8/29/2006
Off to Bonny Scotland
I'll be taking the high road for the next few weeks and will not have time for blogeries, so get your fix somewhere else for a change. See you back here sometime around the ides of Sept.
8/23/2006
Confessions
I have never disclosed this before to anyone, but since one can get a lot of unwarranted attention, free food and air travel by admitting to old unsolved crimes, I want to be the first to admit that I was the real Boston Strangler. BTW, I thought Tony Curtis did a great job in the role, although I am much better looking. Of course I am long since retired from such shenanigans.
My last slaying was a fat chipmunk about two weeks ago who went for my tomato-baited rat trap. I was hoping to exterminate the marauding squirrels but they are too quick for the traps. I felt bad about the chipmunk, so I put the traps away.
I may have found a new solution: at the take-and-leave section of the dump I found a discarded (never opened) motion sensor alarm. It was one of those electronic gimmicks from Sharper Image that plays the sound of a dog barking and growling when it senses movement nearby.
I'm sure there is an interesting story behind it: eg, Somebody probably bought it for their poor widowed mother to make her feel safe living alone in that run-down apartment in a bad section of the city, rather than having her moving-in with the family in the toney suburbs, like she's been begging to. But, before she could get out to the drugstore to buy the 4 "D" cell batteries (not included) she was probably strangled by some pervert.
I loaded it up with fresh Duracells and it worked fine. The contraption seems to keep the squirrels away from the tomatoes - for now. Funny how one person's loss can be another's gain.
As I look out on the garden this morning, I realize that we are less than two weeks from Labor Day, which is considered the potential First Frost Date here in new England. And I am just now picking the Early Girls. The Jet Stars are still the size of eggs and green. Naturally, we will be in Europe when the Jet Stars ripen. Feel free to come over and pick some for your dinner salad.
The old e-mailbag has been overflowing with at least one inquiry about my health.
Thanks - you know who you are. I hope the rest of you do not feel guilty. My courageous battle against ulcers has been tough and lonely, but it has been a journey of hope and inspiration.
Ok. That was a lie. I never knew I had ulcers. I have been taking 2 Aleve on a daily basis for jillions of years (at least 5), for my arthritic and old age pains. I just noticed that there is a warning on the label on a bottle of ALEVE in the smallest typefont known to modern man, it warns that if you drink 3 or more beers a day it could result in stomach bleeding. Which leads to "pernicious anemia."
Perhaps the Aleve (Naproxen) served to dampen any ulcer pain. It should also be noted that I have a cast iron stomach and have only been sick enough to regurgitate twice in the past 40 years. Once in 1972 when I ate too many hot dogs for dinner the night before passing papers on our first house (nervous, no doubt, at the burden of amassing a staggering debt of $22,000). The other time was in 1999 when I got food poisoning. I have always associated ulcers with stress.
In recent years, I have often boasted that I had all but eliminated stress from my life - mainly by reducing my commute time and also being more proactive in avoiding toxic work venues and the assholes who dominated them. So the ulcers are a puzzle to me.
Not so much of a puzzle to my doctor who blames alcohol all of my health problems, including the psoriasis. Fuck him, what does he know?
Anyhow - just to keep the peace around here, I am not drinking (nor taking Aleve) for the foreseeable future. They consider me in a detoxification stage, and are prescribing me a nice cocktail of tranquilizers and nap-inducers. I wait until late in the day to take these; otherwise, my thought processes are like sausage.
My wife and I have discussed the very real possibility that it may be too dangerous for me to continue in retirement. Left to my own devices, I tend to thrash. I am prone to getting into trouble, hanging around bars, going to casinos and racetracks. Running with a disreputable crowd. Having impure thoughts. Lunches, beers with the gang, fishing and not catching. Not that these things are morally bad, but they seem to be bad for my health.
It seems that I need external structure, agenda and a place to go. In other words, I need a job. This is a profoundly disappointing thing to discover about oneself. But, what is one to do, but face up to the truth?
My last slaying was a fat chipmunk about two weeks ago who went for my tomato-baited rat trap. I was hoping to exterminate the marauding squirrels but they are too quick for the traps. I felt bad about the chipmunk, so I put the traps away.
I may have found a new solution: at the take-and-leave section of the dump I found a discarded (never opened) motion sensor alarm. It was one of those electronic gimmicks from Sharper Image that plays the sound of a dog barking and growling when it senses movement nearby.
I'm sure there is an interesting story behind it: eg, Somebody probably bought it for their poor widowed mother to make her feel safe living alone in that run-down apartment in a bad section of the city, rather than having her moving-in with the family in the toney suburbs, like she's been begging to. But, before she could get out to the drugstore to buy the 4 "D" cell batteries (not included) she was probably strangled by some pervert.
I loaded it up with fresh Duracells and it worked fine. The contraption seems to keep the squirrels away from the tomatoes - for now. Funny how one person's loss can be another's gain.
As I look out on the garden this morning, I realize that we are less than two weeks from Labor Day, which is considered the potential First Frost Date here in new England. And I am just now picking the Early Girls. The Jet Stars are still the size of eggs and green. Naturally, we will be in Europe when the Jet Stars ripen. Feel free to come over and pick some for your dinner salad.
The old e-mailbag has been overflowing with at least one inquiry about my health.
Thanks - you know who you are. I hope the rest of you do not feel guilty. My courageous battle against ulcers has been tough and lonely, but it has been a journey of hope and inspiration.
Ok. That was a lie. I never knew I had ulcers. I have been taking 2 Aleve on a daily basis for jillions of years (at least 5), for my arthritic and old age pains. I just noticed that there is a warning on the label on a bottle of ALEVE in the smallest typefont known to modern man, it warns that if you drink 3 or more beers a day it could result in stomach bleeding. Which leads to "pernicious anemia."
Perhaps the Aleve (Naproxen) served to dampen any ulcer pain. It should also be noted that I have a cast iron stomach and have only been sick enough to regurgitate twice in the past 40 years. Once in 1972 when I ate too many hot dogs for dinner the night before passing papers on our first house (nervous, no doubt, at the burden of amassing a staggering debt of $22,000). The other time was in 1999 when I got food poisoning. I have always associated ulcers with stress.
In recent years, I have often boasted that I had all but eliminated stress from my life - mainly by reducing my commute time and also being more proactive in avoiding toxic work venues and the assholes who dominated them. So the ulcers are a puzzle to me.
Not so much of a puzzle to my doctor who blames alcohol all of my health problems, including the psoriasis. Fuck him, what does he know?
Anyhow - just to keep the peace around here, I am not drinking (nor taking Aleve) for the foreseeable future. They consider me in a detoxification stage, and are prescribing me a nice cocktail of tranquilizers and nap-inducers. I wait until late in the day to take these; otherwise, my thought processes are like sausage.
My wife and I have discussed the very real possibility that it may be too dangerous for me to continue in retirement. Left to my own devices, I tend to thrash. I am prone to getting into trouble, hanging around bars, going to casinos and racetracks. Running with a disreputable crowd. Having impure thoughts. Lunches, beers with the gang, fishing and not catching. Not that these things are morally bad, but they seem to be bad for my health.
It seems that I need external structure, agenda and a place to go. In other words, I need a job. This is a profoundly disappointing thing to discover about oneself. But, what is one to do, but face up to the truth?
8/20/2006
Blackout
The sound of the fan stopping woke me up this morning. The swishing blades were still barely moving when I looked at my bedside clock and saw that the power had gone off. How magnified are my senses these days with the boutique chemicals rambling around my medula oblongata. Sounds do not awaken me. The silence is what lassoed my attention.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look out the open window. It is raining. The Sunday paper is lying in the driveway, too close to the gutter. It is double wrapped in plastic, but history has proven that it will get soaked if left to sit as the water rises. I hate trying to read a wet newspaper, so I put my pants and socks on and pad downstairs in the semi darkness. My wife is still asleep, but the cats - who have been waiting impatiently for someone to arise and feed them - follow me down the stairs. The battery-powered clock in the kitchen says that it is 7:53.
I retrieve the paper and then divide a jar of the expensive strained turkey baby food that the cats have come to expect for breakfast. We pamper them and in return they do not puke on the rug.
Everything we have is electric, so I cannot make coffee or read the paper inside. I take my morning mix of pills with cranberry juice and take the paper out to the porch where the light is better. I turn the overhead fan switch on, so I will know when the power comes back on.
We live in perilous times. Any moment, life as we know it may suddenly change because of terrorists or exploding volcanoes or raging atmospheric storms. We are on high alert. The brain is beginning to plan for an extended power outage: This time, I will eat all the Edie's lime-flavored fruit bars before they melt!
Shortly, the fan starts up. Crisis averted. I trundle around, resetting the digital timepieces on the microwave, oven and radio. Then, Coffee!
What caused the blackout? Probably we shall never know. I like to think it was Homer Simpson getting donut jelly stuck in one of the keys at the municipal light plant, but more than likely it was a burnt-out transformer. Somebody got some extra OT pay, the Edie's Fruit bars are intact and our cease-fire with disaster seems to be holding.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look out the open window. It is raining. The Sunday paper is lying in the driveway, too close to the gutter. It is double wrapped in plastic, but history has proven that it will get soaked if left to sit as the water rises. I hate trying to read a wet newspaper, so I put my pants and socks on and pad downstairs in the semi darkness. My wife is still asleep, but the cats - who have been waiting impatiently for someone to arise and feed them - follow me down the stairs. The battery-powered clock in the kitchen says that it is 7:53.
I retrieve the paper and then divide a jar of the expensive strained turkey baby food that the cats have come to expect for breakfast. We pamper them and in return they do not puke on the rug.
Everything we have is electric, so I cannot make coffee or read the paper inside. I take my morning mix of pills with cranberry juice and take the paper out to the porch where the light is better. I turn the overhead fan switch on, so I will know when the power comes back on.
We live in perilous times. Any moment, life as we know it may suddenly change because of terrorists or exploding volcanoes or raging atmospheric storms. We are on high alert. The brain is beginning to plan for an extended power outage: This time, I will eat all the Edie's lime-flavored fruit bars before they melt!
Shortly, the fan starts up. Crisis averted. I trundle around, resetting the digital timepieces on the microwave, oven and radio. Then, Coffee!
What caused the blackout? Probably we shall never know. I like to think it was Homer Simpson getting donut jelly stuck in one of the keys at the municipal light plant, but more than likely it was a burnt-out transformer. Somebody got some extra OT pay, the Edie's Fruit bars are intact and our cease-fire with disaster seems to be holding.
8/17/2006
The Healing Process
Day by day we heal ever so gradually, even as we acknowledge the road to dusty death lies visible before us. And we must steel ourselves to pack-up and set-out to begin again on tomorrow's long journey into night.
Entropy, thou witch, has cursed our bones and flesh. We crawl to the edge of the oasis of good feeling and then the mecacah toss us rudely back on the stinging sand, laughing at our pitious moans. They tell me it's the drugs; but I know evil spirits when I feel them gnawing on my soul! The real question; Were they really Doctors or intergalactic Aliens intent upon harvesting my essences?
I lie in bed with my eyes shut against the pain, wondering when the rude experiments they are performing will end. The probes, the tubes, the suction machines and I open my eyes to recognize that it is our Brazilian cleaning ladies who are violating me as I lay helpless. They seem to be talking to each other in a language I cannot understand. They are giving me a sponge bath. The young one with long dark eyelashes is unsure how to procede. They point at my privates and tell her "pretend he is your boyfriend." She completes the hygiene in a most satisfying way. I want her for my nurse.
But once again, it is likely just one of the thousands of daily drug-induced screenplays that occupy my mental viewing screen. Don't get me wrong, it beats working, but I am not sure it beats drinking.
Entropy, thou witch, has cursed our bones and flesh. We crawl to the edge of the oasis of good feeling and then the mecacah toss us rudely back on the stinging sand, laughing at our pitious moans. They tell me it's the drugs; but I know evil spirits when I feel them gnawing on my soul! The real question; Were they really Doctors or intergalactic Aliens intent upon harvesting my essences?
I lie in bed with my eyes shut against the pain, wondering when the rude experiments they are performing will end. The probes, the tubes, the suction machines and I open my eyes to recognize that it is our Brazilian cleaning ladies who are violating me as I lay helpless. They seem to be talking to each other in a language I cannot understand. They are giving me a sponge bath. The young one with long dark eyelashes is unsure how to procede. They point at my privates and tell her "pretend he is your boyfriend." She completes the hygiene in a most satisfying way. I want her for my nurse.
But once again, it is likely just one of the thousands of daily drug-induced screenplays that occupy my mental viewing screen. Don't get me wrong, it beats working, but I am not sure it beats drinking.
8/16/2006
A True Story, Honest
The other day I got an email from the library telling me that I had two books that were seriously overdue and generating fines. If I did not return the books I would be remanded to a maximum security prison where the guards are hired because they score above the 98th percentile of the DeSade profile. (Many of them had been rejected by administrators Abu Grhaib because they were too violent). The notice assured me that no one had ever escaped and no one was ever released. There were no visitors except for mean little children who came to throw rotten eggs and bags of dog feces at the inmates as they whooped down the halls.
The note told me that I could avoid this hassle by simply bringing the books back and paying the fine. I decided upon this course of action and presented myself at the "Miscreant Borrower" desk at the main branch. A stern uniformed woman looked me over, as if wondering what size orange jumpsuit I would be wearing when I was convicted. "Double XXL, I should imagine."
"What?" I asked.
"Pay no mind, patron, I was just thinking out loud. Now, then. What are we trying to pull?"
"Pull?"
"Yes, PULL! Keeping these books overdue! Certainly you are aware that we have RULES..."
"Well, actually, it was an error." She rolled her eyes dramatically as if to say I've never heard this one before... "I was actually in the hospital for a few days and..."
"In the Hospital for a few days, were you?" she clarified
"Yes, Mam, and the meds they sort of got me confused about the days..."
"These books are six days overdue!" She glared at me like where the fuck have I been? Didn't I understand priorities? How can we run an efficient library if people are going to keep books out overdue?
I felt pretty bad about it all. Inconsiderate. Bad citizen.
Then her face seemed to melt into a friendly, forgiving, almost motherly smile.
"Drugs, did you say? They have you on meds?"
"Yeah, I'm in a fog half the day with this Ativan." A barely perceptible brightening of the smile. "Yah, 2mg 3 times a day - I'm like a zombie."
"Oh poor dear. Sometimes they over prescribe those tranqs. We have a program where we distribute them to needy nervous people you know." I noticed a mild tremor in her hand which she disguised by tapping her pencil on the counter.
"Ok, let's deal." I said.
I walked out of the library with a clean record and a receipt for fine paid. The librarian was probably in the back room popping at least one of the half dozen pills of Ativan. Good, she needed to chill out a bit.
The note told me that I could avoid this hassle by simply bringing the books back and paying the fine. I decided upon this course of action and presented myself at the "Miscreant Borrower" desk at the main branch. A stern uniformed woman looked me over, as if wondering what size orange jumpsuit I would be wearing when I was convicted. "Double XXL, I should imagine."
"What?" I asked.
"Pay no mind, patron, I was just thinking out loud. Now, then. What are we trying to pull?"
"Pull?"
"Yes, PULL! Keeping these books overdue! Certainly you are aware that we have RULES..."
"Well, actually, it was an error." She rolled her eyes dramatically as if to say I've never heard this one before... "I was actually in the hospital for a few days and..."
"In the Hospital for a few days, were you?" she clarified
"Yes, Mam, and the meds they sort of got me confused about the days..."
"These books are six days overdue!" She glared at me like where the fuck have I been? Didn't I understand priorities? How can we run an efficient library if people are going to keep books out overdue?
I felt pretty bad about it all. Inconsiderate. Bad citizen.
Then her face seemed to melt into a friendly, forgiving, almost motherly smile.
"Drugs, did you say? They have you on meds?"
"Yeah, I'm in a fog half the day with this Ativan." A barely perceptible brightening of the smile. "Yah, 2mg 3 times a day - I'm like a zombie."
"Oh poor dear. Sometimes they over prescribe those tranqs. We have a program where we distribute them to needy nervous people you know." I noticed a mild tremor in her hand which she disguised by tapping her pencil on the counter.
"Ok, let's deal." I said.
I walked out of the library with a clean record and a receipt for fine paid. The librarian was probably in the back room popping at least one of the half dozen pills of Ativan. Good, she needed to chill out a bit.
8/06/2006
Two versions of last week
Version 1 : I have a great excuse for not getting the blog updated.
On Tuesday I was forced by my wife to get checked-out for some minor health issues.
The Local Animal Dr/HMO surgeon recomended that we go to the ER for faster test results. Obediently, we go to the hospital but before I can explain that this is no big deal, I feel fine, this is just a test. . I am wearing one of those assless pajama tops with tubes and wires up into everything. People sticking things everywhere, intimately, and without so much as an introduction.
You start to worry when you look down at the foot of your gurney to see a youngish looking black Doctor - i swear the kid looked younger than Doogy Hauser - and he is looking at my chart through thick plastic rimmed glasses and yelling "Holy shit! Code Blue! Sombody get the difribbukator! Where are my paddles?"
I'm panicked by then - just as one zaftic black lady appears and grabs him by
the arm and says, "Com'on, Leroy! You not sposed to be bodderin' the sick
mens..." She smiles at me like 'he was just funnun ya'.
Fucking hospitals. Then another kid in a green doctor suit wants to
stick his purple gloved finger up my ass ostensibly to check my prostate.
"You won't like this" he says. But the drugs are dulling my rapier wit.
"How can you tell I might be gay?" I smile agreeably. He grimmaces at my bad sense of humor.
He says that my prostate isn't "all that big", Then confirms the worst diagnosis:
most definitely "blood in stool". Enough discussion on how this is determined. eh? I cannot think of a worse sounding symptom.
>
So internal bleeding. The best case is bleeding ulcers; the worst case is bullet to the abdomen, middle case is colon cancer. With no reason to suspect bullet holes we have a tossup which I am rooting for theulcer. A literal army of people come in and out of my "room" in the ER. Some are just looking for supplies which are stored on the shelves. The pull back the curtain look at me, look around and close the curtain. i am like a Panda in the zoo, viewing is available for all who pay the price of a ticket,
Apparently, I am being examined in a part time storage room. Still it looks a lot like the exam room on the TV set. I am wired to a heart machine that beeps encouragingly and displays my life line om a small monitor; my temp and pulse rate are being tracked by a wired clothespin on my index finger. An automatic blood pressure cuff is attached to my upper arm. Periodically it inflates and deflates to record the vital measures of my blood pressure - which is probably hitting the roof because I am convinced this is the Hotel California (You can check out but you can never leave...) , and I am most certainly doomed.
As I try to write this I am under the influence of too many drugs to recall what has transpired in detail since Tuesday. Spent two nights being monitored and getting (probably contaminated) several blood transfusions. I was released on Thursday and when I saw my doc on Friday he said I was going to be fine, but that I should never to take Aleve or - drink anything alcoholic again (ever) - he has me on an alcohol withdrawal drug - probably the same one they are giving to Mel Gibson. I hope he doesn't have as much tyops as I do.
Version two - cleaned up
Anyhow, it's been a hard week. On monday, I was not feeling so good. Not to be indiscrete but my bowels were not behaving "normally"; I was feeling lightheaded as I worked around the yard. it was hot, so I attrinuted the lightheadedness to heat exhaustuion.
On Tuesday, My wife pursueded me to call our HMO for a looksee. They thought I sounded anemic and that I needed a test that could best be done as an outpatient, so I endup at Brigham and womens ER. Long story short: I am bleeding from ulcers. The give me two units of blood to raise my blood count. I stayed there tues and wed night (this was the first time I had been in the hospital overnight since my birth.)
I am now on a coctail of drugs that makes typing werds almost impossible. One of the drugs is attipan which seems to simulate the effects of drinking a qt of vodka. They (The young fellows dressed in green clothese who call themselvbes DR seem to think that my bleeding ulers are caused by a combination of too mucn naproxin (ALEVE) too mutch scotch and Gin. Maybe caused by bargain priced no name tonic water.
Today - Saturday (what happened to Friday?) I am feeling fine and beck to my normal routine - except for the Alevel and alcohol both of which I am on an indefinit prohibition from. This thursday I am checking my self into the mel gibson rehab clinic, sounds like fun.
more news when i can tyoe bettr
On Tuesday I was forced by my wife to get checked-out for some minor health issues.
The Local Animal Dr/HMO surgeon recomended that we go to the ER for faster test results. Obediently, we go to the hospital but before I can explain that this is no big deal, I feel fine, this is just a test. . I am wearing one of those assless pajama tops with tubes and wires up into everything. People sticking things everywhere, intimately, and without so much as an introduction.
You start to worry when you look down at the foot of your gurney to see a youngish looking black Doctor - i swear the kid looked younger than Doogy Hauser - and he is looking at my chart through thick plastic rimmed glasses and yelling "Holy shit! Code Blue! Sombody get the difribbukator! Where are my paddles?"
I'm panicked by then - just as one zaftic black lady appears and grabs him by
the arm and says, "Com'on, Leroy! You not sposed to be bodderin' the sick
mens..." She smiles at me like 'he was just funnun ya'.
Fucking hospitals. Then another kid in a green doctor suit wants to
stick his purple gloved finger up my ass ostensibly to check my prostate.
"You won't like this" he says. But the drugs are dulling my rapier wit.
"How can you tell I might be gay?" I smile agreeably. He grimmaces at my bad sense of humor.
He says that my prostate isn't "all that big", Then confirms the worst diagnosis:
most definitely "blood in stool". Enough discussion on how this is determined. eh? I cannot think of a worse sounding symptom.
>
So internal bleeding. The best case is bleeding ulcers; the worst case is bullet to the abdomen, middle case is colon cancer. With no reason to suspect bullet holes we have a tossup which I am rooting for theulcer. A literal army of people come in and out of my "room" in the ER. Some are just looking for supplies which are stored on the shelves. The pull back the curtain look at me, look around and close the curtain. i am like a Panda in the zoo, viewing is available for all who pay the price of a ticket,
Apparently, I am being examined in a part time storage room. Still it looks a lot like the exam room on the TV set. I am wired to a heart machine that beeps encouragingly and displays my life line om a small monitor; my temp and pulse rate are being tracked by a wired clothespin on my index finger. An automatic blood pressure cuff is attached to my upper arm. Periodically it inflates and deflates to record the vital measures of my blood pressure - which is probably hitting the roof because I am convinced this is the Hotel California (You can check out but you can never leave...) , and I am most certainly doomed.
As I try to write this I am under the influence of too many drugs to recall what has transpired in detail since Tuesday. Spent two nights being monitored and getting (probably contaminated) several blood transfusions. I was released on Thursday and when I saw my doc on Friday he said I was going to be fine, but that I should never to take Aleve or - drink anything alcoholic again (ever) - he has me on an alcohol withdrawal drug - probably the same one they are giving to Mel Gibson. I hope he doesn't have as much tyops as I do.
Version two - cleaned up
Anyhow, it's been a hard week. On monday, I was not feeling so good. Not to be indiscrete but my bowels were not behaving "normally"; I was feeling lightheaded as I worked around the yard. it was hot, so I attrinuted the lightheadedness to heat exhaustuion.
On Tuesday, My wife pursueded me to call our HMO for a looksee. They thought I sounded anemic and that I needed a test that could best be done as an outpatient, so I endup at Brigham and womens ER. Long story short: I am bleeding from ulcers. The give me two units of blood to raise my blood count. I stayed there tues and wed night (this was the first time I had been in the hospital overnight since my birth.)
I am now on a coctail of drugs that makes typing werds almost impossible. One of the drugs is attipan which seems to simulate the effects of drinking a qt of vodka. They (The young fellows dressed in green clothese who call themselvbes DR seem to think that my bleeding ulers are caused by a combination of too mucn naproxin (ALEVE) too mutch scotch and Gin. Maybe caused by bargain priced no name tonic water.
Today - Saturday (what happened to Friday?) I am feeling fine and beck to my normal routine - except for the Alevel and alcohol both of which I am on an indefinit prohibition from. This thursday I am checking my self into the mel gibson rehab clinic, sounds like fun.
more news when i can tyoe bettr
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