Not My Username
A man calls out to us from up ahead. A dime seems like an odd amount to panhandle for. Do they even make dimes anymore? Bernadette finds some change while I finger what I think may be a dollar bill but turns out to be a piece of paper with my username and password for Pandora One. I'm not giving that away. I find thirty one cents and place it in his crusty black hand and by doing so save us from the sermon. The man behind us, who gives nothing, gets the sermon, which we, walking, almost to the corner now where we will turn into a restaurant (I'm no Bennet Cerf), can hear with crystal clarity, almost cringing now on the front row, wooden pew meets bony ass, underarms itch with embarrassment because I know he's talking right to me. If you exit to the east at dinner time this is going to happen. Exit to the west not so much.
...more recent posts
What I Got For Christmas
It wasn't that bad. There was a little bait and switch pricing two hours before surgery but we worked that out--to my detriment--and it was no time at all before they had me gowned up (the orderly gave me an extra pair of non-skid socks as souvenir) and were shoving release forms up in my face to sign and marking me with indelible markers so they didn't screw up and cut me on the wrong side. On the operating table they slid off my hospital issue draw string pants right before turning on the demerol stream and that was the last I saw of them. They weren't in my bag when I got home and I am formally listing that as a regret. I really wanted those draw string hospital pants. I had looked into a future which had me lounging in them.
I'm normally a 118 over 75 kind of guy but immediately after the negotiations with Beth Israel's finance department a nurse took a reading and I was 148 over 98 or thereabouts. I told her no, I am not a sufferer of high blood pressure, I think what is happening is my blood pressure reading is selling me out, belying my calm demeanor to say--hey this guy is really upset about being screwed out of 3 or 4 thousand dollars an hour or two before going under the knife for the first time in his life. That's my estimation of the situation. The nurse was understanding and said we would not worry about my blood pressure. I gave her my height and weight too. It seems nowadays they just trust you with that information rather than going to the trouble of actually using measuring devices. I rounded my height down by a half inch and my weight up by five pounds because I am tall and thin enough to benefit from the adjustment. I got my temperature taken with one of those thermometers that seems like a large rollerball pen they just trace across your forehead, from temple to temple and that's it. Such a thing as this thermometer defines a modernness that I always hoped I would see, especially as it appears I will not (nor will any of us) live long enough to see the mass production of flying cars.
After years of delay I had a month or two ago started this medical forward movement to address a situation that while not life threatening or even necessary to deal with in the strictest sense, was however causing me some discomfort both physically and emotionally. And to exacerbate my general ease with inaction, every doctor that has studied me over the last couple of years has made it clear by one expression or another that I have really shown a level of procrastination worthy of standing ovation applause, if procrastination were a rock band for which you camped out overnight to get tickets and then you ingested three or four mushroom caps and there was a light show and you literally cried because it was all so beautiful.
I will get to the point and say that the original procedure of concern was that of excising a hydrocele. A hydrocele is fluid in the nut sack and is common with infants but I have always been a late bloomer so I was dealing with mine as a fifty two year old man.
I don't really have any doctors I consider my own so I got a reference from Bernadette's primary care physician for a urologist here in New York. The last time I almost took care of this was in North Carolina when I had that kidney stone during the renovation of my rental property, two or three years ago. The doctors at Duke said they could take care of it for me but I let days and months pass and could never find what seemed like a good time for what is on some level a two or three month recuperation. And then I just kept getting farther and farther from North Carolina so it never made sense to do it there.
The urologist said it appeared I also had a hernia so he sent me to a general surgeon who does that sort of thing and we all got together and decided it would be logical to do the two procedures at once.
They didn't even have me count backward. When the anesthesiologist turned on that drip it was almost instantaneous bliss, which I got to experience for what seemed like three or four seconds before I was under and they started shaving and slicing and inserting mesh and stitching up and then tag your it, my urologist did his thing down there. I highly recommend not researching the subject too carefully unless you are in the market for such a procedure yourself, or, you have a fetish that way. It is a fairly gruesome thing. I was at a party the other night and there was a very experienced nurse in attendance and I mentioned the procedure by name--hydrocelectomy--and she winced, if that tells you anything. Of course there are far worse ailments and surgeries and predicaments in a life so there is always the perspective of that. That's right, I am grateful.
I got some Percocets to take home with me and I thought that was a silver lining to the whole thing. Until after three or four days of taking five or six a day I got the first sense that I may have to deal with the constipation issue.
What happened, it seems, is that someone snuck in here one night during my opiate dream and inserted a fair length of two by four up my ass. And so I would never shit again. That was obvious. I had been prepping for this possibility even before surgery by removing red meat from my diet, increasing my fiber intake, etc., and then after surgery I was continuing to eat high fiber, was drinking prune juice, ingesting vitamin C, taking softeners, and eventually a laxative and--nothing, but discomfort and a growing sense of dread.
On Christmas eve night, after attending briefly the party across the hall, I spent ten hours of shear hell in the bathroom with zero result. Christmas night was a repeat of that, with pacing and jiggling and weird hula dancing type movements and massaging my now hugely bloated belly trying to make something happen. All for naught.
On the day after Christmas I was sort of like a broken man. If I possessed any state secrets I would have given them up for the chance to empty my bowels.
In addition to this discomfort I was also still post op from two cuts in my body, both near and affecting the necessary muscles one needs to pass solid waste, and the liquid for that matter. Also, on those many occasions when I had to stand up or sit down or get in and out of bed there would sometimes be the sensation of having a rusty icepick inserted decisively into my left testicle. So that was nice. In the sense that it took my mind off the constipation. Whenever I was in the mood to be careful I could be seen, or not, shuffling bent over at the waist around the apartment, because that seemed to offer the least chance of pain.
I wept a couple of times just because I wasn't happy.
But its doable obviously, all of it, so don't let any of this discourage you if you are in the market for a hernia repair and hydrocele excision on the same day.
In the end it was a store bought enema product that did the trick. And although there was howling and huffing and puffing and tears that seemed to just pop from my eyeballs onto the floor between my legs propped up on an empty le Creuset box, not like crying at all, and I must say there were two or three actual screams, ones like I've never heard from out of me, but after about three hours there was one final explosion and then I was calm in a way that is familiar and now I'm back to just run of the mill pain, which I manage mostly without outside aide. I have a few percs left and I will once a day or less eat one just for the fun of it.
It wasn't that bad. There was a little bait and switch pricing two hours before surgery but we worked that out--to my detriment--and it was no time at all before they had me gowned up (the orderly gave me an extra pair of non-skid socks as souvenir) and were shoving release forms up in my face to sign and marking me with indelible markers so they didn't screw up and cut me on the wrong side. On the operating table they slid off my hospital issue draw string pants right before turning on the demerol stream and that was the last I saw of them. They weren't in my bag when I got home and I am formally listing that as a regret. I really wanted those draw string hospital pants. I had looked into a future which had me lounging in them.
I'm normally a 118 over 75 kind of guy but immediately after the negotiations with Beth Israel's finance department a nurse took a reading and I was 148 over 98 or thereabouts. I told her no, I am not a sufferer of high blood pressure, I think what is happening is my blood pressure reading is selling me out, belying my calm demeanor to say--hey this guy is really upset about being screwed out of 3 or 4 thousand dollars an hour or two before going under the knife for the first time in his life. That's my estimation of the situation. The nurse was understanding and said we would not worry about my blood pressure. I gave her my height and weight too. It seems nowadays they just trust you with that information rather than going to the trouble of actually using measuring devices. I rounded my height down by a half inch and my weight up by five pounds because I am tall and thin enough to benefit from the adjustment. I got my temperature taken with one of those thermometers that seems like a large rollerball pen they just trace across your forehead, from temple to temple and that's it. Such a thing as this thermometer defines a modernness that I always hoped I would see, especially as it appears I will not (nor will any of us) live long enough to see the mass production of flying cars.
After years of delay I had a month or two ago started this medical forward movement to address a situation that while not life threatening or even necessary to deal with in the strictest sense, was however causing me some discomfort both physically and emotionally. And to exacerbate my general ease with inaction, every doctor that has studied me over the last couple of years has made it clear by one expression or another that I have really shown a level of procrastination worthy of standing ovation applause, if procrastination were a rock band for which you camped out overnight to get tickets and then you ingested three or four mushroom caps and there was a light show and you literally cried because it was all so beautiful.
I will get to the point and say that the original procedure of concern was that of excising a hydrocele. A hydrocele is fluid in the nut sack and is common with infants but I have always been a late bloomer so I was dealing with mine as a fifty two year old man.
I don't really have any doctors I consider my own so I got a reference from Bernadette's primary care physician for a urologist here in New York. The last time I almost took care of this was in North Carolina when I had that kidney stone during the renovation of my rental property, two or three years ago. The doctors at Duke said they could take care of it for me but I let days and months pass and could never find what seemed like a good time for what is on some level a two or three month recuperation. And then I just kept getting farther and farther from North Carolina so it never made sense to do it there.
The urologist said it appeared I also had a hernia so he sent me to a general surgeon who does that sort of thing and we all got together and decided it would be logical to do the two procedures at once.
They didn't even have me count backward. When the anesthesiologist turned on that drip it was almost instantaneous bliss, which I got to experience for what seemed like three or four seconds before I was under and they started shaving and slicing and inserting mesh and stitching up and then tag your it, my urologist did his thing down there. I highly recommend not researching the subject too carefully unless you are in the market for such a procedure yourself, or, you have a fetish that way. It is a fairly gruesome thing. I was at a party the other night and there was a very experienced nurse in attendance and I mentioned the procedure by name--hydrocelectomy--and she winced, if that tells you anything. Of course there are far worse ailments and surgeries and predicaments in a life so there is always the perspective of that. That's right, I am grateful.
I got some Percocets to take home with me and I thought that was a silver lining to the whole thing. Until after three or four days of taking five or six a day I got the first sense that I may have to deal with the constipation issue.
What happened, it seems, is that someone snuck in here one night during my opiate dream and inserted a fair length of two by four up my ass. And so I would never shit again. That was obvious. I had been prepping for this possibility even before surgery by removing red meat from my diet, increasing my fiber intake, etc., and then after surgery I was continuing to eat high fiber, was drinking prune juice, ingesting vitamin C, taking softeners, and eventually a laxative and--nothing, but discomfort and a growing sense of dread.
On Christmas eve night, after attending briefly the party across the hall, I spent ten hours of shear hell in the bathroom with zero result. Christmas night was a repeat of that, with pacing and jiggling and weird hula dancing type movements and massaging my now hugely bloated belly trying to make something happen. All for naught.
On the day after Christmas I was sort of like a broken man. If I possessed any state secrets I would have given them up for the chance to empty my bowels.
In addition to this discomfort I was also still post op from two cuts in my body, both near and affecting the necessary muscles one needs to pass solid waste, and the liquid for that matter. Also, on those many occasions when I had to stand up or sit down or get in and out of bed there would sometimes be the sensation of having a rusty icepick inserted decisively into my left testicle. So that was nice. In the sense that it took my mind off the constipation. Whenever I was in the mood to be careful I could be seen, or not, shuffling bent over at the waist around the apartment, because that seemed to offer the least chance of pain.
I wept a couple of times just because I wasn't happy.
But its doable obviously, all of it, so don't let any of this discourage you if you are in the market for a hernia repair and hydrocele excision on the same day.
In the end it was a store bought enema product that did the trick. And although there was howling and huffing and puffing and tears that seemed to just pop from my eyeballs onto the floor between my legs propped up on an empty le Creuset box, not like crying at all, and I must say there were two or three actual screams, ones like I've never heard from out of me, but after about three hours there was one final explosion and then I was calm in a way that is familiar and now I'm back to just run of the mill pain, which I manage mostly without outside aide. I have a few percs left and I will once a day or less eat one just for the fun of it.
Things To Remember
7:30--the sun will apparently not be coming up today. 8:00--remove mouse carcasses from traps set last night. 8:15--mouse poop cannot be left unattended indefinitely. 9:00--that is not a real snake. you bought it at Miss. truck stop. 9:24--just because you can sit down anytime you want to, doesn't mean you should. 9:35--wash hands frequently. 9:42--the north wind blows coldly across Mt. Pleasant. 9:59--you have a fairly good understanding of the meaning behind when the cat's away the mice will play. 10:15--if cleanliness is next to godliness you are getting closer to God. 12:09--you should tackle the pantry now. 12:10--don't forget to eat. 12:11--bleh, this is probably why you don't clean so often. 12:30--the best responses to Bernadette's if she were here probable assertion that little debbies are not a proper lunch are 1., yes they are, or 2., whatever.
7:30--the sun will apparently not be coming up today. 8:00--remove mouse carcasses from traps set last night. 8:15--mouse poop cannot be left unattended indefinitely. 9:00--that is not a real snake. you bought it at Miss. truck stop. 9:24--just because you can sit down anytime you want to, doesn't mean you should. 9:35--wash hands frequently. 9:42--the north wind blows coldly across Mt. Pleasant. 9:59--you have a fairly good understanding of the meaning behind when the cat's away the mice will play. 10:15--if cleanliness is next to godliness you are getting closer to God. 12:09--you should tackle the pantry now. 12:10--don't forget to eat. 12:11--bleh, this is probably why you don't clean so often. 12:30--the best responses to Bernadette's if she were here probable assertion that little debbies are not a proper lunch are 1., yes they are, or 2., whatever.
A Weekday
I was keeping to the middle of the street to avoid the rats. Walking without much concern for traffic at 6 a.m. I did not like the idea of starting the day with any kind of physical contact with rodents. The rodent I allow has not so much interest in contacting me either. But the possibility for accidental touching remains high. High as a trash heap. Please, startled from your trash heap dreams do not brush against the shoulder of my ankle. I beg of you to not run your gray lumpy self over my paint-splattered hiking boots. Instead of all that pleading I just walk in the middle of the street, where the heavy gray skittering from say beneath a Chevy is less frequent than up on the sidewalk.
In the afternoon coming back from Long Island with more paint splattered not only on the boots I brake as part of the two mile long rubber-necking procession and enjoy as we all do a good car fire, hood engulfed in the yellow orange blaze, tires catching now, just passing right along and rolling down all the windows to remove from the deeper recesses of my cavernous nostrils the smell of freshly burnt rubber. The fireman had been opening the back door and I spent the next few miles imagining what may have been in the back seat. There was always a stuffed animal.
Back up in a fifth floor sanctuary hearing from beyond the blue building the progressively more persistent whirring of helicopter blades over Wall Street I take a nap.
I was keeping to the middle of the street to avoid the rats. Walking without much concern for traffic at 6 a.m. I did not like the idea of starting the day with any kind of physical contact with rodents. The rodent I allow has not so much interest in contacting me either. But the possibility for accidental touching remains high. High as a trash heap. Please, startled from your trash heap dreams do not brush against the shoulder of my ankle. I beg of you to not run your gray lumpy self over my paint-splattered hiking boots. Instead of all that pleading I just walk in the middle of the street, where the heavy gray skittering from say beneath a Chevy is less frequent than up on the sidewalk.
In the afternoon coming back from Long Island with more paint splattered not only on the boots I brake as part of the two mile long rubber-necking procession and enjoy as we all do a good car fire, hood engulfed in the yellow orange blaze, tires catching now, just passing right along and rolling down all the windows to remove from the deeper recesses of my cavernous nostrils the smell of freshly burnt rubber. The fireman had been opening the back door and I spent the next few miles imagining what may have been in the back seat. There was always a stuffed animal.
Back up in a fifth floor sanctuary hearing from beyond the blue building the progressively more persistent whirring of helicopter blades over Wall Street I take a nap.
News Copter
Up To Your Ankles
In New York early this morning near hurricane strength gusts of wind ripped through the city bringing down leaves from trees to come crashing wetly down on vehicles below, in some cases sticking to windshields or even sunroofs.
The devastation was felt citywide, trashcans not emptied of their refuse prior to the storm gave up their contents to a greedy and less than fastidious Irene, who set about spreading wrappers and brown paper bags hither and thither.
In lower lying areas of southern Manhattan the flooding was widespread, if measured in inches. The brave and curious could be seen wading in water up to their ankles and in some cases mid thigh.
A city torn apart by worry and meteorological speculation now rebuilds.
In New York early this morning near hurricane strength gusts of wind ripped through the city bringing down leaves from trees to come crashing wetly down on vehicles below, in some cases sticking to windshields or even sunroofs.
The devastation was felt citywide, trashcans not emptied of their refuse prior to the storm gave up their contents to a greedy and less than fastidious Irene, who set about spreading wrappers and brown paper bags hither and thither.
In lower lying areas of southern Manhattan the flooding was widespread, if measured in inches. The brave and curious could be seen wading in water up to their ankles and in some cases mid thigh.
A city torn apart by worry and meteorological speculation now rebuilds.
The Irene After
Instead Of Dessert
We stopped off for dinner in Cleveland at some well reviewed place which was only adequate but had a nice meal until the alcohol and 10 hours of driving kicked in and then we arm wrestled a little bit instead of looking at the dessert menu.
But did enjoy Cleveland for a couple of hours exploring on a rainy Sunday. Drove around, went to a park and looked at the black sky over Lake Erie.
Got back on the road after the early dinner and headed straight for Toledo, Ohio which I have been eager to add to list of places I can answer affirmatively about when asked have I been there. Yes I have I smiled knowingly.
We are off to a written about diner somewhere here in Toledo and then to Dearborn to commune with its Arabic population, and have what I strongly feel will be excellent Middle Eastern for lunch and fit in between these a visit to the Henry Ford Museum so I can take a look at the limousine inside of which President Kennedy was killed.
Then to Detroit for a few days before driving back to NY possibly in the rain again which was not so bad once we replaced the windshield wiper and Interstate 80 is a fine piece of road and western PA is pretty kick ass.
We stopped off for dinner in Cleveland at some well reviewed place which was only adequate but had a nice meal until the alcohol and 10 hours of driving kicked in and then we arm wrestled a little bit instead of looking at the dessert menu.
But did enjoy Cleveland for a couple of hours exploring on a rainy Sunday. Drove around, went to a park and looked at the black sky over Lake Erie.
Got back on the road after the early dinner and headed straight for Toledo, Ohio which I have been eager to add to list of places I can answer affirmatively about when asked have I been there. Yes I have I smiled knowingly.
We are off to a written about diner somewhere here in Toledo and then to Dearborn to commune with its Arabic population, and have what I strongly feel will be excellent Middle Eastern for lunch and fit in between these a visit to the Henry Ford Museum so I can take a look at the limousine inside of which President Kennedy was killed.
Then to Detroit for a few days before driving back to NY possibly in the rain again which was not so bad once we replaced the windshield wiper and Interstate 80 is a fine piece of road and western PA is pretty kick ass.
No Mention Of Pepsi
To the naked eye of anyone who might gaze upon the scene of me it would probably not look like I am engaged in a crucially important task.
I am waiting for the phone to ring while reading an assortment of things, the novel Black Swan Green, news and feature articles (like I need to read someone's assessment of how pissed off the average American is at those that govern), some article about how Brooklyn (and possibly Detroit) wants to be careful about becoming Portland, another one about three plausible inventors of the High Five even though the first one is a hoax, which takes a brief foray into what it might mean to be a gay baseball player in the late 70s and to date Tommy Lasorda's son, even though the son, emphatically so says Coach Lasorda, was not gay.
As a passive barrier to the approaching afternoon sun the shades are drawn so gazing out the window is not an option.
I received a forwarded letter from Allstate informing me that their policy in North Carolina is to cancel the home insurance of any of their customers who don't also insure their vehicle with Allstate. I've wasted a number of days in pure befuddlement over how this could be so, another few in deep research, and the last several in casual but non forward moving acceptance of yet another thing added to the barrel of things that suck. Suck is as close as I am going to come to using foul language as partly this is an exercise in self control; an attempt at mature handling of a difficult situation.
I am finally this morning talking to a human from that aforementioned company, which I refer to in such anonymous fashion to prevent certain readers from looking for alternate meaning via secret between the lines coding as implied by repeated use of the company name. Like--see how he used the company name preceded by such and such a number of words whose total letter count adds up to such and such which if divided by three and subtracted from 37 equals cocksuckers. I don't want that to happen and I ask for mature reading only.
I thought I had received an actual email from the agent informing me of the whyfore of this policy change but as it turns out that was clearly just an automated personal sounding response activated when his inbox receives certain keywords. So I'm talking to him this morning and he has no actual knowledge that we have "communicated" by email and begins to go into the reasons for this new policy (even though I had not asked for any explanation) which are in short--blah blah limiting exposure in states with coastal areas blah and you can kiss our large ass if you don't like it. And I had to politely halt him midway through, not to inform him that I had already read the automated email and a considerably long assessment from a Lexus-Nexus type news database for financial matters, but just to say I had been in New Orleans after the big one and had certain feelings about the cocksuckers, I mean company, and how they limited their exposure but did not want to get sidetracked on that, was more just interested in the alternate insurance company mentioned in his email. I am not so interested in the specifics of how said company will one day screw me, just stupidly eager to add them to the list of things I can complain about in the future.
Sometimes I feel like I am following a path lined with little yellow lights and along which there are loudspeakers announcing--all dumb asses this way, all dumb assess this way, and even at the forks of implied choice the neon arrows pointing each way are above blinking Vegas-like signage redundantly leading me with the words, dumb asses only, dumb asses only. Eagerly walking and in some cases running ahead of me are any number of people more ambitious, some who turn and taunt--I'm going to be there ahead of you. When I ask where they answer ahead of you.
To the naked eye of anyone who might gaze upon the scene of me it would probably not look like I am engaged in a crucially important task.
I am waiting for the phone to ring while reading an assortment of things, the novel Black Swan Green, news and feature articles (like I need to read someone's assessment of how pissed off the average American is at those that govern), some article about how Brooklyn (and possibly Detroit) wants to be careful about becoming Portland, another one about three plausible inventors of the High Five even though the first one is a hoax, which takes a brief foray into what it might mean to be a gay baseball player in the late 70s and to date Tommy Lasorda's son, even though the son, emphatically so says Coach Lasorda, was not gay.
As a passive barrier to the approaching afternoon sun the shades are drawn so gazing out the window is not an option.
I received a forwarded letter from Allstate informing me that their policy in North Carolina is to cancel the home insurance of any of their customers who don't also insure their vehicle with Allstate. I've wasted a number of days in pure befuddlement over how this could be so, another few in deep research, and the last several in casual but non forward moving acceptance of yet another thing added to the barrel of things that suck. Suck is as close as I am going to come to using foul language as partly this is an exercise in self control; an attempt at mature handling of a difficult situation.
I am finally this morning talking to a human from that aforementioned company, which I refer to in such anonymous fashion to prevent certain readers from looking for alternate meaning via secret between the lines coding as implied by repeated use of the company name. Like--see how he used the company name preceded by such and such a number of words whose total letter count adds up to such and such which if divided by three and subtracted from 37 equals cocksuckers. I don't want that to happen and I ask for mature reading only.
I thought I had received an actual email from the agent informing me of the whyfore of this policy change but as it turns out that was clearly just an automated personal sounding response activated when his inbox receives certain keywords. So I'm talking to him this morning and he has no actual knowledge that we have "communicated" by email and begins to go into the reasons for this new policy (even though I had not asked for any explanation) which are in short--blah blah limiting exposure in states with coastal areas blah and you can kiss our large ass if you don't like it. And I had to politely halt him midway through, not to inform him that I had already read the automated email and a considerably long assessment from a Lexus-Nexus type news database for financial matters, but just to say I had been in New Orleans after the big one and had certain feelings about the cocksuckers, I mean company, and how they limited their exposure but did not want to get sidetracked on that, was more just interested in the alternate insurance company mentioned in his email. I am not so interested in the specifics of how said company will one day screw me, just stupidly eager to add them to the list of things I can complain about in the future.
Sometimes I feel like I am following a path lined with little yellow lights and along which there are loudspeakers announcing--all dumb asses this way, all dumb assess this way, and even at the forks of implied choice the neon arrows pointing each way are above blinking Vegas-like signage redundantly leading me with the words, dumb asses only, dumb asses only. Eagerly walking and in some cases running ahead of me are any number of people more ambitious, some who turn and taunt--I'm going to be there ahead of you. When I ask where they answer ahead of you.