The First Step Is Admitting That You Have A Problem.

Dear Ms. Bad Advice,

I was an active alcoholic for more than 30 years.  Drinking took me to places that I’m ashamed to even talk about with someone as distinguished and refined as you — Mexican prisons, all kinds of hospitals and nut-houses, and even a few weeks in San Francisco back in the ’70s when I was … well, let’s just say I was unsure about my sexuality and the booze wasn’t helping any.

Any way, about a month ago I joined this ‘program’.  I ain’t had a drink since and, let me tell you, that is a miraclel!  But here’s the problem: At the first couple of meetings I went to, these people told me that I needed a ‘higher power’ so I could stop drinking.  They told me that I didn’t have to believe in God (I don’t know if I believed in anything at the time) but I HAD to have a ‘higher power’.  They told me that my ‘higher power’ could be anything I wanted it to be — even a doorknob.

So, that night I went home and made the knob on my apartment door my ‘higher power’.  Wouldn’t you know that by morning my door knob is talking to me, telling me what to do (like, actually clean the apartment for the first time in 20 years), and running off a list of commandments like it was God talking to Moses.  One of those commandments is that I can’t desecrate it.  I can’t open the damned door to get out of my apartment … to get a drink, to get something to eat, to do any damned thing at all!  I’m really in a pinch and the ‘fridge is empty except for some ice cubes & soy sauce packets from the Chinese joint.  What do I do, here?

Thirsty,

Benny from Brooklyn

It’s ‘spiritual’ not ridiculous … I mean, religious.

Dear Thirsty,

Having given herself wholesale over to a number of religious and ‘spiritual’ pursuits (see the “Welcome to ‘Ask Ms. Bad Advice’” page for the details), Ms. Bad Advice knows one thing for sure: Whether in the form of a free-wheeling hippie Jesus, a blissed-out blue Vishnu with his multiple arms, a crackpot Yahweh visiting all sorts of nastiness on poor, hapless Job, or your run of the mill door knob — God is a pain in the ass who invariably mucks things up.

Gravity is a “higher power”.  Inanimate objects that talk to you and demand worship are either gods or very compelling delusions.  Neither are terribly helpful in getting you through this often very painful and confusing material existence.

You probably lost more than a few teeth in drunken bar brawls during your career as a souse.  Funny how the Tooth Fairy never paid you a visit while you were sleeping it off under a park bench or in a holding cell.  God’s modus operandi is pretty much the same.  A comforting thought when you’re young; a maddening mirage when you’re an adult.

I’m assuming that you’ve tried escaping through the windows but they’ve probably attained some position of authority within the pantheon of sacred talking household objects that are keeping you holed up in that newly pristine apartment of yours.  Ms. Bad Advice can only hope that your bathroom sink is crucified and rises from the dead some time soon so that you might be absolved of your inherent state of sinfulness as a mortal.  Perhaps then that pesky, vengeful door knob might go all New Testament-like loving & forgiving deity on you.  It might even invite a good grasp and clockwise turn from its creation, setting you free to buy all the vodka in big plastic bottles that your Social Security check can afford you.

Not that Ms. Bad Advice is suggesting a return to your debauched, alcoholic ways … though you were probably a lot more entertaining for the neighbor kids during that period.

Look, a door knob issuing sacred edicts is more symptomatic of delirium tremens than a ‘spiritual experience’.  You’ve spent the entirety of your adult life pickling your liver and probably a sizable portion of your frontal lobes.  Where once there may have been a human mind, there’s a field of crab grass growing.  You’re susceptible to believe just about anything at this point.  Make Ms. Bad Advice your ‘higher power’ and do exactly as she tells you … immediately!

Get up and get the hell out of that apartment of yours’ right now.  Pay no heed to your doorknob’s satanic intonations (or verbal input from any other bits of furniture or household appliances).  Just get out and get yourself checked into the nearest hospital.  I’d suggest getting something to eat first, but it sounds to me that you’re more in need of thorazine than anything with nutritional content.  Should you feel that you need a pop to steady yourself before signing in, try to resist.  Still, if you’re about to come apart from the shakes then I certainly wouldn’t try to dissuade you from inhaling a 40-ounce bottle of St. Ides before lurching through the doors of the emergency room.

When you’re released  from the hospital (and Ms. Bad Advice is wagering that’s a day somewhere far in the future) you’ll know to turn to moi for all guidance.  No prayers necessary — just your undying devotion.

Bottoms up!

Ms. Bad Advice