Today has been fairly challenging for me in ways that I can't quite articulate. My back and legs were sore from me running down a mountain trail Sunday. I was trying to get home in order to catch the premier of the new season of the Simpsons. I'm sore, but that really isn't what is bothering me. It could be that I have had some issues with a co-worker that I wonder if he had suffered one too many blows to the head when he played high school football. It probably isn't that either. Maybe it was sitting in the DMV for too long waiting to renew my truck's registration. Nope. Maybe it was nothing.
I saw a girl crying like mad today. I was coming out of a 7/11 and she just hung up the pay phone and started bawling. She got into her car and drove around the gas station and parked her car again, still bawling. This made me wonder why I don't cry much anymore. I always wonder what people cry about because I wonder what tragedy is in their lives.
On my Sunday hike a family was coming up the trail. Their labrador greeted me with a friendly nose to the hand, then their schnauzer greeted me with a wet whisker to my calf. It was then that I said to myself, "What in the fuh kind of dog is that?" This flash of fur was bounding around the trail like crazy. It was a goat, a tiny charcoal goat wearing a red dog collar and bell. It was the coolest thing I've seen in a long time. This goat was real friendly too. Screw getting a dog; I'm getting one of these for a pet. I mean, it will subsist on whatever, right? No trips to the pet store for food and shit. Yeah, I'm probably wrong on that one. I'm just looking to get rid of some old leather boots and my mound of tin cans. Anyway, think of what a goat could do to intruders. A burgler would not be expecting to hear a goat, nor would a burgler enjoy getting rammed. I would train my guard goat to chew intruder crotch. It would be awesome.
I don't know why, but I felt lonely today. It was bound to happen to me. Crashing after having had a real great experience on Sunday, I guess. That must be what was dogging me today. Johnny Thunders said it best when he sang, "You can't put your arms around a memory."
I had an invite to speech before 400 people at a local church for a half hour today (Sunday). I talked about how documenting one's life is essential to helping yourself and other's overcome adversity. I shared my story of the past 16 months, albeit concise, with regards to my fight with cancer. The speech was extremely well received and was held after for an hour talking with various people wanting to know more about my story. It was nice to hear from mature men who are highly successful come to me afterward and advise me on my future, one saying that I am a natural talker. A couple came up to me and told me that I resembled a young Robert Redford. I told them that as long as it was the young Robert Redford that I'd take that as a compliment. Seriously, he looks like a plastic crypt keeper with freckles and cowboy boots now.
It seems weird to me now that I was, in fact, a licensed minister at one time in my life. I am not a pious person at all and never have been, even when I was a missionary. I've spent most of my adult life heavy in doubt, but I have had the ability to mingle with those who are religious. From my constant questioning has come a gift to provide a perspective on spirituality that is new and sometimes a bit too challenging for most. But, every so often when I share my perspective it resonates. I spent a great deal of time after my service in England closed off and feeling a bit betrayed--like there was no place for me, anywhere. I quit sharing my gifts with people and as a result I withered and became lonesome. It has been through some rather harsh experiences over the past eight years that I've woke up and shaken off the dust of my hibernation. Where I go from here, I do not know. But, I have the feeling like I'm loading up my caravan and starting on my next journey. I'm going to enjoy having you guys come along.
May all your dreams come true! Can you imagine how incredibly far out, surreal, and horrific this would be if your dreams did come true--the ones that you have while asleep? That means I would all of a sudden find myself working at my high school job at McDonald's again, wondering how my life had got so bad that I was working as a fry cook at this point in my life. It would also mean that tornadoes would be chasing me. It would also mean that the world would have more backwards talking dwarfs. Well, that would be pretty damn cool, at least.
I think that the dairy industry needs a bit of a shake up. They need to change some of the names of their products in order to shock us and dare us to eat more dairy. Example: nipple chowder. What would this be? Why, it is our old friend cottage cheese. See how "nipple chowder" challenges your notion of what dairy is? It's in your face and erotic.
I have been saying "wilikers" a lot lately. "Jeepers" is so last whatever.
There was this guy that I worked with that seemed a bit unclear of what racism was. We had to attend a seminar that was put on by our equity department. When the class was asked what experiences that they had with racism, this guy raised his hand and said, "When I was in school the other kids used to make fun of me because I had a learning disability." Retard.
I have found the cure for "stage fright" at the urinal: whistle! Try it, it works. Other guys might think you are strange, but have you ever made fun of the dude who whistles while peeing? No. You just say "whatever" to yourself and tap your penis a few times too many. I am now going to be that guy whistling the theme to Star Trek while taking a slash.
Has anybody ever put a chimpanzee on a Segway? I'm sure the Russians or the Chinese have already put a bear or a dog on one before us. This is just like the space race all over again.
I helped a co-worker out the other day by repairing a broken radiator hose on his mini van. I used this rubber tape that I've had forever that is purpose designed for temporary repairs of holes in coolant lines. I explained this to the dude and said that, besides the tape being over ten years old, that this would likely only get him home and that he would have to get a new hose right away. Guess what happens next? I get a call from this guy a half an hour later and he's all complaining to me about how my tape job didn't work. I asked him how far away he was so that I could pick him up and take him home. He said that he was in his driveway and that the hose repair broke as he drove in. I told him that the repair was temporary and it seemed like it did what it was supposed to do. He then was upset and said that he was hoping that he wouldn't have to get a new hose since I fixed his old one. He then commented again on how he didn't like the tape and thought that it didn't work. So, we chit chatted for about five more minutes and then right before he goes he says, "Boy, well, I'm sure gonna have to get me some of that tape now."
This same guy is not allowed by his wife to carry money. He can use a credit card, but he must first call her before any purchases are made. I got a call on my cell phone last week where he was telling me how excited he was that his wife was going to let him buy a hamburger combo meal for his dinner. Is marriage like this for everybody?
When Tevye in The Fiddler on the Roof, the film, sings "If I Were a Rich Man," have you noticed that his dance is very suggestive? It's almost like Tevye is saying, "Hey there, check out my awesome tiddies!" I am totally Netflixing that shit.
I didn't sleep so well last night. There are some images that will never leave my memory, good and bad. The image of Brian's lifeless body drenched in blood will forever be etched in my mind. It was like some kind of sick tape loop playing over and over in my head last night. He never threatened anybody else's life but his own and he didn't seem like he was really going to do it. It just seemed like he was angry about losing control of his life and he wanted people to know that he felt screwed over. I have no idea what was in the police's play book that called for an all out assault. I have never seen anything like what happened that night in my whole life. It was straight out of some kind of hideous war scene or Faces of Death, only it happened in front of my own eyes and not on the screen. I don't know how cops can go home at night and sleep, ever. How can you get used to that stuff?
Why did the police say that he was still alive when it was later confirmed that he was, in fact, dead within a minute of being shot? That's another thing; the scanner that the reporters had going on picked up the police saying that he had shot himself in the chest. Because of the flash bangs, tear gas, and pepper balls, it was hard for us to see the actual shooting--who shot what, not to mention total disbelief. I was confused and horrified along with others who did not have a financial stake in getting a good shot or a juicy story.
I climbed up onto the office complex roof to peer down just moments after the shot. I wasn't supposed to be there, but I got a clear look. Things were pretty goofy. They tazed him. He was already dead. WTF? That's some pretty sick fucking stuff to see people taze a dead man. Now the cops aren't saying shit. The area is now cordoned off by the police. Now they are saying that they are not positive if he shot himself. I heard them say it over the scanner that he did. What are they not sure of? I hope they are forthcomming with their findings. Also, for a guy in condition Delta, they seemed to be a bit on the slow side on hauling him off. I really think the cover up there was to not upset those of us public who were witness to the incident.
Pick anybody in your life that you know. Somebody that you know well enough, but not necesarilly close to you. Now think of this: you will someday witness the exact moment of that person's gruesome death. Man, my head is freaking out going back in time and thinking of what interactions I had with him and never knowing what the cosmos had in store, that I would be there to see his last stand.
I'm doing alright. There's just a sick pit in my stomach over the whole situation. Brian had the power to stop it, I guess. One of the press photographers got a shot of him earlier in the day where he had stepped out of the truck with a gun to his head. His face was absolutely demonic--totally not like him. He seemed like he was outside of his own body. Where is a person when they are in that state of mind and situation? I could see my spirit floating above trying to figure out how to operate my body by remote, but only getting thwarted by some kind of primal override. Or is it a hyper-reality that one goes into...such focus that one becomes so single minded that there is no grounds for negotiation?
Please, no sympathy comments. I am interested in what you have to think about these situations and how the police handle them. Probably the police carried out their policy to the tee and it's just the policy that needs review and fixing. I don't know enough about that, I guess.
I witnessed something pretty horrible tonight (Monday). Well, it doesn't get more horrible than suicide and someone that you know, no less. There was a standoff just across the street from where I work. I knew the guy that was holed up in his truck with some guns. The police, emergency, fire fighters, and S.W.A.T. did their best. It all started at 9:30am and ended exactly at 9:30pm. It ended in a flurry of pepper bombs, tear gas, and a bunch of flash bang grenades, then one solitary gun shot. It hasn't been confirmed that he is dead, but from the look of the blood and the gun shot wound to his chest that he inflicted, I mean, he was gone. His face was lifeless. I can't erase that face from my mind now. His condition was listed as Delta, the most critical, and then the ambulance took him to an awaiting helicopter.
It was weird to hear the reporters go from laughing and business to feigning emotion as they reported live from the scene. This was just a bad, bad day. All stemmed from a firing from his part-time fire fighters position and a domestic disturbance incident involving he and his wife this morning. The fire house is across the street from the offices where I work and his house is right there, so his former work buddies were there to witness this as well. I asked one of the fire fighters if they could tell me what the latest was on him, just after he was transported, and he said he couldn't comment. I then said, "I knew him." He then replied, "Yeah, I knew him too." That's all I had to hear to know. Unless some kind of miracle happened, I'm pretty sure it is all over now. Tragic.
How are your ears doing now? I love hollering and hearing my echo. It also helps scare off any cougars or what have you, that could be lurking around. I spent my Sunday being frustrated by people that I have to deal with. So, I decided to let a mountain kick my ass for five hours. I went up the "ribbon" trail again. That's the trail that really isn't much of a trail. You follow these ribbons that are tied to tree branches or cairns along the way. Shorts are not recommended. The thick brush will cut you up fast. I want to find my old machete and clear some of it away when I go up again. Someday soon I will get an earlier start and make for the cliff top, then hit the peak south of there. I saw an American Eagle up hunting in the cliffs. It was something else. It swooped over me and I about shit myself. I bet that creature could have scalped me and then plucked my eyes out no problem. You should have seen its wingspan. It was impressive. There is a small pole at the top of the cliff, so I want to make sure that I bring my own flag to hang when I make it. I don't think many people do make it up that far because of how undeveloped and overgrown everything is on this "trail".
Well, that was about the coolest thing that I did this weekend, other than shout out my favorite lines from the film There Will Be Blood at the local Carl Jr's. The ladies dig me. Figure out which one of the lines I like to use in certain circumstances. Go on. Try it!
I was at Carl's Jr. today treating myself to some circular cow meat. I like the #6 combo, btw. Because Carl's Jr. has the best playland a lot of mothers like to have lunch together there and bring their kids. So, in short, MILF city. There were two guys, probably both either 19 or 20, shouting all sorts of stupidity at these mothers as well as any other girls in order to prove that they like the feline. One guy in particular was annoying. He kept talking out loud to whoever that he was born an asshole and couldn't help it. I couldn't help to notice that no one cared, nor did they even ask the guy to talk about it in the first place. Then he breaks into the lamest Little John-by-way-of-Dave Chappelle impersonation ever. Hasn't that show been off the air for like three years, or something? That's like shouting "Who let the dogs out" without the irony. The best is when he went up to a 17-year-old girl (I know because she told the guy how old she was after he asked her) and said to her, "I'll see you in a year, little lady. Oh yeah!" He sounded just like Duff Man, if Duff Man had no penis and was a retarded grease monkey. Fast times at the choke and puke, I guess.
Changing subjects, I am a firm believer in something called "random acts of WTF?" Case in point, I drew this on somebody's conference room white board today at work. Yeah, it says "Sexy Hobo Clown" on there and I drew a vampire that resembles Eugene Levy. That's the point. WTF??? I want there to be somebody very important to walk in this conference room and say out loud, "WTF??!" I want them to spend the rest of their working day trying to figure out what exactly a sexy hobo clown is and what that has to do with a Jewish vampire. I forgot to add a bit of yiddish vampire speak, but then that might actually make sense. Anyway, I recommend that you try something similar at your place of employment.
Guess who I hung out with tonight? I'll give you a clue. She likes the outdoors. Yes, our very own Outdoorsy Girl was up in my neck of the woods all the way from Atlanta attending her best friend's wedding. Here she is showing off her awesome new camera to me at a Denny's--a classy establishment. She is the official wedding photographer. She took a picture of me that ended up looking like Popeye, my personal hero. Pretty awesome. It was cool to get a rare treat in hanging out for a few hours with one of my fellow Gruntonians.
Do you ever find yourself writing a post solely because you need attention? Man, that's about 58/64ths of the time that I post...oh, excuse me, 29/32nds of the time. Please like me.
I may need your help. That wasn't new information. No, really. I need your input, feedback, feelings on this letter I am writing to my beloved. Below is my letter.
Dear Nabisco Co., I am a man dying of cancer. Well, not dying of cancer--have cancer...um, had....Okay, I am in remission from cancer....My point is I've been through some shit and I want some fucking cookies, alright? My preference is for Oreos. If you send me Lorna Doones I will slit my wrists. Who makes Chips Ahoy? Oh yeah, you guys. Send me some of that shit too. By the way, why do Oreos make my shit all black and pellet like? I mean, my ass bleeds from trying to clean up after that strangness. Another question: How big of an Oreo do you guys make? Would an octouple stuff be considered illegal? I'm not a Californian resident, just so you know. The state I'm in is dry, but we dig on ice cream and anything that gives you type 2 diabetes, so we're cool. See, I'm planning something big for Guiness that involves a milk cow, a trampoline, and a swimming pool. Let me know if you're interested and I'll see if I can get you on board.
Sincerely, Theodore Grunt esq.
Well? While you are picking that one apart for me, let me turn you onto something revolutionary: Job interviews with flashlights. I am an HR genius, I tells ya, and we all know that geniuses say "I tells ya" and "Dog will hunt". Picture this: the job candidate is escorted into a dark room by two goons and is given a flashlight. The interview panel, waiting in the dark, turn on their flashlights, shining them up into their faces for that scary "I'm about to tell you an axe murderer story" look. The interviewie is then instructed to do the same, or maybe not. Maybe we want to see if they are a conformist, a team player, or The Leprechaun! Maybe we want to see if they are independent and such and such--they won't play our game. Mabye we just want to see what they will do with that flashlight. Maybe it is just funny to mess with people. Can you imagine how different a typical interview would be if everyone in the room sat in the dark with a flashlight face? I'm there.
Shazam! I've gone and done another video clip for you. This is in a canyon just east of Stockton. I really want to buy about ten acres of land out there and have a shitload of horses and live in a tepee. I don't ride horses, but I get a real big kick out of them. They'd just be fun to watch as I play my guitar and write stuff. Maybe I'll get myself an Afgahn hound and do some desert hunting, live off of the land. I don't know. Now that I've got my health back I just want to live off of the grid. Now I just need about $450,000 to buy that land and I'll be set.
Anyway, this canyon was very cool. Tons of old mines littered the area, as well as several "honey comb" smoke stack smelter ruins. I was up there with my big bother shooting skeet (clay pigeons/discs). (Warning: Boring gun content ahead. Proceed with feigned interest.) I've inherited my old man's Winchester 12 guage shotgun. He bought it in the early forties when he was just thirteen. The gun still needs some work done on it since it sometimes won't fully cock/pump up, then won't fire. The problem is that when you do pump down and back up to eject the one shell that it couldn't fire for the next, it fires. Talk about dangerous. Talk about shit your pants the first time it happens to you. But, since I always follow strict safety rules when handling firearms, I never have close calls. Unfortunately, there are plenty of goobers out there who don't. Back to the shotgun, it is a fixed full choke, so you have to use lead shot only, which is not allowed in certain hunts. But, I don't hunt, so no problem. Even though I was able to shoot with this gun, a complete teardown and cleaning is in order. Until then, my cheap-ass Remington 12 guage will suffice. Skeet, skeet, skeet!
As promised, here are shots of my guitar project in progress. This is the body of the guitar, sanded, sanded after coats of sand sealer, color coats shot, and the first stage of clear coats done. I am waiting awhile for the clear to harden in order to wet sand and try to level out the finish a bit before final coats of clear, then final sanding/polishing is complete. I expect it to be done in a month. Here is another shot.I wanted to see what it would look like with some of the parts on it. Nothing is fastened, just laid into place temporarily. I think it looks pretty damn sharp. I got so mad that the finish didn't turn out like I wanted, even though it looks great, I am doing a Strat body in better wood (alder) to replace the one currently on my Stratocaster. Wheee! Someday I hope to really make a guitar from blanks of wood. Oh well, you've got to start somewhere.
Stupid silly joke of the day: What kind of centerpiece does David Copperfield have on his dinning table? A candelabracadabra! Honk! Snort! Teeheehee!!!
This guy actually comes from around my parts. It takes a damn good gymnast to make it look this bad and pull it off.
My favorite thing before Star Wars was Steve Austin and Evel Knievel. The only thing that has survived all of the trends has been my love for Bigfoot, and I think that all started when Bionic Bigfoot battled Steve Austin (The Six Million Dollar Man) and later The Bionic Woman. I am not joking when I say that every time I am in the mountains I secretly hope to discover Bigfoot or a pride/herd, whatever, of these magnificent beasts. I think the key to understanding Bigfoot is that it is a spiritual creature, or, it exists in the spiritual dimension. There is something rather Twin Peaks about Bigfoot, being able to be in our world and its own. This is the one thing that would turn me into a total woodshed nutcase. It's a good thing that I don't have enough money to spend on a good woodshed or I'd be in trouble. For more about my fascination with Bigfoot, read these posts: here, here, andhere. Those are not all of them, just a good starting point. Those are actually funny posts, you know, from when I was funny.
Speaking of things bionic, I think that the world needs a new spin on the whole Steve Austin franchise. He and the bionic woman should have a bionic baby, then both of them die horribly in a grease fire. The baby then gets put in a basket on the steps of a normal suburban family (how, I don't know) and they adopt the child. Hilarity ensues as all sorts of crazy bionic shenanigans take place. Kevlar Huggies, anyone?
I am no longer inheriting a 1964 Chevy truck from my oldest sister. The truck was my brother-in-law's grandpa's truck. I was going to take it off of their hands and fix it up as a relic'ed parts getter. A little thing called cancer put a damper on that idea. Since, my brother-in-law gave it away to his uncle, the son of the original owner. It is going to be fixed up, I suppose. But, it won't be as cool as I would have done it. So, I come across a '60 short bed, fleetside Chevy truck the other day as I'm being driven home from surgery. Maybe it was the drugs I was on, but I fell in love with the orange and rust colored beast. For those who have no idea what one looks like, they are gloriously ugly with the infamous "eye brow" hood. This one to the right is a stepside '60 Chevy that is no where near as ugly as they look stock. I love ugly old trucks that either look like they have chrome gay man handle bar mustaches or circus freak wagons. Anyway, this particular truck was not for sale. I guess I will just have to wait, probably when I'm married and it will cause my wife to leave me.
So, we let it out. My port removal surgery went well. I am in moderate pain at the moment. The hospital had a policy about not letting patients have "souvenirs", so I didn't get to keep it. I even brought a pickle jar with me to keep it in. Drat. It's weird to not have my "radio knob" in my chest now. I don't really miss it, but I got used to it being there. If you just have to see it, well, check out this x-ray (not me). Here is a good picture of one.The surgeon told me that mine had tissue growing all over it and that it would have been pretty gross to have kept it. Oh well.
How all yous doin', eh? My weekend was rather low key, but I was pretty tired from the week I had. I felt like I was granted some kind of clemency. It's humbled me a great deal.
Friday, A bunch of the departments at work threw me a surprise party. I used many of the helium balloons to leave hi-larious voice mails to various "lucky" individuals. Feel special if one of them was you. You should've heard me sing "Moon River". I was like a young Andy Williams with his nuts kicked in. Anyway, I tons of hugs from various ladies. I come from a family that is hug retarded, well, the men in the family. The women in my family let me join "Club Normal Fambily" after they figured that I was cool, so I get hugs from them too. I likes me some hugs! Seriously, I think the guys in my family have some kind of rare Rainman disease, but where they can't count shit, yet are still really spastic and don't like to be touched.
My guitar project didn't turn out like I expected. I was trying for a butterscotch blond color that was translucent so the grain would pop, but instead I went too opaque. It is still a great color, though. Over time the grain might pop through as lacquer has a tendency to shrink and fade. Polyurethane won't do that. Poly is great for protecting, but it is a tone killer because it dampens the resonance of the wood. Lacquer is a bitch to work with and it checks easily, but it lets the wood do it's thing, musically. I'm learning a lot, though. I am thinking of doing another guitar after this one and selling my Strat. We'll see how this one goes, first. Hey, at least it isn't meth or hookers.
I've got a lot of people thinking that since I'm now in remission that I should shape up and fly right--get married and stop tossing off like the selfish bachelor that I am. Whatever. I have my head firmly on my shoulders. I mean, you join one death cult and people just won't let you forget it.
I am not the only one in my family that is going in for surgery this week. My sister had a botched breast reconstruction and has to go in on Friday to get that fixed. I told her that we could be drug buddies. I've always wanted one of those. In fact, "My Drug Buddy" is one of my favorite songs by The Lemonheads. Enjoy!
Isn't Evan Dando pretty? I wish I could have looks like that. Anyway, I responded to all of your comments on my last post, the "remission" post. If you didn't comment on that or read it, I thought that we were friends. Why you being stuck up?
Two TIGF!!! thumbs up. Why? Well, it all started early in the morning....
I couldn't sleep much. My back and neck were wound up tighter than a suspension bridge. But, I had breakfast with a friend to take my mind off of things. She even paid for mine. How cool is that? I tried hanging out at the bookstore to kill time. I couldn't concentrate. The staff were getting nervous that my long stare was going to burn holes through the magazine rack. I picked up the latest Vintage Guitar magazine and hit the road. I still had time to kill.
Ending up at a favorite vinyl haunt, I perused the used CD section, wanting to listen in my truck rather than wait to get home and dust the needle off. I bought an Iron and Wine CD The Creek Drank the Cradle for a good price and listened to the track "Southern Anthem" about six times in a row. I still needed to kill time. My hands were trembling a bit now.
There had to be somewhere that I could hang out without spending money. It didn't help, throwing money away on so-called comfort items. The newish public library seemed like a good place to hideout for a bit. I got there and still couldn't concentrate well enough to distract myself with reading. My bowels were about to hit the tarmack. Why didn't anybody tell me that the big city's public library restrooms are bath houses for transients and freaks? I get in there and am greeted by a bunch of men giving themselves the sorriest of sponge baths with shredding paper towels. One toilet stall with a dogeared GQ, all the good pages with easy access, and cum on the toilet seat, I couldn't deliver my "shipment" to the C.H.U.D.. The time was coming. I had to move.
Strange air moves in and out of your lungs when your mind tries to fight the urge to run. It's like a chemical taints everything and you can taste blood. I thought of the time when I was going through my last cycle of chemotherapy, my white blood cell count was always at dangerous levels. I was having severe anxiety problems. Seeing a movie could turn into a horrifying experience where I could feel everyone's germs. Absolutely crippling fright would penetrate my mind, my heart rate would skyrocket, and my digestion, well, let's not get into that. All I could think about was how soon I could get out of there, wash my face and hands, and get home to take my temperature. About the air, I could feel it again. I couldn't go through that again. No more of that.
No more of feeling like I was slowly dying and losing control. No more wondering how I was going to manage things if I had to go on the more extreme treatment regiment. No more fear of the alien growing inside me. No more. I just couldn't anymore.
Sure, I told people I'd fight again. Yeah, I lied to myself as well. But driving up to the top of the hill had me thinking of ways out. I thought I had that sort of thing under my thumb. No, I'd fight, but if I died I would then make sure that this went to that person and these things were given out to those people. What would I write to whom? How would I divide up my life insurance without people feeling left out? I am insured well. I haven't written a living will yet, so I'd use the hospital's patient services to help me out there as well as visit my appointed social worker. Why didn't any of my family remember this time to make sure I wasn't alone? I guess I could have done a better job of asking. Why am I thinking like this? I still haven't had my labs drawn yet.
The receptionist that I've counted on for support wasn't in today. I wanted to show off my hair and get some comforting words. My eyes are really good at melting her wedding band away. It's not my fault that my middle name is David. "Why are all the good ones taken?" is such a cop out. That shit stopped when I realized that my pathetic inner murmurs were gaining weight. Another co-pay, out $35 instead of $25 because my oncologists are specialists. Why can't that pay for the labs as well? I'd be screwed unbelievably without my medical insurance, but these co-pays, deductibles, and fees add up. The nurse calls me in for labs.
My portacath works great, the phlebologist tells me. I give her my story and she tells me that she hopes for the best. I wonder if she'll be my last person to access my port or if I'm open for business again. My weight was good and my blood pressure was 112 over 66, no fever. How can a person be dying with these stats? The exam room had two cranberry juices and a cup of ice. The nurse remembered what I liked. Did she know something I didn't? Was this to help me take the bad news, or somehow a celebration? What would the faces of my oncologists tell me? I'm only seeing the one? Why? Is that a bad thing? I'm glad I brought my guitar mag with me. The nurse said my doctor would be right in.
She wears her doctor's face well. I couldn't get a preemptive read on the situation. Her clipboard was buried into her chest, like I would be able to spy a happy or sad face on the paper. Naw, they usually say something unbelievabley untactful the moment the open the door when it's bad news, something like, "Here are your options", or, "So, the good news is that we think we can try something different this time." No, none of that. I got this, "We are re-classifying you as 'C.R.'" Then her composure slipped and a big grin came across her face as she explained, "You are in complete recovery." Thank you medical science. Thank you God. Thank you, the two genius women who put their hands down my pants so many times and made sure that the poison cured me instead of killed me. I could never figure out why their hands went down my pants so many times. The cancer was in my neck and chest. I guess my co-pay wasn't enough.
In case you didn't glean from my stylistic account of things, I am now in remission from my Hodgkin's stage IIBX nodular sclerosing lymphoma. w00t! The area of concern shrunk considerably since it was last doing scary things. The other lymphnodes went down as well. It was really nice to see my brain and heart doing all the heavy metabolising again and not my whole neck and chest cavity hosting the hungry-hungry cancer hippos. Take mine and Burt Renyold's advice: you have not found a new way of losing weight--you are dying. Go see a doctor. That is where the battle is won--early detection.
What I didn't mention was the flip out I had in the exam room when my doctor told me the good news. I jumped up and down, pumping my fists, and yelled "Yes! Freaking YES!!!" I felt like Tom Cruise on Oprah. My doctor told me that she did about the same thing when she looked at the scans. They really did agonize over me. I feel more than lucky. I feel blessed.
I go in on Tuesday for surgery. I get to have my port removed. I'm going to bring a pickle jar and have the surgeons put it in there for me. Hell, I paid good money for that thing and it's been a part of me for over a year now. I'll need your help in naming him/her.
Anyways, it's been a long year+ for me. I'm happy it is now over for the most part. I guess I was right about these years of my life coming to define me. I am the victor.
So, I went in for my PET scan today (Tuesday) and it went like it should. The only thing that I'm worried about was that I had fallen asleep while I was strapped onto the table during scanning and I woke up with, well, morning wood. I've been wondering if that will show up on the scan. If it does, will my two women oncologists wonder about it? I mean, I find the whir of medical equipment to be highly erotic. Don't judge me.
While I was waiting for the scan to get over (metabolizing the radioactive glucose takes about 80 min and the scan takes about 40 min) I came up with a revolutionary idea: arm rests that strap onto your belt--you know, for when your arms get tired or need support. Hell, I even thought of adding a cup holder. I think this idea will catch on. Patent pending, bustas!
I am trying real hard to come up with my own street talk--bust a cap, etc. So, I figure that one could say something like, "I need to bust a shit" or "I'm gonna get my shit on (off)". Or, how about this one, "I needs to catch a turtle in a bear trap, y'all". You can all officially call me G-Runt from now on.
I blame all of this wackiness on lacquer fumes. I've finally got around to working on my guitar project. I'm calling it the "No" Nocaster. A little history lesson is coming. Are you ready? When Fender brought out the Esquire and Broadcaster series of guitars in 1949, they had a problem: Gretsch already had a line of drums with the registered name of "Broadkaster" and Fender had to pull their name "Broadcaster" off of their guitars in order to dodge legal action. There was a period of time between 1950-'51 where there was only "Fender" on the headstock of the dual pickup solid body guitars, hence, the unofficial tag "Nocaster" was given to these guitars by people who sought them out. Eventually, the name "Telecaster" was chosen, as Leo Fender wanted a futuristic name attatched to his guitar model (Tele=television). So, my guitar project will follow the Nocaster spirit, only one step further. The bridge plate and neck are Fender licensed parts, but the rest is aftermarket or made, so it really isn't a Fender at all. It is my guitar, not Fender's. So, it is the "No" Nocaster. There will be no logo on the headstock. I think it will be better this way. Ayways, I'm done with the sand-sealer and will be moving on to the color coats soon. I will post pictures when it starts looking like something.
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