Hey Hey Hey Leeza Gibbons -

Pat here. Long time no screw. Am thinking we should get it on like monkeys. Or in your case, like gibbons. Whichever floats your boat, sexy.

Let me know. I'm in rehab now, but when I get out you can find me in the alley behind Ivy scoring some blow from Tito the dishwasher.

- P-to-the-O-to-the-B

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This message was sent from Pat O'Brien's Wireless BlackBerry Handheld.

No Computer

They confiscated my laptop. Someone snitched to them about my blog. Will try to update when I can.

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This message was sent from Pat O'Brien's Wireless BlackBerry Handheld.

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.

My Relapse, Part V

I didn't know which was more surprising: that I was in the zoo stealing animal narcotics with Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston, or that Pat O'Brien was being released from rehab. I asked him if he really felt he was ready to head back out into the world.

"Oh, you bet I am," he said. "The Insider needs me big time. I have to work the party for the premiere of Rosie O'Donnell's retard movie next week."

"But it seems like you have a lot more work to do in group," I said.

"No, I'm all worked out, Ad-Rod. I didn't have that big of a problem in the first place. Just checked in for the publicity. Worked like a freaking charm!"

"What did Sheryl Anne say?"

"She wished me luck, etc.," he said. "Gave me the names of a dozen shrinks she recommends. Told me never to leave a message on her answering machine. You know, same old same old. But don't worry: I put in a good word for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mentioned how you wanted to go crazy with her and that you're a bulldog in bed."

"You what?"

"She got all flustered. Girlfriend looked hot, though. You lucky dog. If I wasn't your homie I'd bag that chicken in heartbeat."

I was devastated. How could I ever face Sheryl Anne again? Our patient/counselor relationship would never be the same. I guess a part of me wanted her to know how I felt, but I wanted to do it on my own terms, like while playing checkers with her and listening to the soundtrack from Flashdance. But now that dream is ruined. God damn Pat O'Brien.

He patted me on the shoulder and went over to help Whitney Houston open her bottle of Emu Valium. I watched them unsuccessfully attempt to remove the cap. Then Whitney threw-up some more pita chips.

I looked at the bottle of Otter OxyContin in my hand. Suddenly, popping a few of the pink pills didn't seem like such a bad idea. What's a few otter pills? Wasn't like I was going to hurt anyone by taking them. Might piss off a few otters, but who cares? Plus it would get my mind off Sheryl Anne for a while, or at the least make what Pat said to her seem not as embarrassing. I hoped so, anyway.

"That's some tight shit right there," Bobby Brown said, gesturing to the otter pills. He was shirtless and his nipples were covered in ointment.

"Rhino cream," he said. "It's better than sex."

"How many pills should I take?" I asked him.

"How much you weigh?"

"Around 180 lbs."

"Okay, then that would make you, like, 18 otters. So take 36."

"36? Seems like a lot."

"You're 18 otters, G. Don't worry. It's gonna be off the hook."

Off the hook. Yes. That's exactly what I wanted right then and there. To be completely off the hook and inaccessible to everyone and everything.

So I took them. All 36. They went down easily; it was satisfying to find that I still swallowed pills like a pro.

"When will I start to feel it?" I asked him.

"Real soon," he said.

"'Cause I don't feel anything yet."

"Just wait."

I propped myself up on an examination table and watched Whitney Houston and Pat O'Brien continue to struggled to get the Emu Valium open. She held the bottle on a table while he tried to turn the cap.

"So that's how many crazy celebrities it takes to open a bottle of Emu Valium," I muttered.

"What's that?" Bobby Brown asked me, his face now covered in Rhino cream.

"Nothing."

"You feeling it yet?"

I wasn't sure. Other than craving abalone and a water slide I felt completely normal.

"It's gonna happen any second," he said.

"I can't wait," I replied.

"Me neither."

"Why?"

"Are you a homo?"

"No," I said.

And then we kissed. I'd never been kissed by a man before, let alone by one whose lips were covered in Rhino cream. Compared to recent girlfriends, he wasn't that bad a kisser. Can't say that I enjoyed it, but it was worth it enough to say I had the experience.

"You feeling it now?" he asked me, nibbling on my lower lip.

"I would expect so," I said.

Then I felt something hit the side of my head. It was Whitney Houston whacking me with a snake splint. "Stop kissing on my Bobby!" she screamed. "Stop kissing on my Bobby!"

"Baby, chill! Baby, chill!" Bobby Brown said holding her back.

"Now we're talking!" Pat O'Brien said, unbuttoning his shirt.

Suddenly, we heard a loud crash, followed by the sound of footsteps. Moments later, a man with a large video camera, followed by another man carrying a portable light stand and a woman wearing headphones holding a large microphone entered the room.

"Oh shit!" Bobby Brown yelled. "My reality TV show crew! They found me! Run!"

I don't remember much of anything after that, just lots of running and a hallucination about playing with a turtle by a creek. Nothing else.

I woke up the next morning in my room at the rehab center. I went to Pat O'Brien's door to see if he had made it back, but then remembered he was gone. The only sign of him ever being there was the framed photograph of Mary Hart next to his bed. He must have forgotten it. I picked up the photo and stared into Mary Hart's perky, yet sad eyes.

It was then that I realized that rehab wouldn't be the same without Pat O'Brien. Despite his self-centeredness and his sexism and his ignorance and his vulgarity and his Eskimophobia and his less than average volleyball skills and his penchant for removing his shirt, he made rehab kind of exciting. And he was an excellent mandolinist. Couldn't believe myself for thinking it, but I was going to miss being stuck in rehab with Pat O'Brien.

And then, either as a sub-conscious tribute or in a post-Otter OxyContin comedown, I did something I never thought I'd do, but which in retrospect felt completely right: I buried my face in my hands and cried.

My Relapse, Part IV

The zoo late at night is kind of scary. It's dark and full of menacing animal sounds. And Whitney Houston vomiting up pita chips. It's nothing like the zoo I visited when I was kid. Still, I tried to make the best of it.

Bobby Brown's large, gruff cousin met us at the gate. Bobby gave him a fist full of money and we were in. We hit the crocodile tanks first. Even though they were hard to see, Whitney was thrilled. She pointed to a big one lurking in a corner.

"I'm gonna call that croc 'Bull from Night Court,'" she said, "because he looks like Bull from Night Court."

After that we made our way to the monkey cages. Most of them were asleep. One orangutan was awake, though. Pat O'Brien tried to get its attention by tapping on the glass, but it ignored him.

"That monkey know who I am?" Pat O'Brien asked. He seemed confused.

"Probably not," I said.

"What? You're kidding, right?"

"No. He's a monkey. He doesn't know about celebrity interviewers."

Pat O'Brien paused to ponder my answer. Then he shook his head and laughed.

"Ha-ha! Good one, Adamski!" he said. "Almost had me there for a sec."

Before I could convince him that I wasn't joking and that monkeys really had no clue who he was, Bobby Brown tapped our shoulders and led us to an unlit room adjacent to the monkey cages.

"This place is the joint," Bobby Brown said, flicking on the lights to reveal what appeared to be a veterinary examination room.

"What animals are in here?" I asked.

"None," he said. "But that is." He pointed to a large cage that contained bottles of what appeared to be prescription medicine. His large, gruff cousin fumbled with a ring of keys, then unlocked it.

"Showtime!" Bobby Brown said.

"Oh, baby, get me some of that Emu Valium," Whitney Houston said.

"Coming right up, baby."

"We came to the zoo for drugs?" I asked.

"Best shit in the city," Bobby Brown said throwing me a bottle of pink pills. "Otter OxyContin."

"But I don't want any Otter OxyContin," I said.

"Oh, come on, bro, loosen up," Pat O'Brien said, throwing his arm around me. "Think of this as my going away party."

"Your going away party?"

"Yep, bro. I'm gone. Filed my papers today. Bye-bye rehab!"

"Hey, Pat OB," Bobby Brown called over. "What you up for? Some Panda Powder?"

"Nothing for me, thanks," Pat O'Brien replied. "I'm doing Dr. Phil next week. Says he's gonna test my whizz before he pays me my guest fee."

My Relapse, Part III

I tried not to let the fact that we were riding in a stolen floral delivery van bother me. Instead, I decided to enjoy the freedom away from the rehab center while I could. Plus it was hard not to be excited about getting to see some world class kickboxing.

But after a while I noticed that the route Bobby Brown was taking was leading us away from where the arena was. Being polite, I asked him if he was taking a shortcut.

"No, man, I don't know any shortcut," he said.

"But the arena is in the other direction," I said.

"What arena?"

"The arena where the kickboxing bout is."

"Kickboxing?"

"Yes."

"Are you a homo?"

"No," I said.

"Ad-Rock," Pat O'Brien said, slapping me on my knee. "Gotta fess up to you, homes: we're not going to the kickboxing bout."

"We're not?" I asked.

"No, bro. Sorry."

"Kickboxing!" Whitney Houston cackled from the back row. "My Bobby is the best kickboxing man ever!" Her mouth was full of pita chips.

"I loves you, baby!" Bobby Brown yelled to her.

"I loves you, baby!" Whitney Houston yelled back.

"Where are we going, then?" I asked.

"The zoo," Pat O'Brien said.

"The zoo?"

"Yeah," Bobby Brown said. "I got a cousin who works the night shift there. It's good shit."

"Oh," I said.

"I wanna see the crocodiles!" Whitney Houston screamed.

"All right, baby, Bobby's gonna take you to see the crocs!" Bobby yelled back to her.

"Crocs are wack!" Pat O'Brien shouted.

"Crocs are wack!" Whitney Houston shouted.

"Crocs are wack!" They shouted in unison.

My Relapse, Part II

So there we were, riding in a van to the big kickboxing bout. It was kind of fun at first. We sang along to the radio and played a few car games. Pat O'Brien led a round of "Who am I?" Whitney Houston figured out he was Billy Bush on the 9th guess. Not too bad.

And you wouldn't think it, but Bobby Brown is a very good driver. I was nervous at first, as his track record doesn't suggest he'd be the world's best driver, but he studiously obeyed all the street signs and light signals.

"You're a good driver," I told him, hoping he wouldn't reply by asking me if I was a homo again.

"Gotta be," he said.

"Yep, road safety is an important thing."

"That and this van is jacked," Bobby Brown said. "Can't risk running a light and getting busted by the 5-0."

"Oh," I said, looking around and suddenly realizing I was in a floral delivery van. There were old stems and petals everywhere.

I asked Pat O'Brien if he knew the van was stolen.

"Yep," he said. "KaBloom!"

"I wish you had told me beforehand," I said.

"What, bro? Can't handle the thug life?" He lifted his shirt as if to reveal a tattoo on his stomach. There wasn't one.

"No," I said.

"Me neither," Pat O'Brien replied.

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

My Relapse, Part I

Well, I had a relapse over the weekend. I'm pretty embarrassed about it. Angry, too. I've been working on taking responsibility for my own actions so I'm not going to blame Pat O'Brien. I probably should. But I won't.

It all started the other night when I got a knock on my door. Surprises of surprises, it was Pat O'Brien.

"Bobby and Whitney are outside in a van," he said. "They scored some tickets to the kickboxing title bout. Grab your stuff and let's go."

"But we don't have permission to leave," I said.

"Don't worry about it, bro. Nobody will find out."

I love kickboxing. It's my only vice. I mean, besides pain killers and checkers and the music of Irene Cara.

I peeked into the hallway. All was quiet.

"You sure we won't get caught?" I asked.

"No, bro. It's cool," Pat O'Brien said. "Bobby slipped security some benjamins."

Against my better judgment I went with him. Guess that's just a testament to how much I love kickboxing. I heart Yerzhan Shegenov.

When we got to the van, Bobby Brown greeted me with a "What up?"

"Hi, Bobby," I said.

"Are you a homo?" he asked me.

"No," I said.

"Hey, baby!" Whitney Houston yelled to me from the backseat. She was eating from a bag pita chips. There were crumbs all over her shirt.

"Hi, Whitney," I replied.

"Where's Joaquin at?" Bobby asked Pat O'Brien.

"He wasn't invited," he answered gruffly. "No Eskimos allowed."

As we pulled out of the parking lot, Bobby Brown flipped on the radio. Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam sang about loving somebody from head to toe. They were very underrated.

"This is going to be better than Night Court!" Whitney Houston beamed.

"Just as long as we don't end up in night court," I joked.

Nobody laughed.

I had a dream about Sheryl Anne last night. We were cast members in a touring production of Fame. I was Leroy and she was Coco. The play was just like the movie except that Leroy and Coco were lovers and we got to make out on stage in front of everybody. It was awesome.

Sheryl Anne was a great kisser in the dream. Her lips were soft and our teeth rarely clashed. Afterwards we hung out backstage and talked about checkers and kickboxing. She really seemed into me.

But then Pat O'Brien showed up. Needless to say, the dream pretty much sucked the rest of the way. It was weird too because sometimes he'd be Pat O'Brien, other times he'd be a seal pup. And he wasn't any less annoying as a seal pup. I mean, seal pups are usually pretty cute. But the Pat O'Brien seal pup wasn't at all. He kept barking about how African-American women thought he was so sexy.

"Bark-bark! Black chicks dig me!" he'd say.

It made it hard for me to get anywhere with Sheryl Anne. I hoped it would turn into an erotic dream, but with the Pat O'Brien seal pup hanging around that wasn't going to happen.

"Bark-bark! I got busy with Jackée in her trailer once! She said I was the best she's ever had!"

I tried to add Joaquin Phoenix to my dream, so he could come along in his caribou parka and club the Pat O'Brien seal pup to death, but I failed. Instead I wound up accidentally changing the dream altogether. Sheryl Anne and the touring production of Fame were suddenly gone, and all that was left was me and the Pat O'Brien seal pup. We were at Walgreens, waiting in line to get our Vicodin prescriptions filled.

"Bark-bark! I call dibs on the piece of ass running the cash register," the Pat O'Brien seal pup said. "She is so fucking hot."

I can't remember what happened in the rest of the dream. Thank god.

It seems "Flo's" monkey assistant and Joaquin Phoenix have hit it off. They've been hanging out together a lot. Not sure what the connection is, other than they both smell like monkey assistant. Yesterday, I discovered them grooming each other. It was kind of disgusting.

"I find primates fascinating," Joaquin Phoenix told me, picking a dead gnat out of the monkey assistant's fur. He speaks as though every word out of his mouth is a precious nugget of truth. "They're like people, only different. How delightful!"

I'm worried that "Flo" isn't getting the required care from her monkey. Whatever that is. I've never actually seen him do much for "Flo" other than empty her drool cup and hiss at Pat O'Brien when he gets too close to her.

"I'm going to ask Bruckheimer if there is a part for the monkey assistant in the film," Joaquin Phoenix said.

"I don't think there are any monkeys in the Arctic," I said.

"Oh, I know that," he replied. "But perhaps he could play the part of a penguin or something. I think it would be fantastic if Nanook had a little penguin companion."

"Penguins don't live in the Arctic either," I said.

"I know that," he said. "Now please go away." He glared at me like he wanted to kickbox.

"They only live in the southern hemis-"

"Ufulubusaaqtuq, monkey assistant!" Joaquin ordered, and with that "Flo's" monkey assistant walked over to me and began humping my leg. I got the point and left.

I'm still finding dead gnats on my pants. Damn monkey assistant.

Group was a disaster yesterday. "Tony" was in the middle of another endless story about his childhood dog when Joaquin Phoenix took a dump in his pants.

"Damn, Joaquin!" Whitney Houston complained. "That is soooo not Night Court."

"I'm sorry if I have offended you, Miss Houston," Joaquin Phoenix replied, "but if I am to play the role of an Inuit, I must live like an Inuit, and therefore, I must defecate in my pants like an Inuit."

"Well, you're one nasty-ass Eskimo!" Whitney Houston said.

"Inuit!" he answered. "Not Eskimo, Inuit. It's the more respectful term!"

I looked over to a trembling Pat O'Brien. He appeared to be a moment away from burying his face in his hands and crying. Then he signed something to me I didn't understand. I bet he's awful at charades. Eventually he gave up and screamed, "I hate Eskimos!"

"Not Eskimos!" Joaquin Phoenix shouted. "Inuit, you hate the Inuit!"

Sheryl Anne did her best to try and calm everybody down. She wore a sexy blue blouse and her skin was immaculate. Unfortunately, her efforts were to no avail.

"Nobody here understands what it's like to be serious about their craft!" Joaquin Phoenix said.

"My Bobby is serious about lovin' me!" Whitney Houston yelled.

"Your Bobby should have never left New Edition!" Joaquin Phoenix yelled back at her, his dirty face streaked with tears.

"Don't talk bad about my Bobby, Eskimo!"

"Inuit!"

So Joaquin Phoenix has been here for five days now and I'm pretty sure he's yet to take a shower. He wears that caribou parka 24/7. Must be sweating up storm under there. I admire his dedication to preparing for his role, but he's making everybody nauseous. Big time.

"The Inuit do not bathe!" Joaquin Phoenix yelled at me, as we passed each other in the hallway. Clearly he's a little defensive about it. Guess he noticed how I had covered my nose when I walked by. "If I am to prepare for the role of Nanook, I must not wash myself! Bruckheimer is producing it! I'm going to be bigger than Nic Cage! And the Inuit don't bathe!"

I'm not sure where he's getting his information. The Inuit must at the least bathe from time to time. I'd press him about it, but then I'd have to get closer to him. It's not worth it. He smells like rotten sea lion.

"They really don't bathe!" he reiterated, as I ran to my room as quickly and politely as I could. "Ever see a shower stall in an igloo? I think not!"

Predictably, the sight of Joaquin Phoenix dressed up as Nanook of the North has freaked out our resident Eskimo-phobe, Pat O'Brien.

"An Eskimo is upon us," he whispered to me during morning yoga. I've never seen him so stressed out. "Remember," he said, "you promised to protect me."

"He's just preparing for a role," I replied. "Don't think he's too much to worry about."

"Shh, bro. He'll hear you," Pat O'Brien warned. "Eskimos have the best sense of hearing in the animal world."

"But he's not really an Esk—"

"Come to think of it, that might be dolphins," he said. "I confuse Eskimos and dolphins sometimes. Dolphins hear well, too. I'm pretty sure of that. Anyway, it doesn't matter, from now on to be safe let's communicate in sign language."

"I don't know sign language," I said.

"Me neither," he said, "but deaf people can do it, so how hard can it be?"

To no one's surprise, Joaquin Phoenix has checked in. The last thing this rehab center needs is another troubled celebrity, but whatever, I'll live. I liked him okay enough in Gladiator. And as actors with cleft lips go, he's tops. By far. Here's hoping he can play volleyball.

He seems a little odd, though. Kind of a brooder. Plus his appearance is a bit unsettling. He's grown his hair out and he has a big bushy beard. You can barely recognize him. Doesn't help that he wears a giant parka made from caribou wherever he goes. He says he's preparing for a role in a remake of Nanook of the North.

"Bruckheimer is producing it," he told me. "I'm going to be the next Nic Cage. I slept with Lisa Marie Presley last Thursday. Things are rolling."

"Yeah, but you're in rehab," I pointed out.

"Oh, this is just for research," he said. "The Inuit are notorious drunks. I'm not, but they are. Yeah, this is all for the film. Alcoholic? Nope, not me. I'm just pretending to be an alcoholic because I'm pretending to be Nanook. Bruckheimer is producing. Shamu might play the whale. But I don't have a drinking problem. Just doing research here. Simple as that. Yep."

And then Joaquin Phoenix buried his face in his seal-skin mittens and cried.

Pat O'Brien had another one of his bad Eskimo dreams last night. He knocked on my door around 3 am all shivery and breathless.

"I don't want to be an Eskimo," he told me.

"It was a dream, Pat," I said.

"I know, but still, I really don't want to be an Eskimo."

"Okay."

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me dead in the eyes. "Promise me I'll never be an Eskimo," he said. His robe had come undone and I could see everything.

"I promise you will never be an Eskimo," I told him.

"Promise me that you'll protect me from Eskimos," he said.

"What?"

"Promise me that should an Eskimo ever try to abduct or molest me that you will protect me from them."

"Why would an Eskimo want to abduct or mol--"

"Never mind that!" he said. "Just promise me you won't let the Eskimos get me!" He was a crazy man.

"I promise to protect you from Eskimos, Pat," I said.

"Really?"

"Really."

Then he gave me a big hug. I could feel his scrotum against my thigh. "You're good people, A-Man," he said, "good people."

"Thank you," I said, carefully freeing my thigh from his scrotum.

"Oh, my bad," Pat O'Brien said, noticing. "Didn't mean to ugly bump you, bro."

"That's okay," I said, wanting to run away as far as I could.

"You gotta admit, though," Pat O'Brien said, looking down at his penis and testicles in admiration, "I'm like a Greek god down there."

A new resident has joined us. For once it's someone not famous. Her name is "Carly" and she's 18. Lots of attitude so far. Thinks she's too cool for us or something. Always rolling her eyes and groaning.

Pat O'Brien wasted very little time to make a play for her. Within minutes of "Carly's" arrival he was in her room doing push-ups.

"And I should be impressed why?" I heard her ask him.

At lunch I mentioned to Pat O'Brien that maybe he should lay off because of the age difference and all.

"Hey, bro," he said, "I know I have farts older than her, but I can't help her wanting some Pat-Daddy action."

I thought about asking him what exactly he meant by "Pat-Daddy action" but I decided he probably would have responded by burying his face in his hands and crying. I didn't really have the patience to deal with that. I just wanted to eat my tuna sandwich.

Transcripts of IM chats left up by Pat O'Brien after he used my computer:

IrishTickler: What's shakin'?

BrendaBeCool: Not much

IrishTickler: Wanna have cybersex?

BrendaBeCool has logged off.

..........

IrishTickler: Hey! Wanna chat!

Kerri435: Sure

IrishTickler: asl?

Kerri435: 18/f/seattle...you?

IrishTickler: 19/M/LA

Kerr435: cool

IrishTickler: Wanna have cybersex?

IrishTickler: You still there?

IrishTickler: Hello?

Kerri435 has logged off.

...........

IrishTickler: What up?

FoxyMama: Hey, baby

IrishTickler: Wanna have cybersex?

FoxyMama: Mmm. Okay

IrishTickler: You do?

FoxyMama: Yep

IrishTickler: Oh

FoxyMama: Let's do this, baby. Show me what you got

FoxyMama: FoxyMama is feeling frisky. What you wearing?

FoxyMama: Come on, baby, tell me what you want to do to me

IrishTickler has logged off.

Yesterday I returned "Flo's" copy of Atlas Shrugged (way too long) and discovered Pat O'Brien doing push-ups in her room.

"Forty-nine…Fifty…Fifty-one…" he said, counting each rep.

"Flo" just sat there. I could tell by the way her mouth clenched her drool cup that she was annoyed.

"…Fifty-two…Fifty-three...Sixty…"

Pat O'Brien wore John Stockton-type shorts. Far too much thigh was on display.

"…Seventy-seven…Eighty-four...Eighty-five!" He popped up from the floor. I saw a brief flash of testicle.

"There. All done!" he cheered, offering a low five to "Flo."

Her monkey assistant hissed at him.

"Oh, right," he said. "I forgot. My bad."

He gave a low five to himself instead.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

"Are these guns loaded or are these guns loaded?" he said, admiring his arms. "You know, P-Diddy once told me my shit was TIGHT."

"Ass. Hole," "Flo" said through her computer voice box thingy.

Awkward pause.

"Her computer voice box thing must be broken again," Pat O'Brien said.

"I don't think so," I answered.

"Anyway, look at her," he said. "H-O double-T HOTT."

"Flo" grumbled.

"She reminds me of Taylor Dayne," he went on, "except in a wheelchair and with a monkey assistant."

"I'm. A. Lesbian," "Flo" said.

And then Pat O'Brien buried his face in his hands and cried.

We had a graduation party for "Warren" last night. He's completed his 28 days. I'm proud of him and think he might just be clean for good. 13th time is going to be a charm. I can feel it.

Sheryl Anne made a cake for the occasion. It was the best cake I've ever had. She gave "Warren" a big hug and told him one last time how much she believed in him.

I can't wait for my hug. She has great smelling hair. I know, because one time I smelled it when she wasn't looking. We were talking in the hallway and she dropped her pencil and we both bent down to pick it up and for a brief moment her hair dangled in my face. It smelled awesome. Like the most expensive high-end shampoo.

"Tony" took "Warren's" departure the hardest. "Warren" was always the best at listening to his endless childhood dog stories. "Tony" spent most of the party sitting alone on the sofa in his bunny suit nibbling on veggie sticks. I felt sorry for him because even though his childhood dog stories are boring, he's a grown man in a bunny suit and that's kinda sad. So I joined him on the sofa.

"How's it going, Tony?" I asked.

"Okay," he said. "Just thinking about Buster. You know, one time we were walking behind my grandpa's farm and we came upon this injured crow in our path. Both its wings looked broken. Of course you'd think Buster would have gone after it, you know, being a dog and all. But you know, he didn't. Instead he just, you know, looked at it like he was concerned. Then--"

"Hey, bros," Pat O'Brien said, joining us. "'Flo' is giving me all kind of signals tonight."

"Tony' is in a middle of a story, Pat," I said.

"I am so in there."

"Pat, let him finish his story."

"My bad, bro," Pat said. "Finish your story, Bunny Man."

"So, you know, you'd think Buster would try to eat the defenseless crow," Tony continued, "because he's a dog and all, but he didn't. He was a wonderful animal. But then all of a sudden -"

"A snake came out of nowhere and devoured the bird!" Pat said.

"No, that's not what happened," Tony said.

"And then Buster wrestled with the snake!"

"No, they didn't wres-"

"And then they rolled over a ledge and fell down into the deep canyon and exploded!"

"No."

"And then Barbi Benton and Adrienne Barbeau showed up in form-fitting rescue team suits and comforted you!"

"No, Pat," "Tony" said, "it wasn't like that at all."

"Well, what happened then?" Pat O'Brien asked.

"Well," "Tony" answered. "just as I was about to try and save it, my grandpa showed up with his shotgun and he shot the crow to put it out of its misery."

"That must have been hard to see, 'Tony'" I said.

"It was awful," he said. "I still remember the look in Buster's eyes. He was so confused."

"Well, I like my version better," Pat O'Brien said. "Nothing like rescue team babes. I once interviewed Adrienne Barbeau. I say she still has the best set of mamms in the business."

"Tony" and I just sat there looking at him.

"Now, if you excuse me guys," Pat O'Brien said, rising from his seat. "I gotta go masturbate."

And then "Tony" buried his face in his bunny paws and cried.

Played checkers with Whitney Houston last night. She didn't present much of a challenge. Her enthusiasm for the game was high, but she kept on confusing the rules with those of Hungry Hungry Hippo.

"Where's that hungry hippo at?" she asked. "Bet he's real hungry by now!"

I won eleven games in a row. It wasn't particularly satisfying, but coming off my loss to Pat O'Brien I took it.

"Checkers isn't nearly as good as Night Court," Whitney Houston complained.

"Well, they're two completely different things," I replied. Her Night Court references were becoming almost as annoying as "Tony's" stories about his childhood dog. "One's a game, the other is a television show," I said. "Not sure how you can compare them."

She glared at me like she wanted to kickbox. "You are NOT better than Night Court," she said.

Then she stormed off.

The sweat stain she left on my chair is still there. From a certain angle it appears to be in the shape of an otter.

Our rehab clinic volleyball team is now 2-0. We beat Billy Joel's team yesterday. Wasn't even close. Whitney Houston's sweaty serves were more than they could handle.

Billy Joel's reckless playing style cost them a lot of points, too. I lost count of the number of times he crashed into the net. He was a good sport, though. At the end of the game he favored us with a rendition of "Leave a Tender Moment Alone." It was awesome.

But then Pat O'Brien broke out his mandolin and challenged Joel to a musical duel.

"What? Is the 'Piano Man' chicken?" he taunted.

Fortunately, Billy Joel took the high road and ignored him. After a couple of minutes he just walked away and straight into a wall.

"What a pussy," I heard Pat O'Brien mutter before launching into a shirtless version of "Sky Pilot" to an audience of none.

We watched the NCAA men's final last night. Was surprised to discover how big a fan Whitney Houston is of college basketball. She knew the stats of every player.

"Sean May is better than Night Court!" she'd say every time North Carolina's star player made a shot.

I had Illinois in the pool, so I wasn't too happy about the outcome. "Warren" won the thing and vowed not to spend the winnings on Mexican speedballs.

I believed him.

Pat O'Brien ruined my favorite part of night, "One Shining Moment," the montage of tournament highlights that closes out the broadcast every year. He told Luther Vandross anecdotes throughout the whole thing.

"Luther is my homie," he boasted. "We ran with the same gang in a fat farm one summer."

"Please be quiet, Pat," I said.

"He asked me to be an extra in his 'Power of Love' video, but I couldn't do it that day. Had to interview Joan Van Ark."

"Pat! Please!"

"Luther sang at my 45th birthday. That was special. He told me he wouldn't sing for just anybody at their birthday party. That meant he liked me. He liked me a lot."

"Shut up, Pat!"

"Haven't seen him since his stroke," Pat O'Brien said. "Sick people creep me out."

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

Pat O'Brien was late for group yesterday. At first we thought it was in protest of Sheryl Anne taking away his foosball privileges for the O'Punk'd incident, but when he showed up an hour later he acted like nothing was wrong.

"Top O'Brien the morning, my peeps!" he said, plopping down on the couch.

"Where have you been?" "Debbie" asked him.

"Sleeping the sleep of the just, Debster," he replied.

"Group started an hour ago," I said.

"Good one, Adamski," he said with a chuckle.

"My Bobby loves me so much!" Whitney Houston said.

"No really, it did," I said to Pat O'Brien. "Group started at 10. It's now 11."

"You forget to set your clock forward for Daylight Savings Time?" "Tony" asked.

"No, no, Bunny Man," Pat O'Brien answered, "I don't practice Daylight Savings Time."

He looked at us like he thought we were all dying to know why he didn't practice Daylight Savings Time. Truth is we all kinda were, but none of us wanted to give him the satisfaction of appearing interested in his life. We managed to hold out for a few seconds, but then "Debbie" broke down and asked him why he didn't practice Daylight Savings Time.

"I don't want one less hour of me," he said with a snort. "Ho!"

Then he offered a low-five to "Debbie," who out of politeness gave him one.

I wouldn't have.

Antsy and bored, I decided to risk it and venture out of my room. When I poked my head through the doorway I saw Tommy Lee coming down the hall.

That's never a good sign.

So I closed the door.

Pat O'Brien was up to something. I could feel it.

Then I heard a crashing sound. Shouting followed.

Against my better judgment, I went out to see what was going on.

In the common room I found "Tony" pinned against the wall by Tommy Lee. Sheryl Anne and "Warren" were trying to pry them apart.

"Why you wanna mess with me, bro!?!" Tommy yelled.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir," "Tony" pleaded. He was on the verge of tears. Being in that bunny suit wasn't doing him any favors, either. "Honest," he said.

Then Pat O'Brien emerged from behind a curtain, snickering. "Dude, you've just been O'Punk'd!"

Tommy Lee, grinned, released "Tony" and gave Pat O'Brien a big hug. "Bro, you are inSANE!" he said.

"O'Punk'd!" Pat O'Brien shouted.

"O'Punk'd!" Tommy Lee shouted.

Everyone else just stood there, speechless. "Tony's" bunny ears flopped down over his face.

"How'd you get in here?" Sheryl Anne asked Tommy Lee. She was furious and beautiful.

"No clue," he said. "I'm so shitfaced it's crazy!"

"O'Punk'd!" Pat O'Brien shouted.

"O'Punk'd!" Tommy Lee shouted.

"O'Punk'd!" they shouted in unison.

Then I heard the hyper-jingle of the security guards' key rings barreling down the hall and decided I'd seen enough. So I went back to my room and listened to "Oh, What a Feeling" nine times in a row.

I'm a bit on edge this morning because it's April Fools' Day and I am in rehab with Pat O'Brien. All day yesterday he kept dropping hints that he might pull something "wild and crazy" like his "boy" Ashton.

I'm thinking I might just stay in my room today.

You know, there should rehab for being in rehab with Pat O'Brien. There really should. It would be some place far away from here where everyone wears shirts and is moustache-less.

Late last night Pat O'Brien knocked on my door.

"I had a horrible dream," he said. "Can I come in and rap about it?"

Before I could say no, he entered the room and sat at the foot of my bed.

"Thanks," he said.

He wore a purple monogrammed robe and Planet Hollywood slippers.

"It was awful, bro," he said, trembling.

"What was the dream about?" I asked, trying to get it over with as soon as possible.

"I dreamt I was an Eskimo..." he said.

I waited for him to continue, but instead he said nothing and just sat there all jittery and freaked out.

"And then what happened?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" he replied.

"You were an Eskimo and what happened next?"

"Nothing. I was just an Eskimo."

"Oh."

"Scariest fucking dream of my life," he said.

I'm not a drug counselor or anything, but I don't think Pat O'Brien is making much progress in group. He's been resistant to opening up and taking ownership of his addiction. Instead he keeps blaming it on the Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards break-up.

"They were so beautiful together," he said. "What person wouldn't resort to coke, and crystal meth, and Oxycontin, and H-Bombs, and horse tranquilizers, and Robitussin after seeing something that beautiful die?"

Sheryl Anne is losing patience with him. She bites her lip and lets out a small sigh every time he makes another excuse. She's easily the sexiest drug counselor I've ever had.

I'm not falling in love with her. I'm not falling in love with her. I'm not falling in love with her. I'm not falling in love with her. I'm not falling in love with her. Wait, am I falling in love with her? No, I'm not falling in love with her. I'm not falling in love with her. I'm not falling in love with her. I'm not falling in love with her.

At the end of group, Pat O'Brien asked everyone to "huddle up" for a group hug. "Tony," "Debbie," and "Warren" managed to pass off like they didn't hear him, but "Flo" and I were cornered and couldn't say no.

The hug was hours ago and I've showered three times since, but I still smell like Brut and monkey assistant.

I would have updated sooner, but I lent Pat O'Brien my laptop. He said he had to answer some fan mail. I didn't believe him because, well, I'm not convinced he has fans, but I let him use it anyway. One of my goals is to be more generous, so here I was, being more generous.

Being more generous is overrated. He had the computer for, like, three hours. When I told him I needed to use it, he said, "Hold on a sec, did you know Terri Schiavo had a blog?"

I had not, but sure enough, there on the computer screen was a blog claiming to be Terri Schiavo's.

"I think it's really inspiring," Pat O'Brien said.

"I don't think it's real," I said. Fake blogs aren't really my thing, and this one in particular was in pretty bad taste.

"But look," Pat O'Brien said, "it's gotta be her. There aren't any words, just sounds written out -- the same kinds of sounds Terri Schiavo makes."

"Yeah, but I don't think --"

"Don't you GET it, bro!?! This PROVES she's not a veg-head! She can TYPE SOUNDS!"

"I really don't think that it's her --"

"Somebody has got to do something, bro! They've got to save her! This is her last cry for help! SHE MUST BE RE-TUBED!"

And then Pat O'Brien buried his face in his hands and cried.

Usually I just leave him be when he buries his face in his hands and cries, but my computer was still in his lap. So I had to wait it out.

He cried for seven and a half minutes.

When I finally got my computer back there were dozens of windows open and several new bookmarks to porn sites.

None of them were really my scene.

We won our first Rehab Clinic League volleyball game last night. The other team was tough. Tom Sizemore was their captain. He's kind of intense. He wore three headbands and stared at me like I had just made out with his mother.

Before the game started I reached under the net and extended my hand to wish him good luck.

"Bring it on, bitch," he replied.

I was pleasantly surprised by the play of our team. "Tony" proved to be quite agile in his bunny suit, and "Warren's" height (he's 6'11") provided great defense, as well as a couple of awesome spikes that landed right in Tom Sizemore's face.

"Fuck-ing bitch!" he'd yell every time he got plunked by the ball.

Pat O'Brien wasn't bad, either. He had trouble staying in his designated area and called "I got it!" when he didn't really have it way too many times, but he held is own. He insisted on playing bare-chested ("Gotta give the lady addicts a little eye candy," he said), so it wasn't a lot of fun bumping against him when going after a ball. But fortunately his presence seemed to annoy Tom Sizemore more than it does even me, and it clearly threw Heidi Fleiss's ex-boyfriend off his game.

"That bitch O'Brien is a little bitch cake," I heard him mutter.

But Whitney Houston was by far our most valuable player. Her sweat-soaked serves were no match for the other team, as she sent spraying ball after spraying ball over the net. Her serves were near impossible to defend because the ball was so wet with her sweat that it slipped off their hands before they could muster a return.

"Sweaty bitch! Sweaty bitch! Sweaty bitch!" Tom Sizemore yelled at the end of the game.

Then he buried his face in his hands and wet himself.

Family visit time went okay. It was nice to see my mother. She brought me a chocolate Easter bunny and the latest issue of Kickboxing Illustrated. When I mentioned that Pat O'Brien had entered the program she got all excited.

"Ooo, I loved his work with Jimmy Cagney!"

Bobby Brown and the rest of Whitney Houston's entourage showed up. I told Bobby I was a big fan of "Candy Girl." He thanked me, then asked if I was a "homo."

I walked away slowly.

The only person to show up for Pat O'Brien was his personal assistant, a well-dressed African-American man named Alan. He looked obligated to be there. I wouldn't want his job for anything.

"Hey 'Flo'," Pat O'Brien yelled across the room. "Lookey here," he said, pointing to Alan, "I have a monkey assistant, too."

Silence followed. Tense, uncomfortable silence, puctuated only by the sound of "Flo's" respirator.

In preparation for family visit time, we painted Easter eggs yesterday morning. It was pleasant. Hadn't done that sort of thing since I was a child. Made me remember happier times when I wasn't addicted to pain killers and stuck in rehab with Pat O'Brien. Whitney Houston seemed to enjoy it, too.

"My Easter egg is gonna be better than Night Court!" she bragged.

"Tony" wore a bunny suit while he decorated his eggs. It was festive, but since he usually wears a bunny suit, not especially surprising.

"Debbie" was by far the most invested in the project. Her eggs were carefully decorated and each had a different inspirational phrase on it, like "You are a gift" and "You can do it - I know you can!"

When I asked her who the eggs were for, she responded cheerfully, "Me!"

Pat O'Brien chose not to decorate his eggs. "I'm saving mine," he told me. His tone was serious and focused.

"Saving them for what?" I asked.

"Mark McGrath's face," he answered.

This morning Pat O'Brien barged into my room and caught me dancing alone to my iPod.

"What you listening to?" he asked.

"Irene Cara," I told him.

"Cool," he said. "I've banged her."

He stood at the doorway and waited for me to say something, but I was determined not to show any kind of reaction.

"No, I didn't," Pat O'Brien said. "That was a lie."

Then he buried his face in his hands and cried.

The Terri Schiavo case came up in group yesterday. It was interesting to hear everybody's take on the issue. Many people sided with her husband, but at the same time empathized with her parents.

"Tony" thought the government had no business getting into it. "Republicans are just using her for political gain," he said. "It's despicable."

"Debbie" worried what the dispute said about the sanctity of life, and was glad President Bush was defending Schiavo.

Whitney Houston said that her and Bobby's new reality show was going to be "better than Night Court."

Pat O'Brien asked, "Is it just me or are tracheotomy scars kind of a turn on?" Then he winked at "Flo," who, understandably, chose not to weigh in on the discussion.

Obviously, the topic hits close to home for her, thus she couldn't find the right words to express how she feels. Plus her computer voice box thingy was acting buggy. It kept repeating the same phrase over and over again in Japanese. "Warren," who used to mule opium out of Tokyo, told us that it was saying "The mayonnaise has gone bad. The mayonnaise has gone bad. The mayonnaise has gone bad..."

So out of respect for "Flo," none of us complained when her monkey assistant dry humped our legs.

Whitney Houston seems to be settling in fine. She brings a lot of energy to the center. She's forever singing and laughing and whooping it up. I've yet to see her not glistening with sweat. At breakfast she sweat. During group she sweat. While playing Boggle she sweat. She's like a sweating machine.

There are stains all over the furniture.

In the kitchen, Pat O'Brien pulled me aside and asked what I thought of Whitney. I told him she seemed nice, but sweaty, and then I waited for him to make some kind of crass comment about how he'd like to sleep with her.

"Yeah, she's good people," he said.

I was surprised. He sounded sincere and normal for the first time since he had arrived.

"I'd hit that, but we share an indentured servant in the Hamptons," he said. "It's not wise to bone your business partner."

"I suppose not," I said, wanting to run away from him.

"He's the best indentured servant I've ever had," Pat O'Brien said, "even for a gay Filipino. I forget his name. Makes a great gimlet, though."

There was a mandatory barbecue out on the main lawn last night. As mandatory rehab center barbecues go it wasn't too bad.

Sheryl Anne was there. She looked fantastic. I asked her if she'd like me to get her another plate of ribs. She declined with a smile. God, she's great.

After dinner we hung around the common room and sang songs. Pat O'Brien had his mandolin. He actually wasn't that bad. He sang "Eve of Destruction" and "To Sir, With Love." I just wish he hadn't taken his shirt off. Nobody wanted to see that.

"85 push-ups a day, my peeps," Pat O'Brien boasted.

As he began to play the opening chords of "Year of the Cat" the doors swung open and in walked a sweaty, skinny African-American woman trailed by a wagon full of fancy suitcases.

"Hey, babies: Whitney's in da house!" she proclaimed.

Many of the residents appeared happy to see her. I guess they all go way back together. Pat O'Brien seemed to know her, too. He greeted her with a big hug and a low five.

"Crack is wack!" Pat O'Brien shouted.

"Crack is wack!" Whitney replied with glee.

"Crack is wack!" they both yelled in unison.

And then they laughed and laughed and laughed.

At lunch today Pat O'Brien leaned over and asked me, "What's the deal with the fox in the wheelchair?" He meant "Flo."

I told him that she was a heroin addict.

"She's got it going on!" he told me.

I didn't answer. But he did have a point. Despite having Lou Gehrig's disease, and being a heroin addict, and having a really annoying monkey assistant, I think "Flo" is indeed a remarkable person.

"You mind if I try to get some of that?" Pat O'Brien asked me.

"No," I said.

"Excellent," he said. "She is so fucking HOT."

And then Pat O'Brien buried his face in his hands and cried.

We watched American Idol for our allotted TV time last night. I thought most of the performances were uninspired. Pat O'Brien is a big Vonzell fan. He got all revved up when she sang.

"Black chicks dig me," he explained. Then he winked at "Debbie."

"Debbie" isn't black. She just has this condition that's darkened her skin. It's an after effect of her withdrawal. The doctor's are puzzled by it.

"Yeah, me and Patti LaBelle had a thing for a while," Pat O'Brien announced.

We all made like we didn't hear him.

Woke up this morning to find they had screwed up the phone numbers for certain Idol contestants. This means I accidentally voted for Scott Savol seventeen times. Damn.

I could really use some Demerol right now.

Made some progress in group today. Realized that I'm a better person than I think I am and that I count for something. Can't remember the last time I've had a positive thought about myself. Sheryl Anne is the best counselor I've ever had by far. She's great. It's like she's known me my whole life.

I will not fall in love with her. I will not fall in love with her. I will not fall in love with her. I will not fall in love with her. I will not fall in love with her. I will not fall in love with her. I will not fall in love her. I will not fall in love with her.

There. That should do it.

Pat O'Brien didn't seem that invested in my discovery. He kept wanting to talk about the time he went ballooning with Les Moonves instead. I don't see what that had to do with me learning to like myself again. Jerk.

Played checkers with Pat O'Brien this morning. He's an intense competitor. Beat me four times in a row. I'm pretty good at checkers. It's rare that I get beaten. So I asked him what his secret was.

"I pretend you are Mark McGrath," he said.

"Oh," I said.

"You ever play in any competitive checkers tournaments?" I asked.

No answer.

"You prefer checkers over chess?" I asked him.

No answer. Instead he just sat there staring at me like he wanted to kick box.

"You still pretending I'm Mark McGrath?"

"Yes," he answered.

Then Pat O'Brien buried his face in his hands and cried.

Tuna casserole for dinner. It was all right. Pat O'Brien sat next to me. The guy talks your ear off. He told many stories about hanging out with Wesley Snipes. Not sure if I believe them all .

I didn't like the way Pat O'Brien looked at me after he told about the time he partied at Skybar with "Wes." It's like he was waiting for me to tell him how impressed I was. He must think he has something to prove. It's kind of sad. But because I've been trying to be better about being a more supportive person, I gave him a half-assed "Wow." That seemed to be enough for him.

I looked to see if Sheryl Anne had noticed the nice thing I had done, but she was too busy helping "Flo" reign in her monkey assistant to notice.

Damn monkey assistant.

Pat O'Brien has the room next to mine. I went over and welcomed him. He was unpacking. He put a picture of Mary Hart next to his bed.

I remember Pat O'Brien from when he worked the CBS Sports desk during the NCAA Basketball Tournament. That was close to 15 years ago. I asked him who he liked in this year's tourney.

"Wake Forest!" he said emphatically while grooming his moustache.

Because I've been working on not giving in to destructive temptation, I tried hard not to tell Pat O'Brien that Wake Forest had lost over the weekend. But after a couple of seconds I broke down and gave him the bad news.

Then Pat O'Brien buried his face in his hands and cried.

A new resident arrived today. He showed up during group time when "Tony" was talking about the poodle he had when he was a boy. Again.

Sheryl Anne started to introduce the new guy, but before she could, he did it himself.

"Hey, folks! I'm Pat O'Brien."

"Hi, Pat O'Brien," a few of us answered back.

"We encourage residents to avoid using last names," Sheryl Anne told him.

"Hey, folks!" Pat O'Brien said. "Coming up next: Find out what famous entertainment show host has checked himself out of the limelight and into rehab."

We all sat there quietly for a moment while Pat O'Brien smiled at us.

"Well, I wonder who it could be?" "Debbie" asked.

"I think it's him," "Tony" said, pointing to Pat O'Brien.

"Oh," Debbie answered.

We were quiet again.

"Hey, folks!" Pat O'Brien said. "Coming up after the break: See which Hollywood 'Insider' now find himself inside a drug rehabilitation center."

"Yep, it's definitely him," "Tony" said. "I've seen him on television before.

"Oh, I think I have, too," "Debbie" said.

And then Pat O'Brien buried his face in his hands and cried.