Fronting the Program Means Wanting the Results of Step 9 Before You Do Step 1 – Larry T.

Larry T. from Long Beach. Hi everybody, my name is Larry Thomas and I'm an alcoholic. And I'd like to thank Diane and George and all the people involved for inviting me and Gloria up here today. And it's really a privilege to be in a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. And just before I go any further, are there any people within their first 30 days? If so, would you raise your hand so I can... Okay, Jim, we've got our cleanup crew. I, if you're, well, you are, some of you are new, but I've been sober for a little over 10 years. And that's good news if you're me. I, and I attribute that to not drinking. Now, I've been happy about that most of the time. And I owe that solely to Alcoholics Anonymous and only Alcoholics Anonymous. Most of the time, I feel glad about that fact. Now, picture that. Being happy and being sober. Those two words don't belong in the same sentence with a client like me. They don't belong in the same room. I've never been happy to be sober. The way that I felt when I was sober drove me to drink. Just drove me, gets me thirsty when I'm sober, you know. And, you know, my first sponsor used to tell me, he says, you know, you're not much, but you're all you think about. You know, and... He's a warm man, huh, Jerry? And, but I, but I'm, I'm glad to be sober today. And we had a, we had a great ride from Long Beach. We almost, we had car trouble and bowels. And, you know, I thought I was stuck in bowels all night, you know. And I, hell, I drove from bowels, I thought, you know. But we got here and, and people are great here. We've, we've loved it here. And if you're new in Alcoholics Anonymous, you're going to hear several things and stuff like that. And I heard some of these things, too. And one of them I heard was that I had a lethal disease, a lethal, deadly disease, just like leukemia and AIDS and heart disease. And when I thought of those diseases, I, the solution always came in, you know, I was thinking of hoses and high tech and doctors with coats and, and busy rooms with computers and busy doctors, you know. And, and... And I think of that as the solution to those lethal diseases. And now when I think of alcoholism, this does not look like the solution to a lethal disease. And if you're new, it's not. Sitting in rooms for an hour and a half is not the answer to this disease. It's part of a big answer. I could sit anywhere for an hour and a half and be wonderful. And you told me about this disease. And people all my life have been trying to cure my disease from the head down. And what Alcoholics Anonymous does, it starts from the feet up. It hasn't done much for my emotions. It hasn't done a whole lot for my intellect. But what AA has done is train my feet. Because when I'm sitting at home and I'm thinking, I'm not going to a meeting, I'm not going to a meeting, my feet are going and I'm going, hi, how you doing? You know, I'm going to these damn meetings and I don't want to go, man, you know. And my feet have been trained. You know, you've trained my feet because my mind has never been my ally. It's always telling me things that have always done nothing to me but caused me trouble. And I keep wanting to side up with it, you know. And thank God for being busy in Alcoholics Anonymous, you know. And if you're new, you've seen this on beaches and you've seen this on places. And the only way that I can tie this is when you go down to beaches and stuff like that, it says, learn to swim in crowded beaches. And if you're new, that's what I hope you do. I hope you learn to swim in crowded beaches because after you're here for a year or five years and you get your chips and your cakes, you're going to start wandering around out there and you're going to be out there swimming by yourself and this riptide of complacency is going to grab your rear and it's going to draw you away from the people that you're swimming with and your sponsor is going to come by and he's going to throw you a lifesaver. And you're going to throw him back and say, I don't need it, I know what to do. In the back of my mind, I'll know what to do. And I want to drink. Now, that's a hell of a place for anything of importance to be for me is in the back of my mind. You know, and what you've taught me is to put all my solutions to my life in the front of my mind. And my sobriety is the most important thing in my life. And I've learned to swim in crowded beaches so that when I am alone to the oncomer on the beach, the guy looks like he's doing all right, but they don't know that his feet are busy as hell. And that's the first thing to go when you're drowning. And that's the first. The first thing to go in AA when you're drowning in complacency is you tire out and you kick back and you say, huh, let the new guys do it. I'm going to stay home and have pizza. I'm going to get I'm going to start going to school. I'm going to spend more time at work. And before you know it, there's a month gone by. You ain't been to a meeting and you've got her up there and you're, you know, it just happens. You know, it's just, you know, I've had a bad day. You know, they know you've had a bad day. They've seen it coming. And, you know, so learn to swim in crowded beaches. Learn to be with people who are active and alive in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, because you're not always going to be active and alive. Hang with those people that are so that when you're not, you can get swooped up in it. And when they're not, you can help them hang with the winners and Alcoholics Anonymous. And there's a room full of them. I drove with one tonight last night. I love my little Gloria. I love the people that I associate with. I'm proud of the people that I that I associate with. And I'm proud. I'm proud to be a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, you know, and at about five, I've always been self-obsessed. I've always been concerned about me and how I feel, you know, and that self-obsession didn't leave me when I got sober, man. I was about five years sober and I was doing some construction work in downtown Los Angeles. And I was at the old Dunbar Hotel off Central and 60th Street and it's an old jazz place. And we're going to renovate that Dunbar Hotel and turn it into a senior's home. And there's been some gang banging going around. And some guys getting shot. So the security guard got together with the form of the construction crew. And he says, look, get these guys in early and get them out early. So we started at 430 so we could get off at 230. And I get in there that Monday morning and it's pitch dark, you know, and I got my tool belt on. I get into the elevator. It's going to take me up to the demo room. The door shuts like that. These two guys behind me and turn around. The guy says, hit the floor. I said, oh, shit. The guy says, hit the floor. And I get down there, man, and I'm shaking. I'm shaking. I'm shaking. I'm shaking. I'm shaking. I'm shaking. I'm shaking. I'm shaking. I'm shaking. I'm shaking. And I got $3 in my pocket, you know. And I'm the cookie lady that night. And if they touch it, they're going to get it, you know. And I'm thinking about when my first sponsor said that what goes around comes around. And I'm going, oh, man, here we go, you know. And it's my turn, you know. And just all kinds of racy craps going through my head, you know. And all of a sudden, these elevator doors open up and these two guys walk by. And I says, what the hell is that all about? Come time for the Roach coach comes there. I'm going to get me something to eat and some coffee. And I go to pay the guy the dough. And he says, you don't have to pay me. I says, what? He says, you don't got to pay me for as long as you work here. He says, you see those two guys back there? I go, yeah. He says, they never laughed so damn hard in their whole life. He says, they worked for the elevator company. And when you got out, they were testing the cable. They wanted you to hit the floor button. I said, what the hell is that all about? You know, I've always hated public humiliation, you know. And I never need any help. I'm always there to help myself out. In my best moments, I produce confusion. My book tells me that. When I'm peaking, baby, busy in AA, sponsoring guys, you know, everything's going right, I'm going to goof it up, you know. I'm a goof. I'm an imperfect goof. Thank God, man. Thank God I haven't reached perfection. I'm a coffee maker and a cookie lady in my home group. And I hope that's as high as I get, baby. I had a new guy talk to me the other night. He's got about 30 days sober. He says, how do you know when you're doing God's will? I said, ask that son of a bitch in Waco, Texas. You know. He's keenly tuned in, baby, you know. No, man, whenever I get keenly tuned in, thank God for a living human being called a sponsor who I can weed out these good ideas through, you know what I mean? And I'm glad to be here. Now, my mom and dad aren't the reason why I'm sober. They ain't the reason why I'm an alcoholic. I had a great home. I had a lovely mom. I had a great mom. She's a little Scandinavian lady. And she loves speed. She loves speed. She loves those diet pills, man. Just, oh, she's eating those Dexys all the time, man, you know, and just busy cleaning up shit and just an active lady. I knew if I ever wanted any love or affection, I could find mom around 4 in the morning sorting out nuts and bolts in the garage all damn night, you know, just busy around there, you know. Or you can hear her raking the neighbor's yard around 4 in the morning, you know. She got a hold of this gas-powered engine one day. My dad had these gas-powered engines. She got a hold of an edger, man, and all you could see that night was eyes and sparks. Baby, she was blazing down there, you know. Just a wild lady, man. And, you know, and she loved to needlepoint. She was always needlepointing all damn night, you know, those Afghans. And if you stood still for over 30 seconds, you had a cover on you, you know. Toilet papers were covered and bottles were covered. Kitties had boots. I had gloves. I had hats I didn't even wear, man, you know. And the weirdest colors, those yellows and powder blues, and, you know, isn't this wonderful? And she'd be just dazed, man, just grilling, you know. And she had aversion for the garage. She was always piddling around that damn garage, you know, how those Alfies are. When you're on that speed, you get caught up in those little intricate things, you know. You just start going away, man, you know. You know, you start shining your shoes, and if they're wingtips, you're getting in the inside of them, you know. You get that out, you know. And she was out there in the garage, and she had an aversion for the garage. And she was always taking my dad's screws and nuts and bolts and put them in little Gerber baby jars, you know. And then she'd put the lid on a piece of wood so he could turn them around and find them, you know. Son of a bitch never spent a day out in the garage as far as I knew him, man, you know. Because she was out there, you know. And he was an alky, you know. But my mom was a good lady. The diet was working great. She was down to a stick, you know. Nothing but eyes and hairs. But love me well. Love me well, that little thing. And I called her Moo. I called her Moo because she was always in Moo Moos. She was always in those Moo Moos. These long Hawaiian. Hawaiian shifts, you know. And just the same Moo Moo for years, man. Armpits are gone. She ain't coming out of it, man, you know. Look it. There's some Moo Moo wares back there now. Look at them. They're all red and stuff. She don't do that anymore. She didn't have to go to Moo Moos Anonymous or nothing like that. She did it on her own. Cold turkey. And dad was a drunk. Dad was a happy drunk. I knew the old man found some. He was a refinery worker. And he was a... Angry, sober man, but a happy drunk. And when dad would get loaded, dad was a window climber. He was a window climber. He was always on shift work in those refineries. Some days you're on days, and then it's nights, and then it's graveyards. And he kept... You know, dad was a window climber. And I knew that because he was always sneaking in and out of my damn bedroom window, you know. Two o'clock in the morning, you feel the old man's greasy boot on your chest as he's trying to get in or out of the bedroom window, you know. And I'm thinking, you know, it's hard to have respect for your old man. When he doesn't have keys to his own home. I'm going, what goes on here, you know. Just always sneaking in and out of that window, you know. He snuck in there one night, man, and I just got fed up. I said, look, why don't you have mom make you a set of keys, for Christ's sake, man. She's up anyway. God damn it. You ever go out there and make you a set of keys right now, she'll knit you a little ring to go with it and send you on your way, man. Three fingers. And the old man... But I knew there was a happy connection there. And I got tired of that little... I got tired of that little... And then I started sleeping with my grandfather, which was a piece of work. That guy... That guy, he would read his rosary at night, you know. And you hear this... You know, and clicking and clacking of the beads. And then it'd be real silent. And then... And then there'd be real silence. And then he'd tiptoe over to his bedroom drawers and pull out his sock drawer. And you hear this... He'd cap the seals from peach brandy, man. Kill that for him. Put it back. Tiptoe back over. Then there would be dead silence. And then you'd hear this... Son of a bitch was... He was grinding his bunions down, you know. And I'm thinking, for Christ's sake, where does a kid get some sleep? Mom's up all night in the garage, edging the neighborhood. Dad's stuck in a window. Gramps is standing himself raw, you know. Where in the hell does a kid get some sleep, man? So I went out on the couch. And that's when I started sleeping on the couch. And me and Cal Worthington would go to bed, you know. And then I got that curiosity, that little... Man, I started going through... Dresser drawers and medicine chests and dipping into mom's diet pills and the old man's port wine and stuff like that. And I'm in the middle of these two sisters. I've got a younger sister who's a baby. And she's getting all the attention from my mom. I got an older sister who is just incredible. I don't know where the hell she came from. She was a freshman and senior in the same high school. Now, you know, that's news to me how you do that, you know. And she was sociable. She was mannered. She was well-looking. Had boyfriends. Had, you know... Just makes a loser look bad having somebody like that around the house, man, you know. Because I'm sure they're comparing me to her, you know. Why don't you bring home grades like that, you know. And I'm in the middle. And I'm doing everything that all the other kids around the neighborhood are doing. I'm not, you know, feeling real weird or drinking and skid-rolling and stuff like that. But these kids are playing baseball. And it seems like the things that they do every day, they seem to be getting some type of satisfaction out of that. And I'm doing the same things, going to the same school, singing around. Coming home a little empty. I'm not, you know, just... There's got to be more here, man. There's got to be more here. And around 9, 10 years old, my dad comes into my bedroom, you know, and he says, you're going to have a baby brother. Oh, man, that Alfie imagination. There's a little ray of hope. I don't have to go quite yet, you know. And I started oiling up my baseball glove and saving up my baseball cards and thinking about my baby brother. How we're going to play baseball and go to the drag races and maybe beat up those two sisters one day, you know. And neat things like that. And I think about that little kid. Then come time for my dad to take my mom to the hospital. He comes back and he says, you know, your baby brother died. Now, I don't remember having any type of thought for my mom. How's she doing? Is there anything I can do? What I did that day was going to be what I do to this day. And that is how we go right past temper tantrum into rage like that. And I was going to go through and cross an invisible line, which was going to be a lot of many. Because I was going to do that one thing that a young man always fears but eventually does when they're like us. And that is, I went after my old man. I hit my old man. I crossed that invisible line that something happens to a man when he does that. Something happens to a young man when he strikes his father there. That little area of respect is kind of shattered. And you look at the old man kind of different. And he looks at you real different, you know. And I went after the old man. And I started, all I remember is shouting at him and trying to hit him and saying, you promised me. You promised me. And from that point on, it lodged a thought in my mind that whatever comes from your family, don't trust it. Whatever they say, don't believe. Because when you stick your hand out of the gutter, they're going to kick you in the teeth, Larry. They've proven to the act. Get the hell out. And I became a window climber. I started sneaking out of my house. I started running the neighborhoods at 1 and 2 o'clock in the morning because I felt more a part of life out there than I did around the dinner table at 5 in the afternoon with my own family. And I started sneaking out of that same bedroom window. Every now and then, me and the old man would get caught. You know. Are you staying in? No, I'm out. You know. And at the age of 12 years old, I took my first drink of alcohol. There was four of us in a garage across the street and we passed around a bottle of Four Rose Whiskey. And for the first time in my life, I could connect happiness with something. Boy, I shot that whiskey down and it filled up my body and it lit up my eyes and it made me feel like, yes, this is how I'm supposed to feel. This is what they're getting out of playing baseball and doing all of that other stuff. I finally feel how they look, for Christ's sakes. I feel this is it. Man, you know, and then I puked, you know, but I never forgot that deadly connection. Those other three guys, they connected getting drunk with that evening. Not me. I was connected to something more deadly than that. A happiness, a deep seated happiness that I was never going to find in any other normal activity. I was going to find it in alcohol and only alcohol. And I knew it and I secretly knew it. And I didn't head off the skid row that day, but I never forgot that connection because no longer was it necessary for Larry to have any goals about what he's going to do in his life. No longer was it necessary for him to wonder what his dad wants him to do. What are the priorities? What are you going to do when you graduate? Are you going to the Navy? Are you going to, you know, what are you going to be when you grow up? Because the moment that I felt inadequate or afraid or insecure, which was most of the time, I could take it away with a shot of whiskey. And it wasn't always whiskey, but it was a shot of something. And I knew I could find that. I could count on it. I could count on it more. There was a sense of ease and comfort that came with that first drink. That one that I wanted. And from my father's and stuff like that. That ease and comfort that people were doing with impunity around me, I found in that drink, man. Oh, that connection. And I loved it. Now, come time to get into high school. And that wasn't the first time that the kid got drunk. You see, that was the first time I did it with some other guys and it made it all right. You see, I've been sneaking around that thermos in that kitchen at night, you know, and that was the first time I did it with other guys. And the secret was out and it was all right. And come time to get into high school, I hear this all the time in Alcoholics Anonymous, I drank because of peer pressure. My peers didn't even know I was a peer. They had no idea I was out there, man, you know. And, you know, I didn't know who I was going to hang around with. Everybody had a group and I was too small to be a football player and I wasn't smart enough to be an educated guy. And what am I going to do, you know? And my freshman year, I tried hanging around the surfers and it seemed like all they did is whine about the weather and the waves, you know. And I get enough of that at home, you know. And come the summer after my freshman year, I was going to hang around. I was going to hang around a group of people who were going to make me feel more a part of life than the people that did Alcoholics Anonymous at first. There was going to be a group of people that I would hook up with that would prove me brotherhood and camaraderie and love and loyalty. And it was the Lowriders. And I loved the Lowriders. The first thing that I loved about them was our hair. God, I loved our hair, how we used to get it up like a big old tumbleweed, man. We'd get our hair up real high and we'd eat those reds and drink that gin and go bouncing around listening to the Four Tops and the Temptations and the OJs and Marvin Gaye. God, I loved it, man. It wasn't but about three weeks ago I'm driving around in my plumbing truck and I listen to the Four Tops and I started sinking in my damn seat, man. I just loved it, man. I loved everything about it. I had a little Mexican girlfriend named Lupe, you know, and she used to curl up her hair real high with these soup cans, you know, and sometimes the soup was still in them, you know. And she'd get her hair up real high, you know, and she'd get her sweaters on backwards and paint her eyebrows like that and have her sister iron the back of her hair, you know, and I'd get my hair up real high, you know, and we'd eat those reds and drink that gin. And I'd go bouncing down Hawthorne Boulevard wondering what the hell you're staring at. What are you looking at? Just what in the hell are you looking at, pal, you know? I had a white Town Craft t-shirt, some black tacky pants, some pointed shoes that were this far, and I had a Pompadour hairdo that'd hang out like that that I would walk the corner. You could see that before me, man. You know? Shit, I loved it, man. And everything I was putting in my system was working. I had three guys that looked just like me, man, and I knew that me and Pooch and Chacha and Lupe were going to bounce off into the sunset forever. I had found happiness, man. God, I loved it. I loved everything about that. Jesus. And I think sometime after your sophomore or junior year, it's time for you to have driver's education classes or something like that, and they get the biggest man in the world they can find to drive with you, you know, and usually he's a coach or something. And man, they'd pick this coach for football, and he says, Thomas, it's your turn to drive. Get in the car. And I'd get my hair in the car, and I'd get in there, you know, and I'd sit down, and I got these three girls in the back seat, and all I can see, in the rear view mirror, are eyes and hair, you know. And he says, you know, let's take off, you know, and I'm parallel parking and stuff like that. And what this guy doesn't know is that 15 minutes before class, I took four of what they then called 2-0s. Now, these babies are great, man. These are a pitcher of martinis in a capsule, man. I mean, they're just great, man. You know, your eyes, you know, your ears ring, you start sweating, you know, and you lose your speech, you know, and you want to talk to somebody and say, how are you doing? And it sounds like this. It goes, you know. You think you're doing fine, man. You know, your motor movements are gone. You know, you're falling for the curb. I used to call them gorilla biscuits, you know. And you're falling for the curb, you know, and your mind's going, well, here comes the curb. You know, okay. You know, I'll move someday, you know. And, you know, so he thinks I'm driving around real good. I parallel park real neat and stuff like that. Like you haven't driven before when you're 16, you know. And he says, oh, look, you've been driving real good. I want to buy you all some Pepsis and stuff. He says, why don't you pull into the jack-in-the-box and order? He says, go ahead and talk to that puppet and order and give us. Well, I can't see no damn puppet, man. You know, I'm pulling into the jack-in-the-box, you know, and all of a sudden those babies hit me. And I'm just, wow. You know, all I can hear is, can I have your order, please? You know, so you hone in for that voice. You know, can I have your order, please? You know, and you go around that big menu. And then, boom, man, I run over. And I ran over the damn puppet. I see him like that. You know, can I have your order, please? You know, I want to talk to the puppet. I do. I want to ask him to come out and drive for me is what I want to do, you know. Jesus Christ, the cops come, you know. They arrest me, you know. Throw me on the hood of the car. They shatter my hair all over the damn place, you know. Hair flying everywhere like glass, you know. These girls are crying. The coach don't know what the hell to do, you know. And, you know, it's just hideous, you know. And then they arrest me, and I don't drive until I'm 30, you know. Which is no big deal, you know. I mean, what the hell? Because now you're the king. Now you can ride shotgun. Now you're riding shotgun. Now you're somebody, you know. And now you're going to make friends. It's one of the things that most Alkies just love. If there's anything that an Alkie loves besides booze, it's a mirror. Alkies love mirrors, man. There's something about a mirror and an Alkie, you know. I mean, when you go into the bars, you know. You see that damn mirror, man. You're sitting in front of the... Oh, man. You're drinking that... Oh, you're... You're... You're going to... You're going to... You're going to... You're going to get it tonight. You're going to... You know, and you look out of the corner of your eye, and all the way down the row, they're all doing the same thing, man. All those Alkies, they caught themselves in that mirror, man. They're just captured with themselves, man. And I captured myself with that little mirror on the shotgun side of the car, man. I... Oh, man, you bad dude. 110 pounds, I can't lick a stamp, you know. I'm drinking that gin. I'm looking out of that window, and I put my arm on the side of the car, on the door, to push it down, to make it big, so you don't mess with... That's me, you know. I'm gone, you know. I'm just gone, you know. But now, in my own mind, I've become somebody. In my own mind. Nobody else knows this, but in my own mind, I've become Lawrence of Torrance. Nobody else knows that but me. And now I've got these goofy guys I'm hanging around with. We're burning our name in jails and stuff like that, and I think I'm somebody, you know. And you could not tell me that my life was a bad way to live. It was the only life that I ever knew that made me feel that good. How could you tell me that? Something that good would be bad for you? Because I knew it was going to be that way forever. I knew it was going to be that way forever. And come 1969, everybody's going places, man. I got some of my guys going to Vietnam. Some of my friends are turning hippie and going to Big Sur. Some of my friends are going to Tehachapi and Wayside and Chino and all kinds of other jails, you know. And I wonder what the hell I'm going to do with my life, you know. So I thought about it for a while, and I go to Phoenix. And there's a brilliant move. Now, at that time, I have the perfect opportunity to go to Sao Paulo, Brazil with my family. My dad's working at Union Carbide, and he gets a job transfer, and they're invited to take his whole family with him for two and a half years, all expenses paid. And, man, I get my record cleared. My probation officer talks with everything, and everything's cleared. I get my shots. I get my passport. The day before, the day before, they go to take off. I can't leave. What am I going to do about my liquor? How am I going to get my booze? How am I going to get my dope? Sao Paulo, Brazil, for Christ's sakes. Like they ain't got none, you know. No, man, I got my buddies. I got my partners. I can't, you know. And I cast off a chance of a lifetime, and I opted to go to Phoenix. The old alky thinking, you know. And there I am on Phoenix. I'm on North Central Avenue and Buckeye Road at the Apache Motel. I'm on the third floor. I got a hot plate and a hot TV. I got some PM bourbon bottle, and I'm looking down there, and something weird starts happening in my life. You know, I start trying to drink that old crow and some of that bourbon, and I start writing prescriptions. I start writing prescriptions for secondol and tuanol and nebutol and obitrol, and you name it all. I wrote it all. Damn near took it all, too. And after two years of that nonsense, after a year or so of that, they catch up with me in Arizona, and they put me away for two years. Now, something weird has started happening to my drinking. I don't have any identity, obviously. I've always been starving for it, and if I don't got it, I'll fake it till I get it, you know. And they didn't know what was going on with me, because something weird is starting to happen to my drinking. I'm going into these cowboy bars, like a wagon wheel bar or something like that, and I'm having a couple of Boilermakers. And after two shots, you know, the guy next to me goes, Hi, how are you? I'm doing fine. How are you? And then I'll go to a little Japanese bar, and I'll be drinking. And the guy will say, Hi, how are you? I'll go, Hi, how are you? You know, I don't know who I am, man. You know, whoever I'm around, I start drinking with. I start sounding just like them, man. I'm going goofy, you know. And I come out of that place after two years, and the thing that starts happening to me is why I'm in this meeting right now. I think we just gave you about a half hour of filler, because the thing that just started happening to me at the age of 21 in 1972 is this. It no longer works. And if you're new in Alcoholics Anonymous, you're going to hear that in several ways. You're going to hear people come to Alcoholics Anonymous, and they say stuff like, I had a life. I started drinking. It got bad, and I come to AA. And then there's another group of people who said, I had a life. I started drinking. It got bad. It stopped working, and I come to AA. In 1972, at the age of 21, it stopped working. I did not come to AA. Now I become obsessed. I'm obsessed about my drinking. Now I'm real concerned about that drunk, because I can't get it no more. I can't find that. That drunk that I used to get with a pint, I can't get. I can't get it no more, and I start feverishly to do it with combinations of things. Maybe it's some heroin and some vodka. Maybe it's some gin and some coke. Maybe it's some speed and some red. There's got to be a combination to get that going again. And I become obsessed to find a drunk I'm no longer going to find, and my mind tells me I'm going to find it tomorrow. One more time, Larry. And I get sober, and I get afraid, and I keep thinking that people around me are telling me not to drink, and that you've got to stop drinking, and if you stop drinking, you'll be all right. And what they don't know is when I'm sober, I'm thinking about one more time. This is it. This is the one, man. And I only think about that when I'm sober. And at the age of 21, in 1972, I've got those two thoughts in the back of my mind. I've got my dad's voice telling me, you're never going to amount to nothing. You're always going to be a loser, Larry. Why don't you get yourself a job? Why don't you get yourself a job? And a family, and some type of home life. And he's right. And where do people who are right go? They go in that little section of hate in your head. And I've got my mom's voice telling me, you're always going to be a loser, Larry. You're never going to change. You're always going to hang around those guys and that gang, and you're never going to amount to nothing. And she's right. And she goes in that little section of hate. And in order for me to be right about that, I've got to continue trashing my life. But I'm concerned about finding a drunk more than anything. I'm not concerned about getting a career. I'm not concerned about straightening up. I'm destined. I've become obsessed to find a drunk I'm no longer going to find. I've become obsessed, as the book says, to even try to drink like a normal person. I know that's impossible. But if I can do that, it would be the only normal thing about my life. Everything else is chaotic mess. At least I'd have that going for me. And I can't get it going. And my periods of sobriety, you get sober and you get drunk, and you get remorseful, and you have the DTs, and then you get full of fear, and then you drink again. And then when you're sober, you get afraid and remorseful and guilty, and you drink again. And the time in between drunks becomes shorter and shorter and shorter, and you don't know what to do, and the walls close in on you, and you get restless and irritable and discontent when you're sober. And you go after it one more time because of the way that you felt were sober if you were like me. And I pursued it into those gates. And in 1974, my probation officer doesn't know what to do with me. He says he doesn't have a clue. We've tried anti-abusing. We've tried all that stuff. He says, I think you need to go to Camarillo. And he sends me to Camarillo for two months, and then four months, and then five months, and then eight months. And then 13 months later, I get out of Camarillo. And they told me I'd be better off if I could drink. They said people like me and you don't operate out there in the normal world with any type of mood-altering chemical or mood elevator. And he was right because I lasted two months. I'm being arrested in downtown Los Angeles on 5th Street for being publicly intoxicated, violation of probation, a public nuisance. And I'd be shipped away to Wayside. And I'm coming out of Wayside in 1975. I'm in the South Bay Courthouse in Torrance, California. And they're starting to transfer guys to different jails. And they're transferring guys to Wayside, they said. And they're transferring guys to Chino. Transferring guys to Tehachapi. Thomas, you're going to AA. What's this AA land, you know? I figure it's another trip, a trip across the desert or something like that, you know? And I'm not chained to anybody. And there's a Scottish man with a patch who's waiting outside that jail cell. And he says, Hi, lad. He says, My name is Alex. He says, You're supposed to go to AA with me. And he wasn't in a black and white car. He was in a lime green Plymouth. And the man took me six blocks away to a place called the TLC Club. He took me to the Torrance Lamita Alano Club. I says, What the hell is this? Some kind of Samoan bar? You know? Alano Club. A low, What the hell is this? You know? And he takes me into the TLC, the Torrance Lamita Alano Club in 1975. And he introduces me to a lady named Indian Jeannie and Captain Bob and Tennessee Bill and Singing Sam and Serenity Sam and Santa Claus Ray and Bicycle Ray and a little lady named Moose. And I says, What in the hell am I doing here? I just left a group of people just like that, you know? Everybody got a nickname and a tattoo and they got a little cup on a wall, you know? Get a life, you know? Little Moose comes shuffling up to me and she goes, Ha! She says, I'm expecting a miracle. I said, I bet you are, Moose. I bet you are, man. I have no doubt about that. I'm not it either, you know? And then this big, towering transvestite comes swooping up behind me and I go, Whoa! What the hell? I can't wait to take you to a candlelight meeting. I said, I don't think so, pal. No, no, no, no. Not for that first year anyway. I don't know. Hey, I've got principles. Okay? I've got principles. Okay? And, man, I took a look around that little room and I said, Man, if that's alcoholics, I hope I'm not one, you know? And if that's the effect of that little blue book, I hope I don't never dabble in that shit, you know? And I was immediately different. And from 1975 to 1982, I came in and out of Alcoholics Anonymous. Let's hold it right there. From 1975 to 1982, I came out of meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous and there's a big difference. Anybody can come into these rooms and leave. It don't take much of a surrendered person to do that. And that's exactly what I did. Heaven forbid I ever thought I was in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous. Never once in those years that I came in and out of these meetings from 75 to 82 that I ever worked the program. Never once in those years that I came in and out of these meetings that I ever worked the program of Alcoholics Anonymous. Take these steps in their entirety. Complete a ninth step. Have a sponsor. Take an inventory. And give this thing away. No, sir. No, sir. I've never done that. I left the meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous because I thought that's all there was. Because every time I returned to those meetings, I thought that that's all you did. And I'd come into these rooms and I'd get sober. And then after two or three weeks of sobriety, I would leave because I would be destined to do it by myself. I think I got it. Now I can handle it. And I've become a panhandler around these clubs. Always coming back to the meetings to get out of the rain. Always coming back to the meetings to get a court card signed. Shit, I signed a damn thing myself. Five different colored pens. Use a left and right hand. Get other, you know. You know, you know. Never once did I come for this way of life. Never once did I come for this way of life, man. You see, I come to AA. You see, I've always been a something-for-nothing guy. I've always been a something-for-nothing guy. Give me my goodies first and then I'll pay you. I wanted you guys to front me AA. Why don't you front me AA? And then I'll do the steps. Show me this grand way of life and then I'll do the steps. I wanted you to front me AA, man. It don't work that way here. If you're new, it doesn't work that way. There's a process that we have to go through and then eventually... You guys want the action first and the results come later. I don't understand that way of life. I don't understand that at all. I'm a taker. And I didn't know what was going on. And people are taking me to meetings and I'm coming to these meetings and I'm leaving and stuff like that and I become a club nuisance. I'm getting drunk in a Rob and Alano clubs and getting chased out of clubs for taking their basket and going down to Verps and drinking. Just a hideous mess. And I'm wondering and I'm thinking in my mind, you know, AA did it. But, you know, a bunch of do-gooders. They don't understand me. And every time I came back, I was different. I was either younger then or you were older then. You were either sober then and I was less than. You were richer then and always whenever I would come back feeling different, I knew that I would never make it. I didn't know that feeling different is a symptom of our illness and that eventually after a period of time those differences wear off because we sit in rooms with people who feel just as different as we do and we share those things with one another. And in 1980, this guy's been doing his 12-step work, boy. Whenever I call, he's there. Man, that old Don's been doing his 12-step work and in 1980, I'm at the Don Hotel in Wilmington off of Avalon and Broad. I'm on the second floor and I've got the two most important things in my life again. A hot plate and a hot TV, you know. It's 10 o'clock in the morning. It's a Tuesday morning, man. And I hear this, who in the hell is that, man? Hey, Larry, it's Don. I said, shit, it's that guy from AA, man. I didn't even call him and he's coming over. You know? He says, can I come in? I go, yeah. And he comes in and he sees me with that PM Bourbon bottle cut in half. He says, oh, man. He says, Larry, what are you doing? What are you doing, man? You had 15 days. You had 15 days. You were going to be a janitor in the city of Lomita. There's some hope for you new guys. You can become a janitor in the city of Lomita when you get here, you know. And he had this new guy with him, Herbie. And Herbie had one day. Herbie's all shiny and stuff like that, you know. And he's poking Don and they're looking at me and they're laughing and stuff like that, you know. And I said, Christ, he's bringing company and he don't even ask me, you know. I got one hot plate. I'm not going to cook for everybody, for Christ's sake, you know. I got one little box of macaroni and cheese, buddy, and it's mine, you know. And I'm wondering why these guys ain't at work. What the hell's going on here, man? These good AA members. It's Tuesday at 10 in the morning. How come you're not at work, you know? I haven't worked a lick in 10 years and I'm wondering why this guy's ain't at work, you know. And he says, man, what's going on? You had 15 days. And I took a shot of that PM bourbon bottle and I told him with all the sincerity that us drunks can muster up, which is a ton. I says, Don, you've been trying real hard. I felt sorry for the guy, man. Year after year, take me these damn, you know. And here I am thinking that he's coming to see me because I'm an alcoholic. He's coming to see me because he's an alcoholic. He has no power over the results. He was coming to me, seeing me, because he was an alcoholic. Because while he was looking at me, me, puking in my room, he wasn't thinking about his life. And neither was Herbie. And I took a shot off that PM bourbon bottle and I said, Don, you've been trying real hard, man. But I don't want what you got. I don't want what you got. I don't want what you have here. And if I ever get that bad, I'll know what to do. Just get the hell out of my room and let me do what I want to do. I was so ashamed and disgusted of the whole thing again. Just let me do what I want to do. And the moment that I said that, it struck a chord in the back of my neck that shot me back to 1967 when me and my old man are wrestling around in the garage. I got my old man stitched up back, and he's kicking me out of the house at the age of 16. And I'm banging him with a pool stick cue on his back, telling him, you know, let me do what I want to do, old man. Get up off my back. So what if I'm selling dope at high school? I didn't ask to be born. I'm your son. You can't kick me out of your house. Just get up off my back and let me do what I want to do. And me and my old man are fighting. My sisters are crying. My mom's crying. They're trying to pull me off my dad's back as I'm telling him to let me do what I want to do. It shoots me back to 1972 when the macho man's coming out of the joint in Arizona. And where do macho men go where there's no place to go? They go to mom's house. And I'm on mom's couch. And I wake up at 3 in the morning because I get guard duty. And I'm looking for that bottle of Old Crow, and I can't find it. And I make up enough noise, and my mom comes down the hallway, and she says, honey, what's wrong? I says, don't you honey what's wrong me? And I start beating up. My mother demanding that she come up with a bottle. It ain't there. To wake up the next morning to look in the trash can to see that I drank it all, and it was right there. Let me do what I want to do reminds me of me and my righteous partner being in Phoenix, and he's ten feet away, and I'm stone cold sober, and he's drowning, and the only thought that I have is when he's gone, I get his dope. Let me do what I want to do is why I'm in Alcoholics Anonymous right now. Me doing what I want to do for as long as I can stand it. Nobody going to tell me what to do. Nobody's going to take away my right to drink. And to this day, you haven't. In fact, my sponsor encourages me that if I don't like it here to go out there, I haven't taken away your right to drink, he says. Head on out there. You don't like what we have here in AA. You got a better way to do this? Go find it. As the only answer to life, let me do what I want to do, leaves my room, and all that happens in about 15, 20 seconds, and boom, he's gone, and I'm stuck with the memory of you. And if you're new in Alcoholics Anonymous and you're having trouble staying, you may leave us, but we will never leave you. We'll never leave you. Because somehow, someday, when you least expect it and you're curled upside in that motel room and you're capping a seal off that port wine and you're going to take a shot, you're going to think about that goof with the tie on in Fresno. Or you're going to think about Jim. Or you're going to think about George. Or you're going to think about somebody you don't like in AA. Good or bad, you're going to think about somebody in AA because the mighty seed's been planted. And if you ain't Alky, don't worry about it. It's only planted in Alky's. It's only planted in Alky's. It's only planted in Alky's, man. And that ball-headed carpenter stuck his seed right in me, man. And I couldn't get him out of my mind, man. I couldn't get him out of my mind, man. I'd be spending all day panhandling down there in Wilmington, going to cap that seal, cap it, and boom, there's Don. What the hell is he doing here, man? I didn't think about that much when the guy was my sponsor, man. I'd be popping in all the time. I'm thinking about Alex and all these goofy Indian ladies and moose and all this crap. And I couldn't get you out of my mind. And I couldn't get drunk. And I couldn't get sober. And I couldn't commit suicide. I tried committing suicide. I tried to stab myself with a spoon. You know, perfectly Alky, you know. All the, you know, nothing cowardly about me, you know. Damn it, you know. I'll show them. I'll just, there with a spoon, somewhere, you know. And I couldn't get him out of my mind. And for two years, 1980 to 1982, I had enough self-pity in me to stay on those streets. And I couldn't get drunk. I couldn't get sober. I couldn't live. I couldn't die. And I thought, I thought I'd been to AA. I thought I'd been to AA, man. And I got enough self-pity to keep me on those streets and not do nothing. Because I figured, what the hell? You owed me a living. I've always walked around with a chip on my shoulder towards God. I didn't like that dirty trick of having you born and then killing you off later. I didn't like that. I thought that was dirty and it was a chip on my shoulder, man. That's the way I thought it. I thought, look at that. He took my baby brother away. I'm next. And for two years, I lived that miserable life. I lived that miserable life that we live. That desperation that's in you. That desperation. That loneliness of an alcoholic when you're out there alone. And that loneliness. And May 2nd of 1982, I get up enough dough and I'm going by this Woolworth window and I got my long blonde hair and my beard and I've got my army coat on and I go by this Woolworth window and I look in the window and I says, what in the hell happened to my dreams? What the hell happened here? I just wanted to be a cameraman. I just wanted to be a baseball player. What the hell is going on here? And I get up enough dough and I call central office. And who do I get? I get Don. Don, this is Larry. I'm down here at the mission. I'm ready to come back to Alcoholics Anonymous. Will you come and get me? And the man told me the most profound words I've ever heard in my life. He says, no, you little son of a bitch. He says, you know where we are. You know what we got. If you want to get sober, you get your rusty ass down here yourself. I'm tired of chasing. I'm chasing after you. He says, that sign says we care. It says it doesn't say we're going to take care of you. And he hung up. What a mean man, man. The guy used to be so nice to me, you know. This is Jesus Christ. He used to be so nice, you know. Now, remember I was telling you about him bringing up Herbie to my room? Herbie was one day sober, real shiny Herbie and stuff like that. Here's the flip side of that Herbie deal. You know what him and Herbie did that day when they walked out of my room? The only answer to life that leaves my room? They go down to Don's car. They look up at my room. Don pokes Herbie and says, you don't got to do it that way. You don't got to do it that way, Herbie. If you want what we have right now and you're tired of your way of life, drunk or sober, you don't got to do it that way. And you know what? He hasn't. That son of a bitch has been sober ever since. He called me up a month ago. Watch me get him an 11-year cake. One year more than I do. Yeah, right, Herbie. You know, the nerve. Every year he calls me, you know, how you doing, you know? I'm doing fine, Herbie. I'm doing just fine. He says, you help me a lot. I said, I know, Herbie, I know. I don't want to help you no more, pal. And I called up Don that day. And he says, come down here and get it yourself. And I took the longest walk of my life because no longer was it necessary for the people of Alcoholics Anonymous to come and rescue me. You see, I wore out the magic here. Oh, damn. I wore it out. They were tired of seeing me around here. They'd had enough of my kind. And I come back to that meeting and I walked the longest walk, the longest 12 miles of my life from Wilmington to the TLC Club to the Thursday night participation meeting. I got there at 12 noon. A couple by the name of Frank and Lucille shook my drunk out with you and I puked with you and I hallucinated with you. And I stood up and I hung around long enough to stand up at that 8 o'clock meeting and say, my name is Larry Thomas. I'm an alcoholic. And for the first time in my life, I felt like a member because that was the first time in my life I wanted to do what you were doing. See, I couldn't no longer. The power of choice to drink was gone and something more important had to be drunk up. The ability to debate the issue of here or whether or not it's going to work for me. I had to come here and bet my life that you're right. I'm betting my life you're right, Jerry. I'm betting my life you're right, Billy. I'm betting my life you're right, Jerry. Glory. I'm betting my life. I'm betting my life on it, pal. And that's how I come to believe. I've came to believe by those moments when you're weak and you're desperate and you're not drinking and you're sober and you're one year or five years or ten years and you know you can't make it but you don't drink and you make it through and you've got a little more power with this thing called Alcoholics Anonymous and you come to believe in something by not doing what your head tells you to do and coming through those bad times. And there's going to be many of them if you're new. And that's how I've come to believe. And the power of Alcoholics Anonymous is through my desperate moments when everything isn't going well. And you've shown me your power by those moments. You've kept me active. You've kept my feet busy while my head may be full of self-pity and the worries of my material world. And I come back to that meeting, man, and I shook it out. And I thought Don was going to take me into his house that night. And he says, No, no, you son of a bitch. He says, You're staying in my Toyota all night. He had an abandoned Toyota in his front yard. He says, You stay in there. And he says, If you get out of that car any time tonight, he says, I'm going to have your ass arrested. He says, And you better find a God. And he slammed the door. And I said, Jesus Christ, man. This guy's going off the wall, man. You know? And man, I started looking for a God. I've got to find a God. I'm going through the glove compartment under the seats, you know, looking around in the headliner. I know he's got a pamphlet somewhere, you know. Where in the hell am I going to find this God? I've got to find one by eight in the morning. You know how he is. He's got to go to work and Herbie's going to be there and all this horse shit. He's got a God. And man, I'm sitting out there and I'm just DTing like a madman, man. I'm hearing the music and there's animals crawling around me and stuff like that. And you know what? I'm checking out this bush and this thing's breathing, you know. And I'm going, You know what? This may be the last night I ever have to do this. I don't know if I ever have another drunk in me or none of that nonsense. But you know what? I don't ever want to sober up again. I don't want one more day. I don't want one day. I don't want that first, I don't want my second year. I don't want my eighth year. Last month was tough. You know what I mean? No more going back. No, it's everything forward from this day on, man, you know. And man, I just resigned to that fact. You know what? This is it, pal. Shake it out. This is it. This is the last time you've got to be locked up in this goof Toyota, you know. And he let me out the next morning and I thought, Well, now I can get in. You know, if I'm really cool, he'll let me, maybe he'll move me That's in the backyard on blocks, you know, that's a step up. He took me right back down to the damn mission, you know. And I stayed in that mission for about 90 days. And every morning they'd kick me out at 5.30 and I'd walk down to the club and I'd sit in your meetings and I'd get jobs with contractors and stuff like that and stay for the midnight meeting or the 8 o'clock meeting. He'd take me back to that mission and I would eat my beans and sing my hymns and pray, God, you let me back in your next meeting the next morning. And you know what? You did. I hope I never wear out my welcome. I'm in debt up to my ears to you. And my first two years, I was crazy. I'm a nut now. I used to be intense. Not anymore, man. No way. Nuh-uh. I've simmered down. And I was intense those first two years, man. And I'd sit in the back of that room, you know, and I'd see these goofs with these ties on. They'd say stuff like, 30 years ago. 30 days ago. 30 years ago. But just recently, 30 days ago. I was on the streets of Los Angeles. And now, thanks to this chip and AA, I'm the president of the Bank of America. Thank you. You know? Wow. I just came in with that guy, you know? And I'd sit in these rooms, man, and for two years, I went crazy. For two years. You know, I'm a man of images. I've always been a phony. I've always had a little image to hide behind because I'm afraid of you and me. And I've always had a little loser image or a dope fiend image or a lowrider image or some little scummy image to pride myself on, you know. And because I didn't have any actions to pride myself on, no respectability for me or you. So you pride yourself on little scummy things like that. Your drunkologues, that kind of crap. And I became the worst image I ever hung on to, man. It's called a sober member of AA. Where for a half hour, right before meeting time, you put your AA face on. You come down to the meetings, you shake hands, you pour coffee, and you forget names. And then a half hour after the meeting's over, you go home and you die. And you try desperately to work an honest program dishonestly. Oh, you give it your best shot. Oh, you give it everything you got. Alcoholics Anonymous has taken away my most secure possession. And that's my old way of life. I could count on it. It worked every time. Got me in trouble every time. It's the surest way the first thing I had. I would rather hang on to that, I thought, than cross that invisible line with you to some unsafe territory with these do-gooders. You know? And you know what? You told me about taking the action. Just take the action, man. And at two years, I'm running around that club, man, and I'm just crazy. I'm just crazy. I'm just ready to go, man. I'm just ready to go again. And a man came down to that club. And he told me in front of everybody in that club what I was. He says, you're an A.A. pimp. You're a loser. He says, you're a taker of people. You're a user of people. You're a loser, Larry. He says, there's a pamphlet that gets thrown around here like free literature. It's got unity, service, and recovery on it. He says, there's another triangle that gets trashed around here, young man. He says, and it's called homework and play. He says, what do you like here when you leave here? What do you like here at work? What do you like at home? What do you like to the lady of your life? What do you like to your parents, to your daughters, to your brothers? What do you like to the people in the grocery store? What do you like to your boss? What do you like when you're away from these meetings? And I had to follow that man. And that man's my sponsor. His name is Johnny, and my home group is the Big Book Group of Bellflower, California. And those are two most important things in my life. Not because of who they are, but because of what they've done for me. They've introduced me to the program of Alcoholics Anonymous in its entirety. And I guarantee you that what I do in between meetings is going to constitute whether I stay sober or not. What I do when I'm away from you is where I take this way of life. I can be good for an hour and a half. No problem. With people watching, come on. No problem, pal. But what am I like when I leave you? And you talk to me about respect. A man in my group named Mac Baker talked to me about respect. That if I can respect a little job like coffee maker, then maybe I can respect a sponsor. Maybe I can respect the thing called Alcoholics Anonymous if I show up with a tie and thank you for my way of life. And if I can respect this program of Alcoholics Anonymous, maybe I can take it home and respect the lady in my life. And maybe I can respect the man that signs my check. You talked to me about respect. You gave me back my self-respect. And I love you for that. I love you for that. And I followed that man. And he showed me this way of life, man. And my sponsor, Johnny, got me involved in this. And he showed me in these steps how to do that inventory and make those amends. And I guarantee you, if you're new and you want peace of mind, make peace with the past. Make peace with the past, friend. Go back through that list. Get through that list, man. Make those financial amends. Make those amends to your family. Don't worry about making those amends to your stupid-ass dope dealer. Get back to those people that are important in your life that you've trashed. Those people that watched you trash your life. Day in and day out and break their hearts and plead with you with the frothy emotional appeals, those babies and children in your life that you walked away from. Those are the people you owe amends to. Those are the people you go to. And you taught me how to do that. And I hear it all the time. And in 1987, I'm sitting in this 12 and 12 workshop and the lady that's going to speak tonight, Claire, she came to my meeting. But a couple years ago in 1987, I heard, I heard this guy talk and he said that he put his name on top of a list to make his amends first. And you know what? For years, I have looked in that 12 and 12 and in that big book and I have yet to find that sentence where it says we put our name on top of the amends list. Now, isn't that just like an alky to run havoc for 30, 40 years and when it comes to forgiveness, who was it first? The alky. You bet, baby. Get me up there first. And you told me that we get that forgiveness by forgiving the others in our lives. Forget about your forgiveness. You go out there and make amends and there's a big difference if you're new. Break out a dictionary and look up the difference between an apology and an amends for Christ's sake. You've been sorry your whole life, but you've never changed your actions. And that's what we want you to do with these amends. Apologize for the harm that you have caused and then prove it with the actions of Alcoholics Anonymous. Let them see it through you, baby. Let them see it, man. It ain't nothing to be a loser. It ain't nothing to live that way of life. It takes everything you've got to be here. And I came to Alcoholics Anonymous, man. And I used to think, well, you know, Alcoholics Anonymous is going to shield me from life's little bullets. And what it does, it sticks you smack dab in the middle of life and you better have a program because they don't care. They don't care how many chips you have, how many cakes you're given. They want you to dig the damn ditch. And you told me how to do that. Now, what are you going to do with a goof like me? What kind of job are you going to give them? Alcoholics Anonymous has made me a plumber. They've taken me out of the gutters and stuck me in the sewer, for Christ's sakes. And I was scared to do that. I was scared to be a plumber. I dabbled in that over in Arizona. And, man, I was breaking into people's jewelry boxes and sticking stuff out of their medicine chest and all that stuff that says, you know, don't take and operate machinery. You know, I was taking that crap. I don't know about you. There's nothing like taking forage and riding around a forklift. And I love that. And, you know, I was afraid to get back into that. I was afraid to do that sober. And I've done it, you know. Every now and then, I still look in the medicine chest just to see how I'm going to charge them. You know, what are they taking, you know? And just curious, that's all. But Alcoholics Anonymous has shown me a good way of life. They've shown me how to show up. They've shown me how to be. And you know what? It's been tough. Thank God it's been tough, man. I've got the good life today. You know, me and my father have always been button heads here. And we've made amends, you know. And at about five years sober, I get a call. And it's about ten in the morning. And my dad's crying. He says, I need to talk to you. And he hangs up. And he calls back and he says, Son, I need to talk to you. He says, I don't know what you've been doing for five years. But he says, something's happened to you. He says, I've got to tell you. He says, Larry, I get up at 6.30 every morning and I promise myself I'm not going to drink. This is the day I'm going to stop. And he says, by ten o'clock I'm in my glove compartment drinking my wine. He says, son, how in the hell did you do it? Would you come to my house and talk to me about that AA stuff? And I went to my father's house and I took a book and a directory and I introduced him to you. And the old man took it. I let him go at that. And he's had a hard time with it. Just like his son. But something more, something different. Something important happened here not too long ago, about a month ago. I went and visited my dad. And he touched me like he never did before. Something that I always wanted. He took me out for just a little lunch or something like that. And we were talking. And as we were walking out the door, we were walking to his car, he put his arm on my shoulder, dreaming about that touch for years. Forty years, all I wanted to do was hold my old man's hand. That's all I wanted. And by staying sober and Alcoholics Anonymous, he touched my shoulder. Just touched my shoulder and said, you know, I love you, kid. God, I love that man. He's my buddy. I love that old man. I thought we'd never get together. I made amends with my mom. Him and my mom have split up. They've been split up for 10 years. Mom loves you. She loves you for what you've done to her boy. Because in my mom's eyes, I've never been able to do any wrong. And you've told me you've proven to me by my actions that there is hope for the hopeless. And you've made her very comfortable that her boy is out there. She has nothing to worry about where her son's at. You've blessed me with a child. A five-year-old girl who, I'm not living with her mom no more. You see, I have 1989. I got a divorce from her mom. Not because of anything else, but I didn't want Lauren to see the anger and the family and the violence. And I had to chance it. There was violence going on in that home. And I didn't want to chance her seeing or being victim of it. And I knew I had to do some work and I secretly did not want to be with her mother. And I would rather her see me three, two, three times a month happy, joyous, and free than to possibly be victim of my physical abuse. And it's worked out the greatest. I love that little girl. When I go see her, she runs down the hallway and she says, Papa, I love you. She hops up in my arms and she shares her life with me and Gloria and she's happy with her daddy. You know, me and Gloria met about three years ago in Palm Springs. And about a year ago, there was a kid that I was going to a meeting with and I was speaking somewhere in Laguna or something like that. And this girl walked by us and the guy poked me and he says, Hey, Sponse. He says, Did you see that girl? He says, How'd you like to have that on your arm? You know what, kid? I've had hundreds of girls on my arm. But I've only had one lady in my heart and that's Gloria. I love you for everything you've brought to me. And with the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, I will respect this way of life and never hold it in jeopardy. And if you're new, I wish you desperation. I hope you're so desperate you do things you don't even believe will work for you and may God be with you. But more important than that, I hope you do these things in Alcoholics Anonymous. Find a God like I found right here in these rooms and may God be with you. And there's a saying that we, God's children, who are all full of sin and defect, if we do the best for our children and for the people around us, just think what God, who is all good, will do for us. I want to thank you so much.