Author: Keith Howard
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Mea Culpa, Brad Ladner—And Let Those Panties Drop
I’ve always been a smart ass—no surprise to anyone who’s read this column—but I’ve tried to be a gentle smart ass, punching up not down. As part of my recovery path, I’ve learned the importance of apologizing when I’ve been in the wrong. Because my life is filled with mistakes, this ability to say I’m…
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Grateful for Your Recovery? Open Your Wallet!
Nobody comes into recovery on a winning streak. I’ve yet to meet an addict or alcoholic who decided, while on top of the world, to walk away from a substance that works. Despite the downsides—hangovers, jonesing for product, shame, self-hatred—if alcohol and drugs are working no one walks away from them. Drunks and junkies only…
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My Personal World Records
Every man, I think, wants renown, wants to be known for his uniqueness, the thing that sets him apart from his mates. The Guinness Book of World Records is filled with people like Mike Carmichael, who’s added 17,994 coats of paint to a baseball, starting in 1977. The baseball, which began approximately baseball sized, now…
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Angry Haiku?/What? No nature image? No peace?/WTF?
As anyone who’s successfully completed second grade can tell you, a haiku is a Japanese poetic form, usually used to capture a philosophic snapshot of nature. The reason second graders know haiku has less to do with poetry than with learning about syllabification—the ability to break down words into their component syllables. Unlike most western…
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The Thirst that Cannot be Quenched Must be Removed
Back when I was a boy, or slightly before, a group of drunks at Chase’s Tavern on Liberty Street in Baltimore found a solution. On April 5, 1840, six drinking buddies sick and tired of feeling sick and tired, formed a total abstinence group, the Washington Temperance Society (later the “Washingtonian Total Abstinence Society” or…
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By the Light of Burning Tires I Watched My Life Go By
It’s hard for a fish to imagine the challenges of being a bird. The Uruguayan peasant child probably lacks identification with the Inuit boy. Only the most insightful fruit fly, living seven days, can picture the tortoise’s challenge of filling up a hundred years or more. And for each of these, vice-versa. Social drinkers and…
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A Melancholy Goodbye Followed by an Enthusiastic “Hey There, World!”
Although my first novel began “I never intended this, of course,” when I came to Pittsburg in mid-August, I intended to stay for a year or so. I intended to finish another novel. I intended to write a memoir. I intended to learn some things about myself. I had a lot of intentions. After eight…
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Bits from the Floor
After all the kind words about an interview in Manchester InkLink earlier this week, I feel duty-bound to include some more of that, bits that ended up on the cutting-room floor. How did you decide to retreat to Pittsburg? It would be a good story to say I had a vision in which a man…
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In Response to The Lovin’ Spoonful: NO
I don’t believe in tarot, at leastthat a group of 78 cards has any ability to read the future or determine the outcome of choices. That would be absurd. Still, I do use tarot spread to catch a quick glimpse of my unconscious, sort of like using two mirrors to take a look at that…
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Thoughts from a Partially Sunburned Man
Once upon a time, I was a genius. More accurately, for one brief season of my life, I belonged to Mensa, the so-called genius organization. I say “so called,” for a couple reasons. First, because the membership is based on scores on one of about 27 possible standardized tests, each of which defines intelligence uniquely…
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Evening Thoughts at a Pakistani Dhaba in Sedona
The sun is still above the red rocks, but the sliver grows smaller between the tops of the butte and the bottom of the yellow ball each time I look over. I’m drinking a chai—heavier on star anise than I’m used to, and absolutely delicious—on this second-floor cushion-strewn terrace, a warm but stiff breeze blowing…
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Early Morning Airport Thoughts
It’s 5:45 am at the Manchester, NH, Airport. There may be a good time to be at an airport, but 5:45 in the morning is not one of them. If I were in a mood, I might focus on this. Instead, because I’ve got a double espresso and a croissant and an hour to kill…
Tiny White Box--Thoughts on Life, Death, Recovery, and Other Mundane Topics 