1962, Pasadena. A 26-year-old Bob E. is 135 pounds of wreckage, shaking in a cockroach-infested apartment, staring at a woman built like a professional football fullback with a pint of booze in her hand. This "Eskimo" is the first image of AA he ever sees, and it’s exactly what he needs.
Bob describes a life lived as a "dangerous person," smuggling narcotics from Mexico and dodging gunfire, all to quiet a "bubbling pot of sewage" inside him—a deep, inherited shame from a childhood of broken noses and right hooks. Even after 17 years sober, living in a Santa Monica penthouse with expensive cars and a big checkbook, he admits he was still a "crumb" who woke up wanting to die. He warns against the "poster child" version of sobriety, where everyone is "fine" while harboring homicidal rage over a missing button at the dry cleaners. Only through a torturous surrender and professional therapy did he stop pretending and finally meet the man he actually is.
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