6/29/14

Things can go wrong so quickly on Craigslist.

I am looking for an enlarger  -- a PHOTO enlarger, to clarify (I know my readers.)  Since they're heavy and shipping is expensive, I wasn't having much luck finding something affordable on eBay, so I decided to try Craigslist. There were quite a few to choose from,  so I ended up sending maybe a dozen e-mail messages with various questions for the sellers because not all the descriptions included everything I needed to know to make an informed buying decision.  Unfortunately, I  inadvertently confused one ad with the other and had the unmitigated gall to ask a question regarding something that was plainly mentioned in the ad description.  Here's how it went:

On Jun 27, 2014, at 10:57 PM, Johnny Virgil wrote:

Is this gone or still for sale? Thanks!

http://hudsonvalley.craigslist.org/pho/4525227924.html

On Jun 28, 2014, at 4:35 PM, "craigslist 4525227924" wrote: 

Yes. I still have it.

On Sat, Jun 28, 2014 at 9:28 AM, Johnny Virgil <5f667e5318e33f14b5c3617fd5a1f542 reply.craigslist.org=""> wrote:

Dichro head or condenser?  Any pictures you can send?  Thanks.

On Jun 28, 2014, at 4:35 PM, "craigslist 4525227924" wrote:

Condenser head. No photos. Enlarger is in very nice condition. No rust, no corrosion. Unused and covered in a dry environment for the past eight years.

On Sat, Jun 28, 2014 at 4:58 PM, craigslist reply 5f66 <5f667e5318e33f14b5c3617fd5a1f542 reply.craigslist.org=""> wrote:

Sounds good. One last question, if I may. Any negative carrier?

On Jun 29, 2014, at 10:20 AM, "craigslist 4525227924" wrote:

Johnny, I don't need a pen pal. Read the ad !

On Sun, Jun 29, 2014 at 10:46 AM, Johnny Virgil <5f667e5318e33f14b5c3617fd5a1f542 reply.craigslist.org=""> wrote:

Good luck selling it, dick.

On Jun 29, 2014, at 12:20 PM, "craigslist 4525227924" wrote:

Poor little Johnny, no friends, craves human contact so he has to respond to Craig's List ads. Your daddy have to tie a pork chop around your neck so the dog will play with you?

On Sun, Jun 29, 2014 at 1:46 PM, Johnny Virgil <5f667e5318e33f14b5c3617fd5a1f542 reply.craigslist.org=""> wrote:

I don't need a pen pal either. Have a nice life.

So far, nothing further, so I assume he's having a nice life.

I'm pretty bad at Craigslist.


6/17/14

You keep saying that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

Well, hello there. Is this place still open?

I've been MIA lately, I know.   It seems the less I write, the less I feel like writing, so I have to do something about that, because I really do like writing.  So I have a story to tell you.  I spent $27,500 dollars about a month or so ago.  I would like to say I purchased a new car, or put an addition on my house or even spent it on hookers and blow, but no.  I spent it for a single night's accommodations in a drafty room in the city so a burly guy named Steve with a tattoo on his neck could offer me injectable drugs. Yes, I spent a 27K on a single night in the hospital.

And the kicker is, I did it of my own free will.  It's not like I woke up in the hospital and the last thing I remembered was the grill of an 18 wheeler coming through my living room wall.  In fact, I came so close to not even going to the emergency room that I'm still kicking myself in the ass for not playing the odds.

So let me tell you what happened, and you can decide if I'm an idiot or not.

About five years ago, I was watching TV and my eyes decided they couldn't take another minute of Sons of Anarchy, and they checked out.  My vision went all funky, and I had zero peripheral vision.   I thought I was having a stroke or something, so off to the ER we went.

By the time we got to the hospital, I was fine. They checked me out, gave me a CT Scan, had an eye guy look me over, and sent me home with a diagnosis of ocular migraine (migraine with aura, if you want to get all medical about it) and instructions to see an eye specialist for a follow up, just to make sure it wasn't anything with my eyeball nerves.  After that checked out fine too, I was given the all clear, and told it might be a one-time thing.

Well, it turned out that it wasn't a one-time thing.  It's continued to happen once every four or five months for the last couple of years.  So I'm pretty familiar with the regular symptoms.  Basically what happens is that I'll be minding my own business and suddenly I'll notice that it's difficult to read small type, because the center of my vision looks like it has sparkles in it.  Remember when you were a kid and you pressed your palms to your eyeballs until it looked like white static? And then it took your vision a few seconds to come back?  Like that.*  Eventually, with my particular brand of migraine, after about ten or fifteen minutes, the sparkly part starts expanding into a ring, and it gets wider and wider until it's at the edges of my vision.  Then it goes away and I have a slight headache for a few hours.  It helps to take a couple of aspirin as soon as it starts.

A couple of months ago, I was sitting in my office working on the computer and I felt a migraine coming on. It was getting hard to read the screen, so  I sighed, stood up, walked to the bathroom and downed a couple of aspirin and went out to the living room to wait it out. My wife was home that day,  and I told her I was having a migraine and I just took a couple of aspirin, but talking felt a little...strange.  Like I knew what I wanted to say, but it was really hard to get it out of my mouth.  You know that feeling when the exact word you want is on the tip of your tongue but you can't remember it? It was exactly nothing like that. I could remember the words, but it took me a few seconds to wrap my tongue around them.

So that was weird.  My wife was engrossed in a difficult and arcane knitting ritual, so she really wasn't paying much attention and just said, "Mmm hmm," and went back to tying complex knots in string with large needles.  I walked back to my office, and for absolutely no reason at all, I turned on my iphone and opened up the BBC and picked an article at random.  I don't even remember what it was, but I started reading it out loud.  The results were hilarious, and truthfully, a little alarming.  So for instance, my eyes read and understood this:

These two features of a perceiving system – sensitivity and bias – are always present and independent of each other.

But my mouth said this:

These two feet of a principal dragon – sensitivity and blenders – are aluminum car wax in presence of three otters.

I tried again, more slowly. I found that if I concentrated on each and every word, I could get through it, but if I tried to read at a normal rate, all sorts of random hell would break loose.  My mouth was saying real words, but together they made no sense.  This continued for about a minute or two.

I walked back into the living room and said, "I'm not 100% on this, but I'm thinking maybe I should have you bring me to the emergency room, because I just had this weird thing happen where I tried reading out loud, but my mouth wasn't saying what my brain was reading, if that makes any sense."

My wife looked at me strangely and for a second I thought I had been spouting gibberish, but then she said, "OK, let's go."  When she stood up to change out of her pajamas I waffled a bit, since I seemed completely fine, but then after a few minutes of discussion, we decided it was better to be safe than sorry since this was something I hadn't experienced before. (But to be fair, I had never tried to read out loud or talk to anyone while I was having a migraine before so it could have been completely normal.  I usually just crash on the couch for a half hour and try to rest.)

So off we went.  I'll fast-forward through the part where we went to our local hospital and they told me that they'd need to send me to a different, better hospital since they had no neurologists on staff, and that I'd have to go by ambulance for liability reasons, and I told them to go fuck themselves - we were driving, and they made me sign a piece of paper saying that I absolve them of any liability if I took a dirt nap on the highway between the two locations, and then they sent me on my way. That little cursory examination and push out the door, I found out later, was going to cost me close to two grand.

When we walked in to what I shall refer to from now on as the "real" hospital, I told them I was a transfer patient and handed them the papers we got from the fake hospital full of sick people I feel sorry for now because I'm putting their odds at 50/50.  Since the paper said, "Possible TIA" they were all over my ass thinking I had a mini-stroke.  They asked me a ton of questions about weakness and blurred vision, dizziness and slurred speech and whether or not I could smile and stick out my tongue and touch my finger to my nose with my eyes closed -- all of which I answered with a string of "No's" because it was all the same shit I ran through myself five minutes into the episode because I know all about TIAs.  They asked me if I had taken any medication, and then they immediately stuck me on a stretcher and brought me to get my head irradiated by a CT Scan.

I asked them if they could give me an MRI instead, because I'm generally opposed to the amount of radiation they use in a CT, and they said that no, the CT was better at making sure I didn't have any bleeds in my brain.  (I didn't feel like my brain was bleeding, but who am I to say?  How would I know? They could have said, "We'd like to make sure your spleen isn't smoking" and I would have believed that too.)  After that, they took me back to the ER and dumped me there, and I watched some TV and waited for the doctor to show up, wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

When the doctor came in, he was followed by about eight students (this is a teaching hospital/|med school) and they all crowded around me in this tiny room that was barely big enough for a bed and a chair.  He introduced himself as Dr. Mallory, and said he was the chief neurologist on staff.  He told me that the initial CT scan looked good, and we talked about what happened.  This was now about the third time I had told this particular story, so I was getting the short version down pat, but holy shit, this was like public speaking inside a crowded elevator.  I could feel myself getting nervous, and I stumbled over my words a little bit, like I usually do if I'm tricked into public speaking.

"Did you suffer any weakness?" He asked.  "Any dizziness?"

"No," I said. "No dizziness, no weakness, no mental confusion.  I even went into the bathroom and stuck my tongue out at the mirror.  I did the eyes-closed, nose-touch test, the smile test, walked on my heels, all that crap."

I had realized what I said, and amended it sheepishly. "Well, not that I think it's necessarily crap, I just meant that..you know...that it's..." and I stopped talking, since I knew I was just digging myself deeper.  He turned to the crowd of students and in a sad voice said,  "My life's work is crap,"  and all his students cracked up.  I liked this guy.

The next thing he did was point to his stethoscope and say, "What's this?"  I looked at him strangely for a second. "Don't they teach you guys that in med school on pretty much the first day?" I asked.  He laughed and explained that with aphasia, there is sometimes a lingering difficulty finding the right word for something. So instead of saying "Stethoscope" I might have answered "thing you listen to heartbeats with" or something similar.  So after he explained what he was doing, things went a little more smoothly.

"What's this?"
"A pen."
"This?"
"Your necktie."
"This?"
"Your fist."
"This?"
"Your finger."
"This?"
"Your cuticle."
He pointed at it again, and said, "What is it?"  I started to panic. He was clearly pointing at his cuticle.  It was like a game of charades and suddenly I felt like I was losing. Shit! Another name for cuticle. Think, man! 
"Your lunula?" I asked, hesitantly.
He looked at me questioningly.
"Scrabble," I said.
"Ah.  The more general term?"
"WAIT! I GOT IT! FINGERNAIL!"
"Correct!"
"YES!" I said, and pumped my fists. Then I went for the high-five but he left me hanging. I bet if his students hadn't been there, he totally would have gone for it.

Convinced that there were no after-effects, he said that he wanted to run some additional tests to completely rule out a mini-stroke. "You can either stay here for one night, and get them all over with, or you can schedule them over the course of three or four weeks and run around to appointments and wait for the results," he said.  "I recommend you stay. That way you can get it all done in one place, and we can observe you for 24 hours.  We'll bring you down for another CT Scan only this time we'll add contrast.  That will tell us if your vascularity is sound, and whether or not there are any blockages."

I agreed that sounded fine, although I wasn't crazy about another high dose of radiation.  (And I was sort of upset that he was questioning my vasculinity, but it turned out I just heard him wrong.)  Then I thought, Screw it, we're probably all dead from Fukushima anyway.  He said they were also going to do an ultrasound of my neck, an MRI of my head, and an echocardiogram, but probably not until the morning. I was going for the record.  The last time I had seen this many tests run on one person in a single day was on an episode of House.  I was just hoping it wasn't sarcoidosis.**

He said that after the second CT scan, they'd set me up with a room for the night, and he'd be back in the morning to check on things.  He turned and walked out, taking his gaggle of scrub-wearing goslings with him.

A few minutes later, after signing a bunch of papers I'll probably still regret someday, they made me sit down in a wheelchair so they could bring me down to imaging.

The second CT scan was uneventful, except for the injection of a radioactive isotope that rushes around in your bloodstream and lights up your blood vessels like a lantern.  I am not a fan of contrast.  I've had it a few times, and every time as they're injecting it, they say, "OK, this may make you feel like you have to pee," and every time it's a lie.  It doesn't really make you feel like you have to pee.  I think a better description would be, "OK, this may make you feel like your asshole is blushing furiously," but I supposed they'd get in trouble if they told you that.

After the second CT scan, they brought me to my new room.  

Unfortunately, the room they brought me to had a bed for people who can't get out of bed.  What that means is, in order to prevent blood clots and bedsores and other nasty things, the bed is constantly in motion.  It's blowing up and deflating at random points and random times, and laying on it makes you feel like someone gave you a nerve block from the neck down, then tied ropes to your arms and legs and turned you into an unwilling marionette.  Your arms and legs and back and ass are constantly in motion and while it's  moving it makes all the noises you'd expect.  Pump up! BRUP BRUP BRUP BRUP BRUP BRUP.  It's like someone put a bumper jack under my ass.  Then one leg. Then the other.    Deflate! PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSTTTTTTTTT...and everything drops down four inches and I sink into what feels like a half-inflated bouncy house.  PUMP UP! BRUP BRUP BRUP BRUP BRUP BRUP.  Sweet Jesus, what the hell is that giant lump between my shoulder blades?  PSSSSSSSSSSSTTTTTTTT.   Back into the deflated bouncy house.  I was laying there marveling at this technological torture device, trying to figure out if there was a way to get it to pump the hell up and stay there,  and that's when I met Steve for the first time.

He walked into the room and the first thing I saw was the shaved head and the no-necked bulk of someone who was probably 6' 2" and weighed 275.  Then I noticed the chinstrap beard, the earring and the job-stopper, in that order.  If you don't know, a "job-stopper" is what they call tattoos on the hands, face or neck. Usually, a tattoo like that means that the person in question has determined at some point in his or her life that they're not cut out for polite society.   I know tattoos have become more mainstream, and I myself have a single tattoo that means a lot to me, but as a general rule, you don't tattoo a bleeding skull with a snake coming out of its eye socket onto your neck and then go on to apply to medical school.   When Steve had first walked in the door, I initially assumed that he was a Russian mobster who had just killed the cop stationed outside his door, donned a stolen scrub top and made a wrong turn trying to escape the hospital. But then he introduced himself.

"My name is Steve.  I'll be taking care of you tonight," he said menacingly.  I just nodded and said, "OK," and sat up on the edge of the bed and put both feet on the floor in case I had to make a break for it.   I wasn't sure if he was going to be "taking care of me" in the traditional "Russian mob" sense, or in the traditional "new fish in the cell-block" sense, but either way I didn't like the sound of it.  Then he stuck his giant, ham-like fist in my face, and I flinched a little before I realized he was trying to shake my hand. Before I realized it, I had mine out too.  Damn you, automatic social niceties! He could have killed me right then.  Instead, he just shook my hand and then turned and slowly wrote his name on the dry-erase board in big block letters, four inches high, like I was five years old. Or like he was.  It could have gone either way.  He turned back around and said, "So what can I do for you?"  I was going to ask him to spare my life, but instead I said, "Can you get me some food?  I haven't eaten since 8:30 this morning."  It was now a little after 5pm.

"No can do," he said.  "Dinner trays won't be coming out for another hour or so," but I'll make sure they hit you up when they do the rounds.  Anything else?"

"Yeah.  Can you make this freakin' bed stop doing whatever the hell it's doing?  Can't you just unplug it or get it inflated and leave it there or something? There's no way I'm gonna be able to sleep on this nightmare."

"No can do," he said again.  That was kind of his go-to phrase.  "Unfortunately, these beds are for people who can't get out of bed."

"So you torture them with this, huh?  I asked. "Can't you unplug it?"

"Sure," he said.  "I can unplug it, but you're just gonna sink down to the hard metal underneath."

"OK, thanks.  I'll probably sleep in the recliner," I said.

"You wouldn't be the first," he said, and left my room to kill again.

About 30 minutes later, a nurse came in with a needle.  I eyed her suspiciously.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"Oh, we give this to everyone," she said, nonchalantly. "It's a shot in the stomach to prevent blood clots in your legs."  That got my attention, and I sat up.  "What do you mean, everyone?  There's no way in hell you're jamming that into my stomach," I said, still unbelieving.  "That's just crazy," I added. "People let you do that?"   I stood up next to the bed just in case she decided to call in a couple of orderlies to hold me down.

She said, "Yeah, you look pretty active, you probably don't need it."

"Yeah, no," I said, and began doing some jumping jacks for emphasis. "Take that away."

She held out some pills.  "These too?" she asked.

"What are those?"

"These help you...you know.  Move you bowels."  I must have hesitated for a second or two, because she dumbed it down for me.  "They make you poop," she added helpfully.

"Did someone tell you I couldn't poop?" I asked, confused.  Was there someone spreading rumors about me in the hall?  "Hey, pssssst.  You didn't hear this from me.  That stringy lookin' guy in room 6c ?  Yeah.  Poor bastard can't poop."

"Yeah, you can keep those too," I said.  "I have no pooping problems currently."

"Besides," I added, "I haven't eaten anything since 8:30 this morning.  Trust me, I have nothing that needs pooping."

"So no, then?" she asked, still trying to push her poop pills on any willing takers.  She must have had a quota.

"No!" I said. "Jesus. I'm fine in that particular department, thanks."

A couple hours later, Steve came back.  "Dude, where's my food?" I asked, the second he came through the door.  "I gotta eat something so I can poop for the nice lady."

"Bad news, man," he said.  "They're not gonna let you eat or drink until you pass the swallow test, and we don't have anyone here who can give you one tonight."

I wasn't sure what a swallow test was.  Is it a written test?  No, oral would make more sense.  I wasn't sure what sort of specialist they needed to round up, or why.  I just wanted some food; I wasn't auditioning for a porno.

"I swallow all the time," I said.  "In fact, I just swallowed a few minutes ago.  I ate some stale crackers out of my wife's coat pocket and even drank some tap water without any problems."

"Sorry, but there's nothing I can do," Steve said, apologetically. "They won't give you food until you have the test."

At this point, I was pissed.  "If I don't get some food, I'm gonna walk out of here and go to Starbucks across the street and buy one of their shitty, overpriced sandwiches," I said. "I'm serious."

He just shrugged and said, "Well, if you happened to get some food somehow and happened to eat it while I wasn't watching, I'd probably never even know."

Steve was OK in my book, and now I was committed to a shitty sandwich. My wife went out and came back with a sandwich and a coffee, and it was the best sandwich I ever ate.

After my wife left,  I was killing some time screwing around with my phone and watching TV, and they came and got me again. "Time for your MRI," the new female nurse said. This was at about 10:30 at night, and the hospital was more akin to a morgue at that point.  She wheeled me through the dark, mostly barren hallways to a room in the basement. This is it, I thought. This is when I disappear.

"Where's Steve?" I asked, missing my co-conspirator in flagrant disregard of the secret hospital swallow rules.

"Oh, he works second shift," she said. "He's gone for the day."

"Lucky bastard," I said, as they wheeled me into the darkened room and told me to get up on the table.

This was a long MRI.  The longest I've ever had, since they were doing both my neck and my head.  I think I actually fell asleep for a while, which, if you've ever had an MRI, is actually pretty impressive since it makes incredibly loud noises while you're in the machine.   Picture someone holding your head down next to a blender that someone else is throwing rocks into and hitting the Pulse button every two seconds for 45 minutes, and you'll be pretty close.

After the MRI, they wheeled me back up to my room, and surprise!  It was full of people, and there was a party going on.  All on behalf of my new roommate, Walter.  I only know this because six of his relatives kept saying his name at the top of their lungs, because poor old Walter was almost deaf and they were trying to get him to respond.  They had drawn the curtain between the beds, so I only glimpsed him as I passed by, since the bulk of the opening to his half of the room had been blocked by his relatives.  The poor guy was a mess.  Over the course of about an hour, I pieced together that he had suffered a stroke a year ago, and was in the hospital now for an apparent fall and the obligatory busted hip. He couldn't talk, he couldn't feed himself, hell -- he could barely move, and all he could do was make these gargling, hissing sounds with his throat.  Just kill me at that point.  Put me out of my misery.

By this time it was almost midnight, and the nurses were kicking his family out.  As they were leaving, one of the guys there to visit him stopped for a second at my curtain and looked in at me. "If I were you," he said, "I'd try to go to sleep before he does, because he snores pretty good."  Then he left.

"Snores pretty good" was kind of an understatement.  His snoring sounded like someone was sucking up a bathtub full of jello with a shop vac.  And the worst part of it was that he'd snore loud enough to wake himself up, and then he'd have a coughing fit. A wet, juicy, coughing fit.  At one point I was pretty sure he actually died, but then he took in a great, gasping breath and it started over again.

And in addition to Old Walter's snoring and coughing, he kept rolling over on his IV which immediately caused an alarm to sound.  An alarm that was very similar to the sound a truck makes when it backs up, and almost as loud.  Did I mention that Old Walter was almost deaf?  Yeah, it didn't bother him in the slightest. He snored and snorted and gargled right through it.

I decided to get ready for bed anyway, so I got up and looked around for some bathroom-type stuff.  I hadn't planned on an overnight when we had left for the ER, so I had nothing with me at all.  On the shelf across from the bed I finally saw what I was looking for.  On one end of the shelf was a small container holding a comb, a tooth brush, and a tiny bottle of mouthwash.  On the other end of the shelf was a box of tissues and a small bottle of lotion.  It was like, "Hey, if the date doesn't work out, don't worry, we got you covered."

I brushed my teeth, went to bed and thought I'd at least try to get some sleep but didn't hold out much hope.  I was lying in a bed that was actively trying to dislodge me,  I was so hungry I was digesting my own stomach, and Walter kept alternating between rolling over on his IV and trying to cough up his own asshole.  I think someone should write down this sleep deprivation technique so the CIA spooks can use it at Gitmo.

Somehow -- probably out of sheer exhaustion -- I must have dozed off in spite of all this.  It wasn't meant to last, however.  At 3 A.M., I was rudely awakened by a giant, bald black dude shaking my arm and yelling at me, with his face about six inches from mine.  "MY NAME IS RANDOLPH AND I'M GOING TO TAKE YOUR BLOOD!"  Just like that, a single string of 100 decibel words, in a complete monotone.  You could tell he was used to taking blood from old deaf people.

"What? Why? You need more blood? They just took it," I said, groggily.

"MY NAME IS RANDOLPH AND I'M GOING TO TAKE YOUR BLOOD!" he repeated, which cleared things up completely.

"You don't have to yell, I'm not deaf."  He didn't say anything in response, but at least he didn't tell me his name and mission again. Instead, he just held my arm down, jabbed me with a needle, filled up a couple vials, then left.  I never saw him again.  In retrospect, I'm not even sure he worked for the hospital.  At that point, I was so tired, I didn't care what he did.  He could have cut my wrist open and drained it into a bucket and told me he was letting the evil spirits out, and I wouldn't have given a shit.  At least he didn't come in and say, "MY NAME IS RANDOLPH AND I'M HERE TO GIVE YOU A SWALLOW TEST!"  Thank god for small favors.

I woke up pretty early, after grabbing a couple hours of sleep in the reclining chair.  The bed had defeated me sometime shortly after my three A.M. rendezvous with Randy.  Around four A.M. I had just unplugged the fucking thing because I couldn't stand listening to it any longer. It deflated sadly one last time and I moved to the recliner and didn't look back.

By the time 9 A.M rolled around, I was really, really hungry. Luckily my wife showed up shortly after  with a couple of danishes and a cup of coffee.  I was still officially waiting for a swallow test, so they said the weren't going to give me any breakfast.  I ate the danishes and awaited the rest of my probing.

While we waited, they brought breakfast around. Even Old Walter got some breakfast, but we didn't think he liked it.  The curtain was drawn so we couldn't see what was going on but from what we could gather, they were trying to feed him, and he was having none of it.  It was then that it hit me.  I finally realized why Old Walter's grunting and groaning and hissing sounded so familiar.  Behind the curtain, there was a poor old guy whose health issues made me feel really bad for him and his family.  I wouldn't wish his poor health on my worst enemy.  But when you couldn't actually see him, what you pictured was this:


Old Walter was a Walker.  And he was strapped down and pissed.  I leaned over to my wife and said, "Walter sounds exactly like a walker," and from then on, we couldn't keep a straight face.

The nurse said, "Walter, honey, you have to eat your peaches.  Don't just move them around in your mouth. Swallow them!" and Walter would hiss and gargle and spit his food and I immediately leaned over to my wife and whispered, "You can't teach a zombie to eat peaches.  No way. Complete waste of time."

At one point, Walter got a little feisty and he bit down on his spoon and started hissing like a cat.

"Walter! Let go of the spoon!" one of the nurses said.

"He won't let go of it until you stop trying to feed him peaches," someone else said.

Watch your fingers, I thought. Don't get to close.

I'm going to burn in hell, I know.  But at that point, I wasn't sure what the hell was wrong with me, and I tend to alleviate stress with dark humor in a situation like that.

Shortly before 11 A.M. they came and got me and took me down for the ultrasound of my neck arteries.  That was relatively quick, and I was back in my room inside of an hour.  Old Walter's visitors were gone, and the nurses who had been trying to feed him peaches he didn't want were gone too, so other than the random beeping of Walter lying on his IV again, all was quiet.

We were waiting for the echo when the neurologist came in, and gave us the news.  "We didn't find anything," he said. "All your tests appeared normal, and at this point we think your original diagnosis was correct and you had a migraine.  Sometimes aphasia can happen with a migraine, but it's better to be sure it wasn't something more serious, since as far as you know, this never happened before.  I still want you to have the echocardiogram, but you can schedule that somewhere else and just send the results to your primary GP.  I do want you to take a baby aspirin a day, though, because people with migraines have a slightly elevated risk of strokes.  Just a preventative measure.  I'll put in the paperwork and get you discharged ASAP."

And with that, he shook my hand and was gone.  ASAP wasn't all that quick, and it took another three hours of ineptness before they finally cleared me for takeoff, but that was it.  I walked out of there a free man.  Sure, I had more than my share of radiation, and I knew that all those tests were going to cost me, but at least I knew my headache was just a headache.   I'm sure you've all seen the video of the CBS reporter Serene Branson -- but here's a good summary if you want to know more about this weirdness.

So it cost $27,543.00 to get a bottle of baby aspirin.  Worth it? Who knows.  My wife thinks yes. I'm still on the fence.

P.S. -  If I'm ever talking to you and I gorilla sheetrock candlewax, just know that I spandex orangutang.


*Kind of the same thing that happens if you stare at Nancy Pelosi for more than 30 seconds.  That may be total BS, but on the other hand, the vision thing might be the first symptom of turning to stone, so I haven't been willing to chance it.  Also kids, don't do that shit. It can't be good for your eyeballs.

** A good drinking game is to watch an episode of House and drink a fifth of scotch every time someone says "Sarcoidosis."  OK, maybe it's not a great drinking game, but you'll still get drunk.  Another version is to watch Bones and drink whenever someone says "phalanges." 



2/21/14

Henry's Door.

For those who don't know, I have a little short story out on Amazon right now.

This is some quick background on it, written by my friend Mark, who happens to be a brilliant photographer.  He uses film and develops it himself and makes his own prints for god's sake.  Check out some of his stuff while you're over there.

Tell him Johnny sent ya.


2/12/14

The More You Know.


Did you hear about the two geniuses who tasered a guy and stole a Stradivarius violin worth five million dollars and then stuck it in a suitcase and hid it in a friend's attic?   

First off, WTF were these guys thinking?  Did they think they were going to just walk into Rudy's Pawn Shop and Paycheck Loans and walk out with a few million in loose 20's? 

Secondly, if you were convicted in 2000 and did five years in prison because you stole a sculpture worth twenty-five grand back in 1995 and got caught because you tried to sell it back to the guy you stole it from, you might be looking for a new partner.  A smarter partner.  Dare I say, a partner with some Knowledge?  

And really, if you're going to partner up with someone like that, you'd probably feel pretty safe going with a guy named Universal Knowledge Allah, am I right?  I mean, the dude has got to know what he's doing when it comes to, well, just about everything, having such a humble yet descriptive moniker.

But unfortunately for both of them, Universal Knowledge Allah did not live up to his name, and while the plan to steal the violin actually worked, the plan to stay out of jail after the fact did not. 


Just goes to show you that sometimes a little Knowledge can be a dangerous thing.

I'm sorry. That was horrible.  Try the veal.

1/22/14

Robins and other junk.

Coffee conversation with Yort today:

Yort:   "There's a new animated Batman coming out soon.  They're not using Conroy, I have no idea why. They keep trying out new voices."

Me: "That's stupid.  He's the perfect Batman voice."

Yort:  "I know.  Oh, and I guess there's a new Robin.  Supposedly he's the son of Batman and Ra's al Ghul's daughter."

Me: "What?   Ra's al Ghul's daughter and Batman had a Robin?  I didn’t even know they were a thing."

Yort: "Yeah, It's gotten crazy lately.  But on the other hand, most people don’t even know there was more than one Robin."

Me: "More than one? There’s been like, a half dozen.  Robins are like Lassie.  When one dies, they get another one that looks just like him."

Yort: "Right, they get hit by cars, or when they get old,  he just puts them to sleep."

Me:  "Poor old Robin.  He was fine until he got around other Robins, and then he got mean, so we had to put him down.  I’d rather he just put them out to pasture.  I can totally see a flock of Robins just running through the fields, capes flapping...it's nice.  Peaceful."

I'm not sure if it's comforting or scary that our conversations are still like that after 20 years.

In other news, I showed the UPS guy my junk tonight.  Well, it's not like I answered the door naked, but we have a psycho cat that can hear someone peeing from a thousand yards away, no matter what else is going on.  The music could be blaring, my wife could be vacuuming, the cat could be downstairs in the basement, it doesn't matter. As soon as pee stream hits water, the goddamn cat is right outside the door meowing like it's his job.  Allow me to translate: "OH MY GOD! LET ME IN! I'M DYING OUT HERE! SOMEONE IS PEEING AND I AM NOT WITNESSING THIS MIRACLE! THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING! OH CHRIST, OH CHRIST, THEY'RE ALMOST DONE! I'M MISSING IT! I'M MISSSSIINNNNNNNNG IT!" and the whole time, he's bouncing off the door, reaching under it with his paws, trying to gain admission to what he apparently considers The Wonderful World Of Pee.  It's completely ridiculous.

So tonight, I went in there to do my business and as soon as I started peeing the cat starts banging up against the door and meowing like someone is sticking a hot fork up his ass. I must not have closed the door tightly because the next thing I know it's swinging wide open and the cat is in.  Unfortunately for me, and most definitely unfortunately for the UPS guy, when the door is wide open, it faces the window on the front of the house.   I look up to yell at the cat and I see headlights, and then the silhouette of someone walking toward the front steps.  And I'm just standing there with my dingus hanging out, peeing, while the cat goes crazy around my feet.  A second later, the doorbell starts ringing.

Luckily, I didn't have to sign for anything and so when I didn't answer, the driver dropped the package on the porch and got back in his truck and drove away before there could be any awkwardness. Or rather, any more awkwardness.  Because once your UPS guy sees you pee, I'm pretty sure you can't go back to the way things were.



1/15/14

Grease me up, woman!

You know what's bad? When you're washing machine drains and all the water floods backward in the pipes and starts coming up in your kitchen sink drain.  You know what's worse? When this water contains black hunks of rancid food and grease that smells like a dead rhinoceros and quite probably dates back to the early 1990's.  I swear to god, one chunk of grease had a mullet and was wearing a Member's Only jacket.

So that's what I walked into when I agreed to take a look at my wife's grandfather's plumbing issue.  His major complaints were:  (1) His sink took ten minutes to drain.  (2) He couldn't do a load of wash on anything but the lowest water setting.   Anything else would cause the sink to overflow.  Even on low, it still came up to the point where the only thing keeping it in the sink was surface tension and stink.

At first I thought he just had a minor plug.  I filled up the washing machine, then gave my wife two drinking glasses.  I put a wet paper towel down over each drain in the sink then had her stick the glasses over each drain. "Just hold them there," I said. "Press down as hard as you can.  I'm going to use the back pressure from the washing machine pump to blow out the clog."

I put the washing machine on the drain cycle and the water started going down.  An instant later, my wife says, "It's coming up! It's coming up! Oh my God, it's so gross!"

"Hold the glasses down!" I yelled, as I looked behind the washing machine to make sure the hose going into the drain pipe wasn't spraying water or leaking.  It was still in there tight, so I turned back to the sink to help her.  At the point where the water reached the top of the drinking glasses, she had given up and let go, preferring to have a flooded kitchen versus being up to her elbows in soupy, horrible smelling sludge.  Luckily there was a plastic pitcher nearby so I started bailing and running for the door, throwing the rancid water outside, narrowly avoiding a spill-over.

I really have no good way to describe how bad this water smelled.  I would rather be dipped in raw sewage than whatever this was coming up out of the drain. That's how bad it was.  It coated the back of your nose and throat and stayed there like a film, and even chewing gum couldn't get rid of it.  You wanted to wash your mouth out with boiling water.

So Plan #1 didn't work.  Score so far: Clog - 1, Me - 0, My wife - fouled out of the game.

At that point her grandfather piped up and said, "Frank tried to snake that drain yesterday and he also put Drano down there and he didn't have any luck."  That, as they say, would have been good info to have going in.

To give you a better idea of the fuckedupedness of this entire plumbing set up, let me take a little timeout to tell you about plumbing jobs that are done by "a guy I know."  This guy, who is apparently the official contractor of every old Italian in New York, works really cheap. Sometimes, he even works for beer, or for wine, or because you're Jimmy's cousin and he owes Jimmy a favor.  So the conversations usually go like this:

"I need a new roof on my house," one Italian will say in passing to another Italian.  "I called a roofer, and he gave me a price of $12,000."

"That's crazy!" the other Italian will say. "Let me call I guy I know."

Now, even though "a guy I know" will know jackshit about roofing, and his sole claim to roofing expertise is having once watched an episode of This Old House where they gave a quick review of a shingle install, he will gladly give you a price.  He will use child labor and cousin labor and maybe even homeless and/or illegal alien labor, but he will come up with a price closer to $5,000. Assuming, of course,  that you pay him in cash and give him $2,500 up front for supplies. Apparently, $2,500 is the standard amount in a case like this, because over time it has been established as the maximum amount of money that any Italian over the age of 60 will just hand over to any other Italian, no questions asked, on simply a handshake and a promise.

So what he ended up with was this:   A guy he knows installed a PVC drain pipe with a 1.5" inside diameter that ran directly from under the sink and into the wall, took a 90 degree left turn inside the wall, ran about 12 feet to the washing machine, then continued on roughly 30 feet to the other side of the room, took a 90-degree downward turn, then another 90-degree right-hand turn into the basement, then ran another 30 feet along the basement ceiling to a vertical pipe in the basement which led to the sewer pipe.  So approximately 60 feet of 1.5" PVC pipe that had a drop of about 12" over its entire length, which means (for the non mathematically inclined among you) that it was practically level -- which is definitely not conducive to drainage of any sort.

I was done for the day.  I thought about calling RotoRooter, but from looking up prices on the Internet, I knew they were going to charge a fortune and then tell him that the whole thing should be redone.  They'd be right, of course, but I figured I could rent a power snake and at least get a few more years out of it.   I had a vacation day the next day, so I went home and regrouped.  The first thing I did was call Lowes and try to line up a snake rental for the next day, but it turns out they are first come, first serve. The second thing I did was call my wife's brother, Chuck, and get him to agree to help me do this thing.  Then I collected my tools, my respirator (I was not breathing that shit again), my rubber gauntlet gloves and some work clothes, and put them all in a bag.  I knew this was going to get messy.  I even told Chuck to wear old clothes and be prepared.  He said he'd meet me at Lowes the next day at 8:00am and we'd pick up the rental snake and any other plumbing supplies we needed.

The next day we met up at the store and, after looking at all the equipment, decided to get the 50 ft hand-powered snake, because the guy at the rental place told us that the electric power snake was more for 3-4" pipe and would "tear up one and a half inch PVC like an angry beaver," and as far as I know, nobody wants an angry beaver.  A broken drain pipe inside the wall would mean major repairs, so I was all about avoiding that.  And also, angry beavers.  We figured we could go easy with the manually cranked snake, and do it from both ends of the pipe and in that way clear any clogs in between.  We carried the snake out to the car, tossed it in the back of his pickup truck and drove over to his grandfather's house.

We were working in close quarters, and there wasn't much room under the sink, so I volunteered to feed the snake while he cranked. I disconnected the drain and fed the head of the snake into the pipe, and slowly, over the next twenty minutes or so, we fed the entire 50 feet into the pipe, turning it constantly to try to chew through the clog.  We hit resistance a few times, and we weren't really sure if it was because we hit a clog or we were going around the corners, but everything seemed OK.

Then it was time to take it back out.   He reversed the crank and I started pulling it back, but something was wrong.  It was coming out, yes, but it felt..strange.  Sluggish. Thick.  You know how when you buy  that 100% natural peanut butter, and you have to stir it with a fork in order to mix the oil and the peanuts and it makes that noise like a dog licking its balls?  It was like that. Like I was pulling a rope through a jar of cold Vaseline, or rescuing someone from quicksand. It wasn't too bad at first, and I had a towel to wipe away any sludge that came back with the snake, but then the smell hit me, even through the respirator.  I looked over at Chuck and he had his face turned away, and he was making this "urk, urk" dry-heaving sound. "Jesus, that stinks," he said, stating the obvious.  I didn't want to laugh because laughing breaks the seal on the respirator, but the look on his face was too much.  Finally, we had the snake all the way back on its spool. I took the towel filled with toxic waste and handed it to Chuck, who had forgotten his gloves.  He took it reluctantly, like I was handing him a dead raccoon, and then I reassembled the drain.

"Should we try it?" he asked, "Or should we go down in the basement and snake it from that side too first?"

"Yeah, let's run some hot water through it and see if the sink drains any better," I said.  So we ran the faucet, and at first it looked good. Then after a minute or so, the sink slowly started to back up.  I turned it off again, and over the next few minutes the sink drained again. So wherever the clog was, we felt certain it wasn't in the first half of the pipe.  We went down into the basement to check out the rest of the pipe.  It was fastened to the wall in two places, and looked like this:

The pipe was literally sagging in between the brackets holding it up.  The Christmas garland my wife hung on our porch railing didn't hang as low as this pipe was hanging.  Hell, her grandfather's balls probably weren't hanging as low as this pipe was hanging, and he's 94 years old.  It was heavy with water. Pregnant with water.  I grabbed onto a section of it and wiggled it, and it was like trying to move a full fire hose.  Clearly, this meant the clog had to be in this section, probably in the last six feet, near the vertical drop.

"Maybe we should cut it," I said, cautiously.  Chuck agreed, and I stood on a chair with my power saw, and started cutting, prepared for the worst.  I wasn't prepared for what actually happened, which was absolutely nothing.  I cut through the pipe and only a tiny trickle of water came out.   We had an industrial mop bucket on wheels -- one of those big yellow bastards. We had positioned it under the pipe  just in case, but we barely needed it.  I pulled the pipe away from the wall and grabbed a flashlight to look inside.  It looked like one of Marlon Brando's arteries in there.  Almost the entire circumference of the pipe was packed full of rancid grease, with just a tiny, 1/2" opening in the center for the water to move through. That's why it was taking so long to drain, and why the washing machine was backing up into the sink. There wasn't enough room in there for the volume of water it was trying to push through it.  Now we had to decide our next move.  Chuck said, "Put the washing machine on for a few seconds, and I'll tell you if anything comes out. That'll tell us if the plug is upstream or downstream from here.  I'll just make sure anything that comes out goes into the mop bucket."  I went upstairs to the washing machine and put it in the fill cycle. When it was full, I moved it to the drain cycle and yelled, "READY?"

"GO AHEAD!" Chuck yelled back, and I pulled the knob and let it drain for a couple of seconds, then pushed it back in again. "ANYTHING?" I yelled.  "NOPE, NOTHING YET!" came the reply.  I did it again, this time for five or six seconds.  "HOW BOUT NOW?"  "NOPE, STILL NOTHING!"

I walked back down to the basement. I didn't have a good feeling about this.  I had visions of the snake pushing one of the PVC pipe joints apart.  "Did we break the pipe?" I asked Chuck. "Are we pumping water into the wall cavity somewhere?"  He looked a little sick. "Jeez, I hope not," he said. "Don't tell Papa, he'll go nuts."  We stood there for a few more minutes, watching the pipe drip into the bucket, thinking.  Mostly about where we could find a plumber and sheetrock guy on such short notice.

"OK, I'm going to go back upstairs and let it run for a few more seconds," I said. I didn't know what that would accomplish, but I figured if we were pumping water into the wall somewhere, we would have to pump enough of it to figure out where the break was in order to repair it.  I went back upstairs to the washing machine and I pulled out the knob again, and this time I let it run for almost 20 seconds, which basically drained the basin and started the spin cycle.  I turned it off again and headed toward the basement stairs.  When I got about half way there, I heard Chuck screaming, "TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! OH MY GOD!" and I ran down the stairs just in time to hear a sound I hope I never have to hear again.  Remember when you were in grade school and someone puked?   This was almost identical to the sound vomit makes when it hits the floor, except it was ten times louder and seemed to go on forever.

I got to the bottom of the stairs just in time to see Chuck give the mop bucket a kick in the general direction of the pipe and dive away as gallons of something with the consistency of watery oatmeal mixed with curdled milk poured out of the pipe and onto the floor, coating the bucket and everything within four feet of the wall in a thick coating of greasy, nasty, half-liquid paste.  He was gagging again, and still trying to tell me to turn it off.

"It IS off!" I told him through my respirator as he dry-heaved and chuffed like a cat about ready to gack up the world's largest hairball.  The smell was overwhelming, and we rushed to open the basement windows as the horrible grey gruel finally trickled to a stop.

There's a full gallon of water in 10 feet of 1.5" pipe.  I did the math.  Or rather, I Googled it and someone on Ask.com did the math.  That's roughly six gallons of putrid nastiness that we had just blasted all over the floor of the basement.  We were trying not to step in it, because not only did it stink to high heaven, it was also a death trap because it was so slippery.

"We need to replace that entire section of pipe," Chuck said his voice muffled on account of his face being buried in the crook of his arm.  He pointed at the rest of what was hanging from the wall.  "Maybe we can cut it off and feed it through the basement window."  That seemed like a pretty good idea, so I grabbed my saw and chopped into the pipe over at the other end, by the vertical section it tied into.  I quickly stuffed a rag into my end as he did the same to his, and we disconnected it from the wall.  It was so heavy it took both of us to lift it and get it through the window.  It was basically a 30 foot long tube of grease.  He went outside and started pulling on it as I pushed from inside.  When it was finally out,  I came upstairs and we sent my wife to the auto parts store for some oil spill absorbent. That was the only thing that even had a shot of cleaning up the mess. We were going to go buy another section of pipe but we figured we could try to clean this one out first.  We started by running the hose into the end, trying to let the water do its thing, but that didn't work. All it did was shoot gruel out of the end like some kind of white diarrhea,  but it wasn't touching the grease caked on the walls.

I had an idea.  "Let's use the hose itself.  I'll tie a rag around the end, and I'll push it through and the rag should scrape the sides clean while the water pushes the crap out."  It sounded good, so we gave it a shot.  I tied a rag tightly around the hose so no water could come back toward me and started jamming the hose into the pipe.

 Chuck was holding onto the other end, trying to make sure the gunk that came out was evenly dispersed across the lawn, so his grandfather wouldn't notice it.  I couldn't help but laugh when the pipe started disgorging its disgusting contents. At first it came out like a four-foot-long sausage made of cottage-cheese, and then it sputtered and started vomiting chunks of what looked like hammered up bars of ivory soap onto the lawn.  Yeah, that won't be noticeable, I thought.  You could see it from space.  Chuck was making that "urk, urk" sound again, because even though we were outside, the stench was fearsome.  Pretty soon we were both laughing our asses off even as our eyes watered, wondering how the hell it had come to this.  After I pulled the hose back out, we were trying to figure out how to tell if the pipe was clean enough to reuse.  The hose was also now coated in a thick, greasy slime.  One problem at a time, as they say.

Chuck said, "How about if you hold your end up to the sun and I look through it on my end and see if I can see through it?"

Did I just hear that? I thought.  He didn't seriously suggest that, did he?  I started to say something, but then I just couldn't.  I had to let this one play out.

"OK," I said, not trusting myself to say anything else.

We picked up the pipe and I held my end up over my head, trying to point it in the general direction of the sun, and also trying not to laugh.  Chuck put his end up to his eye, and I think he realized what was about to happen a split second before it was too late.  He was quick enough to not get it directly in the face, but the chunky oatmeal poured out of the end and hit him full in the chest.  He dropped the pipe on the ground, looked down in disgust at his oozing sweatshirt, looked up at me and said, "That was pretty stupid."

After that, it was all over but the clean up. We went back into the basement to spread the oil absorber all over everything we could get to.  We used a couple of rubber couplers to reconnect the pipe, after cutting about 16 inches off the vertical part so at least we could get proper pitch to the section of pipe we had access to.  Then we tested it out.  The sink drain worked perfectly, and even the washing machine worked without backing up into the sink, although it still made sounds like a large wild animal puking.

I swear, I couldn't get that smell out of my nose for a week.  Next time, I'm calling a plumber. No matter what it costs, it'll be worth it.  I once joked about starting a plumbing company with my buddy Yort and calling it, "Everything But Poop, Inc."

As of today, I'm totally adding grease to that list.


11/9/13

Would you like garden fresh, non-gmo Pomme Frites sautéed in fair-trade olive oil with that?


I guess I don't really enjoy the leisure time activity of "going out to dinner."  I know, that's weird, and most people love to linger over a great meal, especially if it's with great company.  I'm down with the company part, and I love my friends, but I can't sit still for that long. There's just something I dislike  about being elbow to elbow with a bunch of other diners, pretending to not listen to their conversations while they pretend to not listen to mine.  Especially while my ass is slowly going numb from the uncomfortable chair I'm sitting in.  I hate the waiting, most of all.  Waiting for the waitress to bring the drinks. Waiting for her to bring the food, waiting for her to bring the check.  It's pretty sad, but most of the restaurants I eat in make you pay for meal before you eat, and I realize that says more about me than anything else.

Anyway, that said, I always have a little bit of trepidation when we're invited out to dinner, especially if it's to a really nice place.  I guess I don't get enough value out of an expensive meal to avoid thinking about all of the other things I could do with the money, like buying something I actually need and won't be shitting out in 24 hours.  Honestly, I'm just a hick with a college degree.  I have one suit for wedding and funerals,  I don't like classical music or opera, and I think art that doesn't look like something is a ridiculous concept.  All this to say that eating is generally something I do so I don't fall down and die, and that's about it.

Everything I've written so far is really just to lay the groundwork for what's to follow.  Not too long ago, we met our friends in NYC, and we all decided to have dinner at this particular restaurant they wanted to try.  We said yes not because we love trying new restaurants, but because we love these guys and we don't get to see each other as often as we'd like. If they had asked us to go eat corn dogs out of a dumpster with them, we probably would have said yes.  There is one little detail that makes picking a place to eat more interesting, however.  They're vegetarians.  We're not.  And since it was their pick, it was kind of a given that we were going to be dining at a vegetarian restaurant.

I am fine with that.  I have nothing against vegetables, in fact some of my best friends are vegetables.  I eat very little red meat as it is, so the fact that we most definitely were not headed for a steak house didn't break my heart.  I applaud them for their choice, and I'm sure they'll both outlive me, but I could never do it.  I eat quite a bit of poultry and a lot of egg whites, so going hardcore no-milk, no-meat, no-cheese would be difficult for me.   I wasn't worried, though, and I was sure I could find something on the menu that I could eat, and probably even enjoy.

We met up in the city and walked around for a bit and when it got close to dinner time, we headed  toward the restaurant.  As we were walking, M told us about it.  "It's Korean vegetarian, and it's supposed to be great," she said. "All organic and very healthy."  I am a fan of stir fry,  I thought.  See what a rube I am?  I think all Koreans eat nothing but stir fry.

When we were about a half a block away from the place, she said, "Oh, by the way, this is a shoes-off restaurant."  Ha-ha, I thought, that's a good one. A shoes-off restaurant. I seriously thought she was joking, because never once in my entire life have I taken my shoes off in a restaurant. Not even that one time I stepped in dog shit in the parking lot of Applebee's.

She was not joking.  We walked into the restaurant, and the entire left wall behind the register consisted of nothing but cubbyholes filled with shoes. I'm pretty sure this place used to be a bowling alley.  We all sat down on the edge of the single stair leading up into the dining area and took off our shoes.  I have to say, there's nothing like walking around in NYC all day and then sitting down and taking off your shoes in an enclosed area with a hundred other people.  I was a little self-conscious to say the least.  But then I realized that the whole place smelled like garlic anyway, so what the hell. Off came the shoes.  I started to take my socks off too, but then realized nobody else was, so I pulled them back up.  Close one.  When I was younger, I took karate lessons for a year or two in a dojo that backed up against a pizza place. It smelled kind of like that, but with less B.O.

The place itself was so dark I had to wonder what they were trying to hide.  It turns out it's all just part of their plan to give you a "total dining experience that brings harmony to the body and mind."  Besides the candles at every table, there wasn't much else in the way of light.  A few dim overheads and that's about it.  I bet they save a fortune on their electric bill.  I glanced into the dining room and saw that the tables were about twelve inches off the ground and everyone was sitting on the floor on little mats.  Great, I thought.  My ass, legs and my back will be aching by the end of this meal.  But then I reconsidered because really, most of my meals are eaten sitting on the floor with my food on the coffee table while watching reruns of Seinfeld anyway, so how bad could it be?

Our hostess brought us back to our table and that's when I got my first surprise.  The people actually weren't sitting on the floor in some Baddha Konasana Yoga pose for three hours while they ate.  Instead, the tables were put in square holes in the floor, and you sat on the edge of the hole with your legs dangling under the table.  So there's another thing I've never done -- sat in a hole to eat.  Of course, all I could think about was how difficult it would be to clean those Korean sittin' holes, and so I avoided moving my feet too much because I didn't want to inadvertently step in any old dropped food. It turns out that was the least of my worries.

When the waitress showed up and took our drink order, most everyone ordered Sake, but I had a little too much fun the night before so I was not in the mood for hot rice wine. Instead, I ordered an iced tea. The waitress brought out the sake and my iced tea, and put them down in front of us.  Then she took my iced tea, which was in a perfectly serviceable drinking glass, dumped it into a bowl, and then put it in front of me.  I looked at it in confusion, wondering if I was supposed to just go full German Shepherd on it, or wait for a straw or a spoon or something.  I don't know the Korean way.  She just smiled, bowed slightly and walked away.  Finally, I awkwardly picked up the bowl in both hands and took a tentative sip, trying not to spill it into my sittin' hole.  I must have looked as ridiculous as I felt because my wife just shook her head and tried not to laugh.

We perused the menu and I found something with the exotic and fairly non-specific name of "vegetable and mushroom wrap" that didn't sound too bad.  When the waitress returned, everyone placed their orders for appetizers and main course.  I order the Vegetarian Dumpling soup as my appetizer.  We hadn't even been sitting for 20 minutes and my back was already killing me, mostly because I'm afflicted with drummer posture, and sitting on the edge of this hole with no back support was just like sitting on a drum stool, so I fell into it naturally.  The bad posture, not the hole.  It took a while for our food to arrive, presumably because the chef was outside somewhere hunting all the wild vegetables required, so we had plenty of time to chat and catch up.  Luckily the people sitting back-to-back with us were speaking what I think was probably Korean, so I didn't find myself inadvertently listening to their conversation, which was most likely about the idiot white boy behind them drinking his iced tea from a bowl.

It turns out that Vegetable Dumpling soup was just that.  Dumpling, singular.  It was very tasty, but in my opinion, the only time a single swallow of anything is worth ten bucks is when it's been aged in a oak cask for 20 years.

When the food arrived, everyone got their meal immediately except for me.  And that's not to say mine didn't come out with the rest; it did.  But mine apparently had to be built on-site.  With chopsticks. The waitress had a bunch of piles of random stuff spread out and proceeded to make my vegetable and mushroom wraps right there on the tray she had carried the food out on.  Everyone else waited politely for her to finish, but after the first minute or so I told them not to wait any longer because it looked like maybe the construction wasn't going as planned and it was time to call the building inspector and shut the whole project down.  They were having none of it though, so they waited.  Finally, she managed to build all three wraps and get them more or less together and serve them to me.  I thanked her politely, and everyone started eating.

Except for me, that is.  I had wraps.  I had chopsticks.  i was confused and unsure.  Was I supposed to use the chopsticks or just pick the things up with my fingers?   Luckily they were fairly small wraps and I'm pretty good with the nunchuks, so that deadly talent transferred well to the chopsticks, which also sound deadly but really aren't.  CHOP! STICK! HYAH!  Right?  No? It's just me?  OK.  Anyway,  I stabbed one of the wraps with a chopstick to hold it still while I sort of lifted it up and bent my head forward and took an experimental bite.  It was really good, in an uncooked spring roll kind of way.  The wrap was a little doughy by design, being steamed and all, but the dipping sauce was amazing.  Each one was about the size of a White Castle slider, and because I eat like a pig without taking a breath, my main course was gone in about four minutes.  If I hadn't decided to dick around with the chopsticks instead of using my hands, it would have been under two.  I was done, and everyone else was still plugging along.  My wife hadn't even started eating her meal yet because it was so hot.  Whatever concoction she had ordered was sitting in front of her in what appeared to be an actual dog bowl.  It had a wooden base with a hole in the top, and resting in the hole was a sizzling stone bowl full of rice n' things.  I could feel the heat coming off of it in waves.  I still don't know if she was supposed to eat it or if maybe I was supposed to roast my doughy wrap over it like it was a campfire.  

After a little while, my second bowl of iced tea started working on my bladder, so I decided to hit the bathroom.  It was then that I realized I was about to walk into a NYC bathroom -- in my socks. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't picture a urinal, guys drunk on sake, and socks mixing in any way that could possibly be good.  Would I be walking in piss puddles while my 100% cotton, highly absorbent gym socks (I am nothing if not fashionable) worked as designed?  I thought I might be.

But no, this restaurant had thought of everything.  The bathroom was a single room with a toilet and a sink, and is another thing I hate about restaurants in NYC.  Aren't there regulations that require a certain number of shitters based upon total occupancy?  I'm just saying that serving spicy, high-fiber food to 100 people and having only one toilet seems like it would be a recipe for disaster.  I've been in that situation and it's not fun. There's nothing quite like frantically banging on the bathroom door while you're clenching your sphincter to keep the turtle from poking out.  Conversely, sitting on the only pot while someone bangs on the door and screams at you to hurry up is also a ton of laughs.  Neither of these would probably count as an experience that "brings harmony to the body and mind."

To avoid having people walk into a piss puddle with their socks on, they provided a pair of communal slippers outside the door.  So what you had to do was put on a pair of slippers that roughly ten thousand people before you had slipped their disgusting feet into, and then go into the bathroom, where you can stand in front of a urinal and splatter piss on them.  When I got to the door, I could see that the slippers were missing, so that meant the room was occupied.  I waited for a few minutes, and finally a guy shuffled out of the bathroom and kicked off the slippers.  You know that uneasy feeling when you sit on a public toilet seat and realize that it's still warm?  Kinda gross, right? Well, it's even worse when you have to put your feet into warm slippers before that happens.  I slid my feet into the slippers and could instantly feel the Korean foot fungus migrating through my socks and attacking the flesh between my toes like it was the Han river offensive.  Luckily, I was able to get rid of my iced tea before any door banging began.  I did, however, have to pass off the slippers to another poor bastard when I came out of the bathroom. I wished him good luck and headed back to the sittin' hole.

I got back just in time for dessert.  We were all pretty full, so we had ordered the little sampler platter.  I'm not sure what I ate, but it was pretty good for gluten-free, dairy-free, free-range something-or-other.  After we were finished and took care of the check, we hit the road toward Franklin Lakes, and I counted my blessings.

All in all, it was an interesting experience for this country hick, but I was very glad to put my hiking boots back on.

Next time, I'm just eating corn dogs out of the dumpster.  

11/5/13

Kindle Countdown special!

I'm trying a little something new that Kindle is offering called the Kindle Countdown Special.  For the next four days, my book is only 99 cents.  So far it's doing pretty well -- up to #30 in the Humor/Essays category.

I know most of you probably already have it, but I figured I'd just put up a short post about it anyway, just in case you know someone who might enjoy it.   I'm not on call this week, so I should have a new post up by the weekend.

Thanks for reading!  And happy belated Halloween.  (I'm the one on the left.)


10/22/13

Country Mice.

It was supposed to be easy.  We were supposed to jump on a train in Albany, and 2.5 hours later, if all went well, we'd have popped out in Penn Station in NYC and our friend Doug would have driven up to the entrance, we'd have opened the car door, tossed in our bags and escaped to Brooklyn for the weekend. Then on Sunday night, he'd have dropped us off at the train station and in a few hours we'd have been back home.  I love simple plans.

Then my wife decided it would be fun if we met a completely different set of friends in NYC Sunday night for dinner and then caught a ride back to their place in Jersey and hung out with them all day on Monday.  This complicated things, and now our simple plan involved a three hour drive,  bumming a ride to the train station, a 45 minute train ride to another train station,  and a transfer to a metro train that eventually got us to Penn station after stopping every 15 feet along the way.  I know that sounds ridiculously simple to most of you, but I'm just a hick from upstate NY, and I don't understand your complicated mass transit ways.  I'm about a four hour drive from the Manhattan, and that's about as close as I  like to get.

Overall, it went well.  We made it to Franklin Lakes in record time, parked our car in my buddy Pete's parent's driveway and his mom drove us to the train station.  My wife sat in the front and I sat in the back and that was a mistake. That's because my wife likes to talk.  And Pete's mom likes to talk.  And unfortunately they're both Italian -- which means they can only talk by looking directly at each other and gesturing wildly with both hands to properly punctuate each point they are making.  After the first few miles I just ducked my head down and closed my eyes and decided that if it was my time, it was my time.  If I ended up hanging upside down by my seatbelt inside of a crushed SUV listening to Barry Manilow songs while my lifeblood ran into the storm drain, then so be it.   Finally, with a little more grey in my hair and a little more pee in my undies, we arrived safely at the train station.

We jumped out of the car, grabbed our bags, thanked Pete's mom and watched her drive away.  It was then that we noticed the complete and utter lack of activity.  After tugging on a few doors that were quite obviously locked, we realized the train station was closed.  No ticket window, no bathroom, no advice.

This resulted in my wife and I asking each other a lot of questions that neither of us had answers to.  Do we just buy tickets on the train? Which train do we get on? Is there a schedule? Is that a bus map or a train map?  Are we supposed to be on the other side of the tracks with those other people?  Why the hell did I wear my coat? Where can I pee?  I'm sweating my balls off.  OK, that last bit wasn't a question and to clarify, it was me, not her, but I did feel pretty ridiculous since it had been close to 40 degrees when I left my house and right then it was probably 80 in the shade and I was wearing a coat.  Finally, right before I resorted to walking up to some stranger and admitting my complete ignorance, I saw the ticket machine.  Like most kiosks these days, it was a touch screen, and over the course of its life, it had been soundly touched - maybe even bad-touched.  The fingerprints on the screen were so thick I could have scraped them off with a putty knife.  I poked and prodded the disgusting screen, fed it my credit card and out popped two one-way tickets to THE CITY. My THE CITY.  (You have to say that in a big, booming voice like The Tick for it to properly convey my elation at finally finding the giant blue ticket machine that had been hiding in plain sight.)

I made a mental note reminding myself not to touch my eye with that fouled finger, then I climbed back onto the platform to wait with my wife.  She was sitting a bench away from a younger woman wearing leggings as pants and holding a phablet to one side of her head, one earbud dangling and the other still jacked in.  By the way, please send her your prayers because her dad was in the hospital after having his gall bladder out, and for some reason he gained over eight pounds inside of a week and so they had to bring him back in and that's when they found out that his stomach cavity was filled with blood and it had been pooling in there for some time.  They aren't sure, but they thought maybe the sutures were leaking and since he's a hemophiliac, it just kept bleeding.  He's not in the greatest shape to begin with because of the diabetes, but they're hoping that after this he will be good to go.  She wasn't feeling too good about the trip because she had cramps due to it being her time of the month, and she really had to pee but the station was closed.  She said she was waiting for the train to The City so I figured we were on the right track.  Pun intended. The things you learn sitting ten feet from complete strangers who are on the phone and don't realize how loud they're talking.

Eventually, a train came and the mechanical voice on the PA said something about Hoboken, which we figured was probably in the right direction at least. Plus, our girl stood up, so we knew we were golden.  We hopped on, and 45 minutes later we were in someplace called Sacaucus Junction.  I know that sounds like a dusty, one horse town out of a bad western where you should be able to belly up to the bar in the local saloon and order a shot of rot gut in a dirty glass, but it's nothing like that.  We ended up running through the station because our train was late getting in and we had about three minutes to catch the connecting train, but we made it. Barely.  The train whooshed in, the doors opened, we jumped on and literally took one step inside and could go no farther.  It was standing room only, and calling it that is being generous.  I was leaning against a wall of dangerous looking red and green buttons, and my wife was half hanging out the door when it hissed shut an inch behind her and the train started moving.  I grabbed a pole, making sure I did so with my touchscreen-poking hand, and we picked up speed.

It was then that I noticed him.*  The medieval warrior wearing the tunic, jerkin, gauntlets and cloak. You know, that guy you always see on the train, standing next to you holding a battle shield made out of tinfoil, old mountain dew cans and masking tape covered with spray paint.  He looked about 20 or 25, give or take, and stood maybe five-foot five.  He had nerd glasses, a hipster haircut, a wispy beard, and seemed to be working on developing a decidedly un-warrior-like set of moobs.  But hey, at least his outfit made me feel better about my stupid coat.  The connecting door between the cars was stuck open because of the crowd, and it was sort of nauseating to watch the other people across the gap move up and down and sideways like they were in the world's most indecisive elevator.  The micro-warrior kept saying things like "It's a portal to another dimension! Arm yourselves! You know not what may appear!"  but the only thing I saw over there were a lot of alien beings who looked very similar to us who seemed to be peering into our dimension and wondering if we had any more like him on our side.  All I was trying to do was not puke because I figured the denizens of the alternate dimension would frown upon that sort of behavior and that would be the start of the invasion. That's all I need to do on my long weekend.  Start an inter-dimensional war.

I could tell by the smell that we were getting close.  Not me and the micro-warrior, since we were already pretty close -- I'm talking about me and The City.  There was a damp, garbage-y smell that I remembered from previous trips and had tried hard to forget. But it sticks with you. It smells like someone took a bucket of dumpster juice and doused it in diesel fuel and then lit it.  That's the smell.  The one that you know gets ten times worse when it rains out.

Finally, the train hissed and lurched and trundled to a complete stop, and the doors opened.  We again burst forth in a throng of disgusting humanity and descended upon Penn Station like famished locusts.  Doug had said to meet him on the corner of 33rd street and 7th avenue, so we found the right set of stairs and ascended into the madness.  We weren't sure which way the avenues went, so we just picked a direction and started walking, figuring we had a 50/50 shot of it being the right one. We lucked out, and had guessed correctly. On three separate occasions while we were walking, people asked me for directions. I don't know on what planet I might look like someone who might know where the fuck I was going, but there you go.  I just shrugged and said, "I'm really sorry, but I don't even know where I am right now." So apparently there were people more lost than I was, and I take comfort in that.

Luckily it was a warm day because the wind was howling between the buildings and we would have frozen our asses off if it had been 20 degrees colder.  I texted Doug and told him we were walking the streets trying to get where we needed to be.  He called me back and said something like, "The Brooklyn bridge is closed and I just got out of the Battery Tunnel and I'm on the corner of 9th street and 2nd Ave, and I can probably take a right on 5th and then drive down blah blah blah-"

I didn't have the heart to tell him that he was basically talking to a dog, and I was just nodding and smiling like a mental patient and waiting for him to finish talking.

"Where are you?" he asked.  I looked around.

"Standing on some random corner like a two-dollar whore," I said.  "33rd and 7th, it looks like.  Across from Macy's."

"OK, I'll be there in about 20 minutes.  I'm a little over three miles away."

There is just something really wrong about that sentence.   We backed up against the corner building and waited.

You see a lot of people when you're standing on a corner in NYC.  The worst part is, they see you too.  It wasn't too bad at first.  Hot women seemed to be pretty abundant.  On the other hand, I also got to see Black Wonder Woman.  She had boobs like basketballs and an ass that looked like a garbage bag full of doorknobs, but she was rocking that Wonder Woman costume like she was late for the Justice League orgy at the Fortress of Solitude.

The first person to notice us was a tiny Asian woman in robes handing out little gold cards with some strange, mysterious symbols on them.  She was saying something (in Cantonese or Japanese or Andorian, I'm not really sure) and gesturing for me to take one of these golden cards from her. I took it from her with the thumb and index finger of my ruined hand, but then she opened some book that looked like it had numbers in it. I saw one that said 30 and another that said 60 and I wasn't sure if she was selling these things or if she just wanted my signature.  I gave it back to her and said, "No thank you" in my most apologetic voice and she smiled and nodded and then walked away, pausing briefly to adjust her crotch while holding the stack of golden tickets in her mouth.  I moved my ruined hand farther away from my body.

I turned around from that disgusting sight to find myself facing a tall black man who looked to be about 60.  He had deep set eyes and he was standing directly in front of me, holding a small piece of cardboard that said "Homeless Vet" and nothing else.  He didn't say anything to me at all -- no "Can you spare some change?" no "Can you help a brother out?" no nothing.  He just kept staring at me from under the brim of his baseball hat like he was hungry and I was a 10-piece order of chicken Mcnuggets.  Finally, I think due to my utter confusion as to what I was supposed to do or say, he gave up on me and moved on down the street. I never know what to do in those situations.

A few seconds later, an angry, (and perhaps slightly mentally unstable) black man of indeterminate age came barreling down the sidewalk swinging a hard-shell overnight bag by its metal handle and screaming nonsensical sentences.  I know what to do in that situation, which is to try not to be noticed and try not to get hit in the head with a suitcase.  I managed both of those things, but not before hearing some rant about the shadow aliens who were working at the KFC. Or maybe it was with the KFC. Or the DMV. I couldn't really make it out.  Either way, they were bad, and he was going to kick their asses.

My phone rang again, and it was Doug, telling me that he was still ten minutes out because  he couldn't make a left because of an open manhole cover or some shit, so it would be better if we walked back to the Penn Station entrance, and he would circle around again and come down 8th and grab us from there.  So we hoofed it back, which was fine by me. I felt like I was less of a weirdo magnet while I was moving.

A few minutes later, as we watched some guy sugar his nuts -- no really, he had cashews and peanuts and almonds in his cart and he was melting sugar all over them and they smelled wonderful -- Doug pulled up in his Buick with the ISLEOFQ license plates (he was/is the guitarist in that band) and we jumped into the relative sanity of his car and got the hell out of dodge.

The difference between Brooklyn and that part of NYC is striking.  We came out of the Battery Tunnel and it was like we had gone back in time.  The area of Brooklyn where he lives is very retro.  Tons of brownstones and cool little corner stores and restaurants. It has a really neat vibe. It reminded me of Philly or maybe Boston.  I could almost live there for a while, I think, if you held a gun to my head or paid me  a shitload of money. Maybe both.  I mean, where else can you get authentic Asian breakfast crepes and buy a classic Schwinn bike off the street for cash money all within a couple of blocks?

Those of you who read my book know that when I was a kid, I coveted my neighbor's 1969 Schwinn Orange Krate bike, and I still think it's one of the coolest bikes ever made.  They are very rare collector's items, and right now, they go for about 2-3 thousand dollars on e-Bay.  So it was pretty amazing to just be walking down the street on my way to get coffee and be able to do this:


I asked the guy how much it was and he said "one or two thousand" which seemed like quite a spread.  I think what he meant to say was, "How much do you have?"  I was a little sad that he knew what it was worth, but it was all original, right down to the flat racing slick rear tire and a banana seat with zero road rash and a matching serial number. Maybe someday I'll win the lottery and own one and you all can come over and we can take turns riding it at top speed down the hallways of my yacht.

We had a great time in Brooklyn, and Doug and his lovely wife treated us like royalty.  We drank champagne and martinis and laughed so much my sides hurt the next day.  On Sunday we slept in a bit, and then walked to the Asian crepes place and got some coffee and, of course, Asian crepes, which, having never been to France, suited me just fine.  We basically just hung out being bums until about 3pm, whereupon we piled into the Buick and headed back to The City.  They couldn't join us for dinner, which made me sad in retrospect because I think we would have had quite a few laughs, mostly because of where we ended up going, which was unlike any restaurant I've ever eaten in before.



*I'm usually an observant person, so I am surprised I didn't see him right away -- maybe because it was one of those rare instances of someone actually being shorter than I am, or maybe it was because I still had no idea if I was on my way to The City or whether we'd end up at a freight depot in Newark.
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10/2/13

Maine-lining the month.

Ah, September.  It's the month I use up all of my vacation.  Sadly, it's over, and I only got a few trips in.  I'm hoping for a warm October so we can do a little more backpacking.  It's hunting season though, so you gotta be careful walking in the woods.  On the other hand, you could make a game of it and wear a brown suede jacket and a pair of white gloves.

To start the month off right, the weekend after labor day we headed up to Maine with our friends Vidna and Pootie.  Unfortunately, unlike our last two visits, we didn't have a full moon.  Vidna was on hardcore drugs for a series of vicious insect bites, so the girls had to take up most of the slack in the drinking department.  The one good thing about lack of a full moon meant we could get some good shots of the Milky Way like this one by Pootie.

As always, Jesus was our co-pilot.

You may remember Action Jesus, who accompanied us on our last trip to Maine. He recites the Lord's prayer (in its entirety) when you push a button just above his ass-crack.  He sounds a little like the guy who does all the movie trailer voice-overs. In a world... where pharaohs rule the day…and nobody has underwear...

Come get some.
He rides with us on the dashboard, and guards us against shitty weather, idiot drivers, and bad seafood.  This year, JC couldn't wait to hit the beach:

Take this Lobster and eat of it, Brah.
He didn't disappoint.  We had great weather during the day, and we only got a bit of rain the night before we were leaving, so I count it in the win department.   There's a very slim chance I'll burn in Hell for dressing up Jesus for the beach, but my guess is that if JC came back now,  he'd be shopping at Abercrombie and wouldn't be caught resurrected walking around commando in some rough-woven robe.  

We didn't swim because the water was ridiculously cold, but we took a walk on the beach one of the days, and spent most of our time walking Marginal Way.  It's a beautiful walk with stunning natural seascapes and it's custom-made for photographs, except for one thing.  And as always, that one thing is the same thing it always is:  Idiots.  And I'm talking about a special kind of idiot.  The kind that needs to reaffirm his or her existence by tagging a building with spray paint, or carving their names into a picnic table or a desk or a tree.  The ones that need to shout to the universe "I WAS HERE!" even though the universe and the rest of us wish you weren't.  Check this out:





What you are looking at is hundreds and hundreds of stones stacked on top of one another.  Why? Because one idiot made the first stack and a thousand other idiots followed like lemmings.  It might as well be graffiti.  It ruins the natural landscape and it annoys the ever-living fuck out of me.  Can you tell?  

When I climbed down next to them to take the pictures, I 'accidentally' knocked a few of them over on my climb back up.  Vidna is more direct.  He just walked up next to some guy who was building one and kicked over the one right next to him.  It totally reminded me of this:



Anyway, I have no idea why humans have to do stuff like that.  Why can't we just leave shit alone?  It doesn't make sense to me.  

I did take a few pictures, but when you're out with an actual photographer and his wife, and your camera is a piece of outdated junk, you don't take too many shots.  I thought these clouds were cool:


 The obligatory sailboat shot:


On the drive up, Vidna lets me pick the music, since I'm always riding shotgun.  I decided that the theme of the drive would be 80's music, so I "obtained" some Time-Life 80's collections and after about twenty minutes of listening to it, we realized that either 80's top-40 music was way crappier than it seemed at the time, or we were weren't listening to what was on the radio.  There were a few gems that I liked back in the day, like Scritti-Politti's Perfect Way, or Tommy Tutone's 867-5309, and of course a Rick Springfield tune or two, but a fair amount of the songs were flat-out horrible.  

For every "One Thing Leads to Another" or "I don't like Mondays" there was a "Mickey" or a "Voices Carry."  The musical landscape was all over the place, so a compilation album that spans a whole decade was probably not the best choice for the drive. We had SuperFreak and the Safety Dance on the same Album and I think that must break some kind of natural law.  At least it was before auto-tune, so if you sucked, everyone knew it. It was still possible for a horrible band to have a hit though*,  so I guess it wasn't any different than today.

We had a good time, like we always do.  We ate at a steakhouse called (coincidentally, I think) The Steakhouse, and it was pretty good.  I had a hunk of filet mignon the size of a baby's head that was a little too rare for me, along with a giant salad and a baked potato and sour cream.  They had a full menu, but hey, you know, it was a steakhouse so I didn't want to go with the fish.  Not the best piece of raw beef I've ever had, but not bad.  After dinner I was so full I thought I was going to spend the rest of the night sweating meat.

The month flew by after that, mostly because it seemed like everything conspired against us getting out in the woods or on a lake.  A death in the family, the most disgusting plumbing job I've ever had the opportunity to perform, (a post that is coming very soon, once I take a break from obsessively showering to rid myself of the memory)  and some crappy weather prevented us from enjoying the month like we usually do.  We did manage to get out last weekend for a couple of days.  Here's a few pictures for your enjoyment.  I finally remembered to throw my tripod in the canoe.

Sunset. Duh.

Venus on the horizon


I'd live here if I could


We're just a speck on a speck on a spiral arm...

      This is my first full week back to work in about 30 days, and it's kicking my ass.  I've never wanted a weekend more in my life.  But by that time, I should have the disgusting plumbing story ready to tell. I don't want to remember it, let alone re-live it, but I will.  For all of you.  Because I care.

*Missing Persons, I'm talking to you. Terry Bozzio, your reputation will never recover.  I don't care if the singer was your wife at the time.  Sometimes, you gotta put your foot down.)