level of seats, due to the fact that hardly anybody, other than people getting high, like Rick and myself, would sit there.)

“Oh man,” Dave said, “it was a real nightmare patrolling up there. Kid’s were smoking and everything.”

“I’ll bet they were even smoking dope,” I chimed in.

“You're right, they were,” he replied, his light blue eyes bulging like distended marbles.

“Damned druggies,” I added offhandedly.

Dave gave me an approbatory nod and said goodbye to the two of us. We enjoyed the rest of the game unmolested.

4/20 Rally in Denver

This picture was taken from a 4/20 rally that took place in Denver, Colorado this year. I used to think that I was pretty handy with produce, but these kids take the blue ribbon in the MacGyver category! It's good to see the youth moving forward.

Apples are the best, but I also like potatoes and yams.

A Quote From Henry Ward Beecher

"All men are tempted. There is no man that lives that can't be broken down, provided it is the right temptation, put in the right spot."

Inconvenient Timing and the Golden Mean

What a beautiful day for the races it was. The sun was shining. It was neither hot nor cold. The smell of grilled burgers filled the air. There were literally dozens of hot women wandering around the track in their sun dresses and fancy hats. The scumbag regulars and well to do, once-a-year outsiders mixed genially. There is no event in American life that compares to Kentucky Derby day.

My buddy Nick just had two teeth pulled a couple of days earlier, so he arrived with a fresh container of Vicadin to ease his pain. He offered me one. I accepted it, broke it in two to offset the effects of the time release coating, and washed it down with a Budweiser. As I was on an empty stomach, I began feeling the benumbing effects of the drug fairly soon.

Rick arrive soon thereafter, and within an hour or so we had pounded a couple more beers and went off to the bleachers to smoke some chronic. When we returned, I enjoyed a nice Cohiba Nick’s fiancés mom had brought back from Mexico. I was really flying high.

But it turned out that, like Icarus, I was flying a little too high. The three of us were in the interior hallway at the track, surrounded by people, watching the preliminary events leading up to the Derby on an antiquated television. Just as the singing of “My Old Kentucky Home” was coming to an end, I was overwhelmed by a strong claustrophobic sensation which was coupled by an immediate cold sweat, shaking and the feeling my heart was going to burst. I immediately went outside and walked around in circles for a minute or two, breathing deeply and telling myself I’d had this feeling a million times before. (Which is true, but this fact never makes it any easier.) I tried to return to the simulcast, but came back outside again.

I returned inside once more, just as the horses were entering the starting gate. My panic had seemingly peaked, though I was still very high and shaken by the experience. I watched the race and even hit on one of my plays, garnering a one half return of my total wager. But the event had been somewhat tarnished by my adverse chemical reaction. I had obviously overdone it. And I felt stupid and just a little bit juvenile.

Derby Day Approaches

That’s right folks, our great national holiday is only a day away: the 136th running of the Kentucky Derby. This time tomorrow, I’ll be at the track on my way to a good drunk and reviewing, for the hundredth time, the field and odds for the race. No matter what happens with the results, a good time will surely be had by me.

As you well know by now, I’m a compulsive gambler. And if there’s one thing I know about compulsive gamblers, you should never take their advice on the subject of wagering. Nevertheless, I’m going to share with you, gentle readers, my current picks.

The race time favorite is going to be Looking for Lucky, a Bob Baffert trained entrant. Obviously, this horse has the pedigree and record that supports him going off at a mere 3 to 1. He also has the advantage of running in the first position. For a straight bet, however, these odds are simply too short to play, though you should consider this horse in any exotic wagering.

I see Dean’s Kitten, currently going off at 50 to 1 to be an interesting long shot wager. Though he did poorly on his only dirt race, last year’s Pilgrim, he has the ability to close late. If the race is tight and an opportunity presents itself, don’t be surprised to catch the Kitten coming down the stretch and hitting the board at a huge price.

I’ve always been a big fan of trainer D. Wayne Lukas. This is why I just can’t ignore Dublin, a chestnut colt. He has an excellent pedigree and is in the hands of the Derby master Lukas, which almost automatically makes him a threat. At 12 to 1, I’m going to get some action on this horse. If the price falls below 10 to 1, however, I may change my mind.

There you have it, degenerates. Now go out there and get your gamble on!

Anonymous Quote

"Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting."

Stay Lusty, Lady Love

In a sad piece of news for sex junkies in the fair city of Seattle this week, the Lusty Lady peep show on First Avenue announced that, after twenty-seven years of continuous operation, (That’s twenty four hours a day, three hundred and sixty five days a year) they would be closing their doors forever.

This hallowed hall of sexual delight was best known for the slogans it placed on its marquee. Phrases such as, “Happy Nude Year,” “Porn on the Fourth of July,” “Merry XXXMas,” and “Happy Spanksgiving,” adorned the frontispiece of the building for years, annoying prudes and amusing perverts, businessmen and tourists alike.

The ailing economy, local construction and, of course, the internet, were all factors that led to a steep decline in business for the Lady.

I visited this fine establishment once, in 1995, while a junior at the University of Oregon. The selection of performers ranged from fairly attractive to downright skanky, and were very comparable to the quality of girls featured at the San Francisco location. But with a pocketful of quarters and a bottle of booze swishing around in my gut, I enjoyed my experience thoroughly, escaping, for a brief moment, the worries of my undergraduate existence.

Lady, you will not be forgotten.

Drinking Linked to Less Weight Gain in Middle Aged Women

I found this article on Medical News Today. The author is Catherine Paddock, Phd.


A new study from the US found that normal weight women in their 40s and older who drank a light to moderate amount of alcohol gained less weight and had a lower risk of becoming obese and overweight compared to their non-drinking counterparts.

The researchers, from the Brigham and Women's Hospital, and the Harvard School of Public Health in Boston, Massachusetts, have written about their study in a paper published online in the 8 March issue of Archives of Internal Medicine.

At 7 calories per gram (equivalent to 199 calories per ounce), alcohol is potentially a significant source of dietary calories, and more than half of adult Americans are alcohol drinkers. Meanwhile obesity is approaching epidemic proportions in the US, yet evidence on the extent to which alcohol consumption contributes to this public health crisis is patchy, suggested the authors.

For their prospective cohort study, which was sponsored by grants from the National Institutes of Health, lead author Dr Lu Wang, of Brigham and Women's Hospital, and colleagues examined data from 19,220 women living in the US who were aged 39 and over, had no traces of cardiovascular disease, cancer, or diabetes, and whose body mass index (BMI) was in the range classified as normal (18.5 to less than 25). BMI is calculated as weight in kilograms divided by height in meters squared.

At the start of the study the women filled in a questionnaire that asked them about their daily alcohol consumption. After that they filled in questionnaires about their weight every year for an average of 13 years.

The results showed that:
At the start of the study, 38.2 per cent reported drinking no alcohol, 32.8 per cent reported drinking less than 5 grams a day, 20.1 per cent reported drinking 5 to less than 15 grams, 5.9 per cent reported drinking 15 to less than 30 grams, and 3 per cent reported drinking 30 or more grams of alcohol a day.

Over the 13 years of follow up, the women's average weight went up steadily.

41.3 per cent of the women became overweight (BMI of 25 or more), and 3.8 per cent became obese (BMI of 30 or more).

After adjusting for potential confounders like baseline BMI, smoking, other calorie sources, exercise, and other lifestyle and dietary factors, there was an inverse association between the amount of daily alcohol the women said they drank in their initial questionnaires and the weight gained over the follow up.

Compared with women who did not drink at all, those who consumed some but less than 40 grams of alcohol a day had a lower risk of becoming overweight or obese.

Women who drank 15 to less than 30 grams of alcohol per day had the lowest risk, which was nearly 30 percent lower than that of their non-drinking counterparts.
The authors also looked at four types of alcoholic beverages and found the links to be the same for all, with perhaps the strongest being for red wine.

They concluded that:

"Compared with nondrinkers, initially normal-weight women who consumed a light to moderate amount of alcohol gained less weight and had a lower risk of becoming overweight and/or obese during 12.9 years of follow-up."

However, the authors stressed that given the potential medical and psychosocial problems of alcohol consumption, recommendations about its use should be made on an individual by individual basis.

They also suggested more studies are needed to find out the biological mechanisms of the role played by alcohol in energy metabolism, and whether any physiological and genetic factors are involved.

Marching Orders

I’ve been so remiss in maintaining this blog lately, and I’d like to extend apologies to my loyal readership. Most of us know the pernicious yoke of wage slavery, and I am unfortunately no different. I’ve been working like an ant lately and have been slacking off on my myriad other duties to society and myself – including nurturing and developing my functioning addiction. And while this period of intense labor is apparently going to continue for another few weeks, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Soon, very soon, to return: the time to dance.

A Quote From Luis Buñuel

"Tobacco and alcohol, delicious fathers of abiding friendships and fertile reveries."

Anti Drinking Ads May Increase Alcohol Use

This does not come as a surprise to me at all. It is nice to see, however, that the notion of promoting "controlled" drinking is finally gaining some acceptance. The article is from Medical News Today and was posted this morning. The source is Indiana University.



Public service advertising campaigns that use guilt or shame to warn against alcohol abuse can actually have the reverse effect, spurring increased drinking among target audiences, according to new research from the Indiana University Kelley School of Business.

Instead of the intended outcome, researchers in this first-of-its-kind study showed that the ads triggered an innate coping mechanism that enables viewers to distance themselves from the serious consequences of reckless drinking.

Anti- or "responsible" drinking campaigns have long been a mainstay of health departments, nonprofit organizations and even beverage companies. Yet alcohol abuse remains a persistent and growing problem linked to the deaths of approximately 79,000 people in the United States each year.

"The public health and marketing communities expend considerable effort and capital on these campaigns but have long suspected they were less effective than hoped," said Adam Duhachek, a marketing professor and co-author of the study. "But the situation is worse than wasted money or effort. These ads ultimately may do more harm than good because they have the potential to spur more of the behavior they're trying to prevent."

Duhachek's research specifically explores anti-drinking ads that link to the many possible adverse results of alcohol abuse, such as blackouts and car accidents, while eliciting feelings of shame and guilt. Findings show such messages are too difficult to process among viewers already experiencing these emotions -- for example, those who already have alcohol-related transgressions.

To cope, they adopt a defensive mindset that allows them to underestimate their susceptibility to the consequences highlighted in the ads; that is, that the consequences happen only to "other people." The result is they engage in greater amounts of irresponsible drinking, according to respondents.

"Advertisements are capable of bringing forth feelings so unpleasant that we're compelled to eliminate them by whatever means possible," said Duhachek. "This motivation is sufficiently strong to convince us we're immune to certain risks."

The findings are particularly relevant for U.S. universities, where alcohol abuse threatens the well-being of an entire generation, he said. Each year, drinking among college students contributes to an estimated 1,700 student deaths, 600,000 injuries, 700,000 assaults, 90,000 sexual assaults and 474,000 cases of unprotected sex.

The unintended negative impact of employing shame and guilt in these ads has implications for a wider range of health related messaging, from smoking cessation to preventing sexually transmitted diseases. According to Duhachek, shame- and guilt-inducing campaigns that seek to curb these behaviors can have the same unintentional backfire effects.

Duhachek encourages marketers looking to influence drinking and other behaviors to convey dire consequences along with messages of empowerment. For instance, providing strategies to control one's drinking or recalling instances where one resisted the temptation to engage in risky drinking behavior may provide a pathway to reducing these undesirable behaviors more effectively.

"If you're going to communicate a frightening scenario, temper it with the idea that it's avoidable," he said. "It's best to use the carrot along with the stick."

Duhachek developed the study with Nidhi Agrawal at the Kellogg School of Business at Northwestern University. They interviewed more than 1,200 undergraduate students after showing them shame- and guilt-inducing advertisements, which they specifically created for the research. To ensure no biases on the part of respondents, the team opted not to rely on existing campaigns.

The resulting paper, "Emotional Compatibility and the Effectiveness of Anti-Drinking Messages: A Defensive Processing Perspective on Shame and Guilt" is forthcoming in the Journal of Marketing Research.

Honest Addict, Chapter Eighteen

18

Peter was somewhere in the middle of Fresno County when the pungent odor of cow shit hit him in the face. Although the Jag was enveloped in an inky darkness on the moonless night, Peter knew he was only a few miles from the Harris Ranch, which is located with its thousands of cows just off Interstate 5. He rued the nighttime, as he had in the past enjoyed seeing the mass of animals as he drove by. On a seemingly endless and very boring road, it had on previous trips been a welcomed distraction.

Just as his olfactory senses had finished grappling with and were becoming even pleased by the scent which was spreading from the ranch, Peter’s mind wandered over a number of anxieties which he had been avoiding since that day which seemed so long ago, when he believed he had severed all ties with the life he was leading. What was awaiting him back in the Bay Area? Would he begin working again? He knew that financial management as an avenue of employment was out of the question, though he would have gotten back in the business in a second if Caroline had desired it. But could he really change fields? What else did he know how to do at this point? A part of him thought he would take a job at Starbucks or Blockbuster Video just to fill the time. What difference did it make, anyway? It wasn’t about the money – at least not in the immediate future – but rather was a question of ethics.

The hum of the road became a focal point in his mind and caused Peter to slip for several minutes into an unplanned meditation. At some point during this time the revelation descended on him. Its power was overwhelming.

It had always been there, since the first day he could remember. A force, a presence, an intelligence, a love: it didn’t matter if you called it God, Creator, Jehovah, Rah or the “Universal Consciousness.” And it didn’t matter if you believed in it or not. It had always been there, inside and outside of him, at every moment, everywhere. It was there now. He could sense it. He could even taste it in the flavor of compost on his tongue.

It had been there when Carol was dying and when Jeanette was passed out drunk; it was there in fancy restaurants, in the flesh of the creatures that had been killed to satiate the insatiable American diner; it was there at four in the morning when the cocaine party was just kicking into high gear; it was in the eyes of the abject gambler who had lost it all again; it was on cold street corners in the heart of the desperate bum; it was at the track; it was in bars and at the bottom of glasses; it was in the chemical residue that coated the inside of Caroline’s beloved pipe; it was inhaled in cigarette smoke; it was present in the gray dust that remains when we die. There was nowhere it was not.

For a moment Peter was outside of himself, raised high above the everyday by the thought’s potency. The answer had been transmitted and was understood. But as is almost always the case with moments of clarity, it slipped like a small pool of water slowly through his fingers, despite the fact his hands were tightly cupped. And in a matter of only a few moments, all was as it had been before.

He turned on the radio and got the Golden State Warriors’ game, distant though the signal was. Basketball had somehow totally slipped his mind. He wished he had the cell phone so he could check out the second half line. There was nothing like driving through the night and listening to a game when you had money riding.

Jeanette’s face entered his thoughts. He would call her soon, maybe tomorrow. Even knowing that some difficulty was waiting for him at the other end of this idea, he was excited, even thrilled about the prospect. And then he knew that he wanted it that way, and this too had always been the case.

But he would have to get his cell. That was clearly the first priority. This meant he would have to go to Violet’s house immediately upon arrival.

And he wanted to get high so badly.

And he knew that the pattern was to be repeated over again and would probably be repeated yet another time and again after that. He wondered if it was all a mistake, or if it was his fault, a crucial flaw in character. He wondered if things would ever change, then told himself that they wouldn’t. And he was both cheered and distressed by this thought. But these musings were interrupted when heard the announcer on the radio call out: “And the buzzer sounds. At the end of a very entertaining half of basketball the score is tied Golden State 55, Washington 55. Stay tuned for the halftime show and a wrap up of all today’s NBA action.”

He pulled the car off the freeway and into the parking lot of a Shell station and ran inside. The attendant gave him quarters in exchange for a five dollar bill, insisting however that his customer purchase a box of Tic-Tacs to consummate the transaction. He went outside and fed change into the pay phone: two dollars and seventy-five cents for a three minute call. The phone rang four times and he almost lost heart. Finally, the voice appeared magically at the other end.

“Who is this?”
“Mark, don’t hang up. It’s Peter.”
“Oh, hey man. Long time since I heard from you. You missed the playoffs, you bastard.”
“I know. I’ve been out of touch for a while.”
“How can I help you, my friend?”
Peter’s heart raced in the split second before he said the words. “I need to get some action on the game.”

THE END

Czech Proverb

"A habit is a shirt made of iron."

Honest Addict, Chapter Seventeen

17

And so the following afternoon he went to the Day’s Inn, checked out, and moved his scant possessions into the home of his new girlfriend. It is hard to describe their lifestyle and initial joy in any other way than to call it “playing house.” Each of them had long been a stranger to the world of cohabitation, and had grown accustomed to their privacy and the many quirks of solitude. But at first they were both so happy to be involved in what was, on the surface anyway, a “typical” relationship, that they fell headlong into a bliss that lasted a good three weeks.

Monday through Friday Caroline would go to work and, instead of going straight to the bar afterwards, would come home, where Peter would be cooking a meal to the best of his limited ability: spaghetti, salad, French bread, for instance. They would open a bottle of wine and talk about her day. For each of them it was an activity, a way of life that reflected their vision of what healthy people did with their evenings. She even talked about hosting a dinner party and inviting some of her coworkers.

On the weekends – and yes, also some of the weekdays – they would of course get trashed at the bar, at restaurants or the Turf club, which she had taken a liking to for its white tablecloths and food which she described as “hotel quality.” But from their shared perspective these outings were only simple indulgence. Everybody was entitled to have a good time now and again. And, because they had curtailed their habitual drinking by at least a third, it felt as if they were living the clean life. For Peter particularly this was so, since he had not touched a drug since his late-night excursion with Pepper. This marked a remarkably long stretch of abstinence for him. Once, he even referred to his new way of life as “going sober.”

To add to this sense of normalcy they went one Sunday to the Getty Museum, which they both admired for its architecture and stunning view of the city, though they agreed that the collection itself was a disappointment. On another evening, they took in a film at the local strip mall cinema multiplex: a Bruckheimeresque action offering with a handsome protagonist fighting the forces of evil in a daring attempt to rescue his beautiful woman. It was horrible drivel, the definition of mediocrity, the kind of movie Peter had always stood firmly against. But for some reason he enjoyed it to no end. Later he realized it was because he knew she had really liked it.

Toward the end of the third week they were at home finishing a dinner of crab cakes, mashed potatoes and broccoli when Caroline fell silent for a long spell. Peter was concerned.

“What is it, babe?”
“There’s something I need to tell you. It’s kind of awkward.”
“There’s nothing you can’t tell me,” he replied with a thoughtless confidence.
“Promise me you won’t find this strange.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“I have a dead guy in my closet.”

A sense of dread came over him as he pondered what she had just said. Then he began laughing as the absurdity of his fears settled in. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She walked out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. When she returned she was holding a large cardboard box. She opened it and began placing the contents on the table one by one: a pair of men’s boxers, a large hunting knife, a comb, a policeman’s billy club and several framed photographs of a determined, rugged looking guy in various poses and locations.

“This is what you’re worried about?” Peter asked. “You keep a box of memories from some old boyfriend. So what?”

Caroline then removed the last object inside the box: a silver urn. She unlatched the top of the vessel and removed the top, exposing the grey dust inside, the last remnants of the poor sap’s life.

“He was the last person – maybe the only person – I ever loved,” she said, her voice distant and detached. “He fell off a fifteenth storey deck on New Years Eve four years ago. The way it happened was so fucking stupid I can’t even explain it. One minute he was dancing, twirling around, and then… I watched him as he tumbled head over heels toward the traffic below. Maybe I was just high, but the fall seemed to last for several minutes. There’s not a day that has gone by when I don’t think of that moment.”

“Jesus,” Peter replied, dumbstruck. “I really don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me to get rid of him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Demand that I throw all these things away. Make me. I have to let go…” she said, her voice trailing off.
Peter had never seen Caroline behave in this manner, and in a way he didn’t like it. “I don’t know that I can do that,” he replied, not totally sure why he was responding this way.
“Take these things away from me and throw them in some dumpster where I’ll never see them again.” Her words were desperate but her voice did not waver.
“If you are asking me to do this, I will. Say it one more time.”
“No.” Her cold countenance betrayed no inner emotion.
He was visibly frustrated. “What the hell do you want me to do?”
“Fuck it,” she said as she packed the objects back into the box. “It’s not that important anyway.”
But Peter knew that the opposite was true.

***

That marked the beginning of the end of it, even though it took a little while for the reality to become apparent to him. For the first few days she was simply distant and different, though he could not quite put his finger on it. After this introductory period, however, she became openly hostile and mocking of him, doing everything conceivable to sabotage his capacity to love her. Sometimes it was just little things: displays of discomfort by his presence in what was, after all, her home, little naggings he knew were directed solely to harass him, the periodic shrug or exasperated sigh that said more than words.

But she used words as well. One night driving to dinner she pointed out an apartment building in the distance and remarked, “I fucked a guy there not three months ago. He was fantastic.”

Peter tried to let it slide, knowing innately that she was testing him. But it seemed the more patience he displayed the more she disdained him and would ramp up her attempts at driving him out of her life. She boldly and cruelly mocked his sexual technique, once during the act. She ripped into him for his clothes, his gambling, even his lack of immediate family. She openly accused him of stealing money from her purse, even though he had explained in some detail his relative financial comfort.

Finally, a week after Caroline had revealed the presence of her dead guy, she never came home after work. The next day Peter awoke in her bed and surmised what had happened, though he refused to take the final step to corroborate his suspicions. That day he went to the track and dropped three thousand dollars blindly, playing only long shots and hundred dollar trifectas. And he knew all the time that he was punishing himself. He just didn’t know for what.

The next morning she had still not returned. Peter stayed in bed for half an hour after awaking, staring at the dresser next to the bed. Finally he reached over and pulled out the top drawer. He felt guilty doing so, like a snoop. Inside was the ornate wood box she had shown him a month earlier. He opened it up. There was nothing inside; the small glass pipe was gone. He felt no anger, no resentment. But if anybody was going to be the functioning drug addict in this relationship, he thought, it was going to be him. And so he knew that his time in Los Angeles had expired.

Funny Tequilla Ad

This is a good spoof advertisement about drinking tequilla. Pretty damned funny. Click the link below to view.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xN0254u56Mc

Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Bombay Garden, Newark, California

There are a few problems with all you can eat Indian buffets. First, there are never enough items to choose from. Second, the naan station is only refilled every so often, and even when plentiful the bread is often stale. Third, the quality of the food is generally second rate next to plated offerings. And finally, at virtually all restaurants, the buffet is only offered at lunch, not dinner. Despite these many shortcomings, I have still eaten regularly at the Indian buffet line for as long as I’ve been an adult, and for two simple reasons: it’s cheap and I get my fill.

Unlike me, my buddy Rick won’t eat Indian or Pakistani unless it is at a buffet. He finds the portions prohibitively small and the prices ridiculously high. So forget about, for example, Shalimar for dinner when we’re in the City. He simply won’t do it. And we’ve chatted for years – fantasized, in fact – about finding that all you can eat Indian buffet for dinner. But nobody does the buffet at dinner time because, apparently, it’s not cost effective.

Imagine our surprise and elation when, after an afternoon at the Pick n’ Pull searching out parts for our respective vehicles, we encountered Bombay Garden Indian Cuisine at 5995 Mowry Avenue in Newark, California.

Featuring 35 menu items and serving buffet style for lunch and dinner, Bombay Garden is, hands down, the finest Indian buffet I have ever encountered. It defies, in every category I mentioned earlier, the stereotypical Indian buffet. There are so many items, the main problem is not getting sidetracked with all the appetizers and alluring finger foods available for consumption. The naan bread is cooked fresh, and brought to your table in a basket immediately upon sitting down, and is refilled upon request. And the quality of the food stands up in every way to the plated, sit down Indian and Pakistani restaurants I have dined at in the past.

We ordered a large Taj Majal beer to split between the two of us. (But if you are not in the mood for an alcoholic beverage, soda and tea are available on the line for no extra charge.) In our five or six visits to the buffet we enjoyed Chicken Tikka Masala, Chicken Curry, Lamb Vindaloo, Lamb Saag, Yellow Lentils, Mattar Paneer and Tandoori Chicken, among a few other items. All were fresh, hot and clean tasting. The serving area was spotless, giving me feeling of confidence that the cuisine was sanitary. For desert we enjoyed a heaping portion of mango ice cream, which was in every way delicious.

And I haven’t even discussed the impeccable service. Unlike numerous experiences at other sub-continental restaurants in the past, the servers were quick to respond to requests for beverages and bread, and were exceedingly friendly and helpful in every way, bearing wide smiles and positive attitudes.

It is important to note that the Bombay Garden franchise has several locations in the Bay Area. I have personally dined at two of the others. But only the Mowry Avenue location meets the above description and gets my recommendation. The others are, simply put, average at best.

I don’t get down to Newark very often. It’s pretty far from my home base. But I assure you, every time I’m passing through for work or going to an Oakland A’s baseball game I’m making a stop at Bombay Garden.

Yugoslav Proverb

"Nine gamblers could not feed a single rooster."

Honest Addict, Chapter Sixteen

16

That night they slept together at her nearby apartment. Their lovemaking was sloppy, fumbling and unfamiliar. Afterwards, she was mostly quiet; the few times she spoke it was in an offhand manner about abstract topics: work, a pair of shoes she had admired earlier in the day. He had to restrain himself from pouring his heart out on the sheets, knowing well that a misstep at this crucial juncture could lead to disaster. Of course, he consciously realized that the odds against an extended relationship growing out of this situation were long in the extreme. Still, it felt good and he wanted to savor the experience as long as it could conceivably last. When she fell asleep he watched her breathing heavily out of the corner of his eye. Then the snoring began. It kept him up most of the night.

They saw each other every day after that for a week. Mostly they met up at the bar. One night they met at a local sushi boat in Japan town. At the end of the meal they had twenty small plates stacked high in addition to four empty twenty-four ounce Sapporo beers – an impressive display of consumption which she was obviously proud of.

“Dude, you see our trophies? We fucking killed it tonight,” she remarked as the waitress approached to clear the area in front of them.
It was as if he was hearing the words for the first time in his life. Not just the exact order of the words, but their very meaning, pronunciation and significance.

At the close of their eighth night together they were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was close to dawn. They had been going at it for several hours on and off. He was trying to catch his breath. It was all he could do to keep up with her when she got going.

“I have something to say,” he whispered.
She was quiet for a moment, as if she knew what was coming. “Well, get on with it.”
“Either I’m staying or I’m going.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I think I’m in love with you.”
She sighed. “Tell me when you’re sure.”
“All right, I’m sure.”
She rolled over away from him, her ass and hip a smooth, rolling hill in some faraway land. “I hardly know you. You’re unemployed. We’re both irresponsible drunk children.”
“I have money.”
She turned back toward him. “How much?”
“Kind of a lot.”
“Enough for us to live on without working?”
“For a while. But ultimately no. Not to the standard with which I’m accustomed, anyway. But I could get another job. I’m considered by others to be very good at what I do.”

She fell silent for a long time, during which the shade of darkness lightened perceptibly. It would soon be morning, he thought. Finally, she spoke. “You don’t understand. There are things about me you don’t know.” She reached into a dresser next to her bed and pulled out an ornate wood box, which she opened. Inside was a tiny glass pipe. She took it out and held it in the air, staring at it reverentially.

“I stopped smoking methamphetamine seven months ago, and it’s all I can do to stay off the shit. I keep this little guy around, though. I’ve tried to get rid of it, wanted to smash it into a thousand pieces. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Obviously, I drink way too much. But that’s nothing compared to what I used to go through.”

“I do understand: better than you know,” he replied. “At least you’ve stopped. That’s more than I can say.”
“You get high?”
“Not on meth. I mean, I tried it a few times but it wasn’t my thing. I never shot up heroin, either. Couldn’t stand the idea of sticking a needle into my veins. But just about everything else has been or is fair game. And really, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Another reason maybe I should pass on this,” she said, though he knew from her tone she didn’t mean it.
Peter looked her straight in the eye. “I’ll quit. I’ll never get high again, as long as you’re with me. I swear to you, here and now, I’ll walk away from it all if only you’ll have me. I won’t so much as take a single hit of weed.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“The best deal of my life.” And he meant every word.
“What the fuck,” she said, carefully placing the pipe back into the box and the box back into the dresser. “You can move in here if you like. I’ll make room for your things in the hall closet.”
“I don’t really have any things.”
“All the better,” she replied brusquely as she stretched and rubbed her eyes. “I’m going to call in sick to work today. We can sleep for a few hours then go out. What do you want to do?”
He thought for a moment and was trying to be creative, but ultimately could only focus on one idea. “Have you ever been to the track?”

Ketamine Big in Canada

I found this article in the Hamilton (Ontario, Canada) Spectator, dated today. The author is Carmelina Prete.


The animal painkiller ketamine is replacing cocaine as a street drug of choice among teens, according to Hamilton police.

Typically sold as a white powder in small vials of about a gram, the drug, also known as Special K, looks like cocaine but costs a third of the price. At about $10 to $20 a vial or a "bump," it's a cheap alternative to the $50 a gram cocaine costs.

"Kids are taking this but it's certainly not just the kids," said Constable Perry Mason, a school resource officer. "It's an emerging problem in the community and schools are just a reflection of the community."

Hamilton police say the street value of cocaine has nearly doubled from $29,000 a kilogram in 2007 to $57,000 to $59,000 a kilogram today.

At the same time, the cost of designer drugs such as ecstasy and Special K dropped. Club prices were about $20 a pill in 2007. Now they're $5, police said.

Today, an ounce of cocaine costs about $1,500 whereas an ounce of ketamine goes for about $450 to $500.

Cocaine, a stimulant, and ketamine, a fast-acting and powerful anesthetic and painkiller used in veterinary and human surgery, produce different highs.

But Sue Kennedy, executive director with Alternatives For Youth, a local counselling service for youths with addictions, said it could be more about experimentation than finding a similar high.

"(It could be) kids are not even making the distinction between ketamine and cocaine. 'Who cares? I'm just going to use something to feel different to get a buzz or get high,'" she said. "Are kids necessarily making the distinction? Depending who's dealing or sharing or using, do they know what they're ingesting? Maybe, maybe not."

Ketamine, also known as K, kitty or kit-kat, is typically snorted, mixed into drinks or smoked with marijuana or tobacco. Effects are usually felt within one to 10 minutes. It can cause a drunk or dizzy feeling and vivid hallucinations.

Also sold as a clear liquid, it's commonly referred to as a date rape drug because it can be easily slipped into drinks.

Police attention was drawn to local ketamine use about a year ago after they arrested a Hamilton teen near a high school. Then they learned about a couple high school students with ketamine addiction.

"From information that the schools received and information we received, we thought this required attention," said Mason.

A two-week probe involving 12 officers, dubbed Project Garfield, led to the arrest of four teenagers who were charged with possession of marijuana. Two of them, both 17, were also charged with possession of marijuana for the purpose of trafficking.

Although none of the charges related to ketamine, Mason said the investigation led police to learn more about local ketamine use and how it's distributed.

Kennedy said counsellors at Alternatives for Youth are not seeing a marked increase in ketamine use among youths seeking counselling.

According to the 2009 Ontario Student Drug Use and Health, ketamine ranks low in popularity, with only 2.2 per cent of students in Grade 7 to 12 having used it.

An Excerpt From “Aristocracy, Technology and the Illusion of Progress.”

In his forthcoming book, artist and author Clarence Doskocil (AKA Diogenes the Cynic) engages in the time-honored writing of aphorisms, following in the footsteps of such luminaries as Nietzsche, Marcus Aurelius and Francois de La Rochefoucauld. Soon to be released by Unovis Press, it is a work anxiously anticipated by The Functioning Addict. Mr. Doskocil has been kind enough to submit an appropriate maxim for our consideration here. He has our thanks.

Alcohol and Narcotics as the Double-Edged Sword.

Who hasn’t felt the jolt of some type of substance, and who has not been lifted out of melancholy and depression after a few drinks or other combinations of chemical substances that have been deemed “bad” or “illegal” by the forms of external powers that we concede too much power to those that therefore try to control and attempt to refine the parameters of our lives? My theory is that these substances give us that original “jolt” of existence that we felt when the world was new to us; the unwrapping of a present on Christmas, your first bike ride with friends, or being alone in the woods without any adult supervision. As the Spanish Philosopher Ortega y Gassete said: “As adults, we loose that wondrous ability to see the world through the eyes of a child.” We are simply trying, with various success, to recapture that original hyper-intensive feeling of existence we felt when we were first learning to deal with this universe of tangibles. The flip side may be we are not structured to deal with the “newness” of experiences like we did as children. Our bodies age, yet it seems our minds get more refined, while our bodies simply cannot tolerate the effects of what these substances do to us. Our hangovers become more intense, and we find ourselves looking into the mirror after a long night or binge and find that we recognize our physical exposure to the Universe. We see the literal signs of aging and/or we feel our body craving the withdrawal back to normality and boring sobriety. We pursue the extra drinks when we know we are reaching our limits, and we try to maintain and intensify this feeling of living in the moment like we naturally did in the past when not only the world was new, but we were new.

Best Super Bowl Commercial

The Super Bowl is always good for the commercials. This year, I thought the best was the advertisement for the Kia Sorento wherein a toy robot, sock monkey, teddy bear, red monster and a furry little buddy are involved in a fantasy about what they would do with the Kia if they came to life. The scenes of them raging in Vegas are priceless. Click the link below to see the video.

http://msn.foxsports.com/video/shows/2010_super_bowl_commercials?vid=f044d9fb-692a-46d1-b394-9a23d121ef27&from=foxsports_SuperBowlAds

Honest Addict, Chapter Fifteen

15

For three nights in a row he returned at six o’clock sharp, always staying until closing. It was his sole employment, the rest of his time squandered sleeping twelve hours a day, ordering delivery food and watching bad daytime television in the hotel room. One day he walked five blocks down Hollywood Boulevard to a taqueria and ate a carne asada super burrito. This was his sole departure from the newly established routine.

But she had yet to revisit the bar and it was driving him crazy. Each night her physical absence was replaced by hazy dreams in which she played a part but were always forgotten within seconds of awaking. For the first hour of every day he would lie in bed and try to recall the details of his sleeping mind, the memories always tantalizingly near yet irretrievable. It was like nothing he had ever experienced.

On the fourth day he considered looking up every Honda dealership in the greater Los Angeles area and hunting her down, but decided that was not the best course. However, a case of cabin fever had set in and he had to get out of the hotel. He pondered returning to the track, but remembered his recent failure. The thought of going to a movie crossed his mind, but he had spent too much time watching television for the cinema to provide a change in pace. He considered taking a drive, but remembered he was in Los Angeles, where driving was rarely a pleasure.

Finally he just left the room and went back to Hollywood Boulevard. Standing on the corner, staring into space, not knowing what to do, a bus pulled up on the corner and passengers began filing on and off. It seemed about as good an option as anything else, so he boarded, happy to obtain a single seat with no neighbor.

The interior was filled with the kind of beleaguered folks one would expect on a metropolitan bus line, especially in Southern California, where riding public transit is an especial symbol of poverty and social diminution. The majority of the patrons were people of color: Hispanics and a fair number of blacks. They mostly stared forward, avoiding eye contact with one another. It was a courtesy, and unspoken agreement, which the regulars knew and generally adhered to. Peter found it polite and charming.

After a while an elderly white man in a motorized chair boarded the bus with the assistance of the driver. Peter couldn’t recall what these chairs were called, but he remembered a television advertisement that he had viewed recently naming a similar brand of chair the “Jazzy.” The name and all it implied had made him sick to his stomach. There was, he believed, no jazz in spending the last days of your life rotting away in such a contraption.

“Here we go, Don,” the driver said as he strapped the chair into the appropriate area of the bus across the aisle from Peter. “You’re getting around in that thing pretty good now.”
“I drove long haul for forty years,” the elderly man replied. “It was only a matter of time before I figured this goddamned thing out.”
“Good for you,” the driver replied.

The bus continued on its journey. Peter, knowing with some trepidation that he was committing himself to a protracted interaction, engaged the man.

“So Don, you used to drive long haul, did you?”
His eyes alighted. “That’s right, young man. I covered every bit of territory in the lower forty-eight and made the run up to Alaska dozens of times.”
“I bet you’ve seen some things.”
The old-timer laughed. “I fucked more pussy on the road than you’ll ever see in your lifetime.”
Peter burst into laughter. “Did I just hear you right?”
“You did, mister. Why, once I lived in a whorehouse in Nevada for a whole month. Fucked three girls a day. Those were some wonderful times,” he added with a sigh.
Peter tried desperately to add something to the conversation. “I used to daydream about driving long haul. If my life had turned out different, I bet I would have been good at it.”
“It takes a certain kind of man. Not everybody can do it.”
“I heard that when truckers come home from the road they go crazy with a type of withdrawal. They call it road fever, if I remember correctly. You know anything about that?”
“Yes sir. That’s exactly right. When I used to come home to my wife I would only last a few days before I’d be itchin’ to get back on the road. But I’m not sure if it was road fever, cause when she started bringing her girlfriends home to me I never wanted to leave.”
“Excuse me? I didn’t get that last part.”
“After many years of marriage she realized I was getting bored, so my wife would recruit her girlfriends to come home with her and they’d both fuck me. My lord, my wife brought home so many different bitches you’d never believe it.”
“No shit.”
“I’m completely serious. I lost her to Alzheimer’s five years ago.” His voice trembled with emotion. “She was a good woman. I loved her so much.”
“How old are you now, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Seventy-eight years,” Don replied. As Peter looked over his liver-spotted face it seemed about right.
“Where you off to now?”
“I’m going to pick up a lady at her retirement home and bring her back to my place.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I still get the bitches. She came up to me the other day at a restaurant and just wouldn’t stop talking. I couldn’t even finish my meal before I promised her I’d take her on a date. Fucked her the first night – she wasn’t bad for seventy-five.”
“You are my hero,” Peter said, chuckling. “When I come back in my next life, I want to be like you.”
“Nobody like me,” he replied, shaking his head. “Nobody.”

At the next stop the driver came back and happily unleashed his passenger from captivity. Don rolled toward the hydraulic lift at the entrance of the bus with a bitter determination. Outside on the corner, there was a well dressed elderly lady clutching a purse between two white gloved hands. Her face bore an expression of hopeful anticipation.

***

It was almost nine o’clock when Peter returned to the bar. The bus ride was unexpectedly lengthy and took hours before eventually returning to the same location where he had boarded, which had made him tired and put him behind schedule. His mind too was fatigued with the events of the past several days, and he swore that this would be his last visit to the unnamed bar before leaving Los Angeles. Where would he venture to next, he wondered? It was impossible to say.

As is often the case in moments such as these, all his thoughts and plans were shattered when he saw her standing on the other side of the room. His heart rate doubled; his mouth went instantaneously dry. She was to him a shimmering vision. The last time he had encountered her he had not noticed the size of her breasts, which were heaving under a white “wife beater” that was covered with a very delicate, transparent blue shirt. Still exhorting loudly, still cackling inappropriately with her male companions, Peter realized as if for the first time the enormity of her presence. She was a goddamned Amazon.

Caroline noticed him from across the room. She excused herself from her companions and marched over to him just as he had taken his seat at the bar and was about to order a drink.

“I heard you been stalking me, dude,” she said seriously.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Tommy told me you’ve been in here every night since I met you. Is that right?”
“That is correct, yes.”
“So, you have been stalking me.”
“Hey, you told me there was nothing stopping me from coming in here,” he replied confidently. “And anyway, stalking requires my following you around surreptitiously. Now, if you had caught me slinking around the Honda dealership certainly you could accuse me of such a thing. But coming in here five nights in a row: well, that just makes me a drunk and nothing else. Which reminds me, may I buy you a drink?”

His logic being unassailable, she relented and ordered a gin and tonic from the bartender, a man Peter had never seen before.

“I would like to know: how did Tommy tell you about my comings and goings? He’s not here now and you haven’t been in since I first saw you.”
“He called me last night. We’re old friends and he looks out for me.”
“That’s good. Old friends are nice.”
“He says I should steer clear of you.”
“Why is that?”
“He says you’re strange, even for around here.”
“I take that as a compliment.”

While pulling booze from off the bottom of the glass through her straw she gave him a look that he had never seen before, appearing either intrigued or confused. Perhaps they were one and the same. Either way, Peter knew that somehow the dynamic between them had changed. And he believed he had Tommy to thank for it.

A Quote From Franz Rosenthal

"The subject of gambling is all encompassing. It combines man's natural play instinct with his desire to know about his fate and his future."

- Gambling in Islam

Honest Addict, Chapter Fourteen

14

It was a bottomless sickness that brought him from the depths of a dreamless sleep. A sharp, stabbing pain emanated from his stomach. The bed was drenched with a cold, clammy sweat that also covered his face and body. He dashed to the bathroom and vomited so ferociously that much of it came back out of the toilet and splashed on the floor. Here he remained positioned – prostrate over the porcelain bowl – for much of the next hour, retching into the cloudy soup, still able to taste the acrid smoke from the night before.

After a spell he felt secure in returning to bed. Chills ran up and down his body as he shook uncontrollably under the covers. This was a sign, he thought to himself, an omen. It was time to make a change. This day would mark the beginning of a new life, free from the shackles of his myriad vices. Sure, he had made this same promise a thousand times before, but this instance was different. This time he had hit rock bottom. That was all he had needed, after all. As he fell back asleep he was comforted by the notion that when he awoke he would be a new man.

When he opened his eyes again it was nighttime. His stomach was still in pain, but now it ached with hunger. What he needed was sustenance and a strong drink. The thoughts that had so reassured him as he fell asleep hours before were now curiously dislodged from his memory. Somehow it was always this way. The minutes spent in the shower and clothing himself were almost unbearable, his physical need for food screaming every moment for satiation.

The blue neon martini glass across the street from the hotel beckoned to Peter as he emerged into the cool night. He entered the apparently nameless dive, a dank, depressing place filled with patrons who matched perfectly the environs. The bartender approached and spoke laconically.

“Whatcha like, sir.”
“You serve food in this place?”
The bartender pointed to a dirty sign that advertised the faire:
Pizza: $3.50 (Cheese or Pepperoni)
Hamburger: $2.50
Hot Dog: $2.00
Pickle: $1.00
Hard-Boiled Egg: $.75
Chips: $.75
Nuts: $.75

Peter considered his options, which appeared surprisingly appetizing in his weakened condition. “I’ll have a pepperoni pizza, a hamburger, some potato chips and a couple of hard boiled eggs to start out. And get me a shot of Jack Daniels and a Budweiser. Please.”

The bartender returned with the shot, beer, chips and eggs, as well as a couple packets of salt. Peter unpeeled and consumed a well salted egg first, then downed his shot. After his second egg he started in on the Budweiser, which was quickly consumed. Simultaneous with the arrival of the second beer was the presentation of the pizza which was followed shortly by the hamburger, steaming hot from the microwave. He squeezed packaged ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise on the burger and then topped it with a handful of crushed chips. His food thus properly prepared, he descended on the feast with complete abandon, blind to everything in the universe outside of his own satisfaction.

Upon finishing he was panting slightly from the physical exertion of the meal and the roof of his mouth was burned from the molten cheese of the pizza. Nevertheless, he felt very good. A pleasurable chill went down his spine as his body digested the food. All the best meals happened this way, he thought.

Peter ordered a brandy and drank half of it in one gulp, heating his upper chest. It was at this point that he heard her from across the room.

Her laughter was really more a cackle, an almost offensive sound coming from a woman. She was tall, practically six feet in high heels, with straight black hair that hung around her shoulders. She wore a skirt and light blue blouse with high sheen, a professional-looking outfit, totally out of synch with the general attire of the room. Her face was more intriguing than beautiful, but striking, especially on someone so tall. In between bursts of loud conversation she took long, deep pulls off the straw that descended to the bottom of a clear cocktail contained in a pint glass customarily reserved for draft beer.

He felt compelled to approach her but was also strangely afraid to do so, not so much because of her two roughneck companions, but rather because of her flaming aura, which was palpable from anywhere in the room. And though he procrastinated and might have missed his opportunity, she made it easy by coming to the bar and taking the seat next to his.

“Gimme another double, Tommy,” she said, slamming the heavy glass down on the bar.
“May I please pay for your drink?” Peter inquired.
She looked at him, confused by the formality of his offer. “Sure dude, anybody can by me a drink. Put it on his tab, Tommy.”
“You got it, babe,” the bartender replied.
“My name is Peter,” he said, extending his hand.
“Caroline,” she replied brusquely.
“I know this is going to sound stupid, but do you come here often?”
She started laughing and Tommy joined in.
“The reason I ask is, I’m not from around here.” The moment he spoke, a feeling of absolute humiliation filled his heart and his face turned a deep red.
“Oh, that’s okay honey,” she said, noticing his embarrassment. “We’re not laughing at you. We’re more laughing at me.”
“All right.”

She turned in her stool toward him and genuinely engaged. It might have been pity at first, recompense for his blushing, he didn’t know. But after a little while and many drinks the conversation flowed nicely. Peter learned that she worked for a local Honda dealership and was the top salesperson for the last three quarters. She aspired to “climb the ladder” and secure employment at Mercedes or BMW.

“I harass each of them once a month for a gig,” she said assertively.

As they continued talking Peter was overcome by strong feelings. She was unlike anyone he had ever met: brash, impolite, loud and nasty, yet brimming with life and vitality. Her capacity for alcohol was immense. She outpaced him four drinks to three, despite the fact that she was imbibing from a much bigger glass. With each passing moment his affection for her grew, until he was at last enamored. There was no turning back. Closing time came; it seemed too quick but they had been talking for over two hours. As Peter paid the tab she got up to leave.

“Wait,” he said, grabbing her by the arm. “Don’t leave just yet.”
“I’ve got to be at work early. It’s fucking two a.m.”
“I have to see you again. Can I have your number or something?”
“To tell you the truth dude, you’re not really my type.”
He was undeterred. “How can it hurt? Worst case scenario, you drink for free.”
“You’re a nice guy. So I’m going to cut you a break and say no.”
“I can’t accept that.”
She sighed. “I’m not giving you my number. But I can’t stop you from coming in here if you insist. And like I said, anybody can buy me a drink anytime they want to.”

She walked out of the bar, her ample hips and rear swinging in metronomic harmony with his imagination.