How can you mend a broken heart? It helps if Harold Lloyd is your doctor. In spite of the heartbreak of my failed novel (and let's not let the pain of it break through the dam), I do come back to Harold because I love him still. And in Dr. Jack, he departs from his usual bumbling youth/spoiled rich kid persona completely, becoming a responsible and admired figure in his community, albeit a very funny one. He carries himself differently as a result - like a professional, always sure of himself - and it's the right call, for a "bumbling doctor" would have been ridiculous and un-funny. He's sexier somehow, because of it all, but it's a little heartbreaking to see what might have been, had he been able to break away from his usual Glass Character persona and spread himself out. But it didn't happen - audiences wanted the shy, awkward youth who somehow gets the girl, or the (more rarely) ridiculously entitled rich kid who finally matures at the end. And gets the girl.
This is just a snippet, but I love it - just a few seconds of magic, and the look that passes between Harold and his ACTUAL wife, Mildred Davis, is beautiful and precious. The way she literally sees his image "in the cards", as if he is her destiny, then flutters her eyelashes at him, is priceless. Though there is lots of physical comedy and madcap gags in this movie, Harold's Dr. Jack remains pretty steady through it all. He would have made a wonderful doctor.
This excerpt is from a much longer, and at times kind of tedious, bio of George Gershwin. The best part of it is the way they use paintings as "animated stills" which the camera pans across and zooms in on. I especially loved the bit where George, addled by a soon-to-be-fatal brain tumour, takes a handful of chocolates and smashes them into his chest. It was a horrible death, made that much more horrible by medical ignorance and the denial of his friends and family, who chalked up his weird symptoms to "love troubles" and struggles with his new boss, Sam Goldwyn.
In fact, one of the last things George ever said - miserably - was, "I should live so long as to hear Sam Goldwyn say to me, 'Why can't you write hits like Irving Berlin?'" It's true - George COULDN'T write hits like Irving Berlin because he was too busy skating rings around him, and everyone else in the competition.
So everyone, "friends" and doctors alike, ignored the fact that George was spilling his food, falling down the stairs, stumbling in his piano playing, saying nonsensical things, and pushing his chauffeur out of the driver side of a moving car. Love troubles, you see. Then he collapsed in the bathroom during one of his agonizing headaches, fell into a coma, and died, but not before they cracked his head open and "discovered" a grapefruit-sized tumour. Brain surgery wasn't what it is now, but some now believe that he could have been at least granted a reprieve, or had the worst of his agony relieved.
So what happened? George just WASN'T a sick person, he wasn't - and part of this ludicrous denial was his own myth of invincibility. It's ironic, because he suffered from chronic digestive problems for his entire life which could also be agonizingly painful. Some believe the chronic gut pain may even have been related to the cancer which eventually ate his brain.
George's story is sad, and sweet, and not like anyone else's. He was a Mozart in his time, flaming out in a brilliant streak across the sky. No one knows what he would have achieved had he lived, but it is not a sure thing that he would have kept producing at the same phenomenal rate. Some artists are products of their time, and never quite make the transition. Harold Lloyd is an example of someone whose character would always and ever be "a youth", a young man either totally unskilled in the ways of the world, or (in a few cases) a spoiled and ridiculously-entitled rich kid.
By the time the talkies came around, he was still playing "youths", as in Movie Crazy where he played a 40-year-old virgin still living with his parents and setting off for a great adventure in Hollywood. It wasn't just that irritating, dithering nasal voice of his, which still drives me crazy. Not everyone beat the cull. Garbo could talk like a man, but not Tallulah Bankhead. It was his 1920-ness, the way he embodied a certain era which would never come around again, and his inability to evolve into someone or something else.
In Gershwin's case, only death stopped him. It seems that nothing else could.
Lauren Gunning (pushing wagon) and sister Erica were among those participating in the Telus Walk to Cure Diabetes on Sunday at Rotary Stadium in Abbotsford. The event raised funds for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation and its research into a cure for Type 1 diabetes.
(NOTE: the whole family is in this shot! My son Jeff (Erica and Lauren's Daddy) can be seen on the far left, and Crystal, their Mom, is pulling the wagon. Bill and I are in there somewhere - see the lady with the short hair and the green-striped shirt? And Bill is the guy to the right of her in the grey Tilley hat. Hard to believe it was that long ago!)
My dolls are very generous with their time (meaning, all they do is sit there being dolls), so they were happy to do this historic re-enactment of the CREEPIEST doll in human history - the infamous Edison Talking Doll. This thing had a tiny record player inside it which had to be cranked, and which broke after only a few uses. The dolls were so frightening and expensive (something like $10.00, which would be like $200.00 now) that they only lasted a few weeks on the market. So the ones that were manufactured must have been warehoused somewhere - or collected by a few people interested in macabre artifacts. This was the pre-pre-predecessor to Chatty Cathy and other hideous "talking" dolls, so once again everyone claims Edison was "ahead of his time" - but I also found video of French dolls which laughed and talked using the same primitive technology. My feeling is that, as always, Edison stole someone else's brilliant idea, but he managed to botch it just the same.
Puppets are humans in effigy, which is disturbing enough in itself. But this little blonde girl is beyond creepy - she looks like someone I sat next to in Grade 7, glasses and all. The fact that she is spouting Christian propaganda (the audio of which is blessedly muted) just adds another level of dismay.
This somehow ended up as a comment on a YouTube video, but it poured out with such force that I thought I would place it here and not just let it sit there, likely either unread or shot down by someone who disagrees. But it's a way to try to describe the process of something so deep that is really beyond any words.
@D Onion Just to throw in my two cents: I kept getting told by therapists, ministers, etc. to "forgive myself". But then in the next breath they or someone would say, "There's nothing to forgive." So I would get stuck: OK, nothing to forgive, so I CAN'T forgive? So what do I do? BUT, I know I did a lot of damage to myself and the family when I was deep in my alcoholism and undiagnosed bipolar. Yes, I DID hurt them and confuse them, and I failed to explain it because I was too deep in the chaos. So now I have this "voice" - I'm not psychotic, it's just a helpful voice I hear in myself - saying, "OK then, you did nothing wrong, but often you BELIEVE you did. You still carry it. Can you feel compassion for that hurt, confused, lonely, screwed-up, struggling person you were?" The answer is yes, I can. Compassion IS part of my deeper nature because I am empathetic. I also feel some compassion (pity is more like it) for the people who hurt me. They are kind of pathetic, after all, and I can't think of anything worse than to BE that way. But when people say things like, "Oh, you MUST forgive them (your Dad, sister, bad therapists, etc.) or you will be in a state of rage for the rest of your life", I believe this is a very sneaky form of the Christian agenda. No, I not only don't have to "forgive", I do not have to do ANYTHING AT ALL. That is up to me. Compassion has crept in like a tide, gradually and gently, and it amazes me, BUT I had five years of therapy that was sometimes overwhelming and often didn't feel like it was helping me. But it is now over 20 years later, and "something" happened deep inside that is really only making itself known to me now. "Forgiveness" gets my back up because it implies "it's OK what you did". It is NOT OK what my Dad, sister, bad therapists, etc. etc. did to me. And I don't feel OK about hurting myself. But I DO feel deeply for that hurt and confused person, and if I could only talk to that hurt younger self now (which in way, I am) I would say, "You're in terrible pain and feel alone, but you're getting through it, and that is incredibly brave." Is that "forgiveness"? I think it's more complex and goes far deeper. I don't like the "f-word" because of the toxic way it was pushed on me by the church and others who "only wanted to help me". Is there any other way? Are they right that I "MUST" forgive myself or be in a state of rage, etc. etc.? That's a bunch of hooey and only represents a way to get me to shut up. Think of it this way: if you think, "OK I'll forgive my Dad", it means you can't really talk about it any more or people will realize you have NOT forgiven your Dad. It is a way to get you to shut up about it because it makes THEM uncomfortable to witness those emotions. They are threatened by it, so they will find a way to silence you. Like the Bible, forgiveness can be used as a weapon and is actually very selfish of THEM to push it on you or anyone else. It is some sort of awful test of whether you're a good Christian or good person or - whatever. But the compassion came from somewhere so deep it feels like a kind of miracle. It's not up to me, I can't "summon" it, but when I feel it and want to just push it away or tell it to get lost, I do have a choice to let it be (let it be, like the song says!), and let myself feel the untying of knots inside myself. Really, if you believe in Jesus at all, compassion was "his way". It was being in a state of grace. All the emphasis on "forgiveness" may even be a mistranslation of the Biblical text. I have read that the root for "forgiveness" means "to untie". Sorry for the length of this! Once I got going, it was hard to stop. If "the f-word" doesn't work for you, there are MANY other ways, and there is YOUR way, which will eventually make itself clear.
From Golden Girls to Sue Ann Nivens to dozens and maybe even hundreds of appearances elsewhere - including a sitcom she starred in before I was born (and I am soon to turn 68!). We'll miss her so - she was a light in the world, and you never heard her whining or complaining (which is all I seem to hear now!). I made this animation years ago from a photo shoot she did while enthusiastically eating a hot dog.
This is one of the most incredible videos I have ever seen! I cannot imagine how long it took to set up, or if they needed different takes. And how many cats do they have?!
A Christmas classic, taken several years ago. Bentley still slips under the tree and hides, or even tries to climb it. Last night he got his toe caught in the base of the tree and had to be rescued. That's what we get for having a TREE in the house for weeks on end!
Children's programming hit a peak of surrealism in the early 1950s, when puppet shows abounded. These look like marionettes, with great staring eyes that almost resemble anime eyes. The "cat" is weird even for a cartoon cat (and cartoonists NEVER seem to get cats right - except, maybe, Archie and Mehitabel. I will just have to do a post on THEM.)
This is one of my favorite cat videos of all time. A seasonal favorite. My cat has never done this, but he''s known to go a bit wacky, what with ribbons hanging down, flashing lights, dangly ornaments, trees brought in from the outside - what cat wouldn't go a bit nuts?
I love capybaras! What's not to love about a 200-pound rodent who squeaks and squeals like a giant guinea pig? Their eyes and nostrils are all the same level, at the top of their head, kind of like a crocodile's, because they are aquatic animals and spend a lot of time underwater. I suppose they could hide from predators that way, but what sort of predator could handle a creature like this? To me they resemble giant beavers without the flat tail, or those prehistoric mammals who for some reason were so gigantic. When I first got interested in them, there was one website which had no videos, and now there are entire channels devoted to them. Some things are worth waiting for.
Who struggled
with pain so the world could go free
Mother of
Muses, sing for me.
Sing of
Sherman, Montgomery and Scott
And of Zhukov, and
Patton, and the battles they fought
Who cleared
the path for Presley to sing
Who carved the
path for Martin Luther King
Who did what
they did and they went on their way
Man I could
tell their stories all day
I’m falling in
love with Calliope
She don’t
belong to anyone, why not give her to me
She’s speakin’
to me, speakin’ with her eyes
I’ve grown so
tired of chasing lies
Mother of
Muses, wherever you are
I’ve already
outlived my life by far.
Mother of
Muses, unleash your wrath
Things I can’t
see, they’re blocking my path
Show my your
wisdom, tell me my fate
Put me
upright, make me walk straight
Forge my
identity from the inside out
You know what
I’m talking’ about.
Take me to the
river, release your charms
Let me lay
down a while in your sweet lovin’ arms
Wake me shake
me, free me from sin
Make me
invisible, like the wind
Got a mind to
ramble, got a mind to roam
I’m travellin’
light, and I’m slow comin’ home
In Greek mythology, Mnemosyne is the goddess of memory, and the mother of the nine Muses. The term Mnemosyne is derived from the same source as the word mnemonic, that being the Greek word mnēmē, which means "remembrance, memory". A titaness, Mnemosyne was the daughter of Uranus and Gaia. Mnemosyne was the mother of the nine Muses, fathered by her nephew, Zeus:
BLOGGER'S COMMENTARY. I have fallen in love, not with Calliope, but with Bob Dylan, all over again. Only now he's an 80-year-old phenomenon once more in the thick of a year-long world tour, a task which would be daunting to a man half that age. Yes, and that tour likely features mostly new material, including songs we have not even heard yet. Through the wonders of YouTube, we are now able to hear and even SEE him perform only a day or so after the show. Entire performances are popping up that only took place last week.
Mother of Muses is one of my favorite songs on Rough and Rowdy Ways (released last year, and considered by many to be the finest album he has ever produced). It's both tender and haunting, with an undertone of flinty defiance as he rhymes off the names of the heroes he so admires. (Only Dylan could mention Elvis Presley and Martin Luther King in almost the same breath, and still make it work.) Initially, this post was going to be "the divine feminine in Rough and Rowdy Ways", but there were so many references to women, divine in one way or another (like the "transparent woman in a transparent dress"), that I had to cut it down and focus on one song which seemed like the concentrated essence of all the others.
Yes, Mother of Muses is a lovely and poetic title for a sighingly beautiful song - but until I did a little bit of digging, I had no idea what it really meant. My Greek mythology is rusty, but Dylan's isn't. His knowledge of mythology, literature, and (most especially) the Bible is legendary. Not only that - his knowledge has both tremendous breadth and spooky, mysterious depth. In fact, I believe Bob Dylan is one of the greatest minds of our time. Who else has won the Nobel Prize for writing what is so erroneously labelled as "popular music"?
So what I found, and maybe it should not have astonished me as much as it did, is that there WAS an actual "mother of Muses" named Mnemosyne. I had heard the name before, of course, and the term "mnemonic" as a device for remembering things. But Mnemosyne is not only the mother of memory, but the mother of NINE muses, the first one being Calliope (the one Bob Dylan is falling in love with), who is responsible for EPIC POETRY.
Which is why this song completely knocks me over.
It's perhaps no mistake that in calling on his "muse", Dylan chooses the "mother of all Muses", one who has the power to transform and redeem. She is not unlike the female face of Jesus. This verse especially spells out the extent of her power:
Mother of Muses, unleash your wrath
Things I can’t see, they’re blocking my path
Show my your wisdom, tell me my fate
Put me upright, make me walk straight
Forge my identity from the inside out
You know what I’m talking’ about.
The line "put me upright, make me walk straight" has made me weep more than once. Dylan is 80 years old, looks as old as time, and seems small, slight and frail. I know very well from my own deteriorating body about the ravages of age and the slipping away of mobility. This line describes a power which can literally lift him up bodily and set him down on a purposeful path, guiding each step along the way.
But the spookiest line of all in this richly-laden poem is, "Forge my identity from the inside out/You know what I'm talkin' about." No, we don't, Bob - we are gasping in awe at the way in which an ancient Greek goddess can become your own mother, with the relationship close enough that she seems to have literally given birth to you. I've worked my way through many a Dylan biography, and the one I am reading now (a 1,000-page tome by a Scottish writer named Ian Bell) focuses mainly on the fact that Dylan's identity as an artist is in a constant state of flux, as if he doesn't really have one. I hope he is listening to this song right now.
Just think of it: those "women of the chorus", the nine Muses who call Mnemosyne their mother, are almost literally Dylan's backup singers. But this primal mother-figure also has a son, and as we trudge through the travesty of a season originally meant to honor the Son of Man, I am immensely grateful that our greatest living poet has found yet another way to be born again.
POST-POST-OBSERVATIONS. You knew there had to be more! I noticed that in the Wikipedia entry, Mnemosyne was called a "titaness", which is a half-assed way of saying she was a bloody TITAN (why not just come out and say it?). This means, among other things, that she really kicks ass, with considerable mythological clout behind her motherly legend. I knew nothing of titans, and found way too much when I looked it up, but here is the gist of it for those who are interested:In Greek mythology, the Titans were the pre-Olympian gods. They were the twelve children of the primordial parents Uranus (Sky) and Gaia (Earth), with six male Titans: Oceanus, Coeus, Crius, Hyperion, Iapetus, and Cronus, and six female Titans, called the Titanides or Titanesses: Theia, Rhea, Themis, Mnemosyne,Phoebe, and Tethys. Cronus mated with his older sister Rhea and together they became the parents of the first generation of Olympians – the six siblings Zeus, Hades, Poseidon, Hestia, Demeter, and Hera. Some descendants of the Titans, such as Prometheus, Helios, and Leto, are sometimes also called Titans.
So if we got the whole clan together for Christmas, we'd need more than one turkey.
This is an annual mystery which I have never solved. WHY is there a squirrel in the middle of It's a Wonderful Life? Uncle Billy has a pet crow which appears from time to time, but this squirrel seems to have come out of nowhere. It's a well-trained squirrel, if not a compassionate one, as it clings to Uncle BIlly's arm while he sobs his heart out. The story all ends well, of course - but nobody talks about what happened to the squirrel.
This started out life as a gif, got filed away, and has been resurrected on YouTube. It's incredibly cheesy, but that's part of its charm. The horses appearing and disappearing is both lame and magical.
It might be a BIT early for this, but not by much. How many versions have I heard of this Christmas classic by various female singers who almost ALWAYS turn it into a parody. Of what, I am not sure - Mae West, Betty Boop? It's always sung "campy", like a drag queen would do it (and this IS a favorite song of drag queens). Eartha Kitt nails it because she actually sings it very straight (I mean in the old-fashioned sense), letting her purring voice and clear enunciation of the delicious lyrics do the job.
Favorite line: "Santa Baby, just one more little thing - a ring. I don't mean on the phone." Whoever wrote this was a genius!
BLOGGER'S NOTE. As I celebrated 31 years of sobriety today, I remembered something I had written WAY back - in 2010, as it turned out. I was just beginning to blog on Salon.com, and was naive enough to publish the piece - after which I was bombarded with the most hateful comments I have ever received about anything. One small sample: "Where did you attend meetings - in a lunatic asylum?" I was called nuts, looney, a whack job, a head case, and every other hateful synonym for "mentally ill" that anyone could dredge up.
I think, to some extent, it proved my point.
AA saved my life, but that doesn't mean it's appropriate to cling to a life preserver forever. Re-reading this for the first time in more than 10 years, I'm kind of taken aback by the anger in it, and in the way I didn't spare the horses but came right out with every objection to the program I'd ever felt, and was never allowed to express.
So I'm re-publishing it today, since I still agree with most of it. I did sift out some extremely valuable life skills from attending meetings, but most of that was gathered wisdom from the friendships I had formed. It was the people, not the program which saved me - and yet, AA constantly focuses on "principles before personalities".
At any rate, I stopped going to meetings in 2005, and am sober today, and surprisingly happy and well given all the current circumstances. But since I've been given the power and ability to express things, and enough guts to put it out there in full knowledge of the risks, I won't waste this piece by keeping it in a moldering file.
I have no idea if AA is different now. I even flirted with going to a meeting during the most brutal phase of the pandemic, not so much for the program as for the people. I just wanted a little companionship, what they used to call "fellowship", with people whom I knew would be struggling with the whole situation. But all the meetings had been shut down due to quarantine.
Why I Quit AA
A sober alcoholic’s journey back to individuality
The other day I was lurking around in the children’s section of my favorite bookstore, trying to figure out what a four-year-old grandgirl might want for her birthday. Flipping through the $30 board books and propaganda about toilet training and environmentalism, I heard someone call my name.
I looked up. Oh, hi, Jim. Oh, I’m doing OK. Yes, really. Just doing a little shopping here. No, really, I’m OK. How are you?
It’s hard to be looked at with a mixture of embarrassment and pity, but that’s what I was seeing in Jim’s eyes. Clearly he didn’t want to run into me, as he had been making certain assumptions: that I had either “gone back out” and was drinking again, or else was in such a state of “dry drunk” rampage that I was making myself and everyone around me miserable.
Welcome to the wonderful world of an ex-AA. As with an ex-con, the sense of ensnarement never ends, at least not without a Velcro ripping-away and endless guilt.
There was a time when I needed AA like I needed to breathe. Yes, I am a real alcoholic, and I didn’t fully realize it until I crawled into a meeting on my belly in 1990. Scared sober, I became enmeshed in an organization that quickly took over my life. Moreover, the more embroiled I became, the greater the praise heaped upon me. If I went to a meeting every day, I was a “good” AA member; more than once per day, and I was a spiritual giant.
It’s often said at meetings that you never graduate. This might be OK if I at least had a sense of moving on to another level, but this is discouraged. People with 20 years sober are supposed to say at meetings (whether they feel it or not) that they are at exactly the same level as the newcomers, and are only one drink away from disaster.
I agree with this part: I’ll never be safe to drink again, and I’d better not forget it. After years and years of having this fact jackhammered into my head, I think I’ve accepted it (for after all, “acceptance is the answer to all my problems today”).
From the very beginning, I was disturbed by certain pervasive beliefs in the organization. Conformity is one. Don’t ever speak “outside” the AA rhetoric, or other people will assume you’re not doing it right, or you’re fighting the mighty truths of sobriety. There is such a thing as AA dogma, often promoted by the elder statesmen: one elderly man, a veteran of World War II, came to the same noon meeting every day (supplementing it with evening meetings nearly every night) and talked at length about the war. He talked about the war as it applied to AA, of course, about how he drank his way through the horrors of the battlefield (who wouldn’t?), came home to a wrecked life, and began to set himself straight on the Road of Happy Destiny.
I can’t begrudge an old man the comfort and safety of sobriety, but why do exactly the same dynamics have to apply to a 15-year-old kid? In AA, one size fits all, and if it doesn’t fit, YOU are made to fit yourself to it. If you ever hear a criticism, it’s always couched in terms of “well, I used to object to this and that” (I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind, but now I see). But glory hallelujah, now I see the light.
The 12 steps, forged in the ‘30s by a failed stockbroker and an inebriated doctor, are all about breaking the will, surrender, and absolute reliance on God “as we understood him”. Though the founders were in some ways quite spiritually evolved, leaving the door open to diverse interpretations of the divine, the actual practice of the program involves the God of Sunday school and revival meetings and “that old-time religion”. As usual, the practice is light-years removed from the actual text.
We constantly hear things like “ninety meetings in ninety days”, “it works if you work it”, and reams of other cute sayings (my favorite of many acronyms: sober stands for “son-of-a-bitch, everything’s real!”). None of these are found in the main text of Alcoholics Anonymous, usually known as the Big Book. Though many members preface everything they say with “the Big Book says”, their interpretations are often pretty far off the actual content.
But that’s not what made me quit.
Though there was one defining crisis that caused the actual split, there had been a steady accumulation of episodes that disturbed me. No one seemed to be willing to talk to me about any of this, as they were too busy going on and on about humility, surrender and the “incredible journey”. (Many AA members I knew literally had no friends or even business associates outside the program, and had brought their spouses and children on-board. Those who didn’t usually ended up divorced: AA widows abound, and affairs rage in spite of the organization’s unnaturally pure motives.)
Item: I was a couple of years in, doing well, stable, sober, and going to five or six meetings a week. Anything that bothered me about AA and its principles was relegated to some sort of seething pit of doubt that was without question my fault, due to my arrogance, lack of surrender and refusal to absolutely rely on God.
For you see, “everything happens for a reason”, everything happens “the way it’s supposed to happen”. (When my son’s roommate was savagely kicked to death outside a bar, an AA member I knew said it was “all part of God’s plan.”) You hear this nearly every time. Though I didn’t voice my objection, because you don’t do that at meetings, this seemed like passivity to me. “Self-will run riot” was the ultimate evil, but it often seemed that having any individual will at all was somewhere between a sin and a crime.
My friend Louise told me this story: she had been horribly abused as a child, bullied by a sexual tyrant who was now beginning to abuse his grandchildren. As she sat around a campfire meeting, an exclusive club in which your deepest feelings were expected to be revealed, she finally shared the agonizing decision she had made: “I’m going to lay charges against my Dad.”
There was a brief, embarrassed silence, followed by this from the meeting’s ringleader: “Louise, I believe you have a resentment.”
There followed a long discussion (or rather, a series of uninterrupted soliloquys: AA doesn’t do “cross-talk”) about how Louise had to surrender, let go of her anger, forgive. This was what she “should” do. I met her several months later and asked her how she was doing. “Much better. I’ve left the program. I was tired of twisting myself into a pretzel.”
Another episode, even more harrowing, involved a young woman who had been systematically tortured by her father. Her sponsor told her she must pray for the person who abused her, and wish for him everything she would want for herself. If she forced herself to keep doing this for long enough, she would actually want these things for him and feel mercy for him. She was also told during her Step 5 (the confessional step) that she must always look for her part in everything that ever happened to her. She wrenched her brain around trying to figure out what her part was in being sodomized at five.
She stood up at the meeting, looking fragile as glass, with tears running down her face. “I just don’t know how to make amends to my Dad. My sponsor says I’ll feel so much better if I do. But I feel like killing myself. I guess I’m just a lousy AA member. This is supposed to work. I’m not supposed to feel this way. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
I would have talked to her after the meeting (God knows what I would have said) except that a phalanx of members swarmed her afterwards, eager to make her case fit the immutable model. I wonder what happened, if she ended up like Hannah whose background was similar. Unable to endure what had happened to her, she committed suicide. Members talked about “those with grave emotional and mental disorders”, and carried on.
If I am painting AA too darkly, if I am leaving out the tremendous compassion I found at those early meetings, then I apologize. But as time went on, I found I couldn’t keep the dogma fresh. Except for some of the stories in the back, the Big Book has not changed since its first printing 60-some years ago. What other self-help program wouldn’t update itself in so many decades? What about all the discoveries we’ve made about family dynamics, about heredity, about mental illness? What about issues of race, of sexual orientation? (There are a few “gay AA” meetings in which members are held in quarantine. But in the general assembly they have to keep their mouths shut. I once saw a man at an open meeting refer to coming out, prompting an old geezer to literally stomp out of the meeting saying, “I didn’t know this was a meeting for fags.”) No, it’s all swept into the great gulf: obviously the program “works if you work it” the way it is, so why change it?
But I have come to believe that if the program works, it is because people sublimate their individuality, their power to differ, discern and object. The fact that the 12 steps have been applied to every addiction and disorder in existence alarms me, as if the steps truly are the holy grail of recovery, unassailable, irreplaceable, and beyond question.
My irritability mounting as the years went on, I finally hit a real crisis in 2005. I had suffered from some kind of psychiatric disorder all my life, and in spite of years of good remission I feared a return, but was repeatedly told in AA that it would never bother me again if I stayed sober and constantly relied on God. It was obvious to them (though not to me) that it had all been caused by the demon alcohol. I secretly took two drugs to control my whatever-it-is (and in all that time I’d never had a correct diagnosis, because the psychiatric system is so incompetent, abusive and full of shit that it deserves to be torn down forever). Suddenly I learned over the ‘net that both these drugs had been recalled at the same time. My doctor had no idea this had happened. So I was left with a choice: try something new, as my doctor recommended, or go “drug free”, as all my AA friends had been urging me to do.
My first reaction was a huge flush of euphoria, of tremendous energy, and an eerie turning back of the clock. I had never had so many complements about my appearance: I looked ten years younger! Looking back on photos of that time, my eyes were like pinwheels and I was constantly beaming, but apparently no one thought this was wrong.
Oh, and the compliments on finally being “clean”! “Oh, thank God you’re finally off all that stuff.” “I knew you could do it!” “See, you don’t need to lean on pills because you have God in your life.”
My sleep was whittled down slowly, but by the time I was down to two hours, strange things were starting to happen. In deep hypnosis (by a friend who didn’t know what he was doing), I had an encounter with the Divine that was completely shattering. Almost at the cost of my life, I learned that “meeting God” isn’t at all peaceful or pleasant. The ancient belief that we will die if we see God face-to-face turned out to be true.
The sickening free-fall that followed, the dive into a depression that pushed me below ground, is beyond my powers to describe. It was three years before I began to feel like a human being again. I am now on five drugs and have finally found a decent, competent psychiatrist on the recommendation of a friend. I no longer take medical advice from people who aren’t doctors or try to “heal myself” on milk thistle or coffee grounds But when I think how close I came to giving up and committing suicide, it makes me shudder.
AA did not help me during the most harrowing time of my life. All I got was more unhelpful rhetoric. I wasn’t surrendering, I wasn’t practicing the principles, I wasn’t adhering to the tenet of “no mind-altering substances” (another thing that’s not in the Big Book, but often “quoted” by members with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other). In other words, it was my lack of commitment that had made this happen. Almost everyone assumed I had “slipped” and was drinking again (which I didn’t – I had a healthy terror of the stuff by then). At first it was subtle, but then I felt roped off, excluded, unable to strike up a conversation with anyone. I stood in the crowd after meetings looking at a lot of turned backs. Even my sponsor always seemed to be busy.
I had been a loyal, sober member of the program for 15 years.
It didn’t really occur to me, because I had been so thoroughly indoctrinated, that there were other, equally effective ways to be peacefully sober. So I ventured out. I rediscovered a close friend who had also dropped out, and we compared notes. I began to realize that in any other case, if a human being were relentlessly exposed to the same simplistic information over and over and over again, it would be reasonable to assume they “got it” and wouldn’t need any more exposure. Do we go to Sunday school until we’re 47? Do we need to have the Golden Rule blasted into our ears by loudspeaker every morning?
OK, I realize that if AA no longer means what it used to, I don’t have to go. But the guilt still sometimes jabs at me like pinpricks, even two years after I left. The pity in Jim’s eyes, the sense of “oh, she’s going to fly apart at any minute” was palpable. In his view, there is simply no way that an alcoholic can ever stay sober and be happy and productive (though the program is not very big on “productive” and discourages normal ambition) without relentless exposure to the principles of the program.
I hope I don’t drink again, but I know there is no guarantee I won’t. I am profoundly committed to the sober life. I do appreciate what I was able to learn from my many years in AA, but I don’t think I’ll attend meetings again unless my view changes or I find myself in a dangerously slippery place. And if I do, I will not expect “fellowship” or any kind of a welcome. I can imagine what they would think if they saw me again: some version of “I told you so”.
I no longer see AA recovery as real recovery: as with “that old-time religion”, no one questions the tenets, assuming they are infallible. Longtime members creep me out. They are broken records of recovery, parrots fed on the same bland diet, grateful to be huddling together in a place where everyone accepts them and nothing ever changes.
But that’s not life. Things don’t stand still except in old Jimmy Cagney movies, preserved in time. Life necessitates constant adaptation to change which is often unexpected, wrenching and unwelcome. But we are not taught that in AA. We are taught to rely absolutely on God “as we understood him”, to believe that everything happens for a reason. When adversity hits, we’re told it’s “all in God’s plan”.
If this is so, I think I’ll make a plan of my own.
This is what a young thief and con man looks like.
A con man and a thief? Are you sure this isn't Elon Musk?
I'm sure there's always been stupid people. But with the emergence of social media in recent times, you actually get to see firsthand exactly how dumb and gullible some truly are…
General electric and Edison ruined Nicola Tesla. History is always written by the victors regardless of whether they are thieving psychopaths or not.
So much rancor for the man! As a boy he was my hero. Working on the Grand Trunk railroad on the baggage car. His chemicals starting the fire and the conductor throwing him off. It was all so brave.
Probably thinking about how he can take credit for other people's ideas.
Thinking about profit his own selfishness and screwing the rest of the world.
I bet he stole the camera for that picture too
Show me the picture of Thomas Edison as a girl too!
For people who believe everything "The Oatmeal" claims about Edison and Tesla
Edison's ideas came from a think tank. It's safe to say he "stole" from a wide variety of people.
Teddy he sure did
Quiet.....Bet most of you thought Tesla was just a car and had to Google to learn otherwise
A hero renowned for his infamy as grand thief of someone else's genius.
That face you make when you know you can steal well.
The smiling face of a future con man, before he became a thug and a thief.
What a smarmy looking little shitbird.
Probably stole that outfit.
Sweet favorite boy of the banksters.
He looks radiant in this photo
Would he be anything else?
He dreamed of 'Westinghousing' an elephant.
someone should’ve punched the kid in the face
I was just about to say that.
He later claimed to have invented the scarf.
And Bell may have been a thief as well.
"Here I go stealin' again"
What s bright spark
He got old young.
Original mugshot.
As opposed to a girl
Bully.
Lookie that lil thief
Legendary!
Looks like Oliver
Dodgy lil prick
Relative of yours?
Wanker
A thief and a crook
Stop hating
of course! 😂😂😂😂
Look at that smile. What a piece of garbage
BLOGGER'S NOTE. I needed a laugh, and I got one. I have always hated pompous assholes who steal other people's ideas for their own glory, so this actually made me laugh out loud. I'd have to include on the list Alexander Graham Bell, Henry Ford, and (yes!) Walt Disney. My generation would have been horrified to see these comments. My generation was full of shit. Everyone disses comments sections, but in this case I think they're right on the money.
I cannot believe that it has been nearly TWO YEARS since I had a professional hair cut. I was cutting it myself for a while, with a razor comb, and for a WHILE it looked OK. . .then when it stopped looking OK, I was surprised to find there were things I liked about it (along with things I DIDN'T like about it). This is as close to blonde as I've ever been since early childhood. I have more than two months to wait to get it cut, and by then I should be wearing it in braids.
UPDATE TO THE UPDATE!YEAH! I got it cut! NOT radically, as I went to a brand-new stylist, which I haven't done in 20+ years. But I figured I must have been a very low priority to my former stylist to put me off for ten weeks or so. You'd think there would be a tad more loyalty displayed to a 20-year customer. I told the lady who books appointments for her, "I only need a cut", thinking that would get me in sooner - but it was the opposite. She has filled up her schedule with ornate "dos", perhaps in anticipation of Christmas, and a mere cut doesn't bring in much revenue. So it seems I went to the bottom of the heap.
Meantime - I walked into Superstore, no appointment, went to the salon which is part of the store, and ten minutes later was having an expert cut and hearing about how GORGEOUS my hair is (I'm only quoting!), and how I shouldn't get it coloured or cut too short (which I didn't!). "You have grey hair with highlights? Is this natural? I've never seen that before. No, I mean it. It doesn't even look grey, it looks blonde, with lighter-blonde streaks." She did say it, readers, that's verbatim.
I haven't felt this good about my hair in - ever, I guess. THEN came the ultimate compliment: we went over to my son's house for dinner, and my VERY style-conscious 16-year-old (blonde) granddaughter Erica looked closely at me and said, "I like your hair." She has never said anything like that before! Though the stylist took maybe 1/2" to 1" off, it now has some shape to it, and some of the heavy, dense "flop" at the back is lighter - meaning the natural curl has sprung back to life. And yeah, I DO have natural curl - but who knew?
Sorry if this sounds narcissistic, but wow! This is just a parable of how the worst thing ("oh my God, I haven't had a haircut in a year and a half and it looks DREADFUL") can come out better than you hoped. And this is as blonde as I've ever been in my life. For 30+ years, I covered it up because stylists INSISTED that grey was the enemy, grey was ugly, grey made you look "older" (the WORST thing that can happen to a woman!), and I had to pony up and have them cut it and colour the daylights out of it. Now I see how much of this was and is economically-driven.
Dye jobs cost. Perms cost, Straightening costs. So does curling. Taking the curl OUT, putting the curl IN. This lady said, "Oh, you have such nice hair!", then neatened up the back and tapered the ends and made it into a hair style. It cost me $30.00, including a 20% tip. Lesson learned?
This whole thing reminds me of renovating an old house that has had nothing done to it for decades, then ripping up the rotten old "wall-to-wall" carpet that used to cover up the "ugly" flooring - and discovering gorgeous, glossy, nearly-new-looking hardwood underneath. But in my day, a million years ago, hardwood meant you were "poor" and couldn't afford to look luxurious. It was as if hardwood was just compacted dirt. Now we see things kind of differently.
I have had these on file for YEARS and have just made them into a YouTube video, but I kind of like them the way they are. Call them the VERY FIRST motion pictures (consisting of two frames!
😂
