2 Things I Don't Get

There are many things I don't understand. So it's almost futile to try and enumerate them, except in a few egregious instances. That I don't understand them is not wholly complete. I hate them--I passionately dislike them--and I can't remain in a room where they are. In many cases, these days, I'm grateful that I downloaded various games onto both my cell phone and my iPod. (As I've mentioned, I have a Touch because I have way too much music to fit on a phone. For a myriad of incoherent reasons, I don't have a true iPhone and this is one is the most vindicating, although a Touch is simply an iPhone without the calling capacity.) When the Winter Olympics or Two and a Half Men comes on and someone else wants to watch, I retreat to that before I remove myself altogether.

Mostly this is because MS hinders my true intention, which is to shoot out of the room. Eventually, though, I can't stand any more Bob Costas or Charlie Sheen, and have to leave somehow. Occasionally I find myself stuck in a living room that I can't escape, and I have to endure the hackneyed commentary of the former or the banal dialogue of the latter.

The Olympics don't really assault my sensibilities. I just find them boring as shit. Who the hell wants to watch white people brave the daunting snow and/or slide on skates? This is my way of saying that they're mildly racist. Of course there are black athletes, but you never think of one's name. There is nowhere where this is more apparent than figure skating, which has been the butt of many jokes but mostly this concentrates on sexual orientation more than race.

Wait--that's not true, because actually it's very perceptible in every sport. Similarly, whoever prefers The Sopranos to The Wire is a racist, I'm convinced, however faint their racial biases are. The Wire is so much better, and The Sopranos was based on the earth-shattering (sarcasm again), trite premise of a mobster in therapy. It's not bad, though, especially in comparison to a piece of shit like Two and a Half Men.

The glib quips of jackasses like Charlie Sheen and Jon Cryer (the "Two" in the title) are met with canned, fake audience laughter that only highlights how unfunny they are. I'm not totally averse to laugh tracks, mind you, because Seinfeld and a few other great shows of the past had them. I suspect, too, that a studio executive insisted on them, much like Woody Allen's character in Annie Hall protests while someone at a soundboard inserts the sounds of an audience's laughs.

That only becomes noticeable when the script is unfunny. I nearly forgot that Seinfeld had one because it was funny. Two and a Half Men is not. I know that various protests may lie in the subjectivity of humor, but in this case the show is objectively unfunny. Charlie Sheen swirls the ice cubes around in a tumbler of whiskey, mutters an inane comment, and the audience laughs, against their better judgment. Jon Cryer says something patently unhip, and the audience laughs. The fat kid says something--anything, and the more incredulous the better--and the audience laughs. This wouldn't be a problem if any of these things were funny, but they aren't.

I know I run the risk of being labeled a snob, but anyone who lobs that insult perfunctorily would never know what that means--"perfunctorily," to clarify. Also, they're dumb enough to watch Two and a Half Men voluntarily and regularly, so their opinion holds no sway with me.

I really don't care. That shows sucks unremittingly. Objectively.

R

A Deflection Aimed at Palin

I suppose I should offer an explanation for my recent two-day hospitalization, but I don't feel like it. (To sum it up, I'm on Trazodone for sleep and back on Zoloft, for better or worse.) Not now, anyway, because I again saw that Family Guy clip that made fun of Sarah Palin. If you watch the show, which you should, you already understand that that episode defamed her more than her daughter, who has Down syndrome.

Predictably, the Right, in this case exemplified by Bill O'Reilly and Sarah Palin (I only just now connected the Fox News dots), took umbrage with a recent episode of Seth MacFarlane's brain-child that cast someone with Down synndrome to play a date of Chris's (the fat son who is voiced by the show's other Seth, Seth Green). Of course she didn't like the snippet, although it's another example of her opportunistic hypocrisy that she let Rush Limbaugh go (physically easy for that tub of goo) for doing the exact same thing.

Her, and his, excuse was that he did it in the name of "satire." Obviously she, and he, doesn't watch the show because everything gets lampooned, and Karl Rove and, uh, HE were on an episode recently (their animated avatars were their physical presences, of course, although I wonder if either of them could fit through a studio door--because they're fat).

I have to go off on a tangent again, because I have friends who watch Fox News ironically and an uncle that listens to Rush Limbaugh without irony. I must say that, as I've said before, irony has its limits, and Glenn Beck, even though he may make me laugh with his stupid, nonsensical chalkboard and maudlin displays of outrage and continuous copious crocodile tears, wields immense power as a television demagogue who exploits the bigotry of anyone who nods in agreement. I can't watch it for more than the few seconds it takes me to realize that I accidentally landed on the channel. I avoid it like an allergen, because I could be moving my head up and down and someone would think I agree with whatever bullshit is on the screen. And also, I love it that Limbaugh, with his cochlear implant, was on a show that also has an episode with a greased-up deaf guy.

But anyway--back to how much I hate Sarah Palin. I tried to think of a less direct adjective to describe my feelings toward her--loathe, despise, dislike, abhor, detest, etc.--and, though I do feel all of those ways about her, I settled on "hate" because it's short and sweet. Ever since McCain completed the destruction of his reputation by picking her as his running mate, I have had to endure her idiocy. For that reason alone--that he gave her national prominence--his honorable service during the Vietnam War has evaporated. Now I rue that the VC didn't complete the job. I realize that that sounds puerile, but I don't care--he sold himself out 40 years later. (Also, there's no way that she could exploit my brusqueness because she would never know what "puerile" means. And McCain, I'm sure, has no idea how to use a computer).

She is obscenely dumb, and seems to revel in it. This always drove me nuts when someone would cite Bush's simple mindset as an attribute and neglected his simple-mindedness. We should accept the fact that she is a moron, and move on.

R

Bye Bayh

When I heard that Senator Evan Bayh was leaving his post at Congress, of course I suspected another more prurient revelation that had not been disclosed yet. He cited Washington's "dysfunction" as the primary factor behind his decision. No shit--Congress was a cesspool way before he took office in 1999, so this is not exactly groundbreaking stuff. In case he also didn't know, McDonald's is bad for you. You'd think he'd be less shameless and reluctant about making such obvious observations.

His resignation has been touted as another blow to the Obama presidency. It is, clearly, but the Administration has not exactly set the world on fire with its massive reforms. As I've lamented, he really hasn't done anything. There have been several minor legislative victories, but he hasn't closed Guantanamo, nor has he passed health care reform. Bush never had the majority in Congress that Obama's had, and yet he still managed to drag us into two quagmires/wars, oversaw the worst economy since the Great Depression, and supported the most relaxed financial regulations that Reagan could only dream of. (Etc.)

He warned of "catastrophe" when Scott Brown began surging in the Massachusetts's polls, but didn't explain just what this would entail. Yes, the GOP is a party of obstructionists, but is it not the job of the majority party to find a way around this? Democrats' modus operandi was to use their huge congressional majorities to pass things. The problem was, they didn't to begin with. From the start, they relied on their supermajority to avoid a destructive, potential filibuster that never came. I'm not saying that Republicans wouldn't have blocked numerous bills, but they'd then be forced to explain to their constituents why they did what they did. I suspect that, especially in the South, logic would elude them anyway, but they'd have to try, at least. Wringing your hands is understandable, but eventually you have to throw a punch. Preferably in the face of that worm Joe Lieberman.

When Bayh announced his imminent resignation, I really didn't care. In fact, I thought "Good riddance" and even had the Green Day song of the same name stuck in my head. By the way, that song stands with "You Look Wonderful Tonight" and "I'll Be Watching Your" as the most misunderstood, although it, along with the former, might be difficult to discern based on the banal title. It's actually titled "Good Riddance," though, and "Time of Your Life" is the parenthetical subtitle. Anywho, he labeled himself a "centrist" even as Congress was inching farther and farther to the right. Common sense becomes "socialism" to Republicans. Such is the sad state of the US...

I joke and say that Bayh, with the "blue dog" Democrats, is really a Republican with a sense of electoral pragmatism. Now, though, the influence of the pathetic middle will really be felt. It's disconcerting to think that they wield more power than ever. Obama's pusillanimous clamor for bipartisanship was always nice in theory, but it doesn't work when the other side thwarts it nonsensically and continuously.

Bayh has been a reliable Democratic vote in the Senate, but that means less and less with each uneventful passing day. He is an alumnus of St. Albans in DC with a degree in business economics, so I'm sure he's familiar with a concept that has thus far typified the Obama Administration: diminishing returns.

R

Don't Shrug Me Off

The past few days have been immensely frustrating. I cannot fall asleep. It's not even a dubious claim like many people make, only to find out that they've been asleep for hours, like on Dateline and its cameras with night vision. I remain conscious at all times--painfully so.

I used to scoff at the ails that come with insomnia. "Just go to sleep!," I thought. The problem is that I try try try, and fail unremittingly. It's not an example of unaware twilight sleep, where you sleep and don't remember, and thus don't know it. I had my wisdom teeth pulled a few years back, and know that the phenomena are quite different. In one, you're knocked out and awake nearly imperceptibly, and in this one, I'm very awake at all times. There was a funny (not ha-ha) instance where my uncle came into my grandmother's room earlier today and thought that I had fallen asleep because I was supine and motionless. I heard him, though, and remained frustrated that I was still awake.

I've said before that my anticlimactic experience with Ambien in the past left me wary of taking it again. At this point, though, I'm willing to give nearly anything a whirl. I chalk that up to misremembered dysfunction, sort of like the appeal of a bad relationship. The adage is that hindsight is 20/20, but this is foolish. Actually, memory is selectively forgetful, ironically. "It'll be different this time" is a mantra repeated by many a battered wife, and it has become a cliche. Truthfully, sadly, history nearly always repeats itself. Every once in a while, though, actual change creeps in. Or I could be delirious from sleep deprivation, which is wholly possible. Like I've said, I also took Restoril, and was wiped out for much of the next day, so I remain averse to it but think, maybe, that I exaggerated its effects.

My doctors, I feel, cannot grasp the extent to which my inability to fall asleep is an issue. I'm not fucking around, though, and even though I previously touted their prowess, I am now sufficiently frustrated to cast them aside. When I delve into the particulars of this, I understand that this is a foolish and prime example of throwing out the baby with the bathwater. I'm obscenely angry, though, at my body's refusal to go to sleep easily. Similarly, I'm supremely pissed at their insouciance with regard to it.

One of the things I'm told is that sleep deprivation can exacerbate some of the symptoms of MS. Why, then, do my doctors not seem to take it as seriously as I feel it? You'd think that they'd be jumping at the problem, scrambling to rectify it. Not so, strangely. I feel insane because of the vehemence I think I'm saying that it bothers me, only to get little response. Really, WHAT THE FUCK? I'm not a frantic, panicky hypochondriac, so take me seriously.

It's become such an issue that propofol crossed my mind. Any time you empathize with Michael Jackson should disturb you. He had a chronic difficulty sleeping, and went so far as to employ a doctor who administered the local anesthetic used in major surgery just to knock him out. I always end up thinking of the absurdity of it, but the fact that I even lapse into thinking about it at all freaks me out. Luckily, I don't have millions of dollars at my disposal to consider such an idiotic gambit.

I like my doctors, but the fact that I even have to worry about this makes me think twice about my thoughts about them. Really--WHAT THE FUCK?!

R

Paid in Full

I don't believe in God, because I find the whole concept and precept aboriginal, but I wish I did (much like I wish I were gay) because it would make everything so much easier. However, I am susceptible to certain philosophies that use the idea, at least tangentially. I don't embrace and espouse them, but I sort of see how they make a modicum of sense, at least. Karma appeals to me in theory, but, like tenets of monotheism (and, for that matter, polytheism--any theism, really), gets a little silly when particulars are discussed.

I've acknowledged it before, but I think, if there is a divine presence (theoretically, of course), my accounts have been balanced and finalized. To continue the financial metaphor, I am in the black, even if I were in the red for a while. I won't cite particulars (sensational and juicy as they may be), but the truth is that I have done things that may have warranted the pall of MS. The atonement period expired months ago, however.

Now I'm amassing credits that I don't believe will ever be redeemed. The awful difficulties that I face every second of every day should get me a plush afterlife. Unfortunately, I don't believe in one. I really wish I did, so I no longer resent theists--let's call them Christians, to make things easier. They blindly throw their faith behind a deity that they cannot substantiate (pardon the pun, Catholics). I'm fine with this, because it doesn't affect me.

Like I said, the concept of karma appeals to me, but not, admittedly, in the purely benevolent sense. What I endure is an unremitting (even if the ailment does remit) torture that I wouldn't wish on anyone. Actually, I probably would if I didn't have to experience it myself so acutely. It would be an undeniably enticing curse to bestow on someone. Just not me...

My theological beliefs, although they are really nonexistent, center on Hunter S. Thompsons's "Great Magnet." This differs from synchronicity because it places a moderate amount of influence on the individual (& it's not an album by the intolerable Police). So, I accept a certain amount of the difficulties of MS, but I think those stumbling blocks have been accounted for, and then some. Now I'm taking whatever else emerges from this annoying, debilitating disease on credit.

I wish someone could convince me of the existence of a deity. Any attempt at proselytization, however, is immediately disregarded. It's just not a purely selfless gambit. Sure--someone may insist that it is, but actually he or she is actually trying to validate their own foolishness. I can hear protests from numerous acolytes of various faiths, but, like John Stossel says, "Gimme a break."

Like many a narcissist (an ex-girlfriend insultingly gave me a copy of Alexander Lowen's book, simply titled Narcissism--thanks, he said sarcastically) would avow, back to me. Being stricken with MS eradicates any mystical ties that religion could offer. This might seem like the opposite would be true, but actually it only has cemented my aversion to magical thinking. In Catholic school, we were told that God embodied three things: benevolence, omnipotence, and loving. If this were true, how to account for something that contradicts all of these? I realize that I sound like Job, who lamented his constant travails, but, again, gimme a break. Anyone who believes such simplistic nonsense clearly cannot conceive of such suffering. I always thought that that story was utter bullshit. He should have been pissed, because what all-benevolent being would subject one of his, uh, subjects to the multitude of tortures that he had to abide? You'd have to be a monumental prick to foist such horrors onto someone. Or a negligent, ignorant child with a magnifying glass who roasts insects willy-nilly. And don't give me any nonsensical, passionless explanations that emphasize humans' intellectual inferiority.

If logic is so mysterious, doesn't that mean that the vast majority of us is insane? Actually, that doesn't seem so unreasonable.

R

Technical Geography

Technically, I should be upset that the Colts lost to the Saints tonight in the Super Bowl. I was born in Indiana, raised in Indiana, went to school in Indiana, and all of that. As I hope I've made abundantly clear by now, though, my allegiances lie with anything linked to Chicago. I grew up cheering for the Bulls, White Sox (Indiana informs my identification with anything on the South Side), and Bears. Therefore, I never gave a shit about any team with "Indiana" in its name--Pacers, Colts, or Hoosiers (although I like Bobby Knight and Larry Bird).

I don't like it when somebody looks incredulous when I say this. I understand it, so someone who's not from the state might not comprehend why I feel the way I do. Most people from "The Region" (aka NW Indiana) get it, though. I've said it many times, but I grew up watching local newscasts from Chicago, as well as all of the sportscasts that centered on those teams. Never did I see a Pacers game unless the opponent was the Bulls. I was aware of Reggie Miller, but more because of his jagged teeth than his three-point prowess. Or whenever the Pacers played the Knicks and there was drama that usually involved John Starks somehow--but I'd had my fill of that weasel when his team repeatedly got trounced by Michael Jordan & Co.

Likewise, I have no real affinity for the Saints. My limited knowledge of them lets me know that Mike Ditka, another hero of Chicago, coached them for a few seasons at the end of his career. That's it--other than their much-publicized acquisition of the vastly overrated Reggie Bush. His most noteworthy contribution as a professional athlete is his ultimately boring relationship with the, uh, boring and untalented Kim Kardashian.

However, I vociferously despise another Bush (W.), and took great umbrage with his idiotic and unbelievably horrid handling of Hurricane Katrina. Yes, I went to college with his daughter, but I notoriously asked her, drunkenly, if she'd had an abortion, so a friendship was not exactly in the cards. (This was no big loss for me.) At my graduation, I came very close to running her mother, First Lady Laura, over on the way to my seat, and my only regret about that situation is that I didn't. I'm sick of hearing about what a nice person she is--she married W, so she's a fucking idiot by default. Partly because of my hatred for Bush, I love New Orleans.

I don't like college football, but I was acutely aware that quarterback Drew Brees played for Purdue because a lot of my friends went there and mentioned it frequently. For anyone who scoffs at my preference of the NFL, or Brees Mach 2, over the NCAA should know this so I can disregard their protests. The BCS is an irrevocable mess, and the revolving cast of players makes it almost impossible to follow. I like basketball and March Madness more, but I still would rather watch the NBA. My mind can only hold so much information, and a constantly shifting roster much like a lizard's tail that regenerates every few years leaves room for little else. (At least, that's part of my rationalization.)

When the Bears played the Colts in the Super Bowl a few years ago, I disingenuously asserted that I'd be covered no matter the outcome. Truthfully, I really really really wanted the Bears to emerge victorious, even if I immensely disliked QB Rex Grossman and his cloying, Cheshire-cat grin. This year was different. I adamantly and vocally wanted the Saints to win. I knew this was a long-shot, and Vegas complied with a five-point victory projected for the Colts.

Amazingly, New Orleans overcame these odds. In recent weeks, their limp defense could not keep up with the dynamic offense. Tonight, though, when it mattered the most, it kept Peyton Manning at bay, even if this is a nearly impossible feat. He still passed for 333 yards, but his performance was marred by a costly interception that resulted in a Saints touchdown.

I know he's good, but I still want him to lose. His disappointment is only that much sweeter because of the Colts' loss, and the Saints' win. Plus, head coach Jim Caldwell's infuriating decision to bench Manning and assure the only defeat of the Colts' regular season at the hands of the Jets only looks worse with a Super Bowl loss. It might not have been dumb, technically, but now it really looks very foolish.

R

Insomnia: Not Just a River in Egypt

That makes no sense, but lack of consistent sleep makes me unimaginative and The Office-esque because of my penchant for misnomers. Because of this, I'm willing to settle for middling everything. There are limits, of course. I emphatically won't watch something as trite and dumb as Two and a Half Men. God I hate that show... What's more, I'm more willing to act brusquely or to curse copiously, which I do anyway. The problem is that my frustration has reached a point of super-saturation. Anything minor can set me off--sort of. Like I've said, I'm lazy by nature and this only excuses it.

When I was in the hospital, the nurses gave me Ambien, which did nothing for me. I might as well have taken a sugar pill, or some other placebo, because I was still up past 5 AM. My doctors settled on Restoril, which sounds like the drug manufacturers tried to think of a juicy name, but then gave up. Restoril worked, I guess, but turned me into a zombie the next day. It's been a while, so I can't detail exactly how it fucked me up, but I remember telling myself not to take it again.

Now, I've reached the end of my rope with regard to this shit. Nothing exciting happens at 5 AM, so the world should be thankful it's unconscious. For the rest of the day, my energy level, which is already low, is indistinct. My reluctance to get out of bed sounds like a telltale sign of depression, but it's not. This conjecture becomes irrelevant so early/late in the day. I can't do a goddamn thing.

Writing even becomes more arduous than usual. It was never a pleasant walk in the park to begin with, and I always viewed it like exercise--a necessary evil. Now, it's an extraneous absurdity. I still do it, obviously, but I'd rather not. In fact, now I insist, like a drug addict or alcoholic, that I can stop at any time. And I can.

See?

R

I Really Like My Doctors

When I was first diagnosed, I accepted the status quo of just about everything, and, ironically, this included my choice of doctors. Part of this was my own fault, partly because I had to operate within the confines of an HMO. For most people this is not a problem, and I thought I fell in the overwhelming majority. Unfortunately, as I mentioned before, I actually was part of a small minority (a concept that had heretofore been okay, but now sucked). The doctors that I had prior to my diagnosis weren't bad, just ill-equipped, in their respective specialties. Now, though, I can access the finest in neurology, etc., without having to worry if they're "in-network" or not.

My neurologist is Dr. Roumen Balabanov, an Eastern European transplant (pardon the pun) with an accent oddly close to Dr. Charles Nichols of The Fugitive. He even mildly looks like Jeroen Krabbe, although the accent might make me think that. After all, he doesn't have the opportunistic guile of that character. Both, though (the character and my doctor), work in Chicago, so that too can account for my tone-deaf alignment of a Dutch accent and one from Bulgaria, where I think Balabanov is from (I could do a Google search, but I don't feel like it).

In conjunction with the aforementioned Dr. Richard Burt, the two guide my treatment scheme with regard to my involvement with the stem cell whathaveyou. I hesitantly keep everyone at arm's length as it is, so I'm especially wary of doctors. I have a strange relationship with them, though, in that I get along with them preternaturally well. Appointments are not nearly as uncomfortable as they could be, and I delude myself by thinking that this has to do with my nice rapport with them, born of my above-normal intelligence. Really, I think it has to do more with the supercilious attitude I exhibit with them.

I always shook my head at the rampant stupidity of guests/dumb performance artists on various talk shows when they scoffed at marriage as a bureaucratic institution. Mostly, this happened because I knew that they couldn't conceive of two words, back-to-back, that each had four syllables. At a certain point, though, I too espoused their poses and misgivings--not just for marriage, but for advanced degrees. I still remain suspicious of many master's degrees or doctorates. Every so often, however, an example of a truly useful one comes along, mostly with regard to medicine. Without an MD, a "doctor" looks crazy or felonious, or both, with a prescription pad.

Improbably, I have two capable doctors that work on the vanguard of my neurological issue. For non-math majors like me, I'm pretty sure that's 100% more than one. Even one is more than most people get. Like I said, this is not an indictment of the abilities or knowledge of previous doctors I've had. My old neurologist's practice seemed to focus more on issues related to Alzheimer's. Therefore, I wasn't personally offended by what I perceived to be a deficiency in his expertise. However, his aversion to steroids did piss me off. I assume he had a bad experience with another patient, so he empirically disregarded them as treatment, which I thought, and still think, is foolish and an idiotic way to practice medicine, but I digress...

I chalk this up to inevitable multiple stabs at finding the right doctors. Like the song by Smokey Robinson & the Miracles advises, "you'd better shop around." Loyalty should not enter one's mind when picking a doctor. I understand the impulse to stick with a doctor, but the odds are that the first one will not be the best one. One needs to make an informed decision, rather than one made impulsively. For most people, I don't think it's as big of an issue as it is for me. When something as momentous as MS comes up and throws a wrench into your life, decorum becomes irrelevant. This is not to say that I'm rude about it, just cutthroat about who does and doesn't make the cut.

It's almost like I'm just doing my job. Hurt feelings mean less and less to me, and they were already pretty low on my list of considerations as it is. As Deputy Marshal Sam Gerard (Tommy Lee Jones) whispers after he risks the life of one of his subordinates when he shoots the guy holding him hostage, "I...don't...bargain."

R

Pragmatism, Not Pessimism

Often, I get labeled a "pessimist." This is not wholly absurd, but it is inaccurate. In the recent past, I understand how such a moniker could fall on me. Any positive event would diminish due to my grumbling, no matter how fickle or momentous. To the untrained eye, perhaps, not much has changed. This is not true. I do have an excuse that would make pessimism acceptable--multiple sclerosis is a bitch, so I can bitch. Ultimately, this gets old and boring, and I recognized this and changed my mindset. I'm certainly not a pie-eyed optimist, but I am a staunch realist and, subsequently, a pragmatist.

I still don't wantonly revel in good news. This would not only be disingenuous but foolish. The hammer could come down at any time, and rather than be prepared (which would necessitate a fatalism that would bring me down consistently), I am removed and dispassionate. I received some "good news" earlier today, because my recent MRI didn't display any new lesions on my brain. Like a dentist always telling me that I had cavities (until recently, after I had been using my Sonicare), I have come to expect a doctor telling me that there were new lesions (by the way, I still think of Tom Hanks's character in Philadelphia when I hear that word). Each time I saw a doctor after an MRI, I expected to hear news about a new finding. Or findings. Not this time. Yippee--but it's still early.

That's not necessarily a negative thought. It actually shows an acknowledgment of a possibility, rather than an inevitability. I would not have been stunned if such news had been given, but I was relieved when it wasn't. This shows the crucial distinction between the two mindsets, because a pessimist would have expected only the worst.

One could hardly have been blamed, though, since MS only affects 0.001% of the population. That minuscule wrench has to come from somewhere, or someone. Since whenever I first became formally diagnosed (I have forgotten the exact month/timeframe, because I can and don't want to dwell on precise dates), I have become only more aloof and lazily accepting of the fact that I could be that one aberration, and am, in this instance. Like the Al Franken book of the same title, I proceed with the attitude of "Why Not Me?"

I didn't want to hear about new lesions found on the MRI, but I was prepared to accept them. Next week, I have an appointment with a neurologist at Rush University Medical Center, and would only have added a "Where do we go from here?" inquiry to my litany, which almost certainly will be forgotten. One such question surrounds Tysabri, an intravenous drug administered once a month. It has been fatal in at least two patients, and may cause multifocal leukoencephalopathy--a long medical term, which is never a good thing. I figure, though, that if you're unlucky enough to be struck by lightning once, twice would be poetic overkill. Yes, some people have died, but the numbers are incredibly small and inconsequential, so I've come to regard them as negligible. Furthermore, chemo is more likely to be fatal, and I've already done that, so another brush with remote death seems nowhere near as frightening as it might once have been.

Like Hillary Clinton and later John McCain, I've adopted a "kitchen-sink" approach to my treatment. I figure that's less disturbing than "scorch the earth," although I recognize the natural inclination to do that.

R

"I'll Take the GOP to Block"

Earlier tonight, President Obama gave his first "State of the Union" speech. It didn't have the florid rhetorical flourishes or powerful turns of phrase that he, as an orator, is known for. Those are more representative of his contentious primary battle with Hillary Clinton. After that arduous campaign, as well as the sniping of the national romp that ensued against John McCain & Co. (with Sarah Palin used shamelessly as a blunt tool powered by stupidity), he could hardly have delivered the same Lincoln-esque eloquence each time he walked up to the microphone. What he also hasn't done much of, so far, has been to use his tongue as a cudgel to confuse Republicans (not very hard, really) and take them on.

Tonight hopefully marked the end of the reticence that has plagued the administration so far. I've been extremely critical and fatalistic about Obama's remove from the act of actual governance. Sure, he, like about every politician that sat in the House Chamber of the Capitol's rotunda listening to the speech, has chosen to parse his words strategically, but this particular moment in American history calls for hard talk to his detractors. The GOP, though, has selfishly placed its own party ahead of national interests.

With their tolerance and indulgence of idiotic ideologues like Rush Limbaugh, etc., the GOP squirms like a frantic insect moments before its inevitable death. It's extra-disturbing, though, because it has chosen to burn anything down that emanates from the pen of Democratic legislators. I forget who it was specifically--let's say it was House Minority Leader (by the way, I wonder how xenophobic Republicans feel about being labeled "the minority") John Boehner, from Ohio--but someone explicitly urged his fellow Republicans to act like recalcitrant brats and foil any attempt to pass anything in Congress. So far, this frustrating strategy of defiance has worked quite well. Take the health care bill, for example--earmarks of tepid, craven Democrats have made it disgustingly bloated, like the gluttonous murder victim in Se7en. I want to dismiss it wholly like Matt Taibbi, but realistically something has to be passed so I find myself grudgingly agreeing with the "pass something--anything" argument espoused by numerous pundits and commentators like Paul Krugman. Too much time has passed to do nothing.

That's what the GOP would like to do, though, and attempts at meaningful bipartisanship have failed. Now, with the election of Scott Brown over Martha Coakley in the Massachusetts Senate race, further compromise looks inevitable. Who knows, though? Maybe Brown will be the maverick that McCain never really was, although I doubt it so much that the mere idea of a Republican crossing the aisle in the name of pragmatism is ludicrous. I remember when John Roberts was going through all the confirmation rigmarole that ended anticlimactically with him being named the new Chief Justice. People optimistically (see: foolishly) thought that maybe he'd vote against his political affiliations. Lo and behold, he hasn't, and now oversees a dangerous razor-thin conservative majority on the Supreme Court.

The Court's recent decision to allow corporations to contribute nearly heedlessly to political campaigns served as a stark reminder that a reckless Republican agenda is still very much alive, and needs to be quashed. Obama campaigned on the hope of bipartisanship, but it has become clearer and clearer that this is an impossibility. Lest we forget, many Americans are really fucking stupid and their opinions should be immediately disregarded and jettisoned. Anyone who's ever seriously participated in a "Tea Party" that didn't spring from the mind of a puerile girl should face a firing squad. Now.

It was heartening to hear Obama talk tough to a divided Congress. I hope he continues to do so, and doesn't lapse into the same pusillanimous mindset that led him to leave health care up to Congress. Bad idea.

Previously, the Republican/Democrat dichotomy was summarized as "the party of bad ideas vs. the party of no ideas." Over the past year, that has confusingly switched to "Democrat vs. Republican." Obama sounded like he's finally ready to acknowledge this, but his struggle will be even tougher now with the possibility of a filibuster.

TS--the party is over, you are President, so now you have to do something. Like, oh, be President. And Republicans--get out of the way if you can't/won't lend a hand. This isn't Hollywood Squares, and your "no no no" attitude needs to be thrown out as violently as I always wanted to toss Whoopi from the center square.

R

When Redolence Becomes Cloying

I watched a bit of Ghostbusters yesterday, and one line in particular jumped out at me. Actually, dozens of snippets of dialogue stood out, but the one that seemed particularly relevant was when Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray stand outside a particularly hulking building on the Columbia campus. After they've been told by the dean that the board has voted to revoke their grant, the two discuss what they're going to do next. Murray's Peter Venkman is blase about their prospects, and Aykroyd's Ray Stanz is worried about being fired and pessimistic about the future. "You don't know what it's like out there. I've worked in the private sector. They expect results." Unfortunately, this is now more pertinent than ever.

Anyone who has done comparably little in his job (I count myself among those in these ranks, because no matter how you spin it, a Bates label is just a sticker) understands this, and since the inauguration it has strikingly been applicable to President Obama. I've said it before, but Bush Mach 2 was easily the worst president in American history. At the very least, though, he DID things. They were short-sighted, stupid, and altogether reckless, but he made sure that they got done. Obama, on the other hand, means well--and his influence stops there. The immediate picture that I have of him in my mind shows the bottom of his shoes. "Oh--they're scuffed!," we thought then. Now, though, I'm more struck by the fact that his feet were even up. I dismissed this sort of square thinking a while ago because he had so much to do and such a gesture was the least of the problems he faced.

He hasn't faced them, though. Obama perpetually seems to have his feet up. Take health care, for example. He made it clear that reform was a major concern for his administration, but then punted (feet still up--in the air) to let Congress deal with it. Congress has now become the "vast wasteland" that Newton Minow, then the FCC chairman, said television had become in 1961. The bloated (I wish I could call it "bombastic," but pages of dry legislation hardly warrants it) bill now contains so many earmarks and disclaimers that it now should be used as the valueless wallpaper it so closely resembles. And what do we get from Obama? A metaphorical shrug presented as more eloquent words. This has become incorrect, because his speeches have become less and less impactful, both in their poise and in their message. Whereas during the campaign we had great speeches on various issues like race and the future of America, now we get fortune cookies that deliver the same message as during Bush's term.

The 2010 Senate election in Massachusetts, which pitted Democrat Martha Coakley against Republican Scott Brown, underscored how removed Obama has been. Sure, it's a Massachusetts election, and Coakley blundered many times in her repeated gaffes, but it's truly an affront that Ted Kennedy's long-held seat will be occupied by a Republican for the next six years (at least). Coakley said things on the campaign trail that were reminiscent of Dan Quayle--like referring to Red Sox pitcher Curt Schilling as a "Yankee fan." She obviously was an awful choice to take Kennedy's place, but it's not as if her Republican counterpart was any better. Brown infamously posed nude for Cosmopolitan in 1982, and the photos could have been an example of one mistakenly inserted into his roll by George Costanza. This didn't matter, evidently, because Brown beat Coakley (about 52% to 47%) and will take over Ted Kennedy's Senate seat. I know that a lot has been made of this, but it's still not nearly enough. Ted Kennedy's seat will go to a REPUBLICAN.

Just before the election, Obama went to Boston to campaign for Coakley. With his track record of uselessly campaigning for the Olympics in Chicago, his lack of pull and utility was wholly evident when she, too, lost. Remember Teddy Roosevelt's credo of "speak softly and carry a big stick"? Obama has seemingly misheard it and changed it, in a year, to "speak flowerily and brandish a twig." The pen may, aphoristically, be mightier than the sword, but the sword can leave some unrecognizably disfigured. With Obama, neither his pen nor his sword intimidates me.

The "cool" tag for Obama has frozen over. Now he just seems like a dick. Careful deliberation seems like he's stalling. Occasional whiffs of contemplation are fine, but his jaunts of insouciance now register as arrogance rather than thoughtfulness. Doing nothing is easy--ask him. I always hear people say things like, "It's only his first year. Give him a break." Siren songs don't have to be symphonies, though. Once they do their job, the rest happens imperceptibly.

I still hope that he'll surprise me somehow, but so far he's lulled me to sleep like the poppies in The Wizard of Oz. (Almost. My conscious brain functions as the snow that vanquishes the danger of the opium.) Bush did terrible things, but at least I was always awake and alert to marvel at them incredulously. With Obama, I just want to nap.

R

Haiti: Not the Time for Sadism, or Schadenfreude

Leave it to shameless partisans (on the right) and religious lunatics/zealots (also on the right) to politicize a natural disaster. Shit happens, and cannot be attributed to anything other than dumb luck--bad luck. When a jackass like Rush Limbaugh or Pat Robertson spews anything controversial, it cannot be dissected. This would validate the inanity of its sensational idiocy. It only gets worse when an insidious loser like David Brooks throws his hat into the ring. I refuse to offer a link to his column for the New York Times, but I will provide access to Matt Taibbi's pointed, blunt rebuttal.

Amid such complete disaster and horrors, it's an easy, and cheap, rhetorical sophistry to use something atrocious as a blunt, awkward cudgel to illustrate a point. The problem, though, is that it reeks of bad taste and utter insouciance to do so. Limbaugh is an idiot, and regularly says nonsense that his listeners frequently follow. So I wasn't surprised to hear that he said something uncouth about the tragedy, although I was disgusted with his coldness. And just him in general.

The same goes for Pat Robertson. He has attained the tolerability of age, but this does not mitigate the crazy proclamations he makes. He said similar despicable things about New Orleans and its denizens when Hurricane Katrina hit. That disaster was horrible, but the earthquake in Haiti makes it look like a fickle rainshower (the mind can hold something that results in dozens dead, but thousands is incomprehensible, especially when the culprit cannot be embodied. The Holocaust was more devastating, of course, but at least it could demonize, rightfully, Hitler & Co.). So translating it into religious terms is both irresponsible and infuriating.

Both disasters exposed the rampant incompetence of those who responded. FEMA, as run by Michael "Brownie" Brown, did little to contain the devastation of Hurricane Katrina and the hard-hit poor of New Orleans, and it's hard to think of one person who could be held responsible for the Haiti earthquake--although someone, no doubt, will. In the early days after the calamity, awful images regularly still flash on television screens. Turning the earthquake into an instrument of propaganda is a cheap, crass gambit that should shame whoever wants to do it. Yes, this happened and that should have happened, but it did and that didn't, so move on. Sitting in front of a microphone and talking is easy, and listening is easier, except when what is being said is an affront to decency. Irony runs out when something is as offensive as what any of these people said. We're humans, and it's wrong--just wrong--to think dismissively about such desolation.

You may wish harm on someone else, but this has its limits. No one who's not a reckless psychopath can envision something as, pardon the pun, earth-shattering as the earthquake and its fall-out in Haiti. I could never develop a scenario as big and terrible as the one there. Perhaps this also says something about my limited imagination. On the plus side, though, I'd never subject anyone to sitting through something as inane as 2012. I might not think up such catastrophes, but I can--and do--wish them on those who choose to use it as an opportunity to air their dumb political thoughts and inclinations. Limbaugh is deaf, and relies on a cochlear implant, but he can still talk, which is heaven for a moron. You can talk and talk and never hear the audible objections from rational dissenters.

Not once--even for an instant--did I think about fantastically switching places with a Haitian resident who, unlike me, does not have MS. There is irony in mentioning something and then denying its potential existence, but screw it--I'm chalking it up to empathy and not to aloof selfishness. I, clearly, do not even consider this a possibility. I do, though, recognize that the impulse toward that sort of magical thinking exists.

Sadism and schadenfreude may not be acceptable with regard to victims of capacious natural disasters, but they're oddly applicable to tone-deaf asses like Limbaugh or Robertson. Or intellectual charlatans like David Brooks.

R

I'm Not Kidding

Often, I get the impression that people don't believe me when I say that I don't care. In the past, this may have been a shrewd stance to take, because I was probably acting or saying things histrionically just to gauge reactions. Now, though, I really don't give a shit. I'm almost geriatric in my complete nonchalance. Old people have stopped caring about impressions because they realize, in their advanced age, that whatever they say or do could be misconstrued, and so they have resolved to be as they are, for better or worse. Certain societal pleasantries strike them as absurd, or simply extraneous, and so they cut them out or off before they have a chance to take hold.

The problem with this is that some choose to express their remove with insults or barbs. Luckily, I've curtailed this impulse considerably. I can still be acerbic, but now I am content to be aloof. The mental image one has when the word "aloof" gets thrown around is an oaf shrugging. This connotes confusion (born of stupidity), which, I assure you, is not the case. Either that, or someone napping springs to mind. I may be more willing to nap than usual, but am frequently prevented from doing so because of Provigil. I used to resent not being able to sleep, but now it is like a burner under my ass that makes me get up and move. If not, I might really be the picture of a typical depressive.

It irks me when someone mopes around noticeably. Trying not to be noticed ironically, and hypocritically, is its own form of attention-seeking. This is one of the reasons that the goth look is bullshit. You can't really espouse a "don't look at me" attitude wearing a dog collar and jackboots. Flamboyance always attracts attention, and nail polish is actually no different than shouting at the sky, a mohawk, or a Harley Davidson. This last one annoys me considerably in that it gives tools a platform and a megaphone in the form of a loud sputtering tailpipe, and I'm so glad that South Park (which also made fun of goths' ethos of nonconformity, which of course becomes its own form of conformity) chose to call these enthusiasts just what they are: idiots. (Or something more crude that I've grown out of saying since high school.)

As you can see, I'm not totally without boundaries or guidance. This is what drives me insane when it comes to condescension from theists. Like I've said, I'm an aloof nontheist. So when somebody associates not believing in God with a sociopathic, or psychopathic, streak, it's insulting. You know what keeps me from walking into a mall and killing dozens of people with some sort of gun? 1. Guns scare me, and 2. That's fucking WRONG. Beyond being an indicator of severe mental illness, mass murder takes a lot of effort. I've said it before, but I'm lazy. I'm also not (some may disagree, but fuck them) crazy.

I do a lot of things that may seem rude. I may not immediately say "Hello" or respond to someone's inane question. In fact, though, I likely am trying to orient myself and so miss such overt cues to speak. It still occurs to me to do things that I don't, but now some impulses disappear like dust in the wind (to quote Kansas, of all horrible bands. I just saw Old School again, though, so that song permeates my psyche way more than it ever should. And Red Dawn was on cable too, so I might shout, apropos of nothing, "WOLVERINES!")

Last Friday, I got sufficiently sick of waiting for the stem cell procedure results to be felt and seen, so I gave myself a shot of Avonex. The point of the procedure was to render that mode of treatment moot. I still adamantly believe that interferons are ultimately deceptive and insufficient in their treatment, but I figured, "What the hell?" The injection is traumatic in its application--the needle is huge, as I've shown--and horribly annoying when it comes to the twelve-hour flu-like side effects that are the trademark of any interferon. Still, I gave myself the shot because I thought, "Why not?" I thought about the stem cell study and how this may cloud the findings, but I quickly dismissed this apprehension and adopted the attitude that, I'm guessing, a lot of prospective mothers have before they decide on having an abortion: "What the hell? It's my body."

It's unclear whether the noticeable improvement I felt was the result of the shot or the procedure, but both can coexist as far as I'm concerned. I told my nurse that the two should not be mutually exclusive. I understand that one may pollute the findings of the other, but I'm really not concerned with the purity of the study at the expense of my own personal health. It's my body, for better or worse, and I'll do with it what I please--which is a limited smorgasbord of options as it is. This may sound like the callow Cartman--"I do what I want!"--and it may be querulous, but whateva. I do what I want!

I refuse to be beholden to parameters that have been set up by the directors of the study. I have nothing against them, and understand why they would rather I not do this. However, I did what I did because I wanted to do it. This sounds bratty, but, with multiple sclerosis and other ailments, it's important to do whatever you believe will help you. In my case, it was starting Avonex again.

It's not like I enjoy taking the shot. Everything about it sucks--the needle, the blood, the side effects, etc.--so it's not as if I took it because I like it. That's crazy, and I'm not a clinical maniac. Anything that may improve my quality of life will be tried. Except Farmville.

It may upset some people, but I don't care. I'm not kidding. I DON'T CARE.

R

The Bittersweet Playoffs

Often, I do not blindly enjoy things while they are still happening, because I know that everything will end eventually. I've gotten better at recognizing the ephemeralness of, well, everything. Sometimes, though, an imminent deadline will knock me on my ass. I was shaken back into coherence this past weekend when I remembered that the NFL regular season is over, and now the playoffs are under way.

The playoffs themselves are great. What else could they be? Each year eclipses the year before, and really the previous 16 games. Nobody remembers that the New England Patriots went undefeated in the 2007 regular season. Well, obviously not nobody, but that achievement was diminished because of the team's loss to the New York Giants in the Super Bowl. The Giants' win was that much more astounding because they beat an unbeatable (until then) team, and I remembered it recently thinking about the exemplary play of then-heralded but now reviled Plaxico Burress. He's a moron, no doubt, and I wish that everyone who owns a gun would be so lucky as to shoot himself in the leg. He did, though, catch the pass that beat the Patriots, so I irrationally overlook the obviously deplorable circumstances of his future idiocy. The same goes for my willingness to turn my head at the despicable Roman Polanski. I mean, the guy made Chinatown. And his fiance was killed by the minions of Charles Manson. I know that nothing excuses his terrible treatment of that 13-year-old girl, but he also survived the Holocaust, so I sometimes let this tidbit obscure his "alleged" brutality. (After such a rash act like his evasive flight from the country, possibilities harden into facts, in my mind.)

Earlier I listened to Patton Oswalt talk about the prowess of Gale Sayers. (Really.) He said that even if you could never do anything that compared to his running, you can still appreciate the grace and indomitability of his technique moving with a football. It is one of the most immediate gratification available these days, on YouTube and the like. I understand that about Sayers, and also feel that way when I see Adrian Peterson rush. Sometimes. He didn't exactly set the world on fire this year, but Brett Favre did. When he turned 40 last year, subtle insults from commentators came pouring in. "Does he still have it?" He's 40, you asshole, not 400.

Here's the thing, though: the playoffs remind me that an imminent hiatus is immanent. From February to August I'll have to rely on the NFL Network to satiate my thirst for the NFL (college football, as I've said, bores me). There's baseball, I know, but watching the MLB is like getting a fistful of methadone when you're a heroin addict. It's absurdly insufficient. So I've been told.

I get to watch teams that have tried to be elusive. I still don't give a shit about the Bengals, but I respect the Saints, even if they have lost some of their luster in recent weeks after losing their perfect season. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise (see: the 2007 Patriots again.) They get to play Kurt Warner & the Cardinals next, and I hope that Drew Brees makes the older QB look even older.

What's funny, too, is that I actually watch the NFL so I know what the hell the commentators are talking about. Except Troy Aikman, who's replaced Bill Walton at the head of the line of sports analysts that should never be allowed near a microphone. My favorite quote of Walton's was his trenchant observation that "The Lakers need to put the ball in the basket" during the 1991 Finals against the Bulls. Joe Buck is no Marv Albert, though, and every time he opens his mouth I get Vietnam flashbacks of irrational rage. All you need to know about Joe Buck is that he's probably looking forward to the upcoming baseball season. So am I, sort of, but for a very different reason: I don't have to endure inane commentary, although I do have to put up with 162 games that cannot convince me of the beauty of a perfectly-placed bunt. Yawn. What Al Michaels or Cris Collinsworth says, though, I pay attention to.

Joe Buck deals with such luminaries as Troy Aikman, though, so comments like "The [insert team name] need to win this game" go unchecked. Also, in case you're wondering, the team with the most points wins.

Aikman gets a pass because he admirably served his time in the league. Buck represents the worst of nepotism. His dad was Jack Buck, the famous voice of the St. Louis Cardinals.

Again, that's baseball. Ugh. & I'll be really crestfallen if a threatened lockout happens, & squashes the 2010 NFL season. I may even start watching European football aka soccer.

Just kidding--that would never happen.

R

Better Late Than Never

Yesterday I listened to Blakroc's eponymous album, and was blown away by its accomplished fusion of hip-hop and rock. A few years ago, I remember when such pairings were all the rage. Early examples went as far back as Run-DMC's collaboration with Aerosmith on "Walk This Way." Then, there were terrible other examples that became grouped under the awful heading of "rap/rock." Think Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park, but not for too long. The idea itself, though, should not have been disregarded because early stabs at the mixture of distinctly different genres were abysmal.

Around this time of the year (ie New Year's), we have to endure endless lists that gather the "best of" the previous twelve months. If December 31st happens to signal the end of a whole decade, these months usually become years. In 2009, this happened like, pardon the pun, clockwork. One particularly egregious list came from David Wild, a hack music critic who regularly contributes to Rolling Stone. He reminds me of Wallace Shawn, but more fat and repulsive. I remember seeing an episode of some TV show where he interviewed Lou Reed and I kept waiting for Reed to silence him, but he indulged Wild's inane requests. I think that he was being polite by obliging Wild's annoying clamors for demonstration. He could have leveled the dumb "journalist," but instead spared him. I wish, though, that he had released some of the vitriol I'm sure he felt.

Enough of that--if I think about David Wild for too long, my muscles clench and subsequently receive no release in the form of a swift punch or kick to his teeth. I did read, however, a bunch of year-end lists that didn't piss me off. For instance, Jim DeRogatis, of the Chicago Sun-Times, delighted me as he normally does. He's not a great writer, but his opinions of popular music don't cause me to chortle as much as others do--I'm thinking of Greg Kot of the Tribune, and his dependably annoying quota of world music that he places on his lists. DeRogatis put Ida Maria's Fortress 'Round My Heart at the top of his list. When I saw this, I nodded approvingly, even though it really came out in 2008.

I didn't see one mention of "Blakroc," though. It's an album with tracks controlled by the two members of The Black Keys, with a rotating roster of unappreciated emcees. I myself came to it late, but at least I appreciate how awesome it is. There are at least two distinct types of blues: Delta and Mississippi hill country. The former adheres to the predictable I-IV-V chord structure. The latter also may use only those inimitable three chords, but it chugs along rather than punching the changes emphatically.

This framework, championed by such artists as RL Burnside, Junior Kimbrough, and other artists on the Fat Possum label, works amazingly well with the grooves of hip-hop. I can't believe that a worthwhile collaboration took so long to materialize. The Black Keys stay away from the histrionic, flashy solos that come along with innumerable artists, both good and bad. Sometimes, in the case of The White Stripes, this showboating works, and, like the aforementioned Aerosmith, it can be a disaster. Either way, bands have tended to forget about blues without a reliance on the screaming scales. The Black Keys, though, have not. They have always played blues without the popular crutch of gaudy solos, and perhaps because of this have not enjoyed the success of several of their less original peers.

With Blakroc, it appears that they have finally broken through, and now command the ears of several less-well-known hip-hop acts. This is the culmination of attempts at maturation. It is probably good that it took so long for this merger to take place. Kinks were subsequently avoided, like the grandstanding that's so prevalent in hip-hop. It may have taken long to happen, but several easy missteps were dodged. Eventually, though, it's time to move along.

I don't mean neglect, but bold action. Too often, people are too concerned with their reception, and this fear renders the inevitable inaction, along with all of its dilatory dithering, pathetic and empty. Deadbeat dads, you know what I mean.

R

Deadwood v. The Wire=Shakespeare v. Euripides=The Rolling Stones v. The Beatles

Since I had trouble breathing and other telltale symptoms of an allergic reaction, I spent the last few nights at my grandmother's. This should have connoted an earlier, more reasonable, bedtime, but I became enmeshed in an article that I found online. It was a gushing, but not saccharine, and intelligent interview with the great David Simon, creator of The Wire, in Vice Magazine. In it, Simon discusses numerous topics, including politics, and I found myself astonished by his articulateness and trenchant points. In one snippet in particular, though, I couldn't help but feel beleaguered when he extolled the societal attributes of Greek literature and contrasted it with the exultation of the individual in Shakespeare.

I speak English, so I'm incredibly biased about this. When LNE busts out the Greek literature, I cannot believe that she, or anyone, for that matter, can scan what look like pictograms to me and make sense of it. Truthfully, it's quite impressive that she can grasp what is being communicated there. Furthermore, I understand that restricting myself to Latin-based alphabets severely limits my grasp of linguistics. I'm American, though, and branching out culturally is not exactly what the US is known for. So I felt a little uncomfortable when Simon spoke of his appreciation for Greek literature and the huge debt that The Wire owes it. Let me clarify: my ignorance makes me defensive. I can't do, so I disparage. Not brutishly, but primitively and reflexively. I know this. I've read Medea and the four parts of Oresteia, but I only view them in chunks, rather than the minutiae that make up those larger bits. I do, however, love Euripides, and I'm sure this is because I can make out what he means to say.

I understand the full complications of the whole foreign aspect of the language, and have similar difficulties with the screenplays of both Deadwood and The Wire. The former adheres to a loose proliferation of blank verse not unlike Shakespeare's, while the latter uses a vernacular that shouldn't be that difficult for me to understand, but is. Both shows are in English, but the former is easier for me to hear and process than the latter. I know that there may be a racial implication here, and all I can say to refute it is that I know this. Since I'm not a vapid amoeba, the willingness of my brain to process one brand of English much more easily than the other can't be dismissed. It is what it is.

A similar matter of preference applies to music. Well, good music--you can't talk extensively about why Journey is the best band there ever was without sounding like a complete idiot. You can, though, stand in the parallel camps of Beatles' fans and Rolling Stones' fans and see why the other side thinks the way they do. Both are great, iconic bands. The Beatles expanded the impact of the recording studio while The Rolling Stones modernized blues in a way that previously had not been done, and consequently came out with a different version of something familiar--and as a result etched their own stamp on the genre. I appreciate the technical innovations of Sergeant Pepper's, but I thoroughly enjoy the technique of Exile on Main Street. This is not to say that either band didn't cross over and do what the other began (see: the disturbing subject matter of "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" and the expansive rhythms of "Sympathy for the Devil").

Both television shows depict graphic violence and harsh language. It takes some getting used to both, but I appreciate the grandeur more with Deadwood than The Wire. This is probably because I see a standoff as more romantic than a shootoff. One is dramatic, while the other is just scary. What makes Deadwood interesting is that it adds a poetic bent to these things, and The Wire resists being maudlin by crudely recording a devastating act with the flippant realism of a photograph. Deadwood isn't exactly a book, but its rugged formalism comes across as forced, whereas The Wire's apparent slang ethos actually shows the florid grandiloquence and hard truths of the streets.

Some things are a matter of opinion, but I've always said that subjectivity is objective. I love both shows, for different reasons. The reasons that I love each of these separate things invalidates my own opinion, ironically. Somewhat. Neither is According
to Jim.

R

A Night in the ER: Cold or Allergies?

For the past few days, I had a premonition that the sore throat that I had would escalate into something more problematic. I take Zyrtec regularly to stave off allergic reactions to the dogs that my mother has, and until recently it worked without a hitch. About a week ago, though, I had to cease popping it due to strange chest pains I had. I switched to Alavert on the advice of my immunotherapy nurse, and didn't have any problems. Then, last night, I had troublesome asthmatic symptoms when I breathed, and I couldn't simply ignore them.

Earlier that night, I had similar symptoms and acquiesced to an ER visit. I don't like emergency rooms, and have always thought of them, unfairly, as repositories where inexperienced interns cut their teeth. Maybe I've seen "ER" too much, but I envision neophyte doctors, like Noah Wyle's Dr. Carter, dispensing expeditious remedies to problems that can't be treated simply with aspirin and bedrest. I didn't immediately pinpoint my absurdly simple treatment because it made sense. Okay, so I had an allergic reaction, and the treatment for that is, I think, Benadryl and epinephrine. Simple, no?

Quick digression: when the doctor told me that I'd get a shot of adrenaline, I immediately thought of Pulp Fiction. In one particularly "trippy" scene, Uma Thurman's Mia Wallace ODs on heroin and requires an adrenaline shot to her heart to revive her. When I heard that I'd need one, I expected a similarly huge needle and a stabbing motion that would allow it to penetrate my breastplate.

Thankfully, this didn't happen. I received two quick subcutaneous shots in my left tricep, and eventually went on my merry way. I hoped that the ordeal was over, but, alas, it was not.

A few hours passed with nary a hitch. After a while, though, the wheezing returned. I tried to ignore it, as I had the night before, but several hours passed before I admitted this was futile. I don't like emergency rooms because I consider them quick resorts for panicky mothers, old people, and/or drug addicts. No matter how much I loathed the idea, I was headed back there. First, I roused my mother awake and told her the unavoidable truth. Then, I tried to alleviate my symptoms by leaving the house and going outside to the back porch. Admittedly, this was a bad idea since it was cold outside and the bench was covered in snow, but I went nevertheless. I had no other options, so I bided my time and waited for a stronger reaction from my exhausted mother.

This came quickly, and I didn't even try to rationalize my rash behavior. I piled into the car, again, and returned to the ER. Again. This was late, so there was no wait, and minimal other patients to wait behind, so I received my own "room." Previously, I sat on a bed parked in the main hallway. Now, though, I had my own partition!

My breathing had worsened in the interim, and the doctor now there heard this. He gave me a breathing treatment that consisted of a medicinal vapor that helped to clear my airway and steroids, which is also a normal treatment for an MS attack but also helps stifle an allergic pathological reaction. My wheezing abated, but I insisted on going to my grandmother's, which must have been a painstaking but unavoidable annoyance for my mother, who drove me.

Eventually, I fell asleep (around 5 am). Now, though, away from contact with "hypoallergenic" dogs (this is a bit of a misnomer, because it really doesn't exist. There are dogs that don't shed, but you can, and I am, still be allergic to errant dander or contact with their saliva.), I began to consider other possible reasons for my symptoms. The most obvious, of course, is the common cold intermingled with the cold air.

I heard this possible diagnosis before, and disregarded it. It has been several years (I think) since I've had a possible cold, so I don't really know the telltale symptoms. Of course, I've had numerous ones in the past, but the absence of them for the last year or two has totally made me forget what they're like.

I'm pretty sure they're like this though, because I've been away from animals long enough to render them irrelevant. My wheezing remains, and I still reach for the inhaler like a true spaz. Once again, my cane comes in handy because it nullifies such dismissive judgments. I just look like a piqued, enervated shell.

I'm fine with that. I'd rather be seen as an old man than as someone for whom a coma would be a cozy respite. At least, that's how I feel about certain nyerds. Is this wrong?

Probably, but I don't give a shit. Where's my inhaler, anyway?

R

Incremental, Indisciminate Improvement (Is Still Progress)

Like the procedure itself, my own personal improvement will take time. I remember when I first had the stem cell transplant and watched Dr. Burt diagram stairs to illustrate the sort of progress I could expect. The good news is that there are no valleys in the rudimentary drawing. The unfortunate but realistic outlook prepared me for the uphill (no pun intended) slog that lies ahead--for the next few years. Furthermore, I have a sneaking suspicion that the study's early findings, which were culled when some of the older, first patients started, in no way should construe expectations. Patience is both elusive and obnoxious, but a necessity.

Small instances of different behavior creep up every so often. To anyone else, I may appear to be the same as I was before I checked into the hospital. I have not emerged from that exercise in suspended animation as a new person. I still have most of my old symptoms. I still have trouble with fatigue, but apparently this is standard when it comes to this thing. To be more explicit, I still also would rather not walk for an extended period of time, and my poor muscle coordination validates suspicion of something wrong pathologically.

However, I've noticed a few behaviors that my body mechanically does in order to expand its sensory parameters. I am much more willing to perform certain motions than I was before. For instance, here in the Midwest ice is a problem from December through mid-March. (It could be more or less than that, and I'm only guessing as to the length of winter.) I've dealt with enough black ice to know that appearances can be very deceiving when it comes to ice and asphalt. Ice forms on roads, and can be so thin, translucent, and hard that it is impossible to discern. It may show up when you assumed it's not there. At this point, I assume everything is black ice, so I cannot be surprised by its existence anywhere. The other day, prior to occupational therapy (in the same place that I had physical therapy), I rolled my eyes at the blast of cold air that hit me once I stepped outside. There was definitely ice outside, but I would not let apprehension regarding its location keep me sequestered. I had an appointment to keep. So, I stumbled cautiously to the car.

I moved easily to the door, and sat down eventually, having traversed the opposite but equally perilous equivalent of hot coals. It was a bitch, but I have only really contemplated the danger in retrospect. One foot moved (moves) in front of the other, and I did this again and again without contemplating the implications of a traumatic incident. This kind of bold, automatic movement happens at various other times, as well. If I'm brushing my teeth and pitch to one side, I will grab a wall or reach a hand out for an available stationary object that I can clutch. Most of the time, I encounter no problems, but every so often a reference point may move. When this happens, my legs shift quickly to prevent me from falling down. (I've said it before, but I have not fallen, and I get asked that question a lot.)

Some exercises in occupational therapy do this as well. Even though I've only been going for a week now, I do things more effortlessly and easily than even I did a few days prior. One exercise, in particular, drives me nuts but I still do it. For one thing, I figure that I have nothing better to do. For another, it actually helps. There's a plain wooden board, not unlike one for cutting, with holes drilled into it. I have to place three different components into each one. First, there's a long, thin stainless steel (all of these things are stainless steel--which gets annoying with the pragmatic magnet at the bottom of the dish that holds them) rod that I stick in the hole (get your snickers out now). Then, a small, thin washer goes over that, followed by a short tube that goes over everything and is the last component to this stubby construction. I switch fingers for each set of pieces, and then I alternate hands at the end of each row.

There are about 25 holes for each hand, and I then remove each bit individually once I finish. My therapist told me that she caught one of her other patients overturning the board in order to expedite the tedious exercise. I get this--I would be lying if I said that I didn't have the same impulse. At the same time, I feel that I'd be cheating myself. Yes, it's annoying and tedious and all of that, but I still do everything to its full completion. Who would I be kidding if I didn't? It's true that it's a pain in the ass, but I can't fake progress at this stage.

That's not entirely accurate. I can, but what would be the point? She doesn't time me, because it would likely be a futile tactic of intimidation. I don't care about the particulars of my progress, but I know that it's there.

R

We Carry, & Use, A Big Stick Abroad, But Not Here

I saw the great new movie Avatar today, and kept thinking of the travesties that are the Wars in the Middle East.

This came up between stunning displays of CGI that, in the past, have made various movies look comical and completely fake. Both good movies (Minority Report) and bad movies (Armageddon) looked absurd when they tried to show a fantastical image, and Avatar finally found a way to blend technological advancements and film. Nevertheless, the overt theme was the futility of force when placed against a resilient, steadfast society.

It is a fairly explicit theme throughout the movie that outsiders (humans) have no business meddling in another society's civilization. The planet Pandora's Na'vi people share a Native American fondness for beads and loincloths, as well as an ethereal pantheistic understanding. As the big, bad Americans (it's strange to root against America so vociferously) attempt to dominate the society, I was reminded of the violent, ugly plight of Indians. When they were forced to fight for their different civilization, though, in the face of brash American military force, I shifted gears and aligned the Na'vis with Iraqis.

Many people have expressed disgust with the brash entitlement of America, and, therefore, with its politicians. President Bush was perhaps the perfect archetype of an "Ugly American." It never occurred to him to try to empathize with the countries he baited. I am the first person to deride the hypocrisies perpetuated by rulers of a "theocracy," but I also am a staunch proponent of American isolationism. I go as far back as "Common Sense" by Thomas Paine, not merely the Monroe Doctrine that first explicitly advocated a non-interventionist strategy when considering international affairs. Saddam Hussein may have been bad, but it was hardly our concern that he oppressed his own countrymen.

This gave Bush an adequate excuse to invade the country, even though he really wanted to avenge his slighted, but still rich, father. We forgot that Bush, Sr. was a dick, much like Hamlet's father was a violent brute. Both probably deserved the acrimony that came their way, but we could not have surmised that Bush, Jr. could have emulated the vengeful Hamlet. It was a terrible impression that W. put on for our display, and due to his ineptitude thousands of men marched to their deaths.

Now, it is equally discomfiting, in a different way, that Barack Obama insists on throwing more troops into Afghanistan. He has done all of the doleful motions that a President who supports war must do, like honoring dead soldiers' coffins when they land. However, these gestures come across as vacuous, maudlin crocodile tears when he approves an escalation of troop presence in a country whose populace poses a scant threat. Evidently, he has no problem brandishing Theodore Roosevelt's "big stick" when it comes to the Middle East.

What's baffling is that he refuses to engage his own countrymen when it comes to crucial domestic policy. His reticence when it comes to healthcare is frustrating. His attitude of silence when it comes to Congress may be strategic. After all, he doesn't want to do anything that would jeopardize his reelection in 2012. Screw career politicians--by doing everything to cover their own backs, they ironically end up doing nothing. I've got news for Obama, though: treading water may ensure reelection when the opposition looks crazy, but it ultimately puts nothing in your "Win" column. Refusing to play may appear intelligent pragmatically, but it solves nothing.

Legacies of presidents are judged, in retrospect, by what they did. Bush did horrible things--some that are just now coming to light, and doubtless more will surface still--but he DID things. Obama hasn't really done anything. His administration would disagree, I'm sure, and could cite several examples of piecemeal legislation. These are tiny, and everyone craves something substantial when it comes to his mode of laissez-faire governance.

His ardent supporters--myself included--get constantly slapped in the face with his seemingly aloof attitude toward important issues. On the other hand, he has made up his mind to continue fighting a boondoggle of a war whose progress is as unrewarding as someone trapped in quicksand. The US thrashes about in panic and ire, but somehow has forgotten that the primary objective is to leave, and not to get further enmeshed in a suffocating nation-building endeavor that neglects the main target: Osama bin Laden. We hear his name now almost as a trump card that is supposed to nullify any scrutiny.

If we have to hear this load of bullshit when it comes to Afghanistan, Obama should be as fearless when discussing healthcare. Even better still, he should apply the same attitude of determination when it comes to domestic policy. I understand that the President is the "Commander-in-Chief," but this appellation does not apply only to foreign policy.

Obama should step up to the plate and bravely command Congress, and not just the military.

R

Metric at Cubby Bear (Psych!)

In the past, leaving a concert early was a preposterous fantasy. Furthermore, bailing prior to the act taking the stage was unfathomable. There have been various instances of waiting an obscenely long time for the main act to take the stage. Neal and I recounted a few such concerts and marveled at our ability to remain patient. We stayed, thankfully, when Patti Smith took forever to mount the stage outside the Tribune Tower at the "Rock the River" festival. We (along with my brother, who I think also attended the aforementioned Patti Smith show) also stretched when Kinky and, finally, The Flaming Lips waited an eternity to play at the Aragon Ballroom for the "Unlimited Sunshine" show. Now, though, I'm reluctant to wait for an extended period of time.

Part of this has to do with an unchecked rudeness that I won't abide. I can cut the band some slack for not being prompt, but nary a whimper for a 9 PM show at 10:30 is just wrong. And rude. If some extenuating circumstance prevented the band from playing within two hours of the time on the ticket, a rep should at least let the crowd know. Otherwise, their (the crowd's)/our ire will not abate, and only proliferate. At the Chicago Theatre, Leonard Cohen emerged within minutes of the ticket time, and Bob Dylan has likewise decided to begin his concerts promptly. There's a bevy of snickers to be heard with regard to these two (because they're old, and they need to squeeze as much time as they can out of their respective dwindling hourglasses, or they want to finish their shows before their early bedtimes, etc.), but they start within the day on which the ticket promises, at least.

Then there's the MS imposition. I might (might) have waited a bit longer, but I can't stay upright for that long with nothing happening to hold my attention. It feels like blood refuses to remain in my extremities for long. My hands and feet get cold quickly, and stay that way unless I lie down and allow the blood to propagate throughout my body. Without such a reprieve, my head will almost float, and not in a good way. Everything on the periphery of my vision melts together like the cryptic letters in Sneakers that change into readable text. Like when the code gets broken, but in reverse.

After an hour, I wondered how I would make it through the whole main set. It didn't take long, though, for me to forget about that. After an hour, I began to plan my exit. The place was relatively full, but I easily could make out the exits clearly.

One word about the Cubby Bear. I will say that, although the normal clientele and location across from Wrigley Field should place it on my list of disregarded things, it's actually not that bad of a place. Of course, it was a skeletal version of what I know that I abhor, but it didn't bother me so much.

I wonder how much of this was the calm result of deflected anger at Metric for making me wait. No matter, because I got the hell out of there before the band could redeem itself.

At one point, Neal commented on how many concerts I've been to. It's true, and I even make up band names if someone rattles off an obscure punk band. Once, during Spring Break, I dragged my friends to an Eyeliners concert in Orlando. Some kid who was trying to assert his "credibility" went through a litany of bands he had seen at the venue, which I don't even remember. Sick of hearing names that I knew I didn't know and never would, and subsequently didn't care about, I started making up band names. "Oh yeah--they're great. Do you like The Metal Batons?" He admitted that he hadn't heard of them, and neither had I.

I've seen Metric before at Metro (my favorite venue), with my friend Jess. Afterward, we agreed that it was a terrific show. This show, a block away at the unfortunately named Cubby Bear, may have been equally as good, but I didn't see it so I have no idea. Nor do I care.

In five years, I'll probably say that I saw the concert. In my mind, at least. Memory is subjective, anyway. At least so hopes the Catholic Church.

R

Slackers! (not the Jason Biggs movie)

The utter nonchalance of Congress, especially with regard to dismembering Joe Lieberman (who I've never been able to stomach, and who now makes me unremittingly nauseated--which I don't need because MS and chemo aftershocks have taken care of that), is enough to disgust me wholly. It has help, though, in the form of this year's Brief Interviews with Hideous Men and its inescapable forebear, 1991's Slacker.

Richard Linklater wrote and directed Slacker. Then, of course, he went on to such cinematic classics as Before Sunrise (& Before Sunset, which came out nearly ten years later). In case you can't tell, I'll say that, yes, I'm being sarcastic. I can't watch those movies, and bridle whenever I try because of the obscenely pretentious dialogue. Only Waking Life is tolerable, and mostly this can be attributed to interesting animation, which superimposes images onto footage of actors, you know, acting. Nevertheless, I cringe at the mental image I have of Ethan Hawke talking about his dreams to some truly unfortunate woman.

I've said it many times, but nobody--nobody--gives a shit about your dreams. George Carlin, in his last HBO special, It's Bad For Ya, talked about he could not care less when someone talks about his/her kids. Luckily, I've been able to dodge such conversational skids, for the most part, but I have had, mentally, to remind my eyes to water themselves on more than a few occasions when someone has launched into a needlessly long description of a dream. "A gigantic Reese's Peanut Butter Cup?" "Four forks? The hell you say." I've endured my fair share of inane banter--and even produced a ton of it--and not once has a dream been interesting unless A) it involves me or B) there's a ton of blood involved. Those two cross paths more often than I'd care to admit or know, I'm sure.

However, in the hands of Linklater, an interesting exposition ends up mired in pretentious language that is unbelievable. (That is, it is not to be believed.) Nobody talks like one of his characters. Even if someone did, I'd inevitably walk away and refuse to listen to any of the pompous dissertation that always accompanies such bombastic and boring digressions.

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men is a movie directed by John Krasinski (Jim on the US version of The Office, on NBC), based on David Foster Wallace's book of the same name. It's a thoroughly forgettable movie, due in no small part to the turgid dialogue taken from Wallace's stories.

A few years ago, I tried to read Infinite Jest, Wallace's magnum opus and the flagship of his literary output. Of course, I failed. I got a few pages in before I could no longer tolerate his writing. Thankfully, I stopped early because the book is looooong. Writing complicatedly is fine, but there's no excuse for it in dialogue. No one talks like he writes. I've read apologists for the movie explain that Wallace's words were meant for the page and not the screen. This is bullshit, because I've perused his books and I can say, unequivocally, that his words do not become more believable in type. They say never to speak ill of the dead, but I refuse to give Wallace a pass just because he hung himself.

As I watched Krasinski's movie, I kept guffawing to no one in particular. It was a familiar sensation that I last experienced when I tried to watch Linklater's 2006 movie, A Scanner Darkly. It stars, strangely, Keanu Reeves, who I'm sure understood less than half of his lines.

I am not a film scholar, but at least with regard to literature, I can authoritatively say that it's the periphery that counts. Nothing interesting happens on the fringes of the screen of the movie, however. I've seen enough of Wallace's writing to know that the cloying bombast of the movie was the result of a faithful adaptation.

If only Linklater and Wallace spared us their words by being silent, unlike the former's loquacious, effusive, annoying slackers.

R

Indiana, A Firmly (& Infuriatingly) Conservative State

Yesterday I finished Bill Simmons's painstakingly capacious The Book of Basketball. It chronicles the history of the NBA, for the most part. Simmons frequently lapses into long digressions on any topic (& is prone to romanticizing figures associated with Boston, a city I abhor). I appreciate this, because I'm equally prone to switching subjects frequently. Mostly I vacillate between Sylvester Stallone and Patrick Swayze movies, like Simmons, but I also pontificate dismissively at length about politics, other movies (with and without Hulk Hogan--I've seen No Holds Barred, but also The Dark Knight, if we stick only to Tom Lister, Jr. movies) and music, for the most part. However, one sentence in particular troubled me: "The heart of Indiana doubles as the heart of basketball."

Okay, I, like most everyone else, love Hoosiers and A Christmas Story. I, like (sadly) Boston fans and anyone who, like me, grew up in Indiana, also have a tepid fondness for Larry Bird. There, my association with the state stops. Although I admit that I was glad that Indiana voted for Barack Obama, it still houses many legions of racists, which still shocks me as a viable mindset. It may technically be a blue state now, but most of the votes that changed the political affiliation of it came from urban areas that contain most of the black votes. I watched Brian Williams decree that Indiana was a blue state, but in the back of my mind I kept thinking, with more than a modicum of schadenfreude, about the despicable living room that I spent a night in when I was in high school. These morons used horrible, obsolete barbs that they clearly learned from their equally stupid parents, and I had to bite my tongue. Instead, I listened with a huge awareness of the irony that these idiots clearly had no idea that they displayed.

You see, I grew up in a city just south of Gary, which has an enormous black population. My high school was half black, and I'd never felt a twinge of the deep-seeded racism that they unabashedly displayed. Some members of my family would use certain epithets, so I wasn't wholly ignorant of the existence of racism, but generally I ignored these as blind, "experiential," circumstantial instances of unfortunate, learned thinking.

Gary lies at the northwestern corner of the state, next to Chicago. To boot, it was south of the city limits, so I liked the White Sox and not the Cubs. I still think that you can adequately assess someone's racial attitude based on whether or not they rooted for one or the other. At least, this holds when applied to Indiana denizens. In the city itself, it's a little tougher, but not much. There are hardly any black Cubs fans, for good reason.

Everyone agreed, though, that the Bulls were awesome. More accurately, Michael Jordan was amazing, and Chicago was lucky to have such an iconic player. Even when he was still active, Bulls' fans knew that Michael Jordan stood out among anyone in the NBA. He did things on the basketball court that were inexplicable, and everyone nodded proudly and grinned knowingly when he sank six three-pointers in the first half of Game 1 of the 1992 NBA Finals and shrugged sheepishly after draining the last of these.

This is only one snippet of Jordan's reel of captivating moments. We all watched when the Bulls played a Finals game, so it perturbed me that latent racism could hypocritically transmute into similarly ignorant cheerleading when they played in June. It was as if someone had pulled blinders over their stupid eyes. Some people deserved a dismissive wave of the hand when they proclaimed their allegiance to the Bulls while wearing a Cubs hat and living in the 219 area code.

I love it that Indiana is a blue state, but we must remember that its two senators are Richard Lugar and Evan Bayh. They belong to both political parties, sure, but neither could be called "liberal." Lugar is a Republican and Bayh is a conservative Democrat, which, as I've said, should make no sense. There's a picture of me standing next to Bayh when he came to break ground for a municipal lakefront project for my town. I take pride in the fact that I'm wearing a Miami Hurricanes t-shirt (not because I liked the team, but because I liked the design).

I was young and easily ambushed. Also, Bayh was then the governor, so he could never have noticed that I dressed inappropriately because I doubt he then had the savvy to inspect every photograph that he was in. However, I'm convinced his shirt and tie obscured his wolf's exterior.

Indiana is "The Crossroads of America," because, as I like to say, everyone walks all over it. Then, they leave, which is a shrewd move.

R

It's Nice to be Sick

For the past few years, I haven't been sick. Well, I haven't had a typical, run-of-the-mill seasonal cold or flu. Obviously, I had MS, which sucked. Perhaps one of the main advantages to this annoying and cloying malady is that (& I've said this many times) it precludes normal infectious diseases. In the parlance of my beloved football, it's like a wide center who snaps the ball and then stops nearly everything that tries to get through (unless, of course, you're a Chicago Bear, in which case you likely forgot that that's your objective). In addition to attacking anything and everything, including my own body, it staved off the common cold and flu and similar commonplace ailments. Everyone that I knew would catch the flu, but I could shrug at their warnings of "better not get too close."

Actually, I'd use such a warning as an excuse to validate my own reluctance to bask in their company. I still do this, for the most part, but chemotherapy has effectively destroyed my immune system and, thus, my body's main mechanism of defense against pathogens. The other day, I noticed that I had a sore throat--perhaps my first in two years. Or around that. I'm notoriously bad with dates, and this is no exception.

It had been so long since I'd had a cold that I felt surprised when I developed a sore throat a few days ago. "What's this?," I wondered. "Oh, right." It didn't take long for me to recognize the symptoms of illness, but it still shocked me nonetheless. I had grown accustomed not to getting the usual predictable seasonal stuff, so when it happened, albeit routinely, I couldn't comprehend it. With regard to the MS nonsense, I would go for weeks or months with double-vision, unbeknown to anyone else. It wasn't an outward physical manifestation of the internal turmoil that my defectively wild white blood cells (or leukocytes, if you want to get clinical about it) wreaked, so I could get away with acting like nothing was wrong. No one could tell, and since my MS isn't painful, I didn't have to risk displaying a grimace when I'd forget to stifle it.

It still is an uncomfortable feeling to be sick, but at this point I welcome anything that signals a departure from the slog I feel daily and unremittingly. To anyone else, a cold or flu would be a huge drag. For me, though, I'm actually excited to have one, because it means that my autoimmune bullshit has subsided enough to allow my body to be corrupted. I realize that I sound like a psychopath to embrace a cold in such a way, or at least a battered, delusional wife.

"This means he loves me." Actually, it means that he loves himself to an unhealthy degree. Yes, getting sick means some germ has invaded my bloodstream (at least I think that's how this thing works--remember, I was an English major). It also means that my immune system has taken a breather, which is good because it battered me around enough for a good while.

I'm always amazed at the calories burnt by certain despicable people. Why hit when you can nap? I've napped more than enough for this lifetime, though, so I'm content to lie down and get ravaged.

That sounds like a glorification of rape, which disgusts me. One of my favorite songs of the year, by The Raveonettes, decrees that "Boys who rape/Should all be destroyed." I couldn't agree more, but, with regard to commonplace germs, I embrace prosaic disease.

It still sucks to be sick, but this fever means that my body loves me. Ironically.

R