Surrender Came on the Day Nobody Expected It — Not Sick, Not Scared, Just Finally Done – Tom B.

I'm Tom, and I'm an alcoholic. There's all sorts of little notes here. You ready, Father? I got he's sure in the right outfit, I'll tell you. I have a great 30-minute opening pitch on social diseases amongst the clergy, if you'd like to hear that. Moe. Well, I would first like to thank Jim and Scott and the committee for inviting me to Roseburg. This is my first time in your beautiful state, and my God, it is beautiful. When Jim phoned me several months ago, he said, I'm Jim whatever has retained his anonymity, Malick. And, he said, we would like you to come and speak in Roseburg, Oregon. I said, where the hell is Roseburg, Oregon? He said, where the hell is Lactobani, Manitoba? So we had a tie going there, I think. But I'm very grateful that you did, because I've had a wonderful time. And I think that it is time right now, although it'll probably be done later, to pay a little little respect to Jim and his committee for doing such a fantastic job on this conference. Now, if that don't make a target out of you, nothing will. Can you, this is stupid, but can you hear me in the back? Some guy just phoned and says, we can hear you in Medford. Well, it's been a lot of fun. And tomorrow morning, you're going to hear a little lady who I have known and loved. For a long time. So by all means, if this one falls flat, hang around. It'll get better tomorrow. I'll take my watch off. But like a Baptist preacher, it doesn't mean a damn thing. It just makes you feel better. And you think I'm looking at it. I am an alcoholic. That's what I am. And my name is Tom. That's who I am. And I had a little hoot. And what trouble for about 28 years, because I thought that who I was made the big difference in the business of living. And I bet there's a hell of a lot of drunks out there today who felt that who they were was the only thing they had going for them. And I had a hell of a lot of trouble with who, because who was a hell of a smart guy. Young, good looking, smart as hell. And humble. And who would get up in the morning with a terrible hangover and say to what? God, I feel terrible. I'm sure as hell never going to do that again. And what would say to hell you're not, and I'll be drunk at noon. Because I thought that who could stop me drinking. I thought that who I was could do anything. But until I found out what I was, and then I could do something about that, I lived in hell for some time. Because I am an alcoholic, and I was on the road from the very first drink. I understand that some of you cardinals in this society drank for a period of time with comparative impunity, and then crossed the line from controlled to uncontrolled drinking. Well, I didn't have to go through all that hogwart. I didn't have to train a damn second. When I poured the first drink down, Jesus, you had one. You see, I'm one of the experts, and I love Mo talking about the geniuses in alcoholism, because, Lord, we got them coming out of the woodwork. We've got a few birds up in my country on a new exercise on our money. It's called psychological reorientation. Psychological reorientation. Psychological reorientation. Psychological reorientation. If you've got that going down here, it's a great deal. They're trying to psychologically reorient alcoholics so they can drink socially again. How the hell can you drink socially again if you never drank socially in the first place? Yeah, they're going to gee-hoss around mentally. I think it's a hell of a good idea, except I've been a pallbearer too many times. I said, you didn't psychologically reorient him, baby. You cured him. He quit breathing. That's the only cure I know for this illness, is to quit breathing. But they're having a shot at us. God, someday we're going to get a million dollars and examine them. I watch them on airplanes, you know. God, they're a strange bunch of social drinkers. God. And they're examining us, for Christ's sake. Well, I'm not proud of being an alcoholic. And I'm not ashamed of it. I think that's just the way it is. And my book tells me that we're like people who've lost their legs. We can't grow new ones. You either accept the reality of your being and go on from there, or you try to continue to be something you're not, and on the road to disaster and death in the field of alcoholism. And this I thank God for. I'm what the experts call the primary alcoholic. I've always wanted to be something. And I discovered that's what the hell I was, you know. That's a person that is... I said, trouble with booze from the very first belt. Not those of you who could train for 15 years and then went across the zip line, there you were. When I took the first drink, you had a nut, baby, right off the bat. You see, I was born... I don't think I was born an alcoholic. I don't know about those things, nor do I care a hell of a lot. I don't think I was born an alcoholic. I was born thirsty. And I'm Irish. By God, that gives you a head start, Father, I'll tell you. And I was reared with Swedes and Ukrainians, and you try that on for size. They make a Mountain Dew in my country to make that hillbilly stuff look like soda pop. It's got lumps in it. When you go home... When you go straight home from one of our parties, that's what they mean. Straight. There's a house you go in the front and out the back. Over fences, trees, mountains, you just go straight home. I had... I had a personality dilemma from the day I was born. I was a rebel. I've never met an alcoholic that wasn't a rebel. We either manifest it with our fists or mouth, or we run around all zipped up and blow up someday. But we are rebels. We can abide authority of no kind. There's a crew running around the world today blowing up airplanes. They call them anarchists. We are the original anarchists. Anybody tells me to do something, the chances of me doing exactly the opposite are excellent. Drunk or sober. You've maybe found that in the service meeting this afternoon. Oh, God, I love this. AA has no views on anything. To hell, they've got views on everything. They can't agree on anything, but they have views. Particularly on things... on things that we are remote from, like religion, politics, and sex. Anything that we don't know much about, jeez, we're authorities, Tom. If my memory serves me right. I had a little of that. Somebody said, do you have any children, Tom? I said, I'm not married. They said, that's not what we asked you. I said, no, I'm having a few rehearsals, though, just to keep my hand in. Or whatever. I was a rebel. Well, I was a coward. Now, if you're gonna be a successful rebel, you should be gutsy. But if you're a rebel and a coward, you're a disaster looking for a place to happen. And you lose your teeth at a very early age. If you're a rebel and a coward and got a flappy mouth and a drunk, God, look out. I, like many, I love the alcoholics. I grew up in an average home and blah, blah, blah. Well... I suppose I did. My father was an alcoholic. I'm the son of an alcoholic. My father died of alcoholism at the age of 80, which is nearly impossible. But like many alcoholics, he was well protected. Nobody didn't put the word alcoholism in those days. Nobody knew what it was. He was a very successful man, a very dynamic guy. He was six foot two and a half, 250, 60 pounds, as bald as an eagle. My number one resentment today is skinny people with hair, don't you know? Well, I don't care. And there was no communication in my home. Through nobody's fault, I don't think. We never had any discussions in my home. My father was like the Holy Father, Moe. He issued encyclicals and were not cackling. When he said something, it was said. Nobody even said, but, you know. You just accepted it and went on from there. I always felt like I was playing second fiddle to him. And at 14, that's what you're supposed to be playing. But if you're a rebel, you run around all wound up inside. And you live with an alcoholic, you get in the hate-love thing. Well, you leave in the morning loving your father or whoever it is. And you come home at night and you're drunk and you hate him. And you start to come unscrewed inside. Because you can't live with that. That's why I love these Alateen kids. And Al-Anon. I'm a great fan of Al-Anon. I'm convinced that Al-Anon sees as many miracles as Alcoholics Anonymous does. I'm convinced of this. And Alateen. And to see these kids who've lived for years in this love-hate atmosphere, coming apart at the seams, get together and sharing each other with each other and growing, even with a continuing problem, is one of the great miracles that God has endowed us with in this fellowship and those fellowships that walk with us. And thank God for them. Because Al-Anon, in my family, turned my most loved person in my life around and allowed her to live comfortably and allowed her to get rid of the hate and the resentment in her life. And she's still a member of Al-Anon. It screwed up my AA program after three years. But there wasn't any Al-Anon when I came into AA where I was. And after I was sober three years, they started it. And, you know, we still got some people around Alcoholics Anonymous, some of these monkeys, who won't let their wife go. I love this. I won't let my wife go to Alcoholics Anonymous and then go to the AA meeting and gave us a great pitch on tolerance and love and God. If I don't let my family go to Al-Anon, it means I haven't burned the bridges. If they don't want to go, that's another thing. But if they go to Al-Anon, you'll sure as hell find out what you're supposed to have been doing for the last little while in AA, I'll tell you. So, there was no communication. I had a terrible speech impediment as a child. I stuttered very badly. I stuttered so bad I couldn't put two words together without sounding like a machine gun. I, as you will undoubtedly discover, have recovered from that more than adequately, much to the horror of many people. I took my first drink with my father, but I was conditioned to believe. I think like many of us were, I was conditioned to believe that there was a direct relationship between standing up and being a man and drinking booze. Nobody ever said that in my house, but that's the conditioning we get, isn't it? You can't drink and not a man. And when you're built like me, like a Mack truck, you know, you're going to be a man to hell with them. And you're going to do the things that indicate masculinity. And I was conditioned to believe that there was a direct relationship between standing up and being a man and drinking booze. I was also conditioned to believe that any show of emotion was a weakness. And I was conditioned to believe that any necessity of help, particularly spiritual, was a weakness. So now you get a guy who's a rebel, who's a coward, who stutters, who never felt a part of anything in his life without conditioning, and you got a nut in the making, I'll tell you. You add a little sauce to him, and you got one. Oh, God, when I took my first drink, I am here to tell you, it was not a problem, baby, it was a answer. My father gave it to me. I still hear the odd moralist coming out of the woodwork saying, if your father hadn't given you your first drink, you wouldn't be a drunk. Oh, for God's sake. If he hadn't given it to me, I'd have stole it. And why I never had it till 14, I don't know. There's a deep Freudian reason for that. I just never took one till I was 14. But these experts are always trying to dig down, I love this, to the root of the problem. Ah, yeah, you do that, baby. They wind up in their own rubber room most of the time. You'll have a little drinky. A little drinky-poo. That is quite a gavel. I was with my father when I took my first drink. I was nearly as big physically at 14 as I am now. I had a little less around the middle, a little more in the top. But I was young, heavy, good-looking, smart, and couldn't talk. You know, I was the guy at the high school dance who was standing along the side of the wall with his shoes glued to the floor, dying to be in the middle where the action was, but I couldn't move. And even if I could have moved, you know, I got up to some doll and figured, oh, to hell with it. And I couldn't talk, and I never felt a part of anything in my life. And I remember I was with my father one day. It was a beautiful fall afternoon, and we were together in the car out shooting or hunting. I forget which. There's a difference. And he was having a few beers, and I was driving. I was 14. We run out of pop. He pulled over to the side of the road. He said, you like a beer? I said, okay. Because I knew that that, you know, that's the first step in the road to standing up and being a man. So he gave me a beer, and he's sitting on that side of the car with his feet out. I'm on this side. I take a bottle of beer, take a sip, and I thought, oh, God, what are they seeing there? I took another sip, and it got a little better. Drank the first one. Stole the second. Right out from under his nose. I don't know whether there's instant alcoholism, but by God, there's instant larceny. You may not be a rummy right off the first, but you're a bandit. That's for sure. I heard a great doctor in alcoholism talk in Toronto not long ago, Gordon Bell, who said that addiction demands manipulation. Demands it. And I believe this. There's no way you can be an addict of any kind, alcoholic or whatever you're popping, shooting, dropping, sniffing, or snorting, and not manipulate and be self-dishonest. There's no way you can do it, baby. You can't survive. And this is true. So I stole the second beer of my life. Popped it open. Drank it down. Got up. Walked around the car. And Daddy was standing up. Six foot two and a half. Two hundred and fifty pounds. A guy I lived in awe of. A guy I lived in constant fear of. A guy I just dreaded. No communication. Hated. Every fiber of his being. And never knew it. And never had the courage to do it. And even if I did know it. Two beers in my life. My first two. I walked around the car. My father was standing up. I looked at him. And a wonderful thing had happened to him. He had frunked. By God, I looked at him. And I thought, now what the hell have I been wearing a U for all this time? He didn't look so big or mean or smart or tough. And I proceeded to tell him so. And that was my first mistake as a practicing alcoholic. It was also the first lesson. Lesson number one was with just a little intake of that sauce. The thing I was afraid of most in the world I was no longer afraid of I can handle. Lesson number two was I learned the next morning. Took two beers. Told father off. Went home. Went to bed. Got up. Feeling great. Two beers don't do nothing to you. Got up. Went in to see my old man because I had a few things to tell him I'd forgotten the day before. And he rolled over and got out of bed. And, oh, God, there he was again. And that is a guy who lives in Laguna Beach who's a member of this fellowship. Oh, what's his name? And I think he calls it the keen alcoholic mind, doesn't he, Chuck? Well, the keen alcoholic mind gets working. And I thought, yesterday I could handle this monkey. Today, Lord, there he is again. What's the difference? The answer was two beers. Ran downstairs. Had two beers. Now he came. Then the mind gets going again. I thought, God, if I can handle papa with that flit, I can handle mama because at fourteen mother gives you a little action on occasion. I can handle teachers and preachers and girls and boys and conditions and circumstances. And, by God, I did. It's an answer. The original tranquilizer. It put me together. It wasn't a problem. You could come out of the woodwork with all the sin and salvation. Pitch in. You could come out of the woodwork with all the sin and salvation. Pitch in. You could come out of the woodwork with all the sin and salvation. Pitch in. You could come out of the woodwork with all the sin and salvation. Pitch is in the world at that point, and I'd have told you to drop dead. It can't be bad if it can zip you up. God, I could talk. Hey! I'm back at the high school wall again, with the shoes nailed to the floor. You know, we talk about a generation gap. Dear God, we've always had a generation gap. That's not a new deal. You know, if you've got a fifteen-year-old that's not a little more interested in what the fifteen-year-olds are doing than what the fifties are doing — You got a kid with a problem. And I'm on the wall again, glued, wanting to be in. So much wanted to feel a part of that outfit. And couldn't. I never felt at home at home. I never felt at home away from home. God, I was a mess. And I'm standing again on the wall. And some guy comes by and says, Hiya, Tom. I said, ha, ha, fine. Said, I could drink. I said, okay. Went out to the car and had a belt or whatever he was belting. Came back in and right in the middle. Talking, dancing, and doing whatever you do. That stuff was an answer in my life. Not a problem, Sam. Not a problem. And, of course, there's a reality of alcoholism, as there is a reality in any addiction. And that is that it takes more to get the same effect over a period of time. Doesn't it? Where at 14 it took two beers to handle father. At 16 it took eight beers. At 18 it took a quart. And at 19 I began to lose. Because it started to go backwards. You see, not to get a better. You know, you would think. You'd think some of these geniuses, Moe, would figure out an answer to this. You would think that if two beers would get him from there to there, four beers would get him from there to there. And if he didn't run out of beer, you can get him to hell out of the road altogether. But he came down that far the first time. And no matter how much I drank from there on, he never went any shorter. And later on, he never came down at all. How many times have we heard each other say, that stuff don't do for me what it used to do for me. You drink it by the bucket full of nothing. All you get is sick inside. But I pursued it with a vengeance. By the time I was 19, I was diagnosed by the medical and psychiatric profession of my community as a chronic alcoholic, whatever the hell that is. I don't know what a chronic alcoholic is. I know what acute alcoholism is. I've never heard of anybody being chronically pregnant. You either is or you ain't, baby, you know. The disparity between pregnancy and alcoholism, your problem gets more obvious with the passage of time. But in nine months, you handle that one. And not alcoholism, you keep going. And you get more obvious. Anonymity has always been of interest to me. I'm a great believer in our tradition of anonymity at the public. But my anonymity at the personal level has never been a great concern to me because I was about as anonymous as the post office. Nobody ever asked me why I joined Alcoholics Anonymous. Oh, God, I wish they had them. I would say, you know, I joined AA. And I just knew that, oh, you didn't do that. Why would you join AA? They never asked that. I guess they knew why the hell I joined AA. They all said, oh, you didn't do that. They all said a small prayer of gratitude. And I was sober two days running. They knew I joined something. Well, I drank my way into school and out of school and then my father's business and then to university for a while and then we had a caucus in the university and Papa and I and decided that was an exercise in futility and he took me into the business, which is a good thing or I'd have starved to death. But like many fathers with alcoholic sons or left fielders in their family, they want to bolster their ego, so they give them a very responsible job. And an 18-mile man made me the vice president of a very large organization of which I knew nothing about or cared less. This will help the boy. It did. It damn near killed him. Because I was in that place 30 seconds and it was appalling to me how they had survived till I got there. I didn't even know what we did. Then I suffered from moving desks. Did you ever suffer from a moving desk? That's where it goes farther back as time goes by. When I first went there, they'd say, who's he, nice, bright, young-looking fellow? Say, that's the boss's son, the vice president, nice guy. Six months later, they came in and said, who's he? They said, that's Tom. Two years, they said, what's that? They said, we don't know, but he ain't around much anyway. Oh, I did not want to be an alcoholic. I hear some of these geniuses, say, why, this alcoholism is a self-inflicted illness. Why should we worry about these bums? Put them in jail. Well, they've been doing that for 2,000 years. It's called the iron treatment for alcoholism. And I'm not opposed to it. Jeez, you do a lot of meditating looking out behind those slats. But it doesn't cure your alcoholism, you know. They did that with me. They were very, very short on understanding. And I never got in any trouble. I just got in the road. I just got in the road. I just got in the road. I was sort of laid around in everybody's way, really, you know. I'm a guy, you know, I just always laid down when I should have been standing up. And they put me in the pokey. And I had wired daddy. The only thing my father and I ever agreed on was that he did not want his only son in jail. We always got a unanimous vote on that. Because I was it and I was in. And it kind of follows up the family image, you know. He'd go down to the club at noon with his business friends and say, Tom, how you doing? Tom, how you doing? Fine, how's Tommy? Oh, great, he's doing 30 days in New Orleans. Well, that kind of screws up the family image. So every time I got in, he got me out. Every time I wrote a check, he covered it. Because it would be a blot. I love this. A blot on the family name. Ha, ha. Ah, it wasn't a blot, it was a cloud. But you know, very early as I moved on into this thing, I began to see that I wasn't doing it the same as the rest of the citizens. But it didn't matter. It was very important for me to be recognized. And I learned very early that I couldn't be recognized as a winner. So if you can't be recognized as a winner, you say to yourself, you're going to know I'm around anyway, baby. Either as a nice person or as a failure. And I would go out and fail and get rescued. And you continue to do this because you don't know any other way to get the people you love and who love you back in your life. They say, well, you're going to have to come back in your life again. So for 14 years I was dedicated to failure. Because it was the only way I could get rescued. I'd go out and blow it again. And they'd come and save me, and then I'd be there for a while. And I've been thinking about this lately. It's very difficult to get over this. We carry this around with us for a long time. Many alcoholics come to Alcoholics Anonymous with a terrible fear of failure. done anything in your life worthwhile, really. If you're like me, the greatest starter that God ever put in the world and the lousiest finisher, there's no way in the world that you can come into AA feeling confident that you're going to make it. You come into AA with a little hope, but you know that, God, if this doesn't go, where do we go from here? This is the last house on the block. And if I don't make this one, we're done. We're fresh out of places to go. I tried all the exercises, and so did my family. They sent me away to school, corporate school, Detroit. We're in the automobile business. I got in jail down there. They're very narrow down there. They don't like you laying out in the middle of Woodward Avenue, high noon. I tried geography. I decided booze wasn't my trouble. Father was, or Winnipeg was, and in January it can be a problem. There's not as much antifreeze effect to alcohol as you might think, I'm here to tell you. We got drunks freezing to death by the dozens up there. Just pile them up like cordwood. I just said, I'm going to Vancouver. If I get out of this town, I'll be all right. You ever said that? And I bought a case of scotch to go to Vancouver on the train to quit drinking. Now, if you're going to quit drinking, you don't start by starting. You start by stopping. I think it was Harold over in Texas, Lou, who said there's a little sign in an A club room in East Texas that says something that jumps off the wall at you, which a hell of a lot of us have been around for a while, forget to tell somebody new we're calling on. And you go into this club, and this sign's hanging there, and you look at it, and you laugh, and then you look at it again, and you grin, and you look at it, and you frown, and you look at it and say, it can't be true. And apparently there's an old boy over there just out of Tyler in East Texas. As Harold said, he'd never been to school in his life, been using a mule's tail for a compass for 50 years, can't read or write, but had been sober in AA for many years. And he was working with a guy who continually showed up at the AA meeting stiff. And he couldn't get it through to him that that's not the way you do it. And he's plowing one day, and a thought comes to him, and he phones a friend and says, write this down because I can't write. And he wrote it down, and he thought it was fabulous and transposed it on some wood. And you know what the sign says? Some of you do, but many of you don't. The sign says this, if you're going to quit drinking, you've got to quit drinking. Stupid. But I think they're right. If you're going to quit drinking, you've got to quit drinking. There's no way you can quit drinking on three martinis, or two beers, or a little light wine, or a case of scotch. So I got the scotch and got on the train, went out to Vancouver, B.C., got off the train in Calgary, had an hour's break. Went into the pub, met all the boys coming from Vancouver, going to Winnipeg to cure their drinking problem. We got drunk together. Went to Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Fort Worth, Dallas, Houston, New Orleans. Always wound up in New Orleans. On my geographic surveys, I either fell off or got off. Whatever I was riding on, looked up, and, God, there I was again. Used to drink with a little Cajun guy in New Orleans, and he said to me, old friend, it seems to me you need just a little bit of a drink. And I said, well, I've got a little bit of a drink. And he said to me, old friend, it seems to me you need just a little bit of a drink. And he said to me, old friend, it seems to me you need just a little bit of a drink. And I said, well, I've got a little bit of a drink. And he said to me, old friend, it seems to me you need just a little bit of a drink. And I said, well, I've got a little bit of a drink. And he said to me, old friend, it seems to me you need just a little bit of a drink. And I said, well, I've got a little bit of a drink. And he said to me, old friend, it seems to me you need just a little bit of a drink. And he said to me, old friend, it seems to me you need just a little bit of a drink. And he said to me, old friend, it seems to me you need just a little bit of a drink. And he said to me, old friend, it seems to me you need just a little bit of a drink. And he She thought throwing up was a hobby. There's another word for that, and it's a terrible word, isn't it? For throwing up, chucking, puking. Well, there's a guy in Louisiana who uses that word, and it's terrible, you know, but it's very descriptive. And he was talking one day, and after he finished, a little old gal came up to him, and she said, You shouldn't use that word. He said, What word? She said, Puking. It's a terrible word you should use sick at your stomach. So he thought, well, he'd ponder on that a while, and he thought about that, and he thought, No, there's no way, because I wasn't sick at my stomach. I was just puking. How about that? And by God, it's right. I'd be walking down the main street of my town with some friends of mine, social drinkers, and I'd say, Excuse me, and go down the alley and be sick and come back. And they said, You're not feeling good? I said, Feeling fine. Anybody doing that who wasn't sick? They don't know us, do they? Hell, I was just, I wasn't sick, I was full. Strange. No wonder they look, there's no way in the world that people who live with us for very long, when we're drinking, can come up with a profound conclusion that they've got a genius on their hands, you know. God, we do everything upside down and backwards. And then we can't understand, after we're sober 30 minutes, why everybody doesn't rally around and see the goodness. For 18 months. And I went out one night. I went to a meeting and I went with a bunch of the brethren. We had a little rummy game after. And I got home. The first time since I've been sober, I got home at 3 o'clock in the morning. And my mother was there and a nurse who was taking care of my father and an old aunt. And I came in at 3 o'clock in the morning. And then I walked down the hall to my room. They were all standing in the door and they sniffed me as I went by. And I thought, Wow! What the hell kind of face is that? I haven't had a drink for 18 months. My sponsor says, How long were you drunk? I said, 12 years. Well, he said, In 12 years, maybe they'll quit sniffing at you. Then it suddenly dawned on me, better to have them be concerned than ignore you. I'd rather be abused than ignored, I'll tell you. That's where Al-Anon wins the battle of the bottle. When Mama Papa comes home and says, If you don't do this, I'll get drunk. She says, Go ahead. She says, You know you want them to get on your knees and beg. That's why you win. You ignore us. And there's nothing that an alcoholic can stand. Then be ignored. Oh, God! If my family had hated me, I'd have had a winner going. Oh, you know, you would justify your existence and the lousy things. But you know what they said to you? We're going to love you whether you like it or not. And that'll kill you. And you go to bed and say, Please hate me. Now, there's the saying. I'm not a pagan sort of a fellow. That's what it means to hate in New Orleans. I was... Oh, God. How's the time? I don't know. Do you? I was laying out in Jackson Park one day. I was 19. The doctor had just diagnosed me as a chronic alcoholic at home. And I told him to do something with his practice. And he said it was a physical impossibility. And I said, I'll help. Shove. And I set out to prove that he was wrong. And every time an alcoholic sets out to prove they're not one, they prove they are one, right? And I wound up back in New Orleans again, and I'm 19 years old. I'm laying out in Jackson Park under a palm tree, meditating. There was quite a number of us meditating there that day. And one of New Orleans' cops comes over and nudges me with his toe and says to me, He said, If you're here when I come back, we're going to jail. I said, Let's go. He said, What? I said, Let's go. He said, Why? Isn't that a stupid question? I said, Because I'm going to be here when you come back. He said, You are? I said, Yes. He said, Why? I said, I can't walk. Well, I couldn't, but we could. And away we went, a corner or two lane and broad. And they booked me, not for drunk and disorderly, for cluttering. Now, isn't that awful? A high-class guy like me, I'm a high-class guy. I'm a high-class guy. I'm a high-class guy. I'm a high-class guy. I'm a high-class guy. I'm a high-class guy. I'm a high-class guy. I'm a high-class guy. I'm a high-class guy. Cluttering up the park. I was crack a charge once with cluttering up Bourbon Street. You ever been on Bourbon Street? Ain't no way you can clutter up Bourbon Street. It's wall to wall bodies. Jung from Pat O'Brien's around the corner. Oh, I'd wire daddy and he'd get me out, except the last time. I wired him the last time and I got a wire back in 30 minutes. You hear me? You hear me? You hear me? minutes with two words stay there and I suspect I suspect that at that point in his life this man that I hated so much loved me more than he ever loved me before because I've learned from my Al-Anon sponsors and I have Al-Anon sponsors I want you to know that and they've done as much for me to teach me how to live with the rest of the human race as my AA sponsors have and I got 182 of them three are dead and I haven't taken them off the list you never know where you may be going and I think I got a couple in both places I think it takes more love to turn us loose and allow us to go and make our own mistakes than it does to keep grabbing and holding and hanging on and I've come to see this now thanks to you in AA and you and Al-Anon you call it release with love and it freed me from myself and the people I love you and it allowed me to live I have a mother still alive she just got out of the hospital with a heart attack she's an alcoholic without the allergy she has every symptom of alcoholism except she can drink and she's exactly like us she don't do nothing anybody tells her because she's flat on her back she's 79 looks 50 and thinks she is and the doctor says you got to slow down she speeds up but I got to release her I've got to I've got to stay to myself and to her you know honey you have my permission to drop dead in the petunia patch yeah I don't want you to but it looks like you're pursuing it and she's coming out to the coast on Monday and she got out of the hospital Tuesday but no way there's no way and she says you alcoholics are funny haha I said there's a mirror in there baby going take a piece the only thing you can't haven't got is what we got and whatever that is nobody knows but you know she can enjoy enjoy a belt or two. So I've come to see this. But the terrible blackness inside that I started with and which booze removes for a while, that little hole in the human breast where faith used to be when you were six years old, where fear all of a sudden develops. And when you find the bottle, you get rid of the fear because that tranquilizer removes the fear for a while. But as soon as you get sober, the fear's there again, and you've got to drown it again. And it takes more to drown it all the time. And eventually, of course, you can't drown it at all. And I knew that something was wrong. And people tried to help me. They sent me to the local psychiatrist. And I work with psychiatrists many times, and I'm convinced that they need help. And we have some fabulous people in psychiatry. But, you know, how can a psychiatrist help you if you lie to them, you know? I always got well before I went to the doctor. You know, God, you go in looking like an Olympic athlete. Say, do you drink socially? Two beers. What's the problem? Father. And they get father in reading his head. Or mother, or your wife, you know. Amazing. But I discovered another thing that some of you Al-Anons should know. And that is that when you're rehashing the past, until you get to the point where you don't have to, anymore, it became apparent to me that after I was sober a long time, there were certain things that I had done or said, particularly said, or didn't react to, that were said to me in my drinking days that I couldn't relate to. And I discovered that when the people who loved me said something to me in my drinking days, I didn't hear what they said. You see, my receiving set had blown a tooth. That transmitter was in perfect water. It was in working order. But my receiving set was on the fridge. And when my family said to me, honey, we love you, but you're in trouble, and you're sick, and you need help, and we want to help you. That's what they said. Verbatim. That's not what I heard. What I heard was, my boy, in spite of the fact that you're a drunken slob, we love you. You better do something. Now, that's not what they said, but that's what I heard. So if you've got an alcoholic at home and you're wondering about some of the hurt that you've come down the years with, and some of the lack of reaction to what you said, think about this, because we didn't hear what you said, honey. You said what you said, and we heard what we heard, and they weren't even connected sometimes. And we've come to see this in AA and Al-Anon. And the word I hated most in the world was when I got into most trouble. Some genius came out of the woodwork and said, Junior! Oh, God, I hate it, Junior! Because that's what I was. Gee. So I went to the social worker, and they said it was an environmental problem. Mother told me that. She said, you wouldn't drink with those bums, you'd be all right. And I said, you're right, and changed bums. The people around my father, who knew my father and worked for them, said, well, we can understand why he blows his stack periodically. If you lived under those conditions and pressures with him, you'd get drunk too. And oh, God, that's just what I wanted to hear. He justified my whole action. The people around me. Well, we can understand. It's called a snow job. It's called covering up. And covering up for alcoholism is cruel kindness. Cruel kindness. Alcoholism is a disease you can love people to death in, baby. You can love them so much and hide them so deep that they die or go nuts. And that's what they tried to do. In love. Always for the right reasons. Everything, it seems, in alcoholism, and Al-Anon knows this much better than we in AA, all the human reactions and actions in alcoholism seem to be the wrong ones, don't they? All the things you do from love seem to be backwards in alcoholism. That's why we got to know about this deal. That's why we got to know. Well, and I, you know, I began to, I wasn't drunk after two and a half hours, and then my trouble really started and we fainted. I began to think maybe the only way that I could help the people, that I loved, and they came at me. They talked to me, my father, about backbone, willpower, standing up and being a man, turning over new leaves, pulling up my socks, sin, salvation, and outward manifestations of inward frustrations, whatever the hell that is. My father was in the car business, but he was an authority on my anatomy. We had long chats, both of us drunk, about my backbone. Now, what the hell do you know about medicine? And then one day, I'm floating down as stiff as a goat and hungover, and I went in to an x-ray clinic, paid five dollars to have an x-ray, taking him a backbone. The next time he got on that subject, I snapped it out at him and said, what the hell are you talking about? Look there. There it was. He said, pull up your socks. God had my socks up to my eyeballs, and I still got drunk. They said, go away, come here, stand up, sit down. And they didn't get to me at all. Preachers talked to me about hell, and my concept of that place or condition is one of loneliness, hopelessness, and fear. And what you could tell me about that was that I was a man. I was a man. I was a man. I was a man. I was a man. I was a man. I was a man. There was nothing, because I lived in it constantly. I wasn't afraid of hell. I wasn't afraid of dying, except I had a fear of dying drunk, because I was too rum-dumb to have a fear of anything. And I thought maybe when I got up in the morning and looked in the hurt of the eyes of the people that I had hurt and the people I loved, I thought maybe the only way I can help those people is to get me out of the way. And if you've reached the point as a result of intake of anything in your life where you feel the only way you can help your people you love is to commit suicide, then you're sure as hell in the right. I've never heard of a social drinker thinking about committing suicide to help the people he loved for drinking. They do it for other reasons, I guess. And I thought about this. And if you've spent one second of your life thinking about this, you're an alky. Social drinker. Whatever the hell that is, he had his social drink himself right into the pokey not long ago. And when he got out, I had a chat with him. And I said, how was it? When he got out of jail? He said, lousy. I said, you didn't like it? He said, no. I said, listen, tell me something. I said, when you were in jail, did you see any social drinkers in there for drinking? He said, no, don't believe so. I said, who's in there for drinking? He said, the alkies. What are you in for? He said, drinking. I said, I'd ponder on that a while if I were you. He did. He pondered himself right back in again. But he's coming around. He's only been in the detox three, four times this month. And he's found some psychiatrist doing acid. And they're getting along well. Jeez. He said, I got a wonderful psychiatrist. He's pink. I said, yeah, you stick with him. And you'll both be on the rubber room. My family were bridge addicts. They played bridge with a vengeance. They were expert bridge players. And I've always hated bridge. One of the things during my early life, I remember sitting at the dinner table and mama would say to papa or vice versa, let's have Joe and Mary or Betsy and Don or somebody in for a quiet evening of bridge. And they'd come over and inevitably it'd end up in a Donnybrook at three o'clock in the morning, screaming, yelling, cursing. And my idea of a quiet evening of bridge is probably not what your idea is. I always woke up with nightmares. So I've refused to play bridge ever in my life. You know, and today, of course, it's just a gag, but it was a thing with me. And before I quit drinking, I remember I came home one time after about a four-day alcoholic survey. And I was as stiff as a goat and stank like eight polecats, had a four-day growth of beard on, and mother had the girls in for bridge. Now, the girls were those girls that you and I grew up with that we all called Auntie. Auntie Mary and Auntie Pearl and Auntie May. And as an alcoholic, they started off as sweet little old ladies. And as your alcoholism progressed, they became nosy old bags. Then as you got to AA, they eventually went back to being sweet little old ladies again. Well, they were at the nosy old bag stage at that point. And I came in and I could hear them playing bridge and I'm stiff. And I thought, I'll go in and give the girls a little advice on Culbertson and Gorin. And I didn't know anything about it. So in I went and in comes the prodigal. They could smell him for blocks away. I'm sure. I walked into the living room and here they were. And I went over and fell in the middle of the bridge table. And it and I went down and they went up and I'm laying down, looking up and they're up looking down. And I got the look. Now, you know what the look is, brethren and sister. It's a look that you and I think is a look of loathing in the eyes of the people we love. And it's not. It's a look of bewilderment in the eyes of those who love us and who we love it. Here's somebody they love more than life itself, falling apart. At the seams and they can't do anything about it. But we distort that as we distort what people say. And somebody said, get out of here. And my immediate reaction was, that's a fine way to treat your only child. That's all I've done for you. Don't dwell on that too long. And I got up and got unchuffled and I started up the stairs to my room. And a thought pierced me. I'll fix you. I'll kill me. Sanity. And I'm just delighted with this thought. And I walk up and down to my room and into my closet. And I had my clothes in there. And I used to keep the little, you call them half pints, we call them mickeys in Canada, where I kept all the little bottles in varying stages of fullness or emptiness, depending on your condition. And I went in and I had a belt and I am delighted with this thought. They'll be sorry. I'll kill myself. They'll be sorry they treated me like that. God, isn't that stupid? And I walked, it was the 20th of November, it's 20 below zero. And I walked through my room, the back part of the house. There was a balcony out there. And I walked out on the balcony. And I thought, ha ha, that's what I'll do. I'll jump off the balcony. They'll be sorry. So I went, turned to go back in, have another belt. And as I went back, I went by a full-length mirror and noticed I had my new suit on. Had it on for four days. But I thought, God, I wouldn't want to get my new suit. And I went back and I went back and I went back and I went back and I went by and I went back and I went back and I went back and I went back and I went all dirty. They might want to bury me in it, you know. So I took my new suit off and I'm in my shorts. And I went in, had a little belt, and I went up the top of the stairs the other direction to see if they were still there. Because if they'd gone, they'd have blowed the whole deal, you know. What the hell's the sense in committing suicide when there's nobody there to enjoy it? But they were down there taking my inventory. We didn't call it that in those days. I went back in, had another belt, and went out on the balcony. It wasn't too cold. If you're full enough, you don't notice it. Climbed over the rail and stood on the eaves trough. Thought about it. Visions of a funeral. Like Al Capone. All flowers, no people. Let myself down. Hung on the eaves trough for I don't know how long. Couldn't have been very long. And thought they'll be sorry. And let myself go and fell three feet into six feet of snow. Got up and brushed myself off. Went over and rang the doorbell. I'd forgotten my key. I don't know about your shorts, but mine ain't got pockets in them. My mother came to the door and there was the prodigal standing there just as blue as can be. And she said, my God, what have you done? And as unconcerned as can be, I said, I just jumped off the balcony. And she said, oh, you poor dear. And I had her right there. Oh, you got to get them fighting or crying quick. Well, I went to bed for about two weeks. Went on the wagon for 30 days, which was the longest period I was ever off alcohol from the age of 14 to 28. I was a steady drinker. I was not a periodic. I never saw the point in the wagon. Still don't. And 30 days was it. I started again in the last number of years of my life I couldn't tell you much about. But on January the 5th, 1956, I kind of ran out of steam. I was where I live now, a little town out of Winnipeg in the Lake Country called Lac du Bonnet. If you're hairy, you call it Lac du Bonnet. Thought you were going to do the 12 stations Francais, old buddy. French are like Irish. They got a head start, too, in alcoholism. And I was down where I live. And surrender process of alcoholism has always been to me the miracle of this thing, because the day that I threw in the towel was the day those around me would least likely expect. Me, too, if you follow any alcoholic around, there's a thousand days you would say when they're so sick and lonely and scared and in trouble and they're laying in that bed coming apart at the seams, you to say, today's the day they got to see and nothing happens. And the day it happened to me, I was in no trouble. I was with the people I loved. I was at home. I had been ten times as sick and ten times as scared and ten times as lonely. And yet that was the day that all of a sudden I couldn't go any farther. And I remember when it happened. I was very full of alcohol. I used to say drunk, but I have no idea what drunk is. I don't know what the hell drunk is, nor do I care. I know some people get drunk on two drinks, and I know some of us can, or tanks, we can consume an enormous amount. And who cares what the hell it is? And I went with my family to a party, a cocktail party, a New Year's Day afternoon. This place I'd kind of grown up in in the summertime, where I live now, is a summer place we used to have. I remember I tripped going into the party and slid into the living room. I was in the living room, on my belly button, and my buddy said, There's Tom. I'd arrived that way before. I'd been pulled out of every ditch within a fifty-mile radius of that joint. You could stand at my back door today, lose a bit of my place. You could stand at my back door and throw a bottle fifty feet in any direction and hit another bottle. My bottles never went funk. They always went crash. And I remember I slid in, and all the citizens, the wheels in town were there, looking at me. And there's old Tom, goodbye. I got up and came, pulled myself together, went into the kitchen. And there was a guy I went to school with briefly. I'd heard he'd had a terrible drinking problem. He'd lost his wife and kids, wound up in a skid row in Toronto. He was a year younger than I was. He'd joined this thing called Alcoholics Anonymous, and he had got his family back. And I thought, isn't that nice, when you have that kind of trouble, that there's a place for those fellas to go. The... The lack of a reality that this book tells us, you know, this book says, you know, that we live in that phony world till the phoniness becomes a reality. I remember going to dinner in the old days at the New Orleans Parish Prison, where you had to march with your hand on the guy in front of you and keep your mouth shut. For drunks, that's nearly impossible. And I'm right in the middle of the line, and we're going to dinner. And I'm thinking, isn't it terrible that these nice fellas have to be in a place like this? We got them right in the middle of the line. There, you see. Yes. Into the kitchen, and there was Bernie. Now, when I did go on the wagon, which was anywhere up to 30 minutes, 30 days, I didn't go in bars or taverns or pubs or go where there was booze. I was either drinking or not drinking. If I was where it was, I was drinking. It was either isolation or drinking. And here was this guy. I'd heard he'd joined this thing called AA. I never knew what it was, but I was beginning to see things around the house. Who me? Who me? Who me? Who me? Who me? Who me? Who me? There was some stool pigeon around who was saying, I think you better give him that, so you tear it up and throw it away. I remember reading the Jack Alexander article when I was just a child. See, isn't it great? You know, those fellas have a place to go. And here was Bernie, and he was up to his eyeballs. He was tending the bar. He was up to his eyeballs in booze, and the drunks were hanging on his shoulders, spitting in his face, telling him how much willpower he had. And he was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and I went up to him, wished him a happy new year. He gave me a drink. I went in, sat down, took one drink out of it, went back and tapped him on the shoulder. I don't know why. I said, Bernie, I want to talk with you. He said, fire away. I said, not here. I didn't want anybody to know I had a drinking problem. Just arrived on my navel. He said, well, you know what the hell I want to talk to him about. He said, well, go downstairs. He opened the door. Damn the set of stairs you ever saw. I said, after you, sir. Dignity to the very end. You ever seen a drunk fall off a bar stool? In England, they say, cheers, chaps, and pass out. Oh, beautiful, you know. I went down with my hand on his shoulder, and as his foot hit the bottom of the steps, I said, Bernie, how the hell do you quit drinking? I can't quit drinking. And he turned around and chuckled, and I nearly hit him. But I knew in the fraction of a second that he wasn't laughing at me. I don't know why I knew. I just knew. And I looked at him, and he was smiling, smiling through his eyes, and his face, and his hands. And he put his hand on my shoulder, and he said, buddy, sit down. Then he started to talk. And even though I was in the process of throwing in the towel, I still had all the defenses. When you talk to me about me, you know, we have all the answers before you think up the questions. And I had all the defenses, but he crossed me up. He didn't talk about me. He talked about himself. And he didn't talk about backbone and willpower and standing up and being a man. He talked. He talked. He talked about loneliness and hopelessness and fear and futility and guilt and remorse. And he never quit smiling. And he built a bridge of understanding the lack of I'd never experienced before or since. But thanks be to God, I've been a part of many times since in the last nearly 18 years. And he never quit smiling. Listen, baby. Don't let these monkeys tell you to be serious and look serious. Be serious. It's your very life. But God, if you can't be serious and have fun in this business, you're a total loss to the drunk walking in the door. Because I knew before I went to my meeting that you were all going to be sitting around looking like the Women's Christian Temperance Union. With your nose all looking like you smell something bad. With your chins on your navels talking about the joys of sobriety. I've seen preachers do that, Mo, haven't you? They tell about the joys of God and they look like they smell something. Dead fish. God, if it's so great, what do you look like that for? Please keep smiling. That's the one thing the drunk doesn't understand. He knows he's got to quit drinking. He knows he's shaking so bad he couldn't hold a handful of glue. He knows he's got to sit in his hands to keep from flying out the window. He knows that he's up to his eyeballs in trouble. He knows he's got to quit drinking. He knows he thinks that if he doesn't quit drinking he's going to die. But it never dawned on him for a fraction of a second that you could not drink and be happy. God, that's what brought me back. The light in your eyes and the smile on your face. God didn't give you a sense of humor accidentally. God don't do nothing accidentally. He gives you a sense of humor to use as a vehicle. A vehicle to carry his message to some drunk. Because when I walked into my first AA meeting there you were. And you weren't sitting around the side feeling sorry for yourself. You weren't feeling sorry for yourself. You couldn't drink. Christ, I heard a belly laugh for the first time. And I thought, God, they're popping pills. Because I'd had a year run at those too. I met some doctor who gave me a popcorn sack full of second oils with a verbal prescription that says take one when you don't feel good. Christ, I never felt good. So I spent a year drinking a quart of scotch and drinking and taking 12 second oils a day. And if you do that and they say, how are you feeling? You're going to say, great. And you're going to fly right the hell out the window. Of course, today we've got those new non-habit forming pills, haven't we? The Valium and the Librium. The girls are mixing with a little Dubonnet. Just to keep body and soul together. What the hell's the difference whether you're drinking your whiskey or chewing it, tell me? But the doctor prescribed it. Not by the sack full he didn't, honey. I don't know whether it's the pills or our inability to read prescription. We live in a chemically oriented world. And there's a lot of idiots running around today who'll tell you that chemical dependency is okay. Well, let me tell you, you tell them to go to hell because you don't need anything to live comfortable in the business of living if you've got this thing and our God. You don't need it, Sam. You're going to be all right without any of those pellets, I'll tell you. Think about it. I'll just have a couple. I watch them. On airplanes, the girls all sit up in the first class section and exchange pills. Ninety percent of the women coming day to day have a double addiction. We can get them off the sauce. Do you think we can get them off those pellets? No way. But the doctor said, which one? You've got 12 going. And if one catches up with them, they add one on the other end. But it's all right. No, it ain't. Not for the likes of us. I'm afraid. Because any medication over and above which we have to have given by some knowledgeable doctor in alcoholism, and if you have to take something, in the name of God, take it according to prescription. But if you don't have to, try these steps. That's the best formula for good living that I've ever come across in my life. When I walked into my first meeting, and there you were, grinning. Oh, God, I hated happy people. Oh, Jesus, you look like a sanctimonious bunch. But yes, yes. I had something going for you. And there was an old colonel I knew in the army. Did business with him. And I knew he didn't drink. Because he was in my office home. The mess was in between, and I managed to get a membership in that. And I spent most of my time there. And this monkey would come in and have a ginger ale, and I thought, ugh. And the first guy I met at my first AA meeting was Dal, the colonel. And he's standing there and said, well, well, well. See, you finally decided to join the professionals. I said, you knew I was coming? He said, I didn't know when. But I sure as hell knew you were coming. Well, Bernie had phoned a few of them and says, we got him. I didn't think anybody knew it rang. I thought everybody parked on the lawn. I didn't know. Somebody said, I can't go to AA. They're worried about my anonymity. I said, I'll tell you how to take care of that, friend. If you're sober in AA and you're worrying about your anonymity, every day you go home after work, park in the middle of the lawn, go up, kick the front door in, throw a couple of chairs and a cat out in the lawn, and kick the pots and pans out the door, and throw your wife out, and they won't know you've joined Alcoholics Anonymous. They'll never know. But anyway, it's not a bad way to go. And you know, I'm like Wesley Parrish. Nobody ever came up to me and said, God, we're delighted to see you're drunk. Today again, Tom. But they've been coming up for nearly 18 years and said, baby, you look good, keep it up. People that I hated and didn't know why. And they're so happy that I'm sober that I thought, God, this is a good deal. And you talk to me about certain things. But I kept looking at your eyes all the time. If you go to another AA group, I hear these people in AA say, I went down there, but AA ain't the same. You heard that? Thank you. Thank you, Sam. Well, I'll tell you, your group's the best. If you don't think your group ain't the best, then you better have a look at yourself. I come from the best AA group on the face of the earth. And if you don't think yours is, you better have a look. But wherever you go on the face of the earth, if you go into a group, you look around to those guys and gals with the smiling eyes. And you snuggle up to those, you know, and you'll find that they're exactly the same as those old boys sitting in your own group. Those people that you can fall right in their eyeballs. I got a sponsor like that. Oh, God, he's mean. But he, Lou knows him. He's got his set eyes on him. He can swim in. And he can peel you like an onion and never quit grinning at you. Name in the world, never quit smiling at you. Hell, and you're looking forward to the trip, you know. Then I came in with the yes butts. Are you a yes butt? I'm an alcoholic butt. I don't know what the hell an alcoholic butt is. I'm an alcoholic, but I'm a priest. I'm a priest. That's a hell of a big deal. I'm an alcoholic, but I'm young. But I'm black, I'm white, I'm red, I'm pink, I'm green, got a lot of green ones. I'm young, I'm old, I'm rich, I'm poor, I'm in skid row. We got two kind of snobs in AA, high bottom snobs and low bottom snobs. We got the high bottom that are too good for us and the low bottom that wear skid row like a medal. If you haven't been on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, you're not ready. Ha, ha, ha. And we got the old cardinals in AA that look at some of these beautiful kids we got coming in today. You know, I was in an AA meeting a couple of weeks ago and we had two people there for the first meeting. One was 76 and one was 16. And I think the 16-year-old's going to make it. I'm not sure about that old boy. He's got a lot of conditioning. But they're sweet, sweet, sweet people. They got the old boys that tell these kids, man, condescending, oh, God, don't listen to them a bunch. My boy, you're lucky you got here. Before your troubles really got bad. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Ah. Listen to some of these 19-year-olds today tell a story that'll make you look like a Sunday school teacher. They can pack more hell into three years than you and I could in ten. And that 16-year-old is exactly where he belongs. So lonely and so scared and so sick he can't move. And some nuts are going to tell him, you're a potential. He's not a potential, baby. He's exactly where he belongs. And he's hurting so bad he can't stand it. And you and I got to take him in and throw our arms around him and say, we want you. And we need you. And we love you. And they'll stay. God, I look around today at these kids in AA. And I've been around a while. Not that long, but a while. And they've been my privilege to serve this society in just about every area. And I look around at these guys coming in and gals today. The Jims and the Larrys and the Sams and the what's. And I say, I think our society is safe. I think our society is in pretty good hands. And I think the sooner you and I have been around a long time, sit back and say, guys and gals, let's do what Bill did. Let's turn it over to him. And let him run with it and make a few mistakes. And let him build it and hold on to it. And you and I just sit there and enjoy it in the front row and do our thing. I'm very comfortable about it. Sure, there's a few things going wrong. And there's a few left-fielders. And they're talking about anonymity. And they're talking about this. But it can only come apart from inside. Nothing can hurt us from the outside. It'll only come apart if you and I quit living outside the traditions and outside these principles. That's the only way this thing can fall apart. And I don't think that you and I, are going to let it happen. You see, anonymity is a spiritual principle. It's not a protection. It's a spiritual principle to teach us to do things without the price tag of recognition and reward. It's a protection for me against me, not for me against you. Because I've never cared who found out I was in Alcoholics Anonymous. But I'm very particular at the public level. And my anonymity has been violated. And it's been broken at the public level. But not by me. And not very often. Because if you're active in P.I. work in Alcoholics Anonymous sometimes, somebody's going to do it to you. But you don't go and get drunk. You just know that you didn't do it. And most of the A.A.'s do. Oh, there'll always be some monkey phone you up and say, Hey, I'm getting publicity again. Well, just pass him over to the Almighty and go on about your business. I've found out you can turn people over, not just problems. I've got a few in my country I just can't handle. And they say, Dad, you've got to take this one. God, he's too much for me. And he does, and I get him off my back. The first words were ever written about Alcoholics Anonymous by Bill. And I love this book. This is my book. I don't think I can get sober on sobriety and beyond or beneath or above or below or wherever the hell it is. And I love it. But I want to read a book written by winners. I want to read a book written by people who stayed sober for 36 years like Bill did. I want to read a book written by people who stayed sober for 36 years like Bill did. I want to read a book that's the only book that's ever written that tells us exactly what's wrong with us by us. It says, We of Alcoholics Anonymous are more than 100 men and women who have recovered from a seemingly hopeless state of mind and body. Beautiful description of our illness. A seemingly hopeless state of mind and body. And it says, To show other alcoholics precisely how we have recovered. Not generally or approximately. Precisely how we have recovered is the main purpose of this book. And the third line says, We hope that these words will prove so convincing that no further authentication will be necessary. If you can't afford to buy another book in your entire AA life, you got this one, you got a winner going. This is the book, Alcoholics Anonymous. The most beautiful, sensible, horse-sense description of the disease of alcoholism and alcoholics is in here written by a guy by the name of Silkworth, who was Bill's doctor. He even tells us why we drank. But it's a little too simple for the alcoholic Freudian mind. He said, Most alcoholics drink because they like the effect produced by alcohol. I don't want it that simple. I want a deep Freudian reason. Outward manifestations of inward frustrations. But that's exactly why I drank. Because I like the effects produced by alcohol. This is the book. And Bill in 1947 in Akron said something that I had never heard before and I got it on a record. I was still training in 1947 for this talk tonight. You didn't know that, did you? Neither did I. And if you'd have told me in 1947, I'd have had a coronary right there. But Bill talking at Founders Day, I guess, because that's about the only time in his dinner in New York that he talked. Publicly. He's like the rest of us. He never quit talking. And Bill was a beloved man, for those of you who know him. Bill said this, and I never thought about it. Bill had an ability to put the English language together that was positively Churchillian and close to genius, for those of you who know. He was absolutely magnificent in his ability to put words together. And I listened to this thing and this thing jumped out at me and it went this way. He said, Alcoholics Anonymous is not a personal success story. Is not a personal success story. It is rather the story of our colossal human failure converted to the happiest kind of usefulness by that divine alchemy, the living grace of God. Isn't that something? Isn't that something? The story of our colossal human failure. And oh, do I know what he means. A failure in everything for 28 years. Converted to the happiest kind of usefulness, not by our own genius, by pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, by willpower backbone, by the divine alchemy of the living grace of God, as expressed in the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. That's what this thing is. It's a growth process. It's a learning and an unlearning process. It's a way of life. And people say AA is another crutch. What a stupid statement to make. How can a way of life be a crutch? If AA was a crutch, I'd never get out of an AA meeting. You wouldn't catch me flying, I'll tell you, where they serve booze. And I wouldn't be with people who drink. I've found by this kind of dependency that I have on you and this program and my God, a freedom of thought and action that I never dreamed possible in a million years. And that's not a crutch. That's living. That's freedom. And it's a little dependency. But what's the big bag on dependency these days? What's the matter with dependency if it's a mature dependency? God, I'm more dependent on you than I ever was. When I first got here, I was only dependent on you to not drink and get to and from. Now I'm dependent on you for everything in my life and this program and this power, this formula for living that allows us to see ourselves and to grow a little. Moe said it last night, sobriety is the beginning, physical sobriety. And that's what I found when I laid off the sauce. But I had to get rid of me. You sober up a drunken horse thief, you got a horse thief. My sponsor, that nice one I was telling you about, his first words to me were, John Yern, oh God, he nearly blew it right there. He said, you have my permission to die drunk if you so choose. I said, that's a funny form of love. They were telling me, I think he's your man. And they were telling me, he's yours, you can have him. They were telling Ma. He said, you've got my permission to die drunk, but if you don't want to die drunk, I suggest you take the cotton batten out of your ears and put it in your mouth for six months. And I did that. I put it, I took it out of my ears and put it in my mouth for six months. And I listened to what you said and I read. And at the end of six months I took it out and it ain't ever been back. Been yakking ever since. Well, one little story and then I'll shut up. Because I love what I've found with you. I don't feel weak or dependent. I know today I haven't any more willpower than I had the day I got here. I just happen to know where I can get it when I need it. What the hell is that? I knew doctors had those, I didn't know you had. Bleepers. Is that a 12-step call, Father? Don't tell a drunk that, you'll be bleeped right out of bed all night. I found some fabulous things in this deal. You know, and you've worked my back off. And I loved it. I've had a lot of very exalted positions in AA by missing the meeting. Not being there to defend yourself. Somebody said, who'll make GSR? I don't know who ain't here. And I thought they'd elected me. They didn't elect me, they appointed me. Because I wasn't there to say no. I've had the privilege of serving our fellowship. I've had the privilege of working and walking with a lot of people. And I'm so grateful. I'm so grateful. But I read a thing a few years ago that I think relates to us. They've written a song about it recently. And oddly enough, it was written from this story, Lou. You knew that. Stool pigeons, they're stealing our stuff. It was written by the guy by the name of Ken Scudder, who's now with the Osborne Association. He was working with Clint Duffy and Sam Quentin at this time, as deputy warden or whatever. He went from there to Chino in Southern California. And he's now with the Osborne Association, which is a prison association headed by Austin McCormick, one of our non-alcoholic trustees. And if any of you have met and know Austin, you know he's probably one of the most remarkable men on the face of the earth. He's truly a beloved, remarkable man. Well, Scudder wrote this many years ago. He wrote a book called Prisoners of People. But this was in somewhere, I think the Reader's Digest, and it was called Forgiveness to Saving Grace. And I think it not only has something to do with forgiveness, but it has something to do with surrender. It has something to do with throwing in the towel. It has something to do with letting go and letting God. And it has something to do from quitting dying and starting living. And it's the story of a kid that was doing time in San Quentin. And he was a young guy, and he'd been a son of a gun all his life. And he'd been in and out of the can like it had a revolving door. And like many kids, like you and I were, and like many today, had the big front, but inside was uptight. A phrase given to us by the flower people, it's the most descriptive phrase that ever came out of the woodwork to describe drunks, drunk or sober, uptight. And this kid was due to be released in about three weeks. He'd written home during this time, and he'd never received an answer. And he wrote one letter, and it went something like this. It said, Dear Mom and Dad, As you know, I'm in this institution. I've written you several times, and you haven't answered, and I understand why, and I don't blame you. I know how I've broken your heart and dragged our name through the mud. I know what a disappointment I've been to you, and I understand that you have every reason in the world not to even think of me and to remove me from your life. I know why you haven't written, because I know the hell you go through to write me at this address. But I'm due to be released in three weeks. And I'm going to try very much to change my life and do better. And if you can find it in your heart to forgive me for what I've done and the heartbreak I've caused, I would love to come home. And I don't want you to answer this letter again because I know how it hurts you to write me in this place. I'll be catching the train in San Francisco, and it goes by that old outer field. I guess he lived down somewhere between San Francisco and Los Angeles. And he said the train goes by that old outer field where the cherry tree is, and if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, don't write back. Tie a white ribbon on the cherry tree, and I'll be on the train, and if I see it, I'll get off. And if I don't, I'll go on, and you'll never see me again, your son Jim. Well, when you write a letter like that in those places, people read it. And they read it, and they said, we better keep our eye on this kid because he's kind of uptight, and he's really a high-strung boy, and he's liable to blow his stack. Well, of course he did, you see. He spent three weeks not knowing whether there was anybody who cared about him. He lived with that blackness inside that you and I know about, the creeping blackness, the creeping loneliness, of being very much aware that everybody we love and everything we hold dear is being removed, and we're removing it from our life, and we can't do a damn thing about it. And as we remove those good things, the blackness creeps in, and there isn't a drunk in the world, or even the people who love us who doesn't know what that blackness is. The lonely sickness. Oh, God, do we know what blackness is inside. And we cover it up with all the smiles and the chuckles, but we're falling apart. Well, the kid couldn't eat and he couldn't sleep due to this not knowing and this terrible pain and blackness inside. And as the time came near, Clint Duffy said to Scudder, he said, Ken, you better go on the train with him. The kid is so uptight, he's so scared, he's so nervous, he's so all mixed up now from this thing of not knowing whether they want him back or not, he's liable to jump off the daybreak. So that day came for his release, and they took him down to the station, and him and Scudder got on the train. As he got on the train, he sat down, and the minute he sat down, he put his nose against the pane of glass at the seat, and he had four or five hours to go. The only time he took his nose away from the glass, looking out the window, was to go to the little boy's room, and again be physically sick in his stomach from this terrible blackness inside. Did you and I know about, did you and I have lived, the why, why, why of alcoholism, the gut-eating loneliness of it? And eventually they came to the old farm, and there was the cherry tree, and there wasn't one white ribbon on it. There was five thousand white ribbons on it. My God, it was a quivering mass of white ribbons, and it was like somebody had pulled a plug out of this kid's tummy. And through the simple act of forgiveness in his life, as happens in our life from the process and the gift of God called surrender, for throwing in the towel outflows all the blackness and the loneliness and hopelessness and futility. And in, as in our life, flows the people and the love and the smiles, and the caring and the sharing. And we go from being empty to being full. We go from being in bondage to being free. And we go from being dead to be alive with our loved ones, our people, and our God. There isn't a better way to walk in the business of living, and you've taught me something. You've taught me that now I can show emotion. That if I want to cry, I can cry. And if I want to laugh, I'll laugh. And if you don't like me crying, that's your problem. And you've taught me one more thing. And I'm so grateful I can't see. You've taught me to say to you, and mean it with every fiber of my being, I love you. Thank you.