Victory

We won our first Rehab League volleyball game. Beat Tom Sizemore's team rather easily. "Tony" was the star, as he spiked the ball all over the court. Sizemore's team didn't know how to defend against him. Makes me wonder if I should start wearing a panda suit during the games as well.

At any rate, the victory was sweet. It's always satisfying beating Tom Sizemore. That guy is terrifying. I actually was surprised to see him. Didn't know he had checked back into rehab. Turns out he hasn't.

"I've been clean for months, you stupid piece of bitch cake," he told me from the other side of the net. "They still let me play on the team, though. Why? I'll tell you why, fuckwad: because I rock this shit out -- I ROCK THIS SHIT OUT!"

And then he buried his face in his hands and wet himself.

Healthy

I'm happy to report I'm Hepatitis free. So is everyone else. Except for "Flo's" monkey assistant that is.

He took the news about as well as to be expected. Spent a good 10-minutes throwing his feces at everybody.

Anyway, he's off to the vet to be quarantined for a while. The animal assistant company sent another monkey assistant to take his place while he's gone. No offense to the old monkey assistant, but the new monkey assistant is a breath of fresh air. Figuratively and literally.

For one, it humps our legs far less often. For two, it doesn't smell like its own feces. Or maybe it does and it's just that its feces doesn't smell nearly as bad as the original monkey assistant's feces smells.

Regardless, that combined with Pat O'Brien's easing up on his musk cologne has made rehab smell the best it ever has since I arrived.

Waiting

We're all awaiting our Hepatitis A test results. Not a lot of fun. Pat O'Brien is oblivious to everyone being pissed off at him for possibly exposing us to the virus.

"Yo, Ad-Rock!" he said to me during mid-morning yoga. "Think of the goodwill that will come our way if we do have Hep-a-tits."

He's been pronouncing it like that all the time. Nobody has laughed yet.

"I bet the Make-A-Wish people will finally grant me my wish," he said.

I told him that from what I knew about the organization they primarily grant wishes to children that are terminally ill.

"Yeah, well, whatever," he said. "Grown ups have dreams, too. Hey, want to hear mine?"

I told him I did not.

"Me, Cheryl Ladd, and the DVD box set of season 3 of Friends on the Space Shuttle."

I ignored him and instead concentrated on my upward facing dog pose.

"That shit would be so tight," he said.

And then he buried his face into his hands and cried.

Sick

So I might have Hepatitis A. We all might. It seems the last thing Pat O'Brien did before checking into rehab was attend Ashton Kutcher's 30th birthday party. Turns out one of the waitresses had a raging case of the virus.

Fantastic.

"We're all in this together, homies," Pat O'Brien said when he dropped the news. "Let's hug it out,"

Nobody moved. Then "Flo's" monkey assistant went over to him and threw up on is shoe.

"Oh well," Pat added. "Guess that's what you get for trying to feel up Rumor Willis during the Chicken Dance. Is karma a bitch or what?"

Progress

Made some progress in group yesterday. Realized that I can’t use my family as an excuse. They may be crazy and domineering and crazy and manipulative and very, very, crazy and bonkers and crazy, but until I take ownership of my addiction I’m not going to get any better.

“Debbie” and “Tony” took some steps in group yesterday too. “Debbie” recognized that her destructive pattern of alcohol and barbiturate abuse is largely related to her destructive pattern of dangerous public sex with transients. And “Tony” admitted he wears large animal costumes because he can’t face looking at his real self. Also because it’s easier to hide his weed in them.

Even Pat O’Brien made some progress; he acknowledged that he puts on way more cologne than necessary. Okay, perhaps that won’t help him towards his recovery, but at least we won’t have to cover our faces whenever he enters a room. I can't put into words what a big relief this is.

Mom

Spoke with Mom on the phone. Nothing much good came out of the conversation. Asked her why she gave Tiara some Vicodin to give to me. She pretty much avoided the question. After a less than sincere apology she changed the subject to Dad’s standing in the latest polls.

He’s up five points. Whoopie.

Before we hung up, Mom asked how much longer I’d be staying. I told her I didn’t know.

“Well, take as long as you like, dear” she said.

I told her rehab wasn’t like eating cookies or being on vacation or whatever, but by then she was already gone.

Story of my life.

To keep from getting depressed, I danced around my room, listening to the soundtrack to Fame on my iPod. I knew any moment Pat O’Brien would barge in and ask what I was listening to and then tell me that whoever it was, he banged them, but I didn’t care. I was living forever. I was learning how to fly.

American Idol

We spent our allotted television time going back and forth between watching American Idol and the election results. Pat O'Brien was disappointed it was the guys singing instead of the girls.

"I was all stoked to see Syesha and her Mercados," he said. "Black chicks dig me."

I could tell he was looking at me when he said this, as to show that his belief that black chicks dug him was further proof that he wasn't racist. I wouldn't return his gaze, though. Instead I just kept my eyes fixed on Jason Yeager murdering Moon River.

Later on when we heard that Obama had won Wisconsin, Pat O'Brien leapt to his feet. "Yes! My brother! Jive! Jive! Jive!"

We all just sat there, hoping he would soon stop. A couple minutes later he did.

"All right, I'm Audi-5000, peeps, " he said. "Gotta go masturbate. See ya!"

I'm pretty certain that masturbation line has earned him extra counseling time. I think that'd be a win/win for everyone.

President's Day

Given we just had a Valentine's Day party I voted against a President's Day party, but to no avail. I go to more parties in rehab than I do out of rehab.

Pat O'Brien showed up dressed as Abraham Lincoln. He had his beleaguered assistant, Alan, bring in the costume. Alan is African-American and Pat spent most of the time "freeing" him.

"Go! Be free! We'll let you know when the 40 acres and the mule arrive," he joked. "Not really, though, Alan. I'm just freeing you as a slave for fun. You're still my assistant.

Alan just stood there counting the minutes until he could leave.

When Flo showed up with her monkey assistant, Pat called over to her and pointing to Alan said, "Hey, 'Flo', look: I have my own monkey assistant too."

He's used that same joke 14 times now.

Later on, Pat O'Brien pulled me aside. "I'm not racist, am I?" he asked.

I told him I thought he had some issues around race he needed to work out.

"But I've partied with both Gumbels," he said. "That's got to count for something, right?"

Checkers

Pat O'Brien is still just as tough as ever to beat at checkers. We played seven games this morning and I only managed to win once. He's an intimidating competitor, constantly tugging on his mustache, looking at you like he wants to kickbox your face in.

I asked him if he was pretending I was Mark McGrath again. In the past he's told me that to pump himself up he pretends he's playing against his rival.

"No, Mark and I have buried the hatchet. He's good people," Pat O'Brien said.

I told him that was a relief to hear because I could play my Sugar Ray songs on my iPod without worrying about him asking me what I was listening to.

"Instead I pretend you're Billy Bush," he said, his game face still clearly on. "Billy Bush and syphilis."

His intensity disturbed me, but as far as causes to defeat go, it was hard to argue with his targets.

Party

I survived the Valentine’s Day party. Barely. Tiara showed. Still don’t know how I feel about seeing her. It was nice, I guess. She went easy on me about the lack of wolverine. Wish she hadn’t snuck in the Vicodin, though.

“They’re from your mother,” she whispered.

Typical. My parents never want me to leave this place. On the other hand, maybe they do. Perhaps that’s why they had my girlfriend smuggle in V, so I’d get thrown out?

I can’t tell what they want from me anymore.

Others seemed to have a much better time at the party. “Debbie’s” whole family showed up. They’re like a whole bunch of “Debbies”; heavyset and full of glee.

“Your Valentine’s doilies look as though they were made in heaven!” a jolly male “Debbie” told me.

I thanked him. To avoid further chit-chat, I then pretended I had to go to the bathroom. I’m not a fan of chit or chat.

Alone in the bathroom with Vicodin in my pocket was not the best place for me to be. I stared at myself in the mirror, weighing my options.

Flush.

When I returned to the festivities, people were exchanging Valentines. My card from Pat O’Brien was a paper napkin with his autograph on it. Instead of a dot there was a little heart over the ‘i’.

“Don’t go selling it on e-Bay,” Pat told me.

People started dancing. Tiara grabbed my hand and we swayed back and forth a bit. Felt weird being so close to her. Thank god Sheryl Anne wasn’t there.

“I’m proud of you that you’re trying to get help,” Tiara said.

I didn’t quite know what to make of that. I reminded her of the “gift” she brought me from Mom, but she ignored it.

Then Pat O’Brien cut in.

“Share the wealth, Ad-Rock,” he said.

I watched them dance, Pat O'Brien and my girlfriend, wondering how many days it would take until Tiara would stop smelling of musk. I guessed four. All depends on the wind.

Eskimos

Pat O'Brien banged on my door late last night.

"Bad Eskimo dreams again," he mumbled as let himself in and collapsed on my bed. The only thing between his naked body and my bed was the sheet he had wrapped around himself. My comforter would smell like musk for weeks.

I resolved myself to sleeping on the floor for the rest of the night.

"Why does there have to be Eskimos?" Pat O'Brien asked me. He sounded very earnest.

I told him that I did not know why there had to be Eskimos, but that he should just live with it.

"It doesn't make sense," he whimpered. "Is it because of their pies? Is it payback for their delicious pies?"

I propped a pillow up against my nightstand and tried to make the best of the situation.

"I mean they're not even real pies," Pat O'Brien said. "THEY'RE NOT EVEN FUCKING REAL PIES."

And then he buried his face in his hands and cried.

Decorations

We spent most of the morning making Valentine's decorations for the party tomorrow. I made about seventeen heart doilies. They're okay. "Debbie" said she liked them. "They look like they were made by angels," she told me.

"Debbie" is the most affirmative person I have ever met. Can't imagine what she's like on crystal meth.

Sheryl Anne had nice things to say about my doilies as well. She picked one up and deemed it "Lovely." Think that might be the best word ever. Especially when Sheryl Anne says it. Lovely.

I'm not falling in love with her again. I'm not falling in love with her again. I'm not falling in love with her again. I'm not falling in love with her again. I'm not falling in love with her again.

Tiara wouldn't be too happy about that. Tomorrow will be the first time I've seen or talked to her since I checked in.

"Hi, sweetie! Guess what: I've been clean for six days and I'm in love with my drug counselor."

No, that wouldn't go over well at all.

She's no doubt already wondering why I haven't taken any of her calls. Every time she's called I had Pat O'Brien make up some excuse for why I couldn't come to the phone. His lies still need a little work ("He's out hunting wolverine"; "He's training his wolverines; "He's lactose intolerant"; "He's a wolverine" ), but thus far they've done the trick.

Although now I need to figure out how to get a wolverine in here by tomorrow.

Volleyball

Just got back from our first Rehab League Volleyball game. We lost to Kirsten Dunst's team. Most of the blame can be attributed to our poor serving. (If ever there was a time for Whitney Houston to relapse, now would be it. Our team desperately needs her.) But we hung in as best we could. "Tony" was surprisingly agile in his panda suit and "Debbie's"upbeat, gung ho attitude kept us from getting too down on ourselves after every miscue.

Even Pat O'Brien chipped in. While his reluctance to wear a shirt was unfortunate, his constant taunting of our opponents clearly got in their heads and we almost came away with a victory.

In fact, if it wasn't for Kirsten Dunst we probably would have won. She's a cagey player, all arms and legs. Pretty much nothing gets past her. Plus she was wearing a plastic garbage bag for a dress. This proved to be an enormous distraction.

After the game she asked me if I wanted to makeout. "My cold sore is totally past being contagious," she promised.

I told Kirsten Dunst I didn't think making out would be emotionally healthy for either of us.

"Oh, I'm not in rehab to, you know, rehab," she said. "I'm here for the publicity. Am trying to get some buzz for my next project, Little Crazy/Beautiful Women II.

I said I wasn't aware that there was a Little Crazy/Beautiful Women I.

"There wasn't," she said.

And then she buried her face in her plastic garbage bag dress and cried.

Flo

It's hard not to look at "Flo" as anything other than an inspiration. Three years ago she was one of us, a heroin addict. She's been clean ever since. Now she's a live-in counselor. Pretty amazing for a woman stricken bounded for the rest of her life in a high-tech wheelchair thanks to Lou Gehrig's disease.

Her monkey assistant is still a negative, though. It often, without warning, will scurry over and hump your leg.

"You're lying," "Flo" will say to you through her electronic voice box thingy.

Apparently, her monkey assistant only humps you when you're not being honest with yourself and/or the group.

Yesterday during group that monkey humped Pat O'Brien like crazy.

"Okay, so maybe I wasn't an original member of Triumph," he admitted. "But I did some blow with them in Saskatoon once. "

The monkey stopped humping his leg when he said "Did some blow" but then went right back at it as soon as he uttered the word "Saskatoon."

"All right, all right," Pat O'Brien relented, clearly shaken. "I've never met anybody in Triumph. I only snorted some lines while watching one of their videos. I was naked, doing blow and eating cupcakes while watching their "Magic Power" video. Are you happy now? Are you happy now, monkey?!?"

We all waited to see if the monkey assistant would hump his leg; it didn't. Instead it just looked at Pat O'Brien like he was the most pathetic thing his little monkey assistant eyes had ever seen.

Group ended shortly thereafter.

Breakfast

It seems Pat O'Brien is still under the impression that he's on Celebrity Rehab. At breakfast this morning Pat O'Brien asked me if I had had sex with Mary Carey yet.

"As soon as I see her I'm going to lock that up," he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Porn chicks dig me," he muttered, chewing on his English muffin. "They can't get enough of 'The Insider.'"

I tried my best to ignore him.

"Not the show. Me. That's one of my nicknames. 'The Insider'. It's awesome."

I just went on eating my omelette.

"I came up with the name myself," he said.

And then he buried his face in has hands and cried.

The Grammys

We all watched the Grammys together last night. As awards shows go it was okay, I guess. I could have done with a lot less commentary from Pat O'Brien, though. During Amy Winehouse's acceptance speech for record of the year he tried to convince us that all the names of people she was thanking were really code for him.

So she'd be like, "Thanks Ray Ray and John..."

And Pat O'Brien would be like, "Me and me..."

Then she'd say, "Thanks to my mum and dad and my Blake - my incarcerated Blake..."

And he'd say, "Me and me and incarcerated me..."

It was annoying. I wanted to run away.

"Amy's a sweet girl," Pat O'Brien told us. "We've shared many a pipe backstage in Mary Hart's walk-in closet at ET. You know, Mary hides a family of Columbians in there. They're good people. Can drug mule with the best of them. At any rate, I hope Amy is getting the help she needs. That bitch is bonkers."

Loons

My family used to have a vacation house in the Maine woods. The house was on a pond and one of my strongest childhood memories is of the family of loons that lived there. At night, while lying in bed I'd hear them calling for one another. They sounded like sirens; whooping, shrilling sirens.

I was reminded of those birds last night as I laid in bed listening to Pat O'Brien going through withdrawl. His room is right next to mine. The sounds he made were very loon-like. And if it weren't for his maniacal references to Eskimos and Billy Bush, it would have been just like being back in Maine.

Here We Go Again

Good news, bad news. The good news is that I'm back in rehab; the bad news is that so is Pat O'Brien.

Wait, those things are both bad news.

I'm so confused.

He arrived during morning group. "Tony" was in the middle of explaining the advantages of his brand new panda suit when Pat O'Brien came barging through the door, acting like he owned the place.

"Where's Dr. Drew?" he kept shouting. "Somebody get Dr. Drew!"

Sheryl Anne calmly explained to him that Dr. Drew did not work here.

"Where's Chyna Doll?" he asked. "Where's Conaway? Where's Brigitte? Tell 'em the P.O.B. is in the hizzy."

I told Pat O'Brien that none of those people were here and that this wasn't Celebrity Rehab.

"Whatever," Pat O'Brien said, trying not to appear disappointed. "Who wants to see me play the mandolin with my shirt off?"

No one answered.

And then he buried his face in his hands and cried.