It’s always impossible to get those last few sips with a boba straw. I’m having an iced matcha sans boba yet, here I am, attempting to drink it with a boba straw. I’m not sure why they gave me one. As is my habit, I’ve already downed my drink, with the exception of one good sugary sip, before I’ve gotten anywhere with writing. Now I’m forced to sit and write without the benefit of a beverage by my side. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of my laptop and noticed that I look like I’m trying to solve the “hard problem of consciousness” while writing when in fact, all I’m really doing is wondering about boba and its origins. Boba, in reference to the tapioca balls’ spherical shape, apparently, is slang for breasts in Taiwan. Go figure.

I have a stack of books here that I am sort of reading: The Empath’s Guide to Survival; Kabbalah: The Way of the Jewish Mystic; A New Earth; Topeka School; Longitude: The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time. I’m just about equally engaged in each of them, which is to say, I read about one to three pages per sitting. I blame Design Home. Recently (three days ago), I’ve taken an interest in interior design which has removed me from reading, writing, and occasionally, eating. Design Home is an app that lets you design rooms in three-dimensional space with an enormous catalog of furniture and other home decor. The bastards even linked up every item to their respective online stores so you can purchase anything you like direct from the app which resulted in $157.7 million via in-app purchases in the game’s second year. I’ve spent nearly $40 on fake money to buy fake furniture just so I could win fake design challenges in the game. But it’s better than sitting alone in a bar and spending $40 on alcohol…maybe.

Speaking of which, seeing as how I’m not entirely supposed to drink (much) alcohol because of my seizure medication and that after months (really years) of travel and boozing, I feel that I’ve arrived to New York mostly disheveled and much the worse for wear. So, I’m in the midst of considering the complete removal of alcohol and decided on trying out an AA meeting to see what they had to say about it all.

We’re all well aware of the twelve steps (especially that ‘making amends’ bit which would be a slippery albeit necessary one for me), the sponsor, and the push for the eventual acceptance of a higher power, however one might want to define that. I can get down with some Buddha-like panpsychism so that last one certainly works well for me. What I was unaware of is the enviably camaraderie amongst its members. I had the warmest of welcomes—as I assume every potential member receives—and all previous apprehensions around joining any sort of fellowship slackened throughout the meeting.

It was an unusually humid evening when I decided to walk over to the meeting about twenty blocks away. An expanse of unfriendly thunderheads were overhead that forced me to quicken my pace despite some recent throbbing from sciatica. I was tempted to take is as a sign that the universe was urging me to reverse my course yet, I pressed on. The rain and lightning began when I stepped inside of the church where the meeting was held. A plastic round table near the entrance offered stacks of pamphlets on living sober, meeting guides, and answers for newcomers. There were only a few people as I had arrived fifteen minutes early. My usual promptitude along with my stylish salmon colored shirt, one breast pocket, would undoubtedly prove that I was in the wrong place entirely. I imagined myself as Josef K. in Kafka’s The Trial, awaiting interrogation from the Committee of Affairs, repudiating any possible association with intoxicant abuse with the sure outcome, unlike Josef K., of acquittal.
“Hi. Welcome. First time?” The chairperson of the evening asked.
“Yes!” I said cheerily to show that I was here for informational and possible investigative journalistic purposes only.
“Feel free to help yourself to any of the pamphlets here on the table,” she swept her arm across the large display.
“Shall I sit here?” I indicated an empty table towards the back of the room should I need a quick exit.
“Anywhere you like.”

I sat, crossed my legs, and paged through the literature until an older gentlemen nodded and joined me. The room filled over the next few minutes, announcements were made, followed by the serenity prayer…

God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.

Seems reasonable. The next sixty-minutes progressed rather quickly. I had expected to talk—which I did not even though I had rehearsed a quirky tale of moderate and consistent, if not humorous, alcohol consumption over the last couple of decades that would surely have imbibers eye-rolling with impatience—but instead, I listened to a dozen or so tales of moderate and consistent drinking that sounded remarkably like my own. Damn. Alas, I was to be gutted with a butcher's knife like Josef K.

After the meeting ended, we all shuffled outside in the rain. Nearly every member introduced themselves on the way out, I exchanged numbers with a few and had an overwhelming urge to quote Sally Field: “You like me! You really like me!” (I’ve just read, with heavy heart, that what she really said was, “This time I feel it. And I can’t deny the fact that you like me. Right now, you like me!” Close enough.) I returned home by Lyft, pamphlets in hand, with renewed serenity to possibly accept what I cannot change, conceivable courage to change what I can, and the sneaking suspicion that I’ll never possess the wisdom to know the difference.