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Recently I've been making use of hostel book exchanges. I bought a couple books in Athens and have been trading in since then. A bunch of the pick-ups have been pretty poor, but I just finished Dry, by Augusten Burroughs, which was simply outstanding. I can't resist quoting one tangent at length, if for no other reason than to let me refer back to it later. It's not representative of most of the book, but:

I hate having feelings. Why does subriety have to come with feelings? One minute I feel excited, the next I feel terrified. One minute I feel free and the next I feel doomed. I think about lobotomies. Are they like nose jobs, can you just go and have one? Or do you need a doctor's recommendation?

And lately, I get annoyed with AA, because even though I've been going every day, I haven't really made any close friends. Or actually, any friends. It seems much easier to make friends in bars. I have to keep reminding myself that these AA people are exactly like bar people - they are bar people - except their bars have all been shut down. And I have to admit, this makes them less interesting to me.

I need a hobby. Sober people have hobbies. But my hobby can't involve a major lifestyle change. Something like Feed the Children. I could collect letters from malnourished orphans.

The bloated face of Sally Struthers filled my television screen recently. Her chin was trembling and she looked to be in physical pain, as if wincing from a sharp punch. But, strangely, she also looked hungry. Because I watch television with the sound off, I had to hunt for the remote to hear what she was saying. That's when I heard her begging for me, personally, to send her cash so that she could Feed the Children. Cut to little Anna, a shriveled Indian girl with jewel eyes. Back to Sally, this time walking. Turning sideways so that she could fit through the alley between two mud-cake homes.

Well, somehow I felt that if I sent Sally a donation, she would open the envelope herself and squeeze the cash into the hip pocket of her elastic-waist jeans. She would then treat herself at Pizza Hut, using my envelope to dab pepperoni grease from her chin. I imagined her maybe having garlic cheese bread on the side and a salad of iceberg lettuce topped with blue-cheese dressing, Bacos and croutons. She would do her eating alone, eyes never leaving the table. Her chin would tremble as she chewed and chewed and swallowed hard, against the threat of tears. After leaving her tray on the table for someone else to clean up, she would moan as she climbed into her 1981 Cadillac Fleetwood. It would be an effort to close the door. She would then place both hands at the top of the wheel, and pressing her forehead against the backs of her hands, begin sobbing right there in the parking lot. Then, blinking back the tears, I see her starting the car, swiping her plump little pinkie beneath both eyes and driving away. Maybe she drives down La Cienega or Pico, hunting for a Taco Bell drive-through window. Paper sack in hand, she enters her apartment, which I picture to be on the second floor of an anonymous motel-style apartment building in West Hollywood. Here, she plays videotapes of All in the Family. The ratty curtains are drawn and she's eating a Burrito Supreme while her lips move along with the dialogue on the show. Shredded cheese falls out of the bottom of the burrito onto her bosom.

Then I imagine her padding barefoot into the kitchen, leaving the Taco Bell wrappings on the sofa, and opening the fridge just to look. I imagine her grunting as she squats down in front of it. She opens the salad crisper drawer and finds two slices of Oscar Meyer olive loaf, drying out and curling at the edges, in the yellow, plastic package. I see her rolling them up together into a tube and placing them between her lips like a cigar, nibbling her way to the end while her eyes scan for more, more, more of something.