Life is Different

As seasons go, I've always been partial to autumn. I enjoy moderate weather best. When it comes to temperature extremes, I fare the worst in the heat. Michigan may not be as bad off as southern California, but we've been in the 90s regularly of late, and that's too hot for me. It's like an oven out there!

(Specifically, it's like the inside of an oven - one that's been turned on, and allowed to heat up to an uncomfortable temperature. In other ways, it's not really like an oven at all.)

Of course, it's not the heat, it's the humidity. Am I right? Heh heh.

Lucky for me, there is air-conditioning of one type or another almost anyplace I go. My work is cool in most areas. Our car is not only air-conditioned, but shaded by the garage. Our house does not have central air, but the window unit kicks out the breeze very well. I would gladly give up television before the A.C. Right now, it's one of our most important possessions.

Now that I'm thinking about it, I guess I'd rather have air conditioning than a bed to sleep on. I'd rather be cool on the floor than sweating on the mattress. I'd probably even get rid of Internet service before air. I could always go online at the library, as I've had to do in the past. How 'bout you, readers? How important is air conditioning to you?

Posted by Bill at 09:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

As if becoming a father weren't enough, I am now also an uncle for the first time. Yesterday morning, my sister and brother-in-law welcomed their first child, a boy. He was a few weeks ahead of schedule, and will be staying in the hospital for several more days. The little guy was 5lbs, 3oz. at birth, and 18 inches long. There aren't any serious complications, but I'm sure it's hard for his parents not to be able to have him always by their side (he's in an incubator in the hospital nursery), and it will be even harder to leave the hospital without him. We are praying for all three of them.

Posted by Bill at 09:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

In my last post, I discussed my shaky work history resulting from past substance abuse. Like a lot of addicts, I've jumped from job to job, often with significant gaps of time between positions. Reflecting on my employment record (eight employers since obtaining my degree, not including temp. jobs) got me thinking about my related tendency to change living arrangements frequently.

I got used to being on the move when I was in college. It felt perfectly normal to trek back and forth between my parents' house and various locations in my college town. But I never expected I'd continue to be a vagabond for so long afterward. In the ten years since I graduated, I've had thirteen different addresses. And considering I moved back with my folks on few separate occasions, I have moved a grand total of seventeen times in the past decade.

Now that I have a family of my own, I'm hoping our next move can be at least semi-permanent. I wouldn't want for us to have to live at our current location for the rest of our lives, although a couple years would be okay, if necessary. I'd like to remain here until we can afford to buy a place worth staying in for the long-term. I haven't maintained the same residence for more than a year-and-a-half since the Reagan administration.

I get weary just thinking of all the boxes packed and unpacked, furniture hauled, leases signed, interviews attended, jobs started, and jobs ended, by choice or otherwise.

It's time to put some roots down, which is another thing I can't do unless I maintain my sobriety.

Posted by Bill at 10:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm pleased to announce that I am once again working in my chosen field of human services, for the first time since becoming clean and sober. Last week, I started a position managing a group home for adults with mental illness. The residence, located in a quiet, pleasant neighborhood in Washtenaw County, is home to six men and women, all of whom have a primary diagnosis of schizophrenia.

This is my first time working with this population, and I think I will enjoy it. I have experience with several other populations, including abused and neglected adolescents, homeless families, and (mostly elderly) nursing home residents. The residents at my new group home are, in many respects, more stable than the people I've worked with in the past. They are in relatively good shape physically, they've lived in the same environment for years, and in some cases have jobs in the community. However, their chronic mental illness prevents them from being able to live independently. Most were in state-run psychiatric hospitals before they were closed in the 1980s. These folks are not likely to ever get any better. My job is to give them the best quality of life possible under the circumstances. It should be interesting . . .

I've always enjoyed helping others, and have found I'm pretty good at it. Were it not for my own problems, I'd have my Master's degree by now, in Social Work or Counseling. I'll probably wait until my wife finishes Nursing school before I go back myself.

After my stint in a long-term treatment center (as a resident, not an employee), I spent well over a year working a crappy job in retail sales. Then I had a temporary, seasonal position scoring essay tests. I figured I would've found something else by the time that ended, but it was another six weeks until I started my current work. My shakey work history (too many jobs; too many gaps between positions), the result of my substance abuse, is finally starting to catch up with me. I hope I like this position and company enough to stay for awhile.

I'll most likely be writing about my work from time to time, provided I can do so without compromising the confidentiality of my clients. I'm grateful to be back to doing the type of work I find fulfilling. I couldn't do it without being clean and sober.

Posted by Bill at 08:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My interest in blogging originally stemmed from a desire to keep a personal journal of my recovery, and of my life in general. After deciding to do it on the computer rather than write by hand, it was a no-brainer to post the whole thing. I mean, why not? I also keep a little handwritten log of stuff that's too personal for the public. But I figured a weblog was a good way of doing what we AAs call Twelfth Step work -- spreading the message of recovery. Simultaneously, I get to prattle on about a variety of other subects.

I mention my motives lest the casual reader be left to wonder why I bother posting information that may seem trivial or irrelevant. For instance, I don't have one of those "What I'm Reading" sidebar thingies yet, but I'm going to tell you what I'm reading anyway. I don't have the time right now to do the kind of thoughtful, in-depth analysis required of a decent book review, so I'll only comment briefly on my recent selections.

I must begin by mentioning a strange phenomenon I've noticed lately (i.e., in this period of recovery; the last few years). I've had a voracious appetite for nonfiction, but barely any attention span for novels. I've probably finished fewer than a dozen novels since I quit using, some of which I had read previously.

A few months ago, I decided to tackle Dickens' Great Expectations, which I remembered being surprisingly entertained by in 9th grade English. My wife had a copy, and I figured I might appreciate it even more now than I did at fourteen. (First, we watched the 1946 David Lean film adaptation, which was even better than I'd expected. Lately I've really been digging good black and white cinematography, and this movie had it.) I started on the book one rainy weekend afternoon, and was having a good time with it from page one. I loved how the narrator/protagonist, Pip, when reminiscing about his early childhood as an orphan, described how his young mind had formed impressions of what his parents must have been like based on their tombstones.

The shape of the letters on my father's, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, "Also Georgiana Wife of the Above," I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly.

As I progressed through the first chapter, my memory was refreshed of Dickens' masterful style, and I settled into my chair with the satisfaction of knowing I had a great tome to occupy me for at least a week. I was immersed in the story for most of the afternoon, stopping for the day as Pip stopped at Uncle Pumblechook's, on his way to visit Miss Havisham. So much more detail than the film, I marveled. I can't wait to see what happens next.

What happened next was, I moved on to a different book the next day, and haven't been back.

I've had similar experiences with other novels. I get a quarter or a third of the way into them, and stop. Now, this would be perfectly understandable if I decided I disliked the book (although I know people that finish what they started, no matter how much they hate it). But in my case, I'm rolling happily along . . . and then I just quit.

I would be tempted to chalk it up to a short attention span brought on by years of abusing my brain, considering the fact that when I was drinking heavily I couldn't stay with anything longer than a magazine article. But this phenomenon of mine only occurs with longer novels. If I can finish it in a day, fine. But if I put it down for the night, my eyes will be on something else the following day. I suppose it may just be that I've developed a strong interest reading non-fiction for pleasure. When I was in school, I was constantly reading (or avoiding reading) a variety of non-fiction subjects, so when I read for pleasure it was Stephen King, or Kurt Vonnegut, or whomever my favorite happened to be at the time. Now that I've been away from formal education for a long time, and have regained some mental clarity, I guess I'm just educating myself informally.

Sometimes I'll visit a used bookstore, and on rare occasions I'll buy a new book from Borders (with a gift card, when I have one), but most of my reading material comes from the public library. I like to keep my personal book collection to a minimum, considering how often I move, and factoring in the weight of the average box of books, so the library is a convenient option. And it's free! Free is good.

Anyway, my latest borrowed treasures are all non-fiction, and all from the Religion section. I've been focused, for the past couple years, on anything that reflects my newfound interest in Christianity, especially Catholicism. Of my current finds, the two that I've finished were both well worth my time.

Truth and Tolerance: Christian Belief and World Religions is a collection of essays by Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, the current Pope Benedict XVI. Ratzinger was (in)famous as a Cardinal mainly for his strict defense of doctrinal orthodoxy, but he was also well-known for his intellect. That intellect is consistently displayed in these essays.

The questions at hand are at the philosophical core of most, if not all, religions in the modern world: Is truth knowable? If so, should it be hidden in order to promote tolerance and interfaith harmony? Ratzinger touches on the effects of Kant and Nietzche (among others) on theology, and displays a vast knowledge of history and world religions, as well. This probably isn't anyone's idea of light summer reading, but I'd say it's worth the effort if you find the premise interesting.

With Truth and Tolerance fresh in my mind, I forged ahead into Living Zen, Loving God, by Ruben L.F. Habito, a practicing Catholic and former Jesuit priest, who also happens to be an acknowledged Zen master.

I've been interested in Buddhism for a long time, especially since taking a Buddhist Philosophy course a decade ago. So, because I had found myself agreeing with Ratzinger's essentially conservative stance on Christianity, I wondered how this Buddhist-Christian hybrid in Habito's writing would hit me. I found that it worked out pretty well for me. First of all, Habito doesn't propose a melding of the two religions. Despite Buddhism's lack of traditional theistic beliefs, it would be impossible, I think, to combine the two systems without the fundamentals of one or the other being sacrificed.

No worries. What Habito does is to simply show how Christian teachings can be appreciated more deeply from a Zen mode of experience. He writes convincingly that Zen practice can deepen a Christian's faith without conflicting with Christian doctrine or practice.

I suppose my experience with Christianity as an adult had always been flavored by my (limited) knowledge of Buddhist thought. This book helped to clarify the parameters of the connection. I think Jesus would approve, and Cardinal Ratz might even back him up!

Posted by Bill at 09:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Caffeine is the most widely used psychoactive substance in the world, according to this Wikipedia entry, and many other reputable sources. When I was in my active alcoholism, I tended not to drink much caffeine, but anytime I've been on the wagon, I've been quite the 'feine fiend.

During the summer, I usually steer clear of coffee and go for something cold. In recent years, it's been Diet Mountain Dew. I've never enjoyed the taste of the vile greenish-yellow concoction; I drink for the effect only. In fact, that's one of the signs that I'm addicted.

Some of the other red flags are: As time goes by, I require more and more to get the same effect and I need a few Diet Dews just to feel "normal" (increased tolerance); I often try, and fail, to moderate my caffeine consumption; I sometimes feel vaguely remorseful about the amount of Dew I drink, but continue to do so anyway; I have vowed to quit, and have done so for periods of time, only to return to the bottle (or can. Both work for me).

National Geographic had a pretty good article in January 2005 about caffeine addiction. When I first read it, the article inspired me to quit (again), which lasted a few weeks.

For me, the hardest part of giving up caffeine has been the initial withdrawal (which is a recognized medical disorder). The last few times I tried to quit, I was sluggish and extremely drowsy for three or more days. Once my body is adjusted, I'm much better, but I still can get tripped up by rationalization. A month or two after I quit, I'm at the gas station or supermarket, and I catch a glimpse of that green bottle in the corner of my eye. Maybe just a 20-ouncer, and then I'll be back off the stuff tomorrow . . . alright, I drank one, I might as well have a few more before I quit again . . . I haven't had an energy drink in awhile. That sounds good, too . . .

Being that my caffeine consumption doesn't result in some of the horrible consequences associated with other addictions, you might wonder why I'm so preoccupied with trying to stop. Well, it's a matter of principle. Caffeine is my only remaining dependence. And my previous experiences of being free from it have been nice -- I enjoyed being able to get up in the morning feeling quite alert before my feet even hit the floor. Besides that, I'm trying to adopt an overall healthier lifestyle, and my efforts sometimes feel negated by the constant flow of soda (that's POP, to you fellow Michiganders).

Oh, well, at least I'm not doing regular Mountain Dew. That stuff is really heinous.

Posted by Bill at 10:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Continued from A New Life - Part I.

The state cop who was driving me to Wayne County Jail was nothing if not cheerful. Trooper S--- was a black male who appeared to be in early middle age. He was clean-cut in appearance, as all state police are. I had dealt with my share of cops in my life, especially in the past few days of being shuffled amongst precincts. This was the first one I could remember that bothered trying to be friendly. He attempted to make small talk with me, punctuating his side of the conversation with joking comments and laughter.

I wasn't in a sociable mood, to say the least. I couldn't be sure whether to be glad that I lucked upon a non-grumpy cop, or depressed that his cheerfulness was making a mockery of my tragic situation. Either way, I didn't feel like chatting. And why was he being so nice, anyway? I figured the only reason for his levity was he had the cushy job of transporting prisoners. He'd probably paid his dues with years of dangerous duty, and was rewarded with the assignment of Cruising Around with the Pre-Apprehended.

"You know," Trooper S---- said, "it probably feels to you right now like your problems are too big -- like there's just no way out of the mess you're in, right?" He must've been able to tell I wasn't in the mood for lighthearted banter.

"I've never been in this much trouble before," I confided. I made a mental note not to give away too much information. I was starting to suspect he was playing the Good Cop role in order to coax information out of me.

"Well, I can see why you're upset, goin' to jail and facin' felonies and all. But sometimes things have a way of working out. Let me ask you something. Do you believe in God?"

This caught me off guard. I certainly wasn't expecting the question, and I didn't have a definite answer anyway.

I had been raised Roman Catholic, and had attended children's Catechism classes (the Catholic equivalent of Sunday school) through the 8th grade, when I made my Confirmation. That was the end of my formal churchgoing years, though. My parents had wanted my sister and I to receive the basics of the faith, at which point it was up to us if we wanted to continue. Catholicism hadn't made an especially strong impression on me, and I didn't care for going to Mass on Sunday, so I opted out. My parents didn't continue going either. My younger sister went to Mass with a friend until she was Confirmed a few years later. The Sacrament that was intended to celebrate our entry into the Church turned out to be more of a farewell ritual.

Straying away from the Church happened at a crucial time in my life. I was in the early stages of experimenting with alcohol, and my use became worse pretty quickly in the next two years. I can't say for sure that rejecting my faith was a cause of my drinking. It may have been vice-versa -- perhaps I lost interest in my religion because I found, in liquor, what seemed to be a superior substitute. Either way, booze and drugs became a sort of quasi-religion for me during my high school years. I quickly lost any sense of spirituality that I had developed in my childhood.

By the time I was in college, I considered myself to be agnostic, bordering on atheistic. I usually wanted to leave it open enough to allow for the possibility of some type of spiritual force, but not a traditional concept of God. I didn't think any rational, educated person could truly believe in the God of the Bible. Most of the time, I didn't ponder the question at all. I was mostly focused on myself, and my ever-worsening addictions.

When I made my first attempt at the sober lifestyle, at age 20, I felt I had to give theological questions a serious examination. While 12-Step programs do NOT require members to believe in God, they do suggest that we turn to some power greater than ourselves, even if that power is simply the spirit of fellowship at the meetings. As I read the literature and listened to members, it seemed that most used some conception of a god as their Higher Power.

So I began studying different forms of belief. I looked at Buddhism, traditional Native American beliefs, and various monotheistic systems, including Christianity. What I was grateful for about AA was that I could feel free to choose my own conception of a Higher Power, if I chose to have a Higher Power at all. I gradually came to believe that there was indeed some sort of Spiritual Principle that guided the universe, and that all the various religions had their own perspective on this Principle. I doubted, though, that this type of god had anything like a human consciousness or intelligence. I thought it was arrogant for humans to believe that God gave any special priveleges to them, considering the vastness of "Creation".

I tried, at the suggestion of other AA members, to pray to God despite my lack of belief. The first time I prayed as an adult, I felt embarrassed, even though I was alone in my bedroom, and no other person could see or hear me. This activity which had seemed natural in childhood now seemed absurd. I continued anyway, because I saw other people recovering, and I wanted to follow their methods.

Over time, I became more comfortable with the idea of praying, but I couldn't seem to stay in the habit of actually doing it. When I would relapse, I would stop praying altogether. Upon returning to AA, I would go back to the steps that dealt with a Higher Power, and try to spruce up my conception to serve me better. When I bottomed out on crack cocaine, I had enough AA floating around in my head that I was able to call out to God for help when I got desperate enough.

One night in my apartment, having binged on rocks for several days, I reached a point where I decided that my heart was going to burst. I couldn't get myself to calm down. I paced my living room, wondering if I should call for EMS, or wait it out. Part of me was worried about my neighbors seeing paramedics at my place. Another part of me said that people really did die of cocaine-induced heart attacks, and I should risk the embarrassment to save my life.

I remember sitting on my sofa and calling out, in my mind, to God. "God, I know I haven't been very good about trying to communicate with you, or discerning what you want from me. But I'm asking you to help me anyway. I know that you don't want me to be getting high, and I don't want to be doing it either. I'm really in over my head this time, God. Please, help me. Please, just don't let me die here tonight. Please, please, please help me to just calm down and sleep. If I make it through this night, I promise I will stop doing -- no, I can't say that . . . God, if I can just make it through this night, I will try to get some kind of help soon. I know I can't keep going like this for long." Eventually I was relaxed enough to perceive that I would probably survive. I decided to lie on my bed and try to fall asleep. I thanked God, took a couple more hits off the pipe, and got in bed.

A few months had passed, and I found myself being asked by this cop, this stranger, if I believed in God. But what did "God" mean to him? How could I give a simple answer?

"I really don't know what I believe anymore." I said. "I've believed different things at different times."

"Have you ever been a Christian?" Trooper S---- asked.

Oh man, I figured this was coming. I get the cop that wants to evangelize his prisoners.. "Well . . . yeah, I was raised Christian. I strayed away from it for a long time. But now . . . I don't know. I went to a Unitarian Univeralist church a few times recently." I could hardly believe I was letting myself be drawn into this conversation.

"I don't know too much about that church."

"Well, I liked the fact that they seemed very open and accepting of all different kinds of people. But they also seemed to be open to all different kinds of beliefs, too. It didn't seem like there was any common ground. Just a bunch of touchy-feely, vaguely spiritual talk. I mean, they weren't really clear on exactly what their doctrine was. They just kept emphasizing how tolerant and accepting they were."

"That doesn't sound too good." Trooper S---- said. "The best churches are the ones that preach the only Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ."

"Uh huh". Is it even legal for him to be saying this stuff? Oh well, I'm not exactly discouraging him.

"Now, with the trouble you're in, you might just want to think about surrendering to Jesus. I guarantee you'll be glad you did . . . do you want to do that?"

"Um . . . not really. . . I mean, I appreciate your concern for me and everything. You've really given me something to think about, and --"

"There's no time like the present. What do you have to lose?"

That was a good question. What did I have to lose? Nobody else was in the car with us; there was no one to laugh at me. "I just don't know what to say . . . how to word it. I'll have to th--"

"I'll give you the words," the trooper said, "all you have to do is repeat after me."

I was truly surprised by the assertiveness and genuine sincerity coming from this policeman. His only assignment was to drive me from Point A to Point B, yet he had been going out of his way to be friendly, and to tell me the truth as he saw it. The least I could do would be to indulge him.

So I agreed to repeat after him. He paused after each sentence, and I tried my best to be heartfelt in my parroting. We prayed:

"Lord God, I admit I am a sinner. I don't do what I should, and I do other things I shouldn't. I'm sorry for my sins and for going my own way rather than following you. Thank you for loving me, and for sending Jesus to die for me. I believe he suffered the punishment I deserved, he rose from the dead, and he is alive today. I accept your free gift of forgiveness right now. Jesus, I give you my life and ask you to come into my heart to live with me forever -- to be my Lord and Master. Amen."

He looked at me with a big grin on his face. "There. Now life is gonna start bein' different for you. There's a lot of growin' to be done, but you're on your way."

"Thanks for your help . . . really." I didn't feel much different. My wrists hurt from the handcuffs. My head ached, and my back and neck were sore from sleeping on a concrete cell floor. I wanted a cigarette.

"Now is the time to be vigilant. Satan don't want you to turn your life around. He's gonna be after you like never before. You gotta be ready to stand up to temptation. Don't forget, you got Jesus on your side now."

But I wasn't thinking about Jesus. I was thinking about the chances I had thrown away. The job I'd accepted, and now wouldn't be able to start. The people I had let down. The charges I faced.

As we pulled into the prisoner receiving area of Wayne County Jail, I tried to conjure up a positive thought. All I could come up with was: My future is truly unpredictable.

Continue to A New Life - Part III

Posted by Bill at 02:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm grateful that my recently rediscovered Catholic faith is not contingent upon a disbelief in the scientific theory of evolution.

The ongoing debate pitting evolution against "intelligent design" has been irritating me for quite awhile now. Why, I've been wondering, is there so little mention of the possibility that the process of evolution is being guided by a Higher Power? Why does it seem we are only hearing from Atheists and Fundamentalists?

The Catholic Church has long taught that the two views are not mutually exclusive, but rather are the product of entirely different realms. There shouldn't be much to argue about, right?

So, it was refreshing to discover this article in Time magazine yesterday. (I have a subscription to the tangible, paper and ink version of the magazine, but the link here seems to be to the same story I read).

The article is about Evangelical Christian and biologist Francis Collins, whose book, The Language of God: A Scientist Presents Evidence for Belief, argues that science and religion can coexist peacefully.

The story describes the current lack of agreement:

. . . few of the polemicists have the authority to preach beyond their own choirs. Most believers don't care to listen to an atheistic scientist calling the idea of God a mythology created to explain what humans don't understand, and academic atheists are just as uninterested in scientific lectures from Bible literalists.

I suspect there are a great deal of scientists out there who are Christians, but who keep their faith under wraps at work, for fear of losing credibility among their colleagues. Hopefully, Collins' book will catch on, and will influence a few minds on both extremes of this debate.

Posted by Bill at 01:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Continued from My Story: The Downward Spiral - Part Three

After years of half-hearted pseudo-recovery interspersed with relapses and periods of substance abuse, I finally surrendered the battle at the end of 2003. It is only in retrospect that I'm able to identify what happened as having been a surrender. At the time it felt like nothing more than the latest episode in the tragedy that my life had become.

As I related in the last chapter of my story, my final descent into the abyss began after a long (for me) period of abstinence from drugs and alcohol. What started as an occasional sampling of prescription pain medication became, by summer 2003, a daily crack cocaine habit. Although I had used cocaine a good deal before that summer, the drug really sunk its claws into me when I returned to it.

By autumn I had returned to drinking as well, my vodka binges aggravated by the fuel of cocaine smoke. I lost a drastic amount of weight due to barely eating, coupled with hours of constant exercise (daily walks to the liquor store and crawls around my living room in search of specks of crack in the carpet). I had an episode of extreme agitation, yelling at my apartment walls, using a lamp stand as a battering ram, and throwing objects out the second floor window. For the first time in my active addiction, I began to fear that I might die before I could get clean.

Around Thanksgiving 2003, I managed to stop using and moved into a recovery house. I stayed clean until shortly after Christmas. One night an urge overwhelmed me. I told myself that I'd smoke "just one" rock to calm the craving, then I'd get back on track. But I ended up smoking and drinking several nights consecutively. I felt horrible that I was using drugs while living with other recovering addicts, and guilty as I traded some of my last possessions for a high that would only last a matter of minutes.

When my binge was finally cut short by my arrest, the dread and shame of my situation was tempered by relief; I was comforted by the realization that in jail I would be safe from myself.

Despite this vague sense of relief, I wasn't in any mood to celebrate. My thoughts were primarily on the idea that I had failed yet again, and would be facing felony possession charges. I felt a general sense of impending doom.

There is an old saying that it is darkest before the dawn. This cliche certainly turned out to be true in my case. But at the time, it seemed as though the nighttime would last forever.

I spent my first twelve hours or so at a police station in the suburb where I was arrested. I was alone in a cold, bright, florescent lit cell. A large window looked out into a hallway, where police officers came and went throughout the night. I curled up in a fetal position, my arms pulled inside my T-shirt for warmth, and caught up on some much needed sleep. Next, I was transferred to a precinct in Detroit proper, on a warrant for impaired driving.

Impaired driving is a crime that usually leads to arrest immediately upon being pulled over. However, my case did not involve alcohol. I had been arrested by state police, my car impounded, but the drugs in my system were not immediately detectable. All the troopers could do was take a urine sample (or it may have been a blood sample - I was far too stoned to remember) and send me on my way in a cab that was waiting in front of their post. They told me as I was leaving that if my drug test came back positive, I would be notified of a warrant by mail within a few weeks. When several months passed with no warrant, I assumed they had either thrown it out or lost track of it somehow. By the time I was arrested for possession of cocaine, several months later, I had nearly forgotten about the incident. What appears to have happened is that the State Police notified Detroit of my drug test failure, and Detroit issued the warrant without bothering to inform me. They probably couldn't afford the postage.

But I digress. As I was saying, I was transferred to the Detroit precinct, which was nothing like the suburban jail. The cell in Detroit had much more of a dungeon feel. The only light was from a low-wattage bulb surrounded by a rusty metal cage. Unlike most jail cells, there was no plastic covered mat to lie on. I had to make do with the damp, chilly cement floor. This was the typical iron bar type of cell, of which there were several facing each other. The toilet was near the front of the cell, only a few feet from my neighbor's toilet on the other side of the walkway. I could hear the ranting voice of a female prisoner in a cell nearby.

After about twenty-four hours at the precinct, I was told I was being transferred to Wayne County Jail. This is where I was to stay, at the very least until the court process was begun. I had heard stories about WCJ from a friend's brother who had worked there, as well as from AA acquantances who'd been put up there as "guests of the county". It was a universally despised place. By the time I was transferred there, I'd had a couple days for the residual effects of the drugs to wear off, and the grim reality of my circumstances was becoming ever more disgustingly clear. I wasn't in the mood to be chaufeurred by a cop who wanted to joke around and be Mr. Cheerful, but that was what I got. He ended up having some very helpful things to say, however, which I'll cover in Part II.

Posted by Bill at 01:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My blog's host, Major Steel, once noted in his blog, Out of the Mist, that his pseudonym is an anagram of his real name. I had always wondered where he got that moniker, but I didn't want to ask, lest it turn out to be a reference to something with which I should've been familiar.

I started thinking about anagrams, and wondered if my name might be rearranged into anything interesting. A quick Google search of "anagram" turned up this site, which held my attention for the better part of a day.

Through the mind-boggling power of the microchip, I was able to produce the following variations on the letters of my full legal name:

Moms Manicotti Swell (which would be a rather mundane observation, if my mom made manicotti, which she doesn't).

Moscow Mental Limits (I'm not certain what this means, although it reminds me of one of my favorite TV shows, Austin City Limits).

Little Swami Commons (perhaps an apartment complex in Bangladesh?).

Waltons Mimic Motels ("Goodnight John Boy. We'll leave the light on for ya.").

Calmest Moonlit Swim (has a nice ring to it, but doesn't work as a pseudonym).

Next, I tried removing my middle name. I figured fewer letters might translate into an anagrammatical pseudonym. Unfortunately, I couldn't come up with a single one, but I did get the rather intriguing Mellow Animism, and Slim Men Wail Om.

Needless to say, I'll be sticking with "Bill".

Posted by Bill at 12:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Need a good laugh? If you're anything like me (God help you), you might get a chuckle out of Improv Everywhere, based in New York. Although what they do isn't technically improvisation, it is hilarious. After they've completed a mission, the participants (agents, as they call themselves) write about their exploits at the IE site. They also post pics and video taken at the scene.

One of my favorite missions was the Moebius, in which the agents created a "time loop" for unsuspecting Starbucks customers.

I guess what I like about IE's humor is that it reveals the absurdity of contemporary life by disrupting its monotony, usually in a good-natured way. For me, reading the agents' accounts of each mission is even funnier than watching the videos.

I wish we had Improv Everywhere, or something like it, here in Ann Arbor. I'm not the type to initiate something on that scale, but I'd definitely take part in a mission or two.

Posted by Bill at 11:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)