I do not pass out anyomore, so much as sleep, and I have raised the bar to a high-level amatuer status, even utilizing a pattern of creative thought to knock my ass right out.

Back when the drinking was on me heavy...and I do believe now that I was simply taking the long route to suicide, I would pass right out, and things like comforters, pillows, fans, or even beds were a moot point. Nothing provides comfort like the bathroom floor.

Ah yes, the days of horrible hangovers, naescent delerium tremons, vomiting, and my companion, the toilet bowl. Never missed the toilet. Not once.

Now drinking for me is passe'. Dehydration sucks, and I don't like paying large sums of money to vomit and pass out, so I have achieved a measure of wisdom since that right of passage, known in the parlance of our times as 'college'.

And sleep became something that required work. I have always had a night-owl insomniac bent, and morbidly enjoy being the last man standing, whether its a full-blown binge drinking association, known euphamistically as a 'kegger' or simply a weeknight, striving to catch the fabled 'Rick Simon Angel Dust' episode of 'Simon & Simon'.

(Simon & Simon...how many times have I watched that show, completed twisted out of my skull, bent to the task of vehemently arguing, betting, and the making of Rules with my high-on friends...only to realize that in that episode, Rick Simon was higher than we...one of life's cruel ironies, I guess.)

Anyway, I stayed up late last night, for no good reason whatsoever, and when my alarm clicked on this morning to that hellish country station that I leave it on to prompt some sort of action, the first thought that popped in my head was:"Uh...Damn...I cannot WAIT to get home and go right into bed."

This is entirely my fault, and I accept the blame and consequences. My body typically functions well with 7 to 8 hours of sleep, supplemented by 12 to 14 on the weekends, however I schedule typically six to six and a half, which in recent weeks, for reasons of sheer Dumbness, has been cut to 4 and 1/2 to FIVE.

I am tired, but this is okay. It doesn't compare to the stress of being a group-therapist for adjudicted youth at a residential treatment facility. Then, it was a common thought when the bone-weariness hit, to think,"Okay. Goddam. These need machines...how long 'till I collapse and blood starts spurting out of my nose, ears, and eyes?"

Take the worst kid in one of the nastiest high-schools you can find. The drug-dealer who misses whole years of school, or the violent psycho, beating people for no reason to within an inch of their life, the trouble maker, the worst of the clique of criminals and delinquents...and times that by fourteen. That was my group. And since I was the super-star group leader, MY group was one of All-stars...kids who couldn't cut it in the other groups. I got the worst of the thugs, misfits, and hustlers.

And I cracked the whip and dangled the carrot. I put the fear of God and the love of a father into them...and, I feel, for some, this made no difference. Doing the dance for the man, despite the fact that I consistently poured copious amounts of valuable information at them, knowing I'd only have them for a year, trying to prepare them for a lifetime of experience.

And some? Some are going to college and working on mutual funds, getting married, having children. Granted, a bit soon...eighteen in the third milennium is no time to have a child, regardless that one hundred years ago 15 was on the high side, and eighteen indicated fertility problems(let alone a milennium ago), but they are doing it RIGHT with forethought and planning, covering all the angles and moving with selerity and speed.

(Indeed. 'Covering all the angles', was a metaphor I hit home in nearly every group meeting which included considering every possible aspect of a plan, assesments for failure, having a back-up plan, visualization, knowing what could go wrong, and when, and looking at it from the perspective of every party involved. It occurred to me then, as it does now, that one of those little thugs could use this methodology to plot crime sprees of gigantic proportions, and may well do so, if not for the concurrent lessons of love, charity and respect. Couple that with the cold, hard financial data I provided to some of the more socio-pathic members which indicated that a life of crime was the surest way to die young and make relatively little money(even the most successful criminal really does not make much when compared to white-collar robber barons like Ted Turner, Bill Gates, or Rockefeller, and I have no fears. More like I created one or two far sighted white collar criminals who will 'legally' rip off millions...in which case the little bastard had best REMEMBER me.)

The level of theatrical violence at that place was astounding. Very little real damage was ever done by anyone, and never to me or in my groups. My group was much like my little cult of body guards. If things got out of hand in another group, I would pop in and regulate...sometimes bringing my group with me, in case anyone felt twitchy, but mostly for theatrics...after all, i had the oldest and largest of the kids...hulking 17 and 18 year olds going on 30, some with receding hairlines already.

I remember at one point a tree died in front of the school, a hulking bastard, and Voc Ed. Co-ordinator cut it down, leaving a humongous stump, about five feet tall, and easily three to four feet in diameter. I assigned a need-neglect delinquent who had problems with patience the work project of hand sanding it down to a bird-bath. "Keep it up, Jonnie, or you'll be sanding this whole thing down into a tooth-pick for me..."

And he never finished. And I WANTED that stump for my group's front lawn, for whatever reason, but most likely to dipel the disquiet for failing to help Jonnie...but that bastard was doomed from the start...product of a crackhead mother, molested, beaten, abandonded, neglected, and a molestor himself...truly a difficult case, if not impossible.

I WANTED the fucking stump, to excorcise the ghosts, to accomplish something that could stand as a monument and reminder to the others, that I and WE had been here.

So, I organized a work project to dig it up. By then, the guys had become weary of my projects, realizing that they were mostly punishment, regardless of how I introduced it to them. Kids are so funny, they're like pets in that they respond less to what you say, and more to how you say it.

Me: "Gentlemen...today is a great day. Today is an INCREDIBLE day. Today we have the opportunity to increase the Glory and the Legend of the Cougars cabin to mythical proportions. People will speak of us in later years in reverant tones...Today, I tell you, is a day to remember."

dougie: "What day is that?"

Me:"Today. (nodding obnoxiously, grinning, eyes wide with excitement) "Today...is a work project."

Kids: (some of the smarter kids groan, some of the simpler ones merely respond to my faux excitement, not realizing they will be digging for the next 12-14 hours.)

Me: "WORK-PROJECT!!!!????? (pumping fist in a 'cha-ching' gesture) YEEEAAAAHHH!!!!!!"

And they dug. And dug. And dug. I got a chainsaw, and sawed some of the roots. And they lugged that monstrous fucker out of the ground while I cheered. I made them get in the hole while I took pictures.

Then, with a little of my encouragement(they had picked up on the 'fever' and feeling of accomplishment by then) they hoisted that giant goddam stump on their shoulders lugging it down the trail, dropping it periodically with a thump that shook the ground and rattled windows, disturbing the other cabin's group meetings.

We got it in front of the cabin and signed it, and I took more pictures. High-fives all around. That stump was unbelievably large. And you know what? It was so big, no one else could move it, and I refused to do so. It may still be there.

I was so proud of them.