As I've said before, I'm not really exhibiting the full array of negative symptoms associated with chemotherapy yet. I still have my hair, for one thing. And today I revisited the lovely fertility clinic, since I was in the area because I had to have more blood drawn. By the way, someone needs to point out that, judging by the pornography ready there, that either the clinic has a disproportionately high number of black patients, or someone has a voracious predilection for brown sugar, and I don't mean heroin. Anywho, I then forced myself to eat, which is becoming the most noticeable side effect of the chemo at this point. I really have no appetite.
Not a small one, mind you. None whatsoever. Furthermore, like some women on an SSRI with regard to sex, it actually disgusts me. The thought of anything edible makes me reel with revulsion. I've said before (again) that I may look like Nosferatu in a few weeks, but that was mostly a joke. Now, though, it seems more and more like a possible--nay, probable--physical reality. To eat makes me cringe. The mere prospect of a future meal nauseates me, and I am already nauseated all the time.
I also said before that I was going to bulk up in preparation for this steep decline in appetite, so it was not exactly unexpected. However, I evidently did not make enough headway, because I have to endure endless admonishments, mostly from my mother, to eat. I was never exactly svelte, but ever since high school I've remained relatively, reliably, around 200 pounds. By the end of this fun little stem cell trial, who knows where I'll fall?
Earlier, I watched some brief commercial/infomercial for some new fad diet. I forget what the actual name of it was, but I remember that it consisted of letters and numbers. In the interest of dark humor, I'll call it the RU486 Diet. That nonsense never works in the long run--everyone I know who went on Atkins or South Beach or something comparable gained back the weight they'd lost.
If you need a gimmicky regimented diet to lose weight, let me introduce the Chemotherapy Diet. You rarely get hungry, the simple thought of food disgusts you, and the pounds just slide off!
Seriously, though, if you're dumb enough to subscribe to any fad diet rather than make simple nutritional adjustments, this may be for you! All you need is to get diagnosed with any form of cancer that uses chemotherapy as a treatment--or, like me, participate in a trial that also uses it--and I guarantee that the pounds will just melt away. Sure, you could die, but wouldn't you rather be dead and thin than alive and fat?
It's sad that some people would probably try this out. The nausea never wanes. (The slow moon climbs, and the dark moans round with many voices. "Ulysses" again...) When it becomes unbearable, and it's time to pop another pill, you feel like fried shit, which is how I've come to describe how I still feel after only my first chemo treatment.
Does that sound yummy? Is it enticing? I thought not. Mission accomplished, chemo.
Come, my friends. 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. (I should stop before I get cloyingly pretentious--if I haven't already--by quoting Tennyson some more.)
Try Chemotherapy: The Ultimate Miracle Diet!
R
--Disclaimer: please don't.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Cancer Patients Are Tough MFers
Honestly, it's been almost a week since I've been discharged, and the effects of the chemo still reek havoc on my body. As I've only received one treatment, and since then I've been nothing more than a ball of flesh, I've come to the conclusion that I'm a huge pussy.
My chemo regiment is aggressive, sure, but it'll be over in a month. Seriously. One month is all I have to endure. I can't imagine dealing with this cytoxan shit any longer than that. Remember, I've only had one treatment, and it's nearly impossible for me to complain because of all the shit I'd start spewing and then get too tired or nauseated to continue and finish. Discarded rants would pollute everything, and might subsequently poison the resolve of someone else. I flatter myself, of course, by thinking that anyone would actually care about what I have to say.
I'm just saying, though, that whoever has to go through a treatment like cytoxan, or some other chemotherapy, is one tough motherfucker. I barely have the energy to type this because I really just want to be asleep. There's an idea I can make happen...
R
--BTW, I also have to give myself injections of Neupogen, which are unbelievably easy compared to those of Avonex (see picture of sadistically long needle below), for a week to boost my production of stem cells. Compared to Avonex, Neupogen is a piece of cake. These needles look comically small next to the huge one I've used for the former. Think a mosquito bite versus a pile driver.
Now I deal with this
instead of this
My chemo regiment is aggressive, sure, but it'll be over in a month. Seriously. One month is all I have to endure. I can't imagine dealing with this cytoxan shit any longer than that. Remember, I've only had one treatment, and it's nearly impossible for me to complain because of all the shit I'd start spewing and then get too tired or nauseated to continue and finish. Discarded rants would pollute everything, and might subsequently poison the resolve of someone else. I flatter myself, of course, by thinking that anyone would actually care about what I have to say.
I'm just saying, though, that whoever has to go through a treatment like cytoxan, or some other chemotherapy, is one tough motherfucker. I barely have the energy to type this because I really just want to be asleep. There's an idea I can make happen...
R
--BTW, I also have to give myself injections of Neupogen, which are unbelievably easy compared to those of Avonex (see picture of sadistically long needle below), for a week to boost my production of stem cells. Compared to Avonex, Neupogen is a piece of cake. These needles look comically small next to the huge one I've used for the former. Think a mosquito bite versus a pile driver.
Now I deal with this
instead of this
Thursday, August 27, 2009
An Intentional Misreading for Ted Kennedy
Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "Ulysses" was one of Senator Edward Kennedy's favorite poems, as it is mine, and he quoted it often, but most famously in his speech at the 1980 Democratic National Convention, as his campaign for the nomination against the incumbent President Carter officially ended. He actually misread the poem, which is a brutal rallying cry against the ravages of aging by an aging warrior, or brute, to be blunt. Nevertheless, his misreading of the poem as an ethically pure, inspiring refusal to slip silently into retirement fits his sterling service as a senator. Therefore, I will only quote his favorite quote from the dramatic monologue, and I think it says enough about the man and his incredible resilience in the face of horror:
"Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
R
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Day One: The Beginning (At Last)
It's early Tuesday evening, and I've been at Northwestern Memorial Hospital here in Chicago since yesterday morning. After a week of tests, not to mention months of bureaucratic bullshit, I finally made it into the first rounds of the stem cell trial.
Stem cells are a minor, although integral, part of this regiment of treatment. In a few weeks, I'll sit in a chair connected to a machine while my stem cells are filtered from my blood. The crux of the treatment, though, lies in chemotherapy, and the systematic obliteration of my immune system. Unlike cancer patients, the chemotherapy will not completely annihilate my immune system, but merely decimate it. My stem cells will then be readmitted to my body and will totally rebuild--not reboot, which the forestalling interferon treatments do--this immune system. (Yes, that's three sentences consecutively that explicitly mention my immune system, but get used to it because, since MS is an autoimmune disease, I am quite certain that "immune system" will appear repeatedly.)
But that's still in the future. Yesterday, I checked into the hospital and was taken to my room, which has a separate room between it and the hallway, to minimize outside pathogens. Kids, obviously, aren't allowed--and this does not bother me one bit. All of the hospital personnel that enter have to wear a light-green gauze gown (alliteration!) over their usual scrubs or lab coats.
After one of the nurses inserted my IV line, I first received a saline drip. The problem with this, though, is that it makes me pee constantly, so at night I have to keep one of those handy, hand-held plastic urinals with a cap close by my bed. During the day, when I have visitors, I have to drag my portable IV tree, on wheels, to the bathroom, which is a pain in the ass because it involves unplugging it and gathering the strands of tubes that emanate from my arm and then wheeling the whole thing into the bathroom, where I still have to use the urinal because they want to watch my fluid output aka how much I piss.
Last night I received my first infusion of cytoxan, a form of chemotherapy that Ms. S. knows all too well. Along with that, I received a drip of Mesna, which helps to prevent bladder bleeding (and is also one letter inversion away from the pretentious high-IQ organization). This round of chemo was only my first, so I didn't have any of the typical unpleasant side effects.
Next week, though, we'll take it up a notch, and I can expect all of the expected side effects to kick in, like baldness and nausea and vomiting and what-have-you. I've said it before, but I need Ammo here to shave my head. She never actually has shaved it before, but she did give me quite a few haircuts in college, so I assume this would be a walk in the park.
Seriously, though, this saline drip makes me pee an abnormal amount, so you can guess where I'm headed right now. I have more, less soporific, non-medical anecdotes. But for now, I'm about to be discharged until next week. Since I have until then before we really jump into this thing, there's plenty of time for me to rant and rave about these & other trivialities.
R
Stem cells are a minor, although integral, part of this regiment of treatment. In a few weeks, I'll sit in a chair connected to a machine while my stem cells are filtered from my blood. The crux of the treatment, though, lies in chemotherapy, and the systematic obliteration of my immune system. Unlike cancer patients, the chemotherapy will not completely annihilate my immune system, but merely decimate it. My stem cells will then be readmitted to my body and will totally rebuild--not reboot, which the forestalling interferon treatments do--this immune system. (Yes, that's three sentences consecutively that explicitly mention my immune system, but get used to it because, since MS is an autoimmune disease, I am quite certain that "immune system" will appear repeatedly.)
But that's still in the future. Yesterday, I checked into the hospital and was taken to my room, which has a separate room between it and the hallway, to minimize outside pathogens. Kids, obviously, aren't allowed--and this does not bother me one bit. All of the hospital personnel that enter have to wear a light-green gauze gown (alliteration!) over their usual scrubs or lab coats.
After one of the nurses inserted my IV line, I first received a saline drip. The problem with this, though, is that it makes me pee constantly, so at night I have to keep one of those handy, hand-held plastic urinals with a cap close by my bed. During the day, when I have visitors, I have to drag my portable IV tree, on wheels, to the bathroom, which is a pain in the ass because it involves unplugging it and gathering the strands of tubes that emanate from my arm and then wheeling the whole thing into the bathroom, where I still have to use the urinal because they want to watch my fluid output aka how much I piss.
Last night I received my first infusion of cytoxan, a form of chemotherapy that Ms. S. knows all too well. Along with that, I received a drip of Mesna, which helps to prevent bladder bleeding (and is also one letter inversion away from the pretentious high-IQ organization). This round of chemo was only my first, so I didn't have any of the typical unpleasant side effects.
Next week, though, we'll take it up a notch, and I can expect all of the expected side effects to kick in, like baldness and nausea and vomiting and what-have-you. I've said it before, but I need Ammo here to shave my head. She never actually has shaved it before, but she did give me quite a few haircuts in college, so I assume this would be a walk in the park.
Seriously, though, this saline drip makes me pee an abnormal amount, so you can guess where I'm headed right now. I have more, less soporific, non-medical anecdotes. But for now, I'm about to be discharged until next week. Since I have until then before we really jump into this thing, there's plenty of time for me to rant and rave about these & other trivialities.
R
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Brad Pitt, the Cinematic Palate Cleanser
Like a good sorbet, Brad Pitt is a remarkable palate cleanser for eminent filmmakers. Big, acclaimed directors use him in their movies to follow up tremendous feats by taking a break from the strain and stress of them. This is not to say that he enables these directors to indulge horrible inclinations. Rather, he gives them breathing room, no doubt to placate the studio, after a strenuous release.
First, I thought of Joel & Ethan Coen, whose No Country For Old Men was an amazing addition to their already impressive filmography. That film, of course, came out in 2007, two years after Cormac McCarthy's middling novel. (Btw--I've often said that the worst books make the best movies, and vice versa. See: The Shawshank Redemption and The Great Gatsby. Think of their disparate aesthetic attributes, and how the film version inverts the literary attributes of its adapted story.) In 2008, the Coens released Burn After Reading, a thoroughly entertaining but ultimately disposable movie. You couldn't even respectably compare it to their previous movie without diminishing the greatness of the latter.
The same goes for Quentin Tarantino. He's a great director, arguably the best working today. I love Death Proof, but I don't think Inglourious Basterds actually follows this (chrono)logically. I think a truer predecessor would be Kill Bill, Vol. 2, which I think ranks with No Country as one of the best movies of the decade, and which first had the superimposed chapter titles on the screen as part of the film. Earlier today, I watched Vol. 2 and was again reminded of how truly amazing that movie is. Inglourious Basterds, which I saw last night, does not come close to that movie when it comes to emotional impact.
Both of these follow-ups to great movies by great directors have one glaring similarity: both star Brad Pitt. He's not, admittedly, a great actor, but occasionally he can surprise you with his abilities. In Burn After Reading, for instance, he was absolutely hilarious as a gym trainer who finds himself way over his head in a farce about espionage and a fairly innocuous "mem-wah" by John Malkovich's character. I still laugh just thinking about the incredulous, shocked dismay on his face after John Malkovich punches him in the nose in the car. I maintain, though, that that was an entertaining movie--very entertaining at times--that let the Coens relax after the amazing achievement of their previous movie, but it was not among their best work.
On to Tarantino. I liked Inglourious Basterds, but I don't think it matches either of the Kill Bills when it comes to overall emotional heft or sheer technique. In truth, it's a farce about Nazis. Don't get me wrong--I'm all for making fun of Nazis, but it's harder to do now, and have the same comic, topical resonance, than before. Chaplin's The Great Dictator came out in 1940, and it mercilessly made fun of Hitler. This movie does not really lampoon Hitler. He cartoonishly rants and raves, sure, but he is off-camera most of the time. Christoph Waltz plays the main antagonist, "the Jew Hunter," a Nazi officer who, ahem, hunts Jews. (I foresee an Oscar, by the way.) Pitt is the Allies' equivalent of Waltz's character, and their oppositional temperaments really undermines Pitt's effort. Waltz is frightening and absolutely merciless, like Javier Bardem in No Country.
The movie as a whole, though, does not leave you with the same wide-eyed "Wow" reaction that either of the Kill Bills. This is not Pitt's fault, but I think the movie does not stay with you like many of Tarantino's other films. I don't care much about this, and am easily prepared to give Tarantino a little pass when it comes to this movie. I don't mean it's bad, but I don't think it has the legs of his previous films.
I also don't think Pitt is bad. Let's face it, though: he's a cinematic sorbet. Even though Tarantino insists in interviews that this is a movie close to his heart, it does not even come close to his past works' greatness.
After serious, difficult, and insanely great movies like No Country For Old Men and Kill Bill, these directors deserve a little Brad Pitt.
R
First, I thought of Joel & Ethan Coen, whose No Country For Old Men was an amazing addition to their already impressive filmography. That film, of course, came out in 2007, two years after Cormac McCarthy's middling novel. (Btw--I've often said that the worst books make the best movies, and vice versa. See: The Shawshank Redemption and The Great Gatsby. Think of their disparate aesthetic attributes, and how the film version inverts the literary attributes of its adapted story.) In 2008, the Coens released Burn After Reading, a thoroughly entertaining but ultimately disposable movie. You couldn't even respectably compare it to their previous movie without diminishing the greatness of the latter.
The same goes for Quentin Tarantino. He's a great director, arguably the best working today. I love Death Proof, but I don't think Inglourious Basterds actually follows this (chrono)logically. I think a truer predecessor would be Kill Bill, Vol. 2, which I think ranks with No Country as one of the best movies of the decade, and which first had the superimposed chapter titles on the screen as part of the film. Earlier today, I watched Vol. 2 and was again reminded of how truly amazing that movie is. Inglourious Basterds, which I saw last night, does not come close to that movie when it comes to emotional impact.
Both of these follow-ups to great movies by great directors have one glaring similarity: both star Brad Pitt. He's not, admittedly, a great actor, but occasionally he can surprise you with his abilities. In Burn After Reading, for instance, he was absolutely hilarious as a gym trainer who finds himself way over his head in a farce about espionage and a fairly innocuous "mem-wah" by John Malkovich's character. I still laugh just thinking about the incredulous, shocked dismay on his face after John Malkovich punches him in the nose in the car. I maintain, though, that that was an entertaining movie--very entertaining at times--that let the Coens relax after the amazing achievement of their previous movie, but it was not among their best work.
On to Tarantino. I liked Inglourious Basterds, but I don't think it matches either of the Kill Bills when it comes to overall emotional heft or sheer technique. In truth, it's a farce about Nazis. Don't get me wrong--I'm all for making fun of Nazis, but it's harder to do now, and have the same comic, topical resonance, than before. Chaplin's The Great Dictator came out in 1940, and it mercilessly made fun of Hitler. This movie does not really lampoon Hitler. He cartoonishly rants and raves, sure, but he is off-camera most of the time. Christoph Waltz plays the main antagonist, "the Jew Hunter," a Nazi officer who, ahem, hunts Jews. (I foresee an Oscar, by the way.) Pitt is the Allies' equivalent of Waltz's character, and their oppositional temperaments really undermines Pitt's effort. Waltz is frightening and absolutely merciless, like Javier Bardem in No Country.
The movie as a whole, though, does not leave you with the same wide-eyed "Wow" reaction that either of the Kill Bills. This is not Pitt's fault, but I think the movie does not stay with you like many of Tarantino's other films. I don't care much about this, and am easily prepared to give Tarantino a little pass when it comes to this movie. I don't mean it's bad, but I don't think it has the legs of his previous films.
I also don't think Pitt is bad. Let's face it, though: he's a cinematic sorbet. Even though Tarantino insists in interviews that this is a movie close to his heart, it does not even come close to his past works' greatness.
After serious, difficult, and insanely great movies like No Country For Old Men and Kill Bill, these directors deserve a little Brad Pitt.
R
Thursday, August 20, 2009
America, The Pathetic
Certain issues bring out the worst in America. It's like the country puts a towel over its head (not like the scary Arabs do, though--I mean figuratively), hovers over a bowl of steaming water, and then all of the hideous boils and acne and other dermatological mounds stand out in high relief. Don't kid yourself, America--we are a nation of paranoid xenophobes and vociferous, shameful, and shameless morons. We the people are pathetic.
As a whole, of course. I would never insult anyone so much as to compare him to this lovely woman, who shows her true, deplorable colors when she shouts, stupidly, "Heil Hitler!" at a dissenting Israeli-American at another bullshit "town hall." Some walking lobotomy, aka conservative radio host, had set up this utter sham of a gathering in order to stoke the ire of wack-jobs afraid of national health care, and the troglodytes came out in droves.
One could say that this Israeli man was asking for it. He did go to a place where people were certainly unstable, to say the least. However, I am quite proud of him. After the bitch lobbed that stupid comment his way, he did not ignore it or pretend not to hear it. No, he confronted that seaward. Flatly. And, when he did so, you can see that her shrink a few inches because she's absolutely terrified of the large Jew walking her way. She should be scared. If I were that guy, I would have popped her head off of her neck like a cork in a bottle of champagne.
"These Colors Don't Run." So goes a typically glib bumper sticker slogan favored by lunkheads when talking about American aggressiveness after 9/11. What's funny, though, is that most of these berserk citizens live in red states, mostly, so what are they running from? There's no draft, although I'd be more than happy to reinstate one in the South (or in any state that produces such an abominable human being). Plus, if you're as fucking stupid as any of these loud "protesters," you'd better pick up the pace, because hopefully we on the left (ironically on the undeniably "right" side of the issue) have learned that civil discourse and debate does not work with retards.
I have long run out of rope with regard to the rampant conservative idiocy in this country. If I say, "I'm at the end of my rope" about these people, I'm lying. I was at the end of my rope a long time ago. Who are we kidding? It's gone. Forget nonviolent protests of outrage toward these automatons.
When it comes to loud groups of assembled right-wing lemmings, I am on the side of Woody Allen's character in Manhattan.
Forget about placating these aliens with assurances rooted in reason. Clearly, they're impervious. Cudgels, I think, would be more effective than cuddles when it comes to silencing such histrionic, hysterical caterwauling.
R
As a whole, of course. I would never insult anyone so much as to compare him to this lovely woman, who shows her true, deplorable colors when she shouts, stupidly, "Heil Hitler!" at a dissenting Israeli-American at another bullshit "town hall." Some walking lobotomy, aka conservative radio host, had set up this utter sham of a gathering in order to stoke the ire of wack-jobs afraid of national health care, and the troglodytes came out in droves.
One could say that this Israeli man was asking for it. He did go to a place where people were certainly unstable, to say the least. However, I am quite proud of him. After the bitch lobbed that stupid comment his way, he did not ignore it or pretend not to hear it. No, he confronted that seaward. Flatly. And, when he did so, you can see that her shrink a few inches because she's absolutely terrified of the large Jew walking her way. She should be scared. If I were that guy, I would have popped her head off of her neck like a cork in a bottle of champagne.
"These Colors Don't Run." So goes a typically glib bumper sticker slogan favored by lunkheads when talking about American aggressiveness after 9/11. What's funny, though, is that most of these berserk citizens live in red states, mostly, so what are they running from? There's no draft, although I'd be more than happy to reinstate one in the South (or in any state that produces such an abominable human being). Plus, if you're as fucking stupid as any of these loud "protesters," you'd better pick up the pace, because hopefully we on the left (ironically on the undeniably "right" side of the issue) have learned that civil discourse and debate does not work with retards.
I have long run out of rope with regard to the rampant conservative idiocy in this country. If I say, "I'm at the end of my rope" about these people, I'm lying. I was at the end of my rope a long time ago. Who are we kidding? It's gone. Forget nonviolent protests of outrage toward these automatons.
When it comes to loud groups of assembled right-wing lemmings, I am on the side of Woody Allen's character in Manhattan.
Forget about placating these aliens with assurances rooted in reason. Clearly, they're impervious. Cudgels, I think, would be more effective than cuddles when it comes to silencing such histrionic, hysterical caterwauling.
R
From the Living Room Sofa
This is from a Touch, in my apartment's living room. I might be too lazy to write & exercise tonight, so I may just content myself with flossing. And some "Pineapple Express."
R
R
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Good News re: Stem Cell Trial
I'm not sure how much I can say, so I'll just say that I'm delighted. Plus I saw Sophie and Gene today. What kind of day? That's right: THIS kind, (without the latent unresolved hostility).
R
R
Monday, August 17, 2009
PETA is a PITA
Not the delicious Middle Eastern bread. The animal-rights group is a major Pain In The Ass.
Michael Vick was released this week after a year and a half in prison. Yeah, his illegal dog-fighting league was despicable, but I don't think he deserved 18 months in prison. I mean, dogs aren't exactly humans, no matter what people like my mother would say. Thus, we shouldn't elevate them in status. A dog is a dog. Don't get me wrong--I like dogs, but this is true.
Vick left the Atlanta Falcons finally in the middle of 2007 in the midst of all the hubbub surrounding his indictment. Then he became a free agent, and, after serving his sentence, will play for the Philadelphia Eagles in 2009.
Not to digress again, but this is infuriating for me, a Chicago Bears fan. Hopefully Cutler will prove to be a functional quarterback, but I'm extremely pessimistic when it comes to the Bears and quarterbacks. Even Jim McMahon, the quarterback at the helm of the 1985 Bears--perhaps the most dominant team in NFL history--wasn't a superstar. He was more of a workhorse, but that's the Chicago way: work over luck. Anyways, we haven't had a marquee quarterback, like, ever (Cade McNown was the closest we ever came, but he was a complete dud). Now Philadelphia has two? Remember, Donovan McNabb is still the starting QB. Damn, that's unfair.
Anyways, PETA publicly denounced Vick upon his release. What do they want? The man did his time, admirably. When asked if the organization had forgiven Vick, and perhaps the two could do some joint charity thing, Lisa Lange, the Senior VP of PETA, said,
"We met with Michael Vick back before he went to prison. And he lied to us, as he lied to so many other people, about his actions, basically saying he didn't have anything directly to do with it, that he didn't do anything to his own pets. And later it came out that he actually threw some of his pets to the pit bulls and watched as they were ripped apart."
I'll admit--I laughed out loud at that last sentence. How can these people take themselves so seriously that they can't see how absurd they are acting? I suspect they had miserable childhoods made less miserable because of their dogs/cats/whatever, and now they raise a ruckus when they hear of any crime against their beloved animals.
Put down the knitting needles and the scrap of yarn that will eventually be a doggy snowsuit, and make use of that shiny thing in your bathroom. (It's called a "mirror.") You look ridiculous, PETA-member, so please show some dignity and take pride in your own taxonomic bracket. Humans are fun, sometimes. We can be dicks, but so can dogs.
Someone needs to remake Cujo, and then maybe we'll all give Michael Vick a break (not that he really needs it).
R
Michael Vick was released this week after a year and a half in prison. Yeah, his illegal dog-fighting league was despicable, but I don't think he deserved 18 months in prison. I mean, dogs aren't exactly humans, no matter what people like my mother would say. Thus, we shouldn't elevate them in status. A dog is a dog. Don't get me wrong--I like dogs, but this is true.
Vick left the Atlanta Falcons finally in the middle of 2007 in the midst of all the hubbub surrounding his indictment. Then he became a free agent, and, after serving his sentence, will play for the Philadelphia Eagles in 2009.
Not to digress again, but this is infuriating for me, a Chicago Bears fan. Hopefully Cutler will prove to be a functional quarterback, but I'm extremely pessimistic when it comes to the Bears and quarterbacks. Even Jim McMahon, the quarterback at the helm of the 1985 Bears--perhaps the most dominant team in NFL history--wasn't a superstar. He was more of a workhorse, but that's the Chicago way: work over luck. Anyways, we haven't had a marquee quarterback, like, ever (Cade McNown was the closest we ever came, but he was a complete dud). Now Philadelphia has two? Remember, Donovan McNabb is still the starting QB. Damn, that's unfair.
Anyways, PETA publicly denounced Vick upon his release. What do they want? The man did his time, admirably. When asked if the organization had forgiven Vick, and perhaps the two could do some joint charity thing, Lisa Lange, the Senior VP of PETA, said,
"We met with Michael Vick back before he went to prison. And he lied to us, as he lied to so many other people, about his actions, basically saying he didn't have anything directly to do with it, that he didn't do anything to his own pets. And later it came out that he actually threw some of his pets to the pit bulls and watched as they were ripped apart."
I'll admit--I laughed out loud at that last sentence. How can these people take themselves so seriously that they can't see how absurd they are acting? I suspect they had miserable childhoods made less miserable because of their dogs/cats/whatever, and now they raise a ruckus when they hear of any crime against their beloved animals.
Put down the knitting needles and the scrap of yarn that will eventually be a doggy snowsuit, and make use of that shiny thing in your bathroom. (It's called a "mirror.") You look ridiculous, PETA-member, so please show some dignity and take pride in your own taxonomic bracket. Humans are fun, sometimes. We can be dicks, but so can dogs.
Someone needs to remake Cujo, and then maybe we'll all give Michael Vick a break (not that he really needs it).
R
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Democrats Are Sheep
Republicans are wolves, so at least they get shit done. When you have a taste for blood, which the Republicans finally got in 1994, you become fearless in your quest for more. More more more--this has become the mantra of the GOP since it gained control of Congress. Even when they finally lost the majority of both houses in 2006, their opposition, the Democrats, haven't done a anything substantial. Those who would disagree could cite all sorts of minor legislative victories that they managed to secure, but those happened most noticeably when Obama took over from the decade of entrail-reading and tarot governance that seemed to typify the Bush years.
It has become a cliche, but the elections that year represented a huge mandate to fix everything that that moron fucked up. So far, not much has changed. Obama signed an order to close Guantanamo, but then acknowledged that providing these humans, and they are human even though they act inhuman, with due process would be futile. He decided it would probably be easier to lock them up permanently, and then forget them.
Now, with the health care issue at the center of America's political stage, Democrats, along with President Obama, are planning to fold yet again. Kathleen Sibelius, former governor of Kanas and now Secretary of Health and Human Services, said this morning that the Democratic leadership (an oxymoron) might drop the public option from the prospective health care bill.
Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously. Are you fucking kidding me?
I understand that it's important to pass something, but, in the words of John Stossel, GIMME A BREAK.
You can't even call the Democrats cowards. I mean, they are, but it's worse than that. They simply don't have the swagger and effrontery that jackass Republicans like Bush or any of his vile cohorts had. They only graze about like brainless sheep, waiting for the next wolf to rip them apart.
Here's the thing, though, pussies: You have a majority across the board, so do something with it. Democrats can't act dilatory and then be shocked when a newly charged GOP tears them apart.
If they don't stand up and deliver, like the students of EJOlmos, they're doomed to a life of bumbling. Not staggering, but aimless bumbling. Or they can continue to get picked apart by the vultures of the GOP, who never stop circling, no matter the circumstances.
Hey, wimps, there is power in numbers (China is starting to understand this). If you actually cared for the whole as opposed to the gaping holes in your heads, you'd understand that those on the front lines may get plowed under, Civil War-style, but those in the rear will eventually stand on the corpses of these martyrs, who will not have died in vain. In the end, America would have a health care system that does not cause the rest of the world to snicker.
Honestly, if Democrats keep waiting around, getting less active and thus fatter, I shouldn't care if they get torn apart by the Republicans. What country is this, again? If it can't pass a no-brainer like a health care bill, who cares if it totally goes to shit?
I DO, MOTHERFUCKERS. Wake up, Democrats/zombies, and realize that a flock of sheep can decimate a Republican party comprised mostly of limp wolves. Let them snarl, but eventually they have to know that their sad lives are over.
Or not. The new Democratic strategy seems to be to let them re-populate, uglier and more nefarious than ever. Like Gremlins: The New Batch.
R
It has become a cliche, but the elections that year represented a huge mandate to fix everything that that moron fucked up. So far, not much has changed. Obama signed an order to close Guantanamo, but then acknowledged that providing these humans, and they are human even though they act inhuman, with due process would be futile. He decided it would probably be easier to lock them up permanently, and then forget them.
Now, with the health care issue at the center of America's political stage, Democrats, along with President Obama, are planning to fold yet again. Kathleen Sibelius, former governor of Kanas and now Secretary of Health and Human Services, said this morning that the Democratic leadership (an oxymoron) might drop the public option from the prospective health care bill.
Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously. Are you fucking kidding me?
I understand that it's important to pass something, but, in the words of John Stossel, GIMME A BREAK.
You can't even call the Democrats cowards. I mean, they are, but it's worse than that. They simply don't have the swagger and effrontery that jackass Republicans like Bush or any of his vile cohorts had. They only graze about like brainless sheep, waiting for the next wolf to rip them apart.
Here's the thing, though, pussies: You have a majority across the board, so do something with it. Democrats can't act dilatory and then be shocked when a newly charged GOP tears them apart.
If they don't stand up and deliver, like the students of EJOlmos, they're doomed to a life of bumbling. Not staggering, but aimless bumbling. Or they can continue to get picked apart by the vultures of the GOP, who never stop circling, no matter the circumstances.
Hey, wimps, there is power in numbers (China is starting to understand this). If you actually cared for the whole as opposed to the gaping holes in your heads, you'd understand that those on the front lines may get plowed under, Civil War-style, but those in the rear will eventually stand on the corpses of these martyrs, who will not have died in vain. In the end, America would have a health care system that does not cause the rest of the world to snicker.
Honestly, if Democrats keep waiting around, getting less active and thus fatter, I shouldn't care if they get torn apart by the Republicans. What country is this, again? If it can't pass a no-brainer like a health care bill, who cares if it totally goes to shit?
I DO, MOTHERFUCKERS. Wake up, Democrats/zombies, and realize that a flock of sheep can decimate a Republican party comprised mostly of limp wolves. Let them snarl, but eventually they have to know that their sad lives are over.
Or not. The new Democratic strategy seems to be to let them re-populate, uglier and more nefarious than ever. Like Gremlins: The New Batch.
R
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Astronauts and Old-School Intimidation
Because I love it, I selected "Ghosts of American Astronauts" by The Mekons on my iPod, and evidently accidentally pressed "Repeat" and have been listening to the song nonstop for about half an hour. Although this sounds like the actions of a potential psychopath, I urge you to get it wherever. Listen to it, and tell me it does not deserve to be replayed endlessly.
Follow this train of thought: if astronauts sat down and spoke with Blue Dog Democrats, health care would pass easily. Furthermore, if an astronaut--a Democratic one, so we could be assured there was no residual brain damage from whatever mission--sat down calmly with a crazy Republican (redundant, I know), I'm sure he could convert even that lunatic.
He would still have the buzzcut, of course. Have you seen a current astronaut, by the way? The buzzcut has faded, but I assure you that none of them has a mohawk or even an earring, except the women, but this still applies only to the latter. Plus, he (or she again--let's all assume I refer to both sexes here, so I don't have to keep typing five more letters. Suck it up, feminists.) is physically intimidating beyond the hair. Even if the guy is short, you know he's square (both physically and, most likely, culturally) and squat and immobile and stronger than a lesser primate.
All these town hall outbursts come mainly from morons. Think of only the jackass who brought a gun to an Obama speech, and remember that he never even got near a microphone, at least not at the event itself. The thing about morons, though, is that really they're pussies. Even a giant can easily be toppled, at least emotionally. This guy was reduced to tight-lipped aphasia when questioned aggressively by Chris Matthews. Chris Matthews! He's loud, sure, but he looks like the boy with his thumb in the dike.
Think now of the progress we can make on health care reform if only a tough, taciturn astronaut walked up to a hesitant legislator, or, better, a pompous loud demagogue. He could tap Senator Chuck Grassley, from Iowa, on the shoulder and induce a massive gulp from the idiotic politician who vociferously rallies the ire of his dumb constituents when talking about health care reform. And forget about Palin: she could be knocked over with a glare from Shannon Lucid, who looks like a scary gym teacher, and was one of the first female astronauts.
We need astronauts to strong-arm, with silent intimidation, any bloviating, weak-kneed politician when it comes to health care legislation. I would love to see a "Scared Straight" installment like that.
And, obviously, astronauts are very smart, so even that would scare Palin and any other vapid right-winger.
R
Follow this train of thought: if astronauts sat down and spoke with Blue Dog Democrats, health care would pass easily. Furthermore, if an astronaut--a Democratic one, so we could be assured there was no residual brain damage from whatever mission--sat down calmly with a crazy Republican (redundant, I know), I'm sure he could convert even that lunatic.
He would still have the buzzcut, of course. Have you seen a current astronaut, by the way? The buzzcut has faded, but I assure you that none of them has a mohawk or even an earring, except the women, but this still applies only to the latter. Plus, he (or she again--let's all assume I refer to both sexes here, so I don't have to keep typing five more letters. Suck it up, feminists.) is physically intimidating beyond the hair. Even if the guy is short, you know he's square (both physically and, most likely, culturally) and squat and immobile and stronger than a lesser primate.
All these town hall outbursts come mainly from morons. Think of only the jackass who brought a gun to an Obama speech, and remember that he never even got near a microphone, at least not at the event itself. The thing about morons, though, is that really they're pussies. Even a giant can easily be toppled, at least emotionally. This guy was reduced to tight-lipped aphasia when questioned aggressively by Chris Matthews. Chris Matthews! He's loud, sure, but he looks like the boy with his thumb in the dike.
Think now of the progress we can make on health care reform if only a tough, taciturn astronaut walked up to a hesitant legislator, or, better, a pompous loud demagogue. He could tap Senator Chuck Grassley, from Iowa, on the shoulder and induce a massive gulp from the idiotic politician who vociferously rallies the ire of his dumb constituents when talking about health care reform. And forget about Palin: she could be knocked over with a glare from Shannon Lucid, who looks like a scary gym teacher, and was one of the first female astronauts.
We need astronauts to strong-arm, with silent intimidation, any bloviating, weak-kneed politician when it comes to health care legislation. I would love to see a "Scared Straight" installment like that.
And, obviously, astronauts are very smart, so even that would scare Palin and any other vapid right-winger.
R
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Prologue: Day Three (The End of The Beginning)
Today was the least exhausting day of the three days of tests I went through in order to confirm my final eligibility for the stem cell/chemotherapy trial for treatment of MS. No shots, though, so that was good. Two separate appointments with my main liaisons, though, who I have dubbed, not very creatively, "The Two Bs": Dr. Richard Burt, an immunologist and the trial's ringleader, affiliated with Northwestern, and Dr. Roumen Balabanov, my neurologist at Rush University.
My first appointment was with the latter of these. Dr. Balabanov has a fun name to pronounce, or, in my mother's case, mispronounce. He is also from Bulgaria, so he has an awesome Eastern European accent. With it he exudes a nice nonchalance that helps him to keep his sense of humor even as he sees a very high number of demanding patients in the Rush MS Center. He also reminds me a lot of Dr. Charles Nichols from The Fugitive with Harrison Ford. Without, you know, the murderous ambition.
He gave me the perfunctory MS neurological exam, and gave me his approval for the trial. His medical opinion weighs quite heavily, and well, with Dr. Burt as a determination of eligibility. It was nice to hear him tell me that I looked great, but I assured him that beneath a veneer of health lay a bubbling, unstable, and downright volatile nervous system. He said he noticed this, and, on a walk we took down one of the floor's long aisles, told me about a brain stimulation procedure that could resolve a slight tremor he saw in my left hand. I assure you, this tremor only comes up intermittently, and since it was early it was probably very noticeable.
This, he said, was an option should I fall into the placebo-ish group during randomization. The great thing about this aspect, though, is that I'd be automatically eligible and approved for the transplant in six months. After all, the study has to include a group of individuals that do not receive the transplant. Nevertheless, they get another, more aggressive form of treatment that is different from the one they are currently on. In the end, it still sucks to be in this group, but hopefully only for half a year.
After he gave me the green light, I headed to Northwestern Memorial Hospital's Division of Immunotherapy to meet with Dr. Burt. Dr. Burt exudes competence, and I also like him immensely. When he walks into the room, you immediately know that he knows more than you about whatever you're seeing him for. It's not a pretentious, ohyeahdidyouknowthis? arrogance, though. He's quietly confident and confidently smart.
Quick digression, yet again: the nurse who took my vitals here commented on my eyelashes. I, embarrassed somewhat at the unexpected compliment, responded with, "Yeah--wait a month if I get into the trial. Enjoy them now, because they might not be here later." Awesome downer, I know, but I was mildly distracted because I was about to meet with the head of the whole shebang.
When Dr. Burt came in, I could tell immediately that he was not his usual, buoyant, cool self. Something weighed on his mind and diluted his joviality. I think I may have trivialized some of his feelings when he went through the possible side effects of the treatment. Sterility? I knew that. Death? What're you gonna do? I later realized, as my mother pointed out, that he was obviously flummoxed because he saw me right after he had to deny some woman's inclusion in the trial because her MS had progressed beyond the reach of the study. We rode with her in the elevator, and I had no idea why she was so quiet in her wheelchair. Later, I understood her despondency. Nevertheless, he too said I was ready and ideal for the procedure.
I then had to perform a series of cognitive tests with the head nurse of the trial, to whom I referred in a previous post. For the first test, I had to put nine plastic pegs into three rows of three holes in a blue board. Apparently I did well, or so she said, but I confessed that it was hard for me to concentrate because I was so absurdly tired. Three days of tests, totaling 20+ hours, had exhausted me enough to render my coordination lazy.
Then I had to do a mental math quiz. Apparently I did well on this as well, although I'm not sure if she was just being kind. I hate math--shocking, I know--and my prowess really seemed to me to be functional at best. It also couldn't have helped that I was constantly distracted by the items in the room. This sounds like an excuse, and it is, but some things honestly fucked with my head. I stopped listening intently to the voice on the old tape recorder that was giving me numbers to add when I saw the blood pressure thing.
I became obsessed with the name of this thing. I was pretty sure it was "sphygmomanometer," but I couldn't be sure. Was there an extra syllable in there somewhere? After the test, I asked Kristin, the nurse, but she wasn't sure because it had been a while since she thought about it. Fair enough, although I did chide her for not knowing. Mind you--this is the same bubbly woman who remarked on my dry yet scorching (if I may be so bold) sense of humor, so she laughed at my playful critique. In the lobby afterward, she told my mother as much and said that she enjoyed my playful apathy. (I wonder if she knows that I'm not simply feigning my insouciance.)
Then we left, these last three days of arduous, extensive, and intensive assessment finally over. It was bittersweet, as most things are to my pragmatic (some would say "pessimistic") mind, because of the subsequent elevator ride with the aforementioned rejectee and her family, from Ohio.
As for me, I'm just glad to be done with this week of tests. Randomization takes place next Thursday, so I'll know then if I will get the transplant or some other treatment. Again, either outcome will be bittersweet. One option means a few weeks of hospitalization and chemo and all that that entails, and the other points me toward other alternative treatments (but eventual transplantation).
I'll know the outcome in a week. Until then, it's back to my normal modus operandi of tolerance and ignorance (of my onerous symptoms, I mean). So, at least for the next week of uncertainty, I'll keep in mind what the French say (I think--I speak no French): "C'est la vie."
R
--Tomorrow I'll probably be energized enough to express fully my abhorrence of the opposition to national health care, and that fucking moron who brought a gun to an Obama rally/speech.
My first appointment was with the latter of these. Dr. Balabanov has a fun name to pronounce, or, in my mother's case, mispronounce. He is also from Bulgaria, so he has an awesome Eastern European accent. With it he exudes a nice nonchalance that helps him to keep his sense of humor even as he sees a very high number of demanding patients in the Rush MS Center. He also reminds me a lot of Dr. Charles Nichols from The Fugitive with Harrison Ford. Without, you know, the murderous ambition.
He gave me the perfunctory MS neurological exam, and gave me his approval for the trial. His medical opinion weighs quite heavily, and well, with Dr. Burt as a determination of eligibility. It was nice to hear him tell me that I looked great, but I assured him that beneath a veneer of health lay a bubbling, unstable, and downright volatile nervous system. He said he noticed this, and, on a walk we took down one of the floor's long aisles, told me about a brain stimulation procedure that could resolve a slight tremor he saw in my left hand. I assure you, this tremor only comes up intermittently, and since it was early it was probably very noticeable.
This, he said, was an option should I fall into the placebo-ish group during randomization. The great thing about this aspect, though, is that I'd be automatically eligible and approved for the transplant in six months. After all, the study has to include a group of individuals that do not receive the transplant. Nevertheless, they get another, more aggressive form of treatment that is different from the one they are currently on. In the end, it still sucks to be in this group, but hopefully only for half a year.
After he gave me the green light, I headed to Northwestern Memorial Hospital's Division of Immunotherapy to meet with Dr. Burt. Dr. Burt exudes competence, and I also like him immensely. When he walks into the room, you immediately know that he knows more than you about whatever you're seeing him for. It's not a pretentious, ohyeahdidyouknowthis? arrogance, though. He's quietly confident and confidently smart.
Quick digression, yet again: the nurse who took my vitals here commented on my eyelashes. I, embarrassed somewhat at the unexpected compliment, responded with, "Yeah--wait a month if I get into the trial. Enjoy them now, because they might not be here later." Awesome downer, I know, but I was mildly distracted because I was about to meet with the head of the whole shebang.
When Dr. Burt came in, I could tell immediately that he was not his usual, buoyant, cool self. Something weighed on his mind and diluted his joviality. I think I may have trivialized some of his feelings when he went through the possible side effects of the treatment. Sterility? I knew that. Death? What're you gonna do? I later realized, as my mother pointed out, that he was obviously flummoxed because he saw me right after he had to deny some woman's inclusion in the trial because her MS had progressed beyond the reach of the study. We rode with her in the elevator, and I had no idea why she was so quiet in her wheelchair. Later, I understood her despondency. Nevertheless, he too said I was ready and ideal for the procedure.
I then had to perform a series of cognitive tests with the head nurse of the trial, to whom I referred in a previous post. For the first test, I had to put nine plastic pegs into three rows of three holes in a blue board. Apparently I did well, or so she said, but I confessed that it was hard for me to concentrate because I was so absurdly tired. Three days of tests, totaling 20+ hours, had exhausted me enough to render my coordination lazy.
Then I had to do a mental math quiz. Apparently I did well on this as well, although I'm not sure if she was just being kind. I hate math--shocking, I know--and my prowess really seemed to me to be functional at best. It also couldn't have helped that I was constantly distracted by the items in the room. This sounds like an excuse, and it is, but some things honestly fucked with my head. I stopped listening intently to the voice on the old tape recorder that was giving me numbers to add when I saw the blood pressure thing.
I became obsessed with the name of this thing. I was pretty sure it was "sphygmomanometer," but I couldn't be sure. Was there an extra syllable in there somewhere? After the test, I asked Kristin, the nurse, but she wasn't sure because it had been a while since she thought about it. Fair enough, although I did chide her for not knowing. Mind you--this is the same bubbly woman who remarked on my dry yet scorching (if I may be so bold) sense of humor, so she laughed at my playful critique. In the lobby afterward, she told my mother as much and said that she enjoyed my playful apathy. (I wonder if she knows that I'm not simply feigning my insouciance.)
Then we left, these last three days of arduous, extensive, and intensive assessment finally over. It was bittersweet, as most things are to my pragmatic (some would say "pessimistic") mind, because of the subsequent elevator ride with the aforementioned rejectee and her family, from Ohio.
As for me, I'm just glad to be done with this week of tests. Randomization takes place next Thursday, so I'll know then if I will get the transplant or some other treatment. Again, either outcome will be bittersweet. One option means a few weeks of hospitalization and chemo and all that that entails, and the other points me toward other alternative treatments (but eventual transplantation).
I'll know the outcome in a week. Until then, it's back to my normal modus operandi of tolerance and ignorance (of my onerous symptoms, I mean). So, at least for the next week of uncertainty, I'll keep in mind what the French say (I think--I speak no French): "C'est la vie."
R
--Tomorrow I'll probably be energized enough to express fully my abhorrence of the opposition to national health care, and that fucking moron who brought a gun to an Obama rally/speech.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Prologue: Day Two
I know that most people have a 9-5 day job, but I honestly, and pathologically, cannot. I go to bed obscenely late, and I cannot help it. I've mentioned this before, but it's been a fact in high relief with these early days in the stem cell trial. Not only is it early in the process, but it's early in the day. It's driving me nuts.
I told as much to the administrator of my first test today, a pulmonary function test. This takes place mostly inside what looks like a hyperbaric, deep-sea-diving chamber, or, as I also related to the technician, inside a 1950's quiz show booth that ensures silence and complete isolation. I had to sit inside this plain little capsule with a plastic arm with a mouthpiece that the technician attached, I assume for sanitary reasons. The test consisted of a variety of different breathing techniques, both deep and short, shallow ones. I couldn't help but mention its similarity to Nick Nolte's hilarious, infamous 60 Minutes interview where he went through a similar evaluation by a doctor and ended up passing out briefly. Just thinking about it now makes me laugh, and I'm pissed that I can't find a clip online.
Evidently, though, I have good lungs, even at an hour when I'd definitely still be asleep. Who knew? I guess I only smoked copiously in college, and then got too lazy to get addicted, which was not a problem in other areas. The only minor aberration was in my diaphragm. The woman assured me that this was probably due to the MS. I already knew this, of course, because I frequently have to take breaths intermittently when I'm rambling, like Christopher Reeves had to do when he was paralyzed and on that ventilator. Otherwise my pulmonary function is tip-top.
Next up was a MUGA, or a Multi-Gated Acquisition Scan. I had to look this up and test the technician for that, who admitted she had forgotten. Because it's a bullshit, impenetrably technical, esoteric but nonspecific name. (It reminded me of a lot of literary criticism--the worst--where you have no idea what the writer is talking about, and suspect that he/she doesn't either. I'm not one to name names, but I'm looking in your direction, Homi Bhabha.) For this test, I had to receive an injection that contained some form of radioactive marker that the machine, a gamma camera, would follow throughout my heart and entire circulatory system. The syringe even came in a lead canister.
After the injection I asked the nurse if, technically, I could say I was radioactive. She said yes, which was enough for me to grin widely. Also, I had a very hard time refraining from constantly pointing and saying, "Watch out, Radioactive Man!" like Bart in that one episode of The Simpsons, which we all know sucks now and does not deserve a litany of the reasons.
Little sidebar: this was like my fifth shot in two days, so when the nurse saw my arm I had to assure her that I was not a junkie. She laughed, but I still said, "No, really."
I then headed for an X-Ray and CT scan. The first of these went quickly. It was for my torso, so I simply turned when told to do so and walked out after a couple of minutes. The CT scan, though, was a different story.
It was about 1 pm, so I was exhausted and antsy anyway, but I had to wait about an hour in the patient area. Luckily, though, I didn't have to put on a gown, unlike the five or so men in the waiting room with me. I also didn't have to drink the powdered concoction that they did. But I still had to wait an hour. A fucking hour. I didn't bring anything to read in the room, so I listened to some boring but occasionally funny stories about the others' days in the army. I would have chimed in at the mention of the GI Bill, but I was too tired to converse.
After an hour, I was called in for my CT scan, and you have no idea how angry but resigned I was when I found that the test lasted approximately twenty seconds. I lay on a tray that slid, slightly, into the machine. Twenty seconds passed, and the technician emerged from behind the glass to tell me that I was done. The irony of the wait and the beyond-brief test was not lost on me, but I was still pissed. And tired. It was about 2:30, and I was due for a nap. The brevity of the test, however, precluded this. As I've said, I like MRIs because I can always get in a good nap, but this was not possible to do in less than a minute.
When I got home, finally, I melted into my bed. Then I went to the gym--go figure. The caprice of MS still confounds and humors me.
I'm done with these preliminary tests, thankfully. Tomorrow I meet with my doctors--Burt and Balabanov, both of whom I like immensely. Thankfully, because I could be susceptible to lashing out after these dilatory, and almost paradoxically interminable, tests.
As Buzz Lightyear would say, "To infinity! And beyond!" (I nearly said "Onward and Upward," but the following reference to a "Christian soldier" made me think better of this.)
R
(I'm too tired to edit, so ignore any typos or glaring grammatical errors.)
I told as much to the administrator of my first test today, a pulmonary function test. This takes place mostly inside what looks like a hyperbaric, deep-sea-diving chamber, or, as I also related to the technician, inside a 1950's quiz show booth that ensures silence and complete isolation. I had to sit inside this plain little capsule with a plastic arm with a mouthpiece that the technician attached, I assume for sanitary reasons. The test consisted of a variety of different breathing techniques, both deep and short, shallow ones. I couldn't help but mention its similarity to Nick Nolte's hilarious, infamous 60 Minutes interview where he went through a similar evaluation by a doctor and ended up passing out briefly. Just thinking about it now makes me laugh, and I'm pissed that I can't find a clip online.
Evidently, though, I have good lungs, even at an hour when I'd definitely still be asleep. Who knew? I guess I only smoked copiously in college, and then got too lazy to get addicted, which was not a problem in other areas. The only minor aberration was in my diaphragm. The woman assured me that this was probably due to the MS. I already knew this, of course, because I frequently have to take breaths intermittently when I'm rambling, like Christopher Reeves had to do when he was paralyzed and on that ventilator. Otherwise my pulmonary function is tip-top.
Next up was a MUGA, or a Multi-Gated Acquisition Scan. I had to look this up and test the technician for that, who admitted she had forgotten. Because it's a bullshit, impenetrably technical, esoteric but nonspecific name. (It reminded me of a lot of literary criticism--the worst--where you have no idea what the writer is talking about, and suspect that he/she doesn't either. I'm not one to name names, but I'm looking in your direction, Homi Bhabha.) For this test, I had to receive an injection that contained some form of radioactive marker that the machine, a gamma camera, would follow throughout my heart and entire circulatory system. The syringe even came in a lead canister.
After the injection I asked the nurse if, technically, I could say I was radioactive. She said yes, which was enough for me to grin widely. Also, I had a very hard time refraining from constantly pointing and saying, "Watch out, Radioactive Man!" like Bart in that one episode of The Simpsons, which we all know sucks now and does not deserve a litany of the reasons.
Little sidebar: this was like my fifth shot in two days, so when the nurse saw my arm I had to assure her that I was not a junkie. She laughed, but I still said, "No, really."
I then headed for an X-Ray and CT scan. The first of these went quickly. It was for my torso, so I simply turned when told to do so and walked out after a couple of minutes. The CT scan, though, was a different story.
It was about 1 pm, so I was exhausted and antsy anyway, but I had to wait about an hour in the patient area. Luckily, though, I didn't have to put on a gown, unlike the five or so men in the waiting room with me. I also didn't have to drink the powdered concoction that they did. But I still had to wait an hour. A fucking hour. I didn't bring anything to read in the room, so I listened to some boring but occasionally funny stories about the others' days in the army. I would have chimed in at the mention of the GI Bill, but I was too tired to converse.
After an hour, I was called in for my CT scan, and you have no idea how angry but resigned I was when I found that the test lasted approximately twenty seconds. I lay on a tray that slid, slightly, into the machine. Twenty seconds passed, and the technician emerged from behind the glass to tell me that I was done. The irony of the wait and the beyond-brief test was not lost on me, but I was still pissed. And tired. It was about 2:30, and I was due for a nap. The brevity of the test, however, precluded this. As I've said, I like MRIs because I can always get in a good nap, but this was not possible to do in less than a minute.
When I got home, finally, I melted into my bed. Then I went to the gym--go figure. The caprice of MS still confounds and humors me.
I'm done with these preliminary tests, thankfully. Tomorrow I meet with my doctors--Burt and Balabanov, both of whom I like immensely. Thankfully, because I could be susceptible to lashing out after these dilatory, and almost paradoxically interminable, tests.
As Buzz Lightyear would say, "To infinity! And beyond!" (I nearly said "Onward and Upward," but the following reference to a "Christian soldier" made me think better of this.)
R
(I'm too tired to edit, so ignore any typos or glaring grammatical errors.)
Monday, August 10, 2009
Prologue: Day One
I went to the Northwestern Memorial Hospital complex earlier today for my first day of testing and an informational meeting with the head nurse in charge of the stem cell trial that I'll be participating in over the next two months. (There is a chance I could end up in the "control" group, in which case I won't receive the transplant. Yet. In six months, I would have the option of having this done.)
First up today was a succession of blood draws. I am not squeamish, and needles especially don't bother me since I give myself an injection once a week with a massive one (see below). I sat in the "blood" chair next to a nurse and another nurse with another patient. Not to brag, but they were all incredulous when they saw my utter nonchalance while the nurse filled five vials with my blood. Before I left the room, I thanked them all for the "sincere sensation" of getting drained.
Then it was on to the dentist, who I saw while waiting for another informational appointment with a nurse who tested my vitals and checked my veins. (Happy to report, by the way, that my blood pressure was a strong 118/75, and that I weigh a disappointing 200 lbs. even. I've been trying to bulk up in order to make my post-chemo appearance less gaunt and Nosferatu-ish. Evidently, though, I need to eat more. However, my appetite is like a toddler's.) More good news: no cavities. This makes two consecutive dentist visits without a cavity, which is unprecedented in my experience. I ALWAYS have had cavities, and am convinced that this points to a genetic predisposition. When I was a kid, though, and still had my baby teeth to fuck up without any major ramifications, I once had nine cavities. NINE. I describe my childhood brushing technique thusly: swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe. Nine cavities seemed about right... (I've only been topped, that I know of, by the Sophster, who I think had ten when we were in college. That's still funny, by the way.)
After that, I had another informational tete-a-tete with the head nurse of the trial. Thankfully, she appreciated my dry and slightly inappropriate sense of humor (which she wonderfully described as a combination of Larry David and Lewis Black, with a dusting of Steven Wright). No, that's not true. Scratch the "slightly." She explained every facet of the trial lucidly and simply, which was especially good for my mother...
Finally, around 3 I went to have my MRI. Some people dread this procedure because of the claustrophobia it can provoke if one is so inclined. I, however, enjoy this test, or, as I call it, nap time. I lay on a board that slides into the main tube with what looks like Hannibal Lecter's restraint mask, or a hockey goalie's helmet, placed around my head. The technicians gave me earplugs, so the constant clanging was muffled enough to let me sleep. I think I was in there for almost 2 hours. It could have been longer or shorter, but I was asleep.
I had another shot in my arm for this, which displayed contrast, and so showed clearly any changes that had taken place since my last MRI. Again my casualness during this injection dismayed the nurse, who had to listen to me talk about my enthusiasm for my impending nap.
All this talk of napping is making me sleepy. (Too bad I have to "write" write now.)
R
First up today was a succession of blood draws. I am not squeamish, and needles especially don't bother me since I give myself an injection once a week with a massive one (see below). I sat in the "blood" chair next to a nurse and another nurse with another patient. Not to brag, but they were all incredulous when they saw my utter nonchalance while the nurse filled five vials with my blood. Before I left the room, I thanked them all for the "sincere sensation" of getting drained.
Then it was on to the dentist, who I saw while waiting for another informational appointment with a nurse who tested my vitals and checked my veins. (Happy to report, by the way, that my blood pressure was a strong 118/75, and that I weigh a disappointing 200 lbs. even. I've been trying to bulk up in order to make my post-chemo appearance less gaunt and Nosferatu-ish. Evidently, though, I need to eat more. However, my appetite is like a toddler's.) More good news: no cavities. This makes two consecutive dentist visits without a cavity, which is unprecedented in my experience. I ALWAYS have had cavities, and am convinced that this points to a genetic predisposition. When I was a kid, though, and still had my baby teeth to fuck up without any major ramifications, I once had nine cavities. NINE. I describe my childhood brushing technique thusly: swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe. Nine cavities seemed about right... (I've only been topped, that I know of, by the Sophster, who I think had ten when we were in college. That's still funny, by the way.)
After that, I had another informational tete-a-tete with the head nurse of the trial. Thankfully, she appreciated my dry and slightly inappropriate sense of humor (which she wonderfully described as a combination of Larry David and Lewis Black, with a dusting of Steven Wright). No, that's not true. Scratch the "slightly." She explained every facet of the trial lucidly and simply, which was especially good for my mother...
Finally, around 3 I went to have my MRI. Some people dread this procedure because of the claustrophobia it can provoke if one is so inclined. I, however, enjoy this test, or, as I call it, nap time. I lay on a board that slides into the main tube with what looks like Hannibal Lecter's restraint mask, or a hockey goalie's helmet, placed around my head. The technicians gave me earplugs, so the constant clanging was muffled enough to let me sleep. I think I was in there for almost 2 hours. It could have been longer or shorter, but I was asleep.
I had another shot in my arm for this, which displayed contrast, and so showed clearly any changes that had taken place since my last MRI. Again my casualness during this injection dismayed the nurse, who had to listen to me talk about my enthusiasm for my impending nap.
All this talk of napping is making me sleepy. (Too bad I have to "write" write now.)
R
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Stuck Inside Of Lollapalooza With the Chicago Blues Again
Earlier today, I traipsed the grounds of Lollapalooza with LNE. Rather, I staggered while holding onto her like a pliant palm tree in the middle of a hurricane.
It's about Endgame-time, in the Samuel Beckett sense. Tomorrow I head to Northwestern for the beginning of tests for the stem cell trial. It could not have possibly come sooner... Anywho, back to Lollapalooza.
So I've acknowledged that I have ignored my own warnings and outright admonitions about outdoor concerts. Standing by the stage, I never enjoy myself, and always wish that I were elsewhere. The allure of it has never polluted my own revulsion for these outdoor shows. At Lollapalooza, this is a feat that truly clarifies things, especially when there were three stages and I saw nary a one. Actually, we entered next to one stage and walked in with Snoop Dogg in our ears. Nevertheless, I never saw him. I could just hear "Gin & Juice" emanating from the stage on my left. I didn't take the time to figure out who was setting up on the middle stage, where we entered. (By the way, no one asked for our tickets, which is a horrible testament to the security of the festival.)
On the walkway between that stage and Buckingham Fountain, we quit. More truthfully, I quit. I could not go any further. The oppressive humidity had won, and my legs locked up. We stopped and sat down on the ground underneath the trees of Grant Park. This was oddly funny because we were triangulated in the middle of all the stages. Simply, we could hear everything and nothing. At one point, I heard a wailing saxophone that turned out, later, to be part of the coda of "Walk On The Wild Side." My brother, who also went to the festival, verified this. His remembered set list comforted me more, because I had heard all of the songs in prior concerts. Or, in the case of "Waves of Fear," on various bootlegs or live albums (mostly from the mid-to-late '70s and early '80s). Now, too, through the miracle of YouTube, I can see the whole set.
But walking through the crowd was an utter trial. At the end, when we finally decided to leave, some guys helped me up, which was both hilarious and, to be honest, a little emasculating. I held onto LNE's arm with such a tenacious grip that I fear she may have bruises. I told her just to say that she fell if anyone asked any questions, like a comical reenactment of a Lifetime movie about domestic abuse. Or, in the spirit of Snoop Dogg, that she asked for it. As LNE observed, I did/do have a b/w snakeskin cane that Bishop Don Magic Juan would approve of.
It was funny, though. We stayed in the middle of the bombastic festivities and gave up on the music. This gave us ample time to ogle, critique, and make fun of passers-by, a skill I've honed over the years.
Alas, Monsieur Reed, you'll have to play a theater if you want me to attend another of your shows. I've said it before, and I realize I sound like a recurrent victim of domestic violence, but I'm emphatically done with outdoor music festivals. (At least until the end of this stem cell trial, for which I have several appointments that begin tomorrow).
I think of them now with the same nihilistic nonchalance with which I see random trinkets that I find when I'm packing in preparation for a move. Do I really need this or that or these?
The answer is always the same: No. In the trash you go...
R
It's about Endgame-time, in the Samuel Beckett sense. Tomorrow I head to Northwestern for the beginning of tests for the stem cell trial. It could not have possibly come sooner... Anywho, back to Lollapalooza.
So I've acknowledged that I have ignored my own warnings and outright admonitions about outdoor concerts. Standing by the stage, I never enjoy myself, and always wish that I were elsewhere. The allure of it has never polluted my own revulsion for these outdoor shows. At Lollapalooza, this is a feat that truly clarifies things, especially when there were three stages and I saw nary a one. Actually, we entered next to one stage and walked in with Snoop Dogg in our ears. Nevertheless, I never saw him. I could just hear "Gin & Juice" emanating from the stage on my left. I didn't take the time to figure out who was setting up on the middle stage, where we entered. (By the way, no one asked for our tickets, which is a horrible testament to the security of the festival.)
On the walkway between that stage and Buckingham Fountain, we quit. More truthfully, I quit. I could not go any further. The oppressive humidity had won, and my legs locked up. We stopped and sat down on the ground underneath the trees of Grant Park. This was oddly funny because we were triangulated in the middle of all the stages. Simply, we could hear everything and nothing. At one point, I heard a wailing saxophone that turned out, later, to be part of the coda of "Walk On The Wild Side." My brother, who also went to the festival, verified this. His remembered set list comforted me more, because I had heard all of the songs in prior concerts. Or, in the case of "Waves of Fear," on various bootlegs or live albums (mostly from the mid-to-late '70s and early '80s). Now, too, through the miracle of YouTube, I can see the whole set.
But walking through the crowd was an utter trial. At the end, when we finally decided to leave, some guys helped me up, which was both hilarious and, to be honest, a little emasculating. I held onto LNE's arm with such a tenacious grip that I fear she may have bruises. I told her just to say that she fell if anyone asked any questions, like a comical reenactment of a Lifetime movie about domestic abuse. Or, in the spirit of Snoop Dogg, that she asked for it. As LNE observed, I did/do have a b/w snakeskin cane that Bishop Don Magic Juan would approve of.
It was funny, though. We stayed in the middle of the bombastic festivities and gave up on the music. This gave us ample time to ogle, critique, and make fun of passers-by, a skill I've honed over the years.
Alas, Monsieur Reed, you'll have to play a theater if you want me to attend another of your shows. I've said it before, and I realize I sound like a recurrent victim of domestic violence, but I'm emphatically done with outdoor music festivals. (At least until the end of this stem cell trial, for which I have several appointments that begin tomorrow).
I think of them now with the same nihilistic nonchalance with which I see random trinkets that I find when I'm packing in preparation for a move. Do I really need this or that or these?
The answer is always the same: No. In the trash you go...
R
Saturday, August 8, 2009
I Renege Constantly
Tomorrow/today I will do what I swore never to do again a while back: I will attend Lollapalooza. The weather in Chicago has been remarkably mild all summer, but for some reason it's supposed to be absurdly humid and hot tomorrow, much like it was today. I have no faith in weathermen, though. When I was in California (a nightmare I'd love to erase from my memory, Total Recall-style), I used to laugh at their "reports" and the ridiculously predictable and unvarying five-day forecasts. "Today: Sunny and 72. Tomorrow: Sunny and 72. Tuesday: 72 degrees. Sunny. Wednesday: 20% chance of rain, but that'll probably drop. Otherwise, Sunny and 72 degrees."
Call me crazy, but I like weather. The more inclement the better, as far as I'm concerned. However, with the fucking MS, the volatile weather can wreak havoc on my symptoms. Especially the humidity, which can, and does, exacerbate symptoms to such an extent that I might be mistaken for a late-stage Parkinson's patient: I can be immobile and uncommunicative.
Although I vowed never to go to another outdoor music festival, I want ("want" is a variable word) to go to Lollapalooza and see Lou Reed. It'll be the fourth time I will have seen him perform, I think. Let's see: Town Hall, Crobar, and St. Ann's. All in NYC, and all tremendous. The first was on the The Raven tour, the second was more b-side-heavy, which was nice, and the third was one of the initial dates on the Berlin tour, which ranks up there on both my litany of great concerts as well as that of my top albums.
I expect tomorrow's set to consist mostly of his greatest hits, but I don't care and actually welcome this. I've not seen him do "Coney Island Baby" or something from Magic & Loss, so I'll put myself through hell for the possibility of seeing something new, for me, but tested and reliable standards for him.
Again, though, the heat is going to pose a huge problem. I'm kidnapping LNE, so she'll probably have to endure most of my bitching, but I assume she's used to this. I hope that most spectators will depart at some point so they can get a good spot for the headliners, Jane's Addiction and/or The Killers. (The latter of these, by the way, got snubbed by me at the San Diego Street Scene festival, and instead I watched The White Stripes. I think I made a great decision.)
So, know that I can renege on any of my declarations, if enticed enough. That's one of the reasons I'd be a terrible hostage. That and the relentless, cloying kvetching that my captors would tire of after a few hours. (I'm being generous with the extent of their patience.)
R
Call me crazy, but I like weather. The more inclement the better, as far as I'm concerned. However, with the fucking MS, the volatile weather can wreak havoc on my symptoms. Especially the humidity, which can, and does, exacerbate symptoms to such an extent that I might be mistaken for a late-stage Parkinson's patient: I can be immobile and uncommunicative.
Although I vowed never to go to another outdoor music festival, I want ("want" is a variable word) to go to Lollapalooza and see Lou Reed. It'll be the fourth time I will have seen him perform, I think. Let's see: Town Hall, Crobar, and St. Ann's. All in NYC, and all tremendous. The first was on the The Raven tour, the second was more b-side-heavy, which was nice, and the third was one of the initial dates on the Berlin tour, which ranks up there on both my litany of great concerts as well as that of my top albums.
I expect tomorrow's set to consist mostly of his greatest hits, but I don't care and actually welcome this. I've not seen him do "Coney Island Baby" or something from Magic & Loss, so I'll put myself through hell for the possibility of seeing something new, for me, but tested and reliable standards for him.
Again, though, the heat is going to pose a huge problem. I'm kidnapping LNE, so she'll probably have to endure most of my bitching, but I assume she's used to this. I hope that most spectators will depart at some point so they can get a good spot for the headliners, Jane's Addiction and/or The Killers. (The latter of these, by the way, got snubbed by me at the San Diego Street Scene festival, and instead I watched The White Stripes. I think I made a great decision.)
So, know that I can renege on any of my declarations, if enticed enough. That's one of the reasons I'd be a terrible hostage. That and the relentless, cloying kvetching that my captors would tire of after a few hours. (I'm being generous with the extent of their patience.)
R
Friday, August 7, 2009
NFL, Come Soon
Earlier, I was listening to Bill Simmons's podcast, which drives me nuts with the censorship and the Subway sponsorship slots, and he had Michael Lombardi as the guest. Not the Rescue Me guy, but the sportswriter who appears frequently on the NFL Network and other things NFL. Simply listening to them talk about the upcoming NFL season tortured me. I love the NFL, and watch as much of it as I can during the fall/winter.
I'm sick of baseball. I know I've said this many times, but my attention span won't allow me even to consider the season until about now. Each year, I push it back. I used to say I don't pay attention to MLB until after the All-Star Game. Though that's still true, it used to mean that I would start watching baseball seriously in August. Now, I watch it almost begrudgingly, and am only biding my time until the playoffs. Even then, I don't really care unless I have a team that I like, like the 2005 White Sox, in the fray. Four years ago, I watched every playoff game, and sat in front of the television like an autistic child during the Sox's road to the championship.
This is not a problem I have when it comes to the football season. First of all, the season has less than ten times the number of regular season games, so each game means something. In MLB, a team can get swept and shrug off the series as a bad weekend. Why? There are 162 games a year. Honestly, I would care much more about the season if it consisted of a fraction of the games. Say, oh, I don't know--a tenth.
You know why baseball players can play that many games? Because their sport is not that strenuous (with the exception of catchers, who have to squat for nine innings. As someone who's had an ACL reconstruction, I cringe whenever I see a catcher stand up, throw a ball back, and then squat again). I can't think of another sport that's less hard on the body. I mean, after three outs the players get a breather. Even in golf, the pros have to keep standing when it's not their turn. Baseball players get to sit in their dugout and spit copiously, as if they have OCD. They also get to practice their sunflower seed extraction technique. Then, more spitting...
I won't even get into steroids that much. Really, though? You play major league baseball and you still have to take a shot in the ass before you head to the on-deck circle? With regard to the NFL, at least the players hit each other anyway, so the incidence of unsportsmanlike penalties is much lower. This is probably false, but at least the fights are not as violent as bench-clearing brawls that happen occasionally in baseball. I actually hope that football players take steroids, because the sport is punishing on the body. Getting tackled, or just hit, is much more traumatic than striking out, or even gettinng hit by a pitch. For baseball players, the latter happens very rarely, and I'm sure getting hit by a 90-mph fastball stings like hell. Still, I'd much rather take one for the team, as they say, than get leveled by Shawne "Lights Out" Merriman.
Just mentioning a player or thinking about the stately facade of Soldier Field tantalizes me enough to make me salivate. Granted, the new stadium looks like a spaceship landed in the middle of the field, or half of the Lombardi trophy blew up in size, cracked like an egg, and lies there. The old columns, though, stand as a testament to the sanctity of the sport, and the franchise.
And forget about college football--I'm talking about the NFL. I've had numerous arguments with friends who scoff at my disregard for college football. However, my college didn't exactly make me pay attention to their season. Even with the "big" Harvard-Yale game before Thanksgiving, I didn't give a shit as to the outcome. In reality, it's only an excuse to tailgate and get soused early in the day, all day. I have no problem with this, but I had no trouble drinking in my dorm room with friends. (Later, the friends became extraneous, which is why I stopped drinking.)
This sort of camaraderie happens in baseball, too, but it happens with the players nearly as much as the spectators. Enough with the dugout water fights, which make the homoerotic game of volleyball in Top Gun look like a medieval battle. Just give me my football, now.
I'm listening to PJ Harvey now, and "Leaving California" in particular. I won't ramble on about my hatred of that state, but I will say that the song makes me yearn more for the impending NFL season. When she sings, "England, come soon," I mentally substitute the league for the country.
R
I'm sick of baseball. I know I've said this many times, but my attention span won't allow me even to consider the season until about now. Each year, I push it back. I used to say I don't pay attention to MLB until after the All-Star Game. Though that's still true, it used to mean that I would start watching baseball seriously in August. Now, I watch it almost begrudgingly, and am only biding my time until the playoffs. Even then, I don't really care unless I have a team that I like, like the 2005 White Sox, in the fray. Four years ago, I watched every playoff game, and sat in front of the television like an autistic child during the Sox's road to the championship.
This is not a problem I have when it comes to the football season. First of all, the season has less than ten times the number of regular season games, so each game means something. In MLB, a team can get swept and shrug off the series as a bad weekend. Why? There are 162 games a year. Honestly, I would care much more about the season if it consisted of a fraction of the games. Say, oh, I don't know--a tenth.
You know why baseball players can play that many games? Because their sport is not that strenuous (with the exception of catchers, who have to squat for nine innings. As someone who's had an ACL reconstruction, I cringe whenever I see a catcher stand up, throw a ball back, and then squat again). I can't think of another sport that's less hard on the body. I mean, after three outs the players get a breather. Even in golf, the pros have to keep standing when it's not their turn. Baseball players get to sit in their dugout and spit copiously, as if they have OCD. They also get to practice their sunflower seed extraction technique. Then, more spitting...
I won't even get into steroids that much. Really, though? You play major league baseball and you still have to take a shot in the ass before you head to the on-deck circle? With regard to the NFL, at least the players hit each other anyway, so the incidence of unsportsmanlike penalties is much lower. This is probably false, but at least the fights are not as violent as bench-clearing brawls that happen occasionally in baseball. I actually hope that football players take steroids, because the sport is punishing on the body. Getting tackled, or just hit, is much more traumatic than striking out, or even gettinng hit by a pitch. For baseball players, the latter happens very rarely, and I'm sure getting hit by a 90-mph fastball stings like hell. Still, I'd much rather take one for the team, as they say, than get leveled by Shawne "Lights Out" Merriman.
Just mentioning a player or thinking about the stately facade of Soldier Field tantalizes me enough to make me salivate. Granted, the new stadium looks like a spaceship landed in the middle of the field, or half of the Lombardi trophy blew up in size, cracked like an egg, and lies there. The old columns, though, stand as a testament to the sanctity of the sport, and the franchise.
And forget about college football--I'm talking about the NFL. I've had numerous arguments with friends who scoff at my disregard for college football. However, my college didn't exactly make me pay attention to their season. Even with the "big" Harvard-Yale game before Thanksgiving, I didn't give a shit as to the outcome. In reality, it's only an excuse to tailgate and get soused early in the day, all day. I have no problem with this, but I had no trouble drinking in my dorm room with friends. (Later, the friends became extraneous, which is why I stopped drinking.)
This sort of camaraderie happens in baseball, too, but it happens with the players nearly as much as the spectators. Enough with the dugout water fights, which make the homoerotic game of volleyball in Top Gun look like a medieval battle. Just give me my football, now.
I'm listening to PJ Harvey now, and "Leaving California" in particular. I won't ramble on about my hatred of that state, but I will say that the song makes me yearn more for the impending NFL season. When she sings, "England, come soon," I mentally substitute the league for the country.
R
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Identifying a Dead Body
I was watching Twin Peaks a few minutes ago and felt a twinge of discomfort when I saw the dead body of Laura Palmer. Not because I'm squeamish, but because my eyebrows stayed perfectly still, and I've never had Botox. It may be the fault of the makeup artist (that's what I keep telling myself) because she looked fairly vivacious still, her lips full and eyes merely closed for the time being. She might have been Poe's Ligeia about to awaken.
Then I noticed the reaction of the father as he goes to verify the identity of the body. (By the way, this has to be mostly a Hollywood thing, because who would ever be asked to do such a thing? Especially when the body has become bloated from drowning? And what if the person was the victim of a grisly murder, like that one woman in The Silence of the Lambs who the authorities had recently dragged out of a river? Was that Frederica Bimmel, by the way? It's unclear. Anyway...) When someone pulls back the sheet to reveal Laura's head, he breaks down, predictably. She didn't look bad, though, even if she were dead. Just saying...
How typical is this reaction? I've heard multiple stories about identifying a dead body, and I'm always surprised by the nonchalance of the recollection. I mean, not only has this person just seen a dead body, but the body was a close family member, probably. I could easily imagine the emotional entanglements involved. Of course I could. But what truly shocks me is the ease with which the non-dead person does this abominable task. I mean, people always say that losing a child is a constant pain that never gets any better, so what if you're forced to look at this child's dead body?
I can't believe people readily do this. They may not have to, and insist upon seeing the body, but they nevertheless are quite adamant about seeing that body.
In the interest of full disclosure, I'll say that I myself have never seen a dead body, at least not at its most "unprepared." However, I was fascinated by the wall of fetuses in Chicago's Museum of Science & Industry--before it became a large Discovery Zone--as well as the "Body Slices" exhibit. Mind you--I was like ten, probably younger, when I first saw this exhibit. And I have walked through the Holocaust Museum in DC, which reminds you of how easy the Germans got off for WWII, and deserve to be leveled again. Man, that is some horrifying stuff. I recently spoke with a friend of mine who seemed shocked, genuinely, at my reaction to her mention of Berlin, where she was, and Germany as a whole. I was shocked that she was shocked. The world has forgotten the atrocities of the, uh, German Nazis.
Okay, so back to my original point. I was fine seeing these grim things, but I've still never been in the presence of a newly-dead, unembalmed body. Many people have been to wakes, myself included, and I feel like this is a less severe version of what I mean. People always go to wakes and see the body and decorated skin of someone they knew well, but they rarely have a reaction of revulsion. They're sad, sure, like the father in Twin Peaks, but their reaction rarely connotes nausea.
With grief we, for the most part, have no problem physically expressing ourselves. That's what I've come to think, and this, though understandable, bothers me. The raw reality of a carcass hardly enters our heads. It's like we can't process it. By "we" I mean "not me." (Not in a poetic, Whitman-esque way.)
I think I'd have no problem with identifying a body. This may make me crass and a cold-hearted bastard, but I'm only saying "I think." I very well may be full of shit, ignorant of my own capacity for emotion--like when I say, and believe, that I could easily pass a polygraph, even when I'm holding the heart of whoever I just autopsied for fun, about whom I'm being questioned--but I'm not so sure. I lie constantly anyway, so perhaps my immunity to lie-detectors has become complete. Maybe not, though...
(I don't think this complete stolidity has anything to do with atheism, if that's what you're thinking. Just because I don't believe in God does not mean I don't have human emotions. Some may disagree, but fuck them.)
So I'm not bothered by people's emotional reactions to seeing the dead body of someone they knew, maybe closely, when they were alive. What freaks me out is the ease with which someone who's not a doctor or morgue-worker can see a dead human, a carcass, a lifeless shell of a person and think mostly of the past, and not the tangible, tactile present.
R
Then I noticed the reaction of the father as he goes to verify the identity of the body. (By the way, this has to be mostly a Hollywood thing, because who would ever be asked to do such a thing? Especially when the body has become bloated from drowning? And what if the person was the victim of a grisly murder, like that one woman in The Silence of the Lambs who the authorities had recently dragged out of a river? Was that Frederica Bimmel, by the way? It's unclear. Anyway...) When someone pulls back the sheet to reveal Laura's head, he breaks down, predictably. She didn't look bad, though, even if she were dead. Just saying...
How typical is this reaction? I've heard multiple stories about identifying a dead body, and I'm always surprised by the nonchalance of the recollection. I mean, not only has this person just seen a dead body, but the body was a close family member, probably. I could easily imagine the emotional entanglements involved. Of course I could. But what truly shocks me is the ease with which the non-dead person does this abominable task. I mean, people always say that losing a child is a constant pain that never gets any better, so what if you're forced to look at this child's dead body?
I can't believe people readily do this. They may not have to, and insist upon seeing the body, but they nevertheless are quite adamant about seeing that body.
In the interest of full disclosure, I'll say that I myself have never seen a dead body, at least not at its most "unprepared." However, I was fascinated by the wall of fetuses in Chicago's Museum of Science & Industry--before it became a large Discovery Zone--as well as the "Body Slices" exhibit. Mind you--I was like ten, probably younger, when I first saw this exhibit. And I have walked through the Holocaust Museum in DC, which reminds you of how easy the Germans got off for WWII, and deserve to be leveled again. Man, that is some horrifying stuff. I recently spoke with a friend of mine who seemed shocked, genuinely, at my reaction to her mention of Berlin, where she was, and Germany as a whole. I was shocked that she was shocked. The world has forgotten the atrocities of the, uh, German Nazis.
Okay, so back to my original point. I was fine seeing these grim things, but I've still never been in the presence of a newly-dead, unembalmed body. Many people have been to wakes, myself included, and I feel like this is a less severe version of what I mean. People always go to wakes and see the body and decorated skin of someone they knew well, but they rarely have a reaction of revulsion. They're sad, sure, like the father in Twin Peaks, but their reaction rarely connotes nausea.
With grief we, for the most part, have no problem physically expressing ourselves. That's what I've come to think, and this, though understandable, bothers me. The raw reality of a carcass hardly enters our heads. It's like we can't process it. By "we" I mean "not me." (Not in a poetic, Whitman-esque way.)
I think I'd have no problem with identifying a body. This may make me crass and a cold-hearted bastard, but I'm only saying "I think." I very well may be full of shit, ignorant of my own capacity for emotion--like when I say, and believe, that I could easily pass a polygraph, even when I'm holding the heart of whoever I just autopsied for fun, about whom I'm being questioned--but I'm not so sure. I lie constantly anyway, so perhaps my immunity to lie-detectors has become complete. Maybe not, though...
(I don't think this complete stolidity has anything to do with atheism, if that's what you're thinking. Just because I don't believe in God does not mean I don't have human emotions. Some may disagree, but fuck them.)
So I'm not bothered by people's emotional reactions to seeing the dead body of someone they knew, maybe closely, when they were alive. What freaks me out is the ease with which someone who's not a doctor or morgue-worker can see a dead human, a carcass, a lifeless shell of a person and think mostly of the past, and not the tangible, tactile present.
R
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Pynchon and His Bloviation's Similiarity to Bloated Congressional Legislation
Thomas Pynchon is a writer with whom I've always struggled. You'd think I'd enjoy his digressiveness, since I frequently get sidetracked and forget what my original point was. However, the difference is that I do this mainly when I'm talking, and Pynchon does it, sometimes painstakingly, in his prose. Physics can be interesting, I think. (I notoriously canceled my score for an AP Physics exam after I opened the test booklet, took one look at the material covered, about which I knew nothing, and shut it. Luckily, I'd brought along reading material that interested me much more than the test. Now, though, I can't stand Ken Kesey, so that little anecdotal incident would not happen again, at least not exactly.) But hundreds of pages of this kind of digression bore the hell out of me. Hence, Pynchon has been a writer whose work I always viewed the same way I view exercise: arduous but necessary. He's objectively very good, but subjectively he has not been my cup of tea.
As you can see, I'm fond of digression, but those of Pynchon always bored me. I think I got maybe 100 pages or so through Gravity's Rainbow before I finally gave up. The same went for Mason & Dixon. When he's tried to go short, what has come out has been a condensed jumble of compact writing that can make stereo installation instructions read like a real potboiler. I was assigned The Crying of Lot 49 in several classes in college, and I read it. Although it was relatively short by Pynchon's standards, I cannot reread it without succumbing to a visit from the Sandman.
The same goes for congressional bills, I'm sure. This new health care bill is over 1,000 pages long, and I'm sure even the congressmen who loaded it with earmarks that inflated it to that length have not read it. It should be a fairly simple, straightforward piece of legislation. Then, of course, you have to take into account the tenacity of insurance companies, whose grip on Congress is not unlike that of a pit bull. Their jaws will not let go. Ever.
But now, though, Pynchon has written a relatively short book called Inherent Vice that I must now plow through. I hope it's not a slog, and its noir-ish premise and 300-some pages make me optimistic. I wish Obama could do the same thing. Who knows? By the time the bill gets ratified, perhaps more than half of it will be excised, of Congress's own volition or the threat of a veto from one swipe of Obama's mighty pen.
With regard to politics, though, I have doubts about that proverb's realistic applicability. In the end, I'm pretty sure that Obama will have to morph into Beowulf and cut off Grendel's head (any Republican legislator will do as an avatar). To mix medieval metaphors, I hope he'll be like King Arthur, remove Excalibur from the stone, and start swinging it.
As for Pynchon's new book, I likewise hope that I won't have to cut it from my shelf. Literally and figuratively.
R
As you can see, I'm fond of digression, but those of Pynchon always bored me. I think I got maybe 100 pages or so through Gravity's Rainbow before I finally gave up. The same went for Mason & Dixon. When he's tried to go short, what has come out has been a condensed jumble of compact writing that can make stereo installation instructions read like a real potboiler. I was assigned The Crying of Lot 49 in several classes in college, and I read it. Although it was relatively short by Pynchon's standards, I cannot reread it without succumbing to a visit from the Sandman.
The same goes for congressional bills, I'm sure. This new health care bill is over 1,000 pages long, and I'm sure even the congressmen who loaded it with earmarks that inflated it to that length have not read it. It should be a fairly simple, straightforward piece of legislation. Then, of course, you have to take into account the tenacity of insurance companies, whose grip on Congress is not unlike that of a pit bull. Their jaws will not let go. Ever.
But now, though, Pynchon has written a relatively short book called Inherent Vice that I must now plow through. I hope it's not a slog, and its noir-ish premise and 300-some pages make me optimistic. I wish Obama could do the same thing. Who knows? By the time the bill gets ratified, perhaps more than half of it will be excised, of Congress's own volition or the threat of a veto from one swipe of Obama's mighty pen.
With regard to politics, though, I have doubts about that proverb's realistic applicability. In the end, I'm pretty sure that Obama will have to morph into Beowulf and cut off Grendel's head (any Republican legislator will do as an avatar). To mix medieval metaphors, I hope he'll be like King Arthur, remove Excalibur from the stone, and start swinging it.
As for Pynchon's new book, I likewise hope that I won't have to cut it from my shelf. Literally and figuratively.
R
Monday, August 3, 2009
Indispensable, Informal Tracksuits
I had nearly forgotten how uncomfortable normal clothes are, and especially formal attire. I'm not exactly a sartorial specialist, but I know how to tie a Windsor and other nonsense. This weekend reminded me of this, as I went to my friends' wedding and wrestled with all sorts of buttons and lengths of fabric that inexplicably have become a staple of male formal clothes.
If anything, MS has turned me into a perpetually casual person, not to say that I was ever uncomfortable for very long. My last day job, which I was forced to remember, was for a market research company. Don DeLillo would have a field day writing about the absolute sterility and fake casualness of that office. Everyone I knew who worked there, beside myself and my friend Cristina, who helped me get the job (talk about unexpected quicksand), walked around, I'm convinced, with a stick up his ass. I don't mean that as a cute joke or a funny exaggerated fantasy. I honestly think that 99% of the people who worked there had a branch of some sort firmly wedged up their anus. Either that, or they simply had lobotomies, and only walked around with the same blank expression glued to their face.
And the lighting--the horror... I think many of my former coworkers, particularly the managers, used DeLillo's description of what you think about while peeing--"the dusty hum of who you are"--and applied it to eight hours of their day. Actually, it was probably more than that. I've told this story to many people, but it never gets old: once, I knew I'd to leave early for an appointment with my neurologist, so planned to show up early for work. Normally, I'd show up at least fifteen minutes late, as Peter would say in Office Space, which became all too real for me, and which I know is a cliche in reference to work (but is one I escaped, one of the little silver linings of MS). Then I'd count down the minutes until lunch, which also became almost nonexistent for me once Cristina left. I must say, I felt like the unknowing victim of a con or pyramid scheme at that point. The problem was, though, that I sold no knives, figuratively speaking. In the future, I'll get literal about this as well, since I sat through 20 hours of mind-numbing, or -dulling, "training," only to quit on my first official day once I realized that I could not hock fucking knives at exorbitant prices. But I digress...
At the market research place, I tilted the scale of the business-casual dynamic toward the latter half of that oxymoronic phrase. Eventually I'd just show up in warm-up pants and sneakers. I figured that if I would have to leave for some appointment like physical therapy, I might as well make it easy for myself and eschew the business bent entirely. It's not like I had any "clients" to speak of, thankfully. (I didn't do this every day, obviously, so don't think I actually espoused that Office Space nihilism constantly. Most days I wore an Oxford and pants with fucking pleats.) So I'd show up in the uniform of a couch potato, or, ironically, someone headed to the gym.
When I got fired from that job (another long, hilarious story for another day), gradually made my wardrobe as homogenous as that of a Heaven's Gate member or a Communist dictator. I also like to think of myself as ahead of my time, and not in a fantastical way, like the cosmos-bound (only not) eager suiciders of Heaven's Gate.
Think of all the movies that take place in the future. Everyone wears a silver jumpsuit, or at least a shiny onesy of some sort. My closet could save any wardrobe of one of those movies if, say, a fire destroyed all of the clothes on the set.
I think now I have like six complete tracksuits. I also have plain black Adidas pants that come in handy if I am too lazy even to pick out a reasonable t-shirt beside a plain white one. Or a plain black one. I went through a Hamlet phase in college, and a little beyond, where I would only wear black t-shirts and black jeans. No other colors. Cheerful, I know.
Yet another reason to look forward to autumn: the cooler air will make me throw on the track jackets, so t-shirts will truly become irrelevant. Plus, humidity will cease to be an issue.
And, of course, the whole stem cell trial thing.
R
If anything, MS has turned me into a perpetually casual person, not to say that I was ever uncomfortable for very long. My last day job, which I was forced to remember, was for a market research company. Don DeLillo would have a field day writing about the absolute sterility and fake casualness of that office. Everyone I knew who worked there, beside myself and my friend Cristina, who helped me get the job (talk about unexpected quicksand), walked around, I'm convinced, with a stick up his ass. I don't mean that as a cute joke or a funny exaggerated fantasy. I honestly think that 99% of the people who worked there had a branch of some sort firmly wedged up their anus. Either that, or they simply had lobotomies, and only walked around with the same blank expression glued to their face.
And the lighting--the horror... I think many of my former coworkers, particularly the managers, used DeLillo's description of what you think about while peeing--"the dusty hum of who you are"--and applied it to eight hours of their day. Actually, it was probably more than that. I've told this story to many people, but it never gets old: once, I knew I'd to leave early for an appointment with my neurologist, so planned to show up early for work. Normally, I'd show up at least fifteen minutes late, as Peter would say in Office Space, which became all too real for me, and which I know is a cliche in reference to work (but is one I escaped, one of the little silver linings of MS). Then I'd count down the minutes until lunch, which also became almost nonexistent for me once Cristina left. I must say, I felt like the unknowing victim of a con or pyramid scheme at that point. The problem was, though, that I sold no knives, figuratively speaking. In the future, I'll get literal about this as well, since I sat through 20 hours of mind-numbing, or -dulling, "training," only to quit on my first official day once I realized that I could not hock fucking knives at exorbitant prices. But I digress...
At the market research place, I tilted the scale of the business-casual dynamic toward the latter half of that oxymoronic phrase. Eventually I'd just show up in warm-up pants and sneakers. I figured that if I would have to leave for some appointment like physical therapy, I might as well make it easy for myself and eschew the business bent entirely. It's not like I had any "clients" to speak of, thankfully. (I didn't do this every day, obviously, so don't think I actually espoused that Office Space nihilism constantly. Most days I wore an Oxford and pants with fucking pleats.) So I'd show up in the uniform of a couch potato, or, ironically, someone headed to the gym.
When I got fired from that job (another long, hilarious story for another day), gradually made my wardrobe as homogenous as that of a Heaven's Gate member or a Communist dictator. I also like to think of myself as ahead of my time, and not in a fantastical way, like the cosmos-bound (only not) eager suiciders of Heaven's Gate.
Think of all the movies that take place in the future. Everyone wears a silver jumpsuit, or at least a shiny onesy of some sort. My closet could save any wardrobe of one of those movies if, say, a fire destroyed all of the clothes on the set.
I think now I have like six complete tracksuits. I also have plain black Adidas pants that come in handy if I am too lazy even to pick out a reasonable t-shirt beside a plain white one. Or a plain black one. I went through a Hamlet phase in college, and a little beyond, where I would only wear black t-shirts and black jeans. No other colors. Cheerful, I know.
Yet another reason to look forward to autumn: the cooler air will make me throw on the track jackets, so t-shirts will truly become irrelevant. Plus, humidity will cease to be an issue.
And, of course, the whole stem cell trial thing.
R
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Good Days/Bad Days
Press "Play" on Led Zeppelin's "Good Times, Bad Times"...NOW.
So another frustrating aspect of MS is that there are good days and bad days. Actually, this simplifies things a bit too much. By "good days" I mean days that pass without any noticeable difficulties. More accurately, I notice these complications, but not to a piercing extent, and quietly endure them. I don't keep picking at the figurative itch. I see it, acknowledge it, and deal with it.
On other days, though, I might as well be inhabiting another body. The Tin Man's, to be more specific, when he needs to be oiled. My legs halt without any impetus to do so, my balance suddenly vanishes, I become irrevocably exhausted in the afternoon, and so on.
Yesterday was one of the bad days, or, should I say, "worse" days. This was unlucky, because it happened to fall on the date of my good friends Katie and Terry's wedding. Not that I was the proverbial "stick in the mud." I socialized, conversed, and integrated myself quite well into my surroundings. The pre-dinner mingle was predictably arduous, mostly because I hate mingling. Now, because of my limited mobility, I cannot swing from coterie to coterie and interject with a humorous comment here and there.
At the dinner itself, though, I was able to converse and engage (pardon the pun) quite well. You could say I was preternaturally gregarious, which is sort of how I am anyway when I don't feel like a wet blanket. However, when I stood up and walked around, you could clearly see that my movements were not exactly fluid. Rusty, or hesitating, would be more like it.
Remember, this was a bad day. Prior to the ceremony, I had trouble fumbling with buttons while I was getting dressed, although oddly I masterfully pulled off a Windsor knot with my tie. Thankfully, my shoes had no laces, so I dodged that whole prospective display of ineptitude. Also, my balance was particularly bad all day, and I wobbled and barely made it down the steps of my apartment and then, when I was leaving, down those of the club where the wedding was held. (Strangely, going down is much more of a pain in the ass than going up.)
After dinner, I decided to skip dessert because it was being served in the ballroom. I simply didn't want to maintain my upright posture, and only wanted to lie down. So I missed out on the cake, which was bittersweet (pardon the pun again) because it was, after all, cake, and I don't much care for cake.
To illustrate further the bizarre fickleness and unpredictability of MS, here I am writing this at 5 am, and I feel fine.
Weird, right?
R
So another frustrating aspect of MS is that there are good days and bad days. Actually, this simplifies things a bit too much. By "good days" I mean days that pass without any noticeable difficulties. More accurately, I notice these complications, but not to a piercing extent, and quietly endure them. I don't keep picking at the figurative itch. I see it, acknowledge it, and deal with it.
On other days, though, I might as well be inhabiting another body. The Tin Man's, to be more specific, when he needs to be oiled. My legs halt without any impetus to do so, my balance suddenly vanishes, I become irrevocably exhausted in the afternoon, and so on.
Yesterday was one of the bad days, or, should I say, "worse" days. This was unlucky, because it happened to fall on the date of my good friends Katie and Terry's wedding. Not that I was the proverbial "stick in the mud." I socialized, conversed, and integrated myself quite well into my surroundings. The pre-dinner mingle was predictably arduous, mostly because I hate mingling. Now, because of my limited mobility, I cannot swing from coterie to coterie and interject with a humorous comment here and there.
At the dinner itself, though, I was able to converse and engage (pardon the pun) quite well. You could say I was preternaturally gregarious, which is sort of how I am anyway when I don't feel like a wet blanket. However, when I stood up and walked around, you could clearly see that my movements were not exactly fluid. Rusty, or hesitating, would be more like it.
Remember, this was a bad day. Prior to the ceremony, I had trouble fumbling with buttons while I was getting dressed, although oddly I masterfully pulled off a Windsor knot with my tie. Thankfully, my shoes had no laces, so I dodged that whole prospective display of ineptitude. Also, my balance was particularly bad all day, and I wobbled and barely made it down the steps of my apartment and then, when I was leaving, down those of the club where the wedding was held. (Strangely, going down is much more of a pain in the ass than going up.)
After dinner, I decided to skip dessert because it was being served in the ballroom. I simply didn't want to maintain my upright posture, and only wanted to lie down. So I missed out on the cake, which was bittersweet (pardon the pun again) because it was, after all, cake, and I don't much care for cake.
To illustrate further the bizarre fickleness and unpredictability of MS, here I am writing this at 5 am, and I feel fine.
Weird, right?
R
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