RANdom Thoughts

Breaking the Silence

2010-10-15T12:59:00.003-05:00

It has been over a year since I last posted. I dont know if anybody even has me on their lists anymore.

I felt compelled to exile myself for fear of typing something in haste that would not be in my best interest.
A year ago just before the Labor Day weekend, my boss at the new job (who will be referred to as FFS-Fat fucking Asshole) met with me on our stardard weekly meeting time, but he had the HR person there). I was give a "Sophie's Choice": I could resign my position and it would be considered an 'amicable parting', or I would be put on a 30 day probationary period, during which anytime in those 30 days he was unhappy, it would be immediate termination, no severence, nothing. The objectives I was to achieve were very ambiguous, non-measurable such as "be able to demonstrate the digital products 'to my (his) satisfaction'. After giving me the LD weekend to think about, I took option 1, but first I gave him documentation of the items on my write up, one which lead to him-his error. The HR had the audacity to say, if we re-write this and take out these items, will you reconsider and stay? Are you fucking kidding me?!
2010 has not been great. I was forced into filing bankruptcy, saving my co op. Leaving the courthouse, I felt as though my soul has been extracted.

In June, I started a 1 year program to become a Clinical Massage Therapist, with the assistance of student loans and a grant for 'displaced workers'. I have been enjoying the learning, even anatomy, which was tough but thus far have gotten A's & B's. Just started Kinesiology which is kicking my butt.
My previous boss before (FFA)had retired. His replacement called me and want me to work PT to write their upcoming reaccreditation. I committed to 11 months, the duration of my schooling. After one month he decided he didn't like me, fired me and then contested my unemployment claim. The bank is refusing to work with me on the mortgage, and started forclosure, after assuring me that they would not do that while applying for the assistance progam. They are trying to force a 'short sale'. I don't want to do that, and it's not appropriate. I'm am NOT under water. have equity in the property, which I think they are trying force a short sale because they know that they would come out way ahead.
I feel like I've been in a year long nightmare that I can't wake up from. But it's a nightmare, just a real one that there's no waking up from. My faith in humanity has been eviserated.

An American in Paris

2009-06-29T20:50:00.006-05:00

It's been a long while since I've posted. I'm not sure any of my throng of 5 readers are still around. If so, I hope you enjoy. If not, I'll have this for my posterity and travelogue. It's about my first trip to Europe.

Thursday June 4, 2009

Thursday evening, boarding the plane, “Priority passengers may board first”. Im in fucking business/first class!! We ain’t in academia any more Toto. All I could think, while drinking my first glass of champagne as the ‘coach’ passengers trudged by me was, “OMG, the Seinfeld episode was SO not parody. It’s so true!” The champagne was flowing, warmed nuts, appetizers. Then the menus were handed out, with choices of real food—not a five day old ham and cheese on stale bagel, but poached salmon, beef tenderloin. And we, moved from the champagne to the wine with dinner. Dessert, then after dinner drinks or coffee. The flight attendants had to wake many of us up to serve us the omlettes for breakfast. Coach class sucks. How can I ever return?

I arrive at hotel around 9:30 AM. , Friday. I’m staying at the Millenium Opera Hotel, in the Opera District. It's a 4 star, at a great rate. Thanks, Priceline! I’m able to check in that early. Cool! I pseudo unpack, brush my teeth, take a hot bath, then up and off to my first Parisian adventure. First stop: Le Centre de Georges Pompidou. I see two great special exhibits—Alexander Calder and Kandinksy.

I decide to have dinner, from a recommendation from one of the books I’d bought. I was given directions from the front desk and can’t find it. After 45 minutes give up and walk down a side street and find a bistro that looks interesting. Terre du Truffes. Everything on the menu had truffles in it of some sort. I ask Raphael, who speaks little English for recommendations.

Ecritez-vous le menu por moi, s'il vous plait? I asked Raphael to write my menu down for me, in my pigeon Franglais. He writes in both French and English. I would have liked to wrap him up and take him home with me. The decadence of the night was vanilla ice cream with a truffled caramel sauce. OMFG! Every bite of that meal (and nearly every meal in France), was an orgasm for my taste buds.

Saturday, June 6

It’s raining outside today. As Barbra sings, “Nobody’s gonna rain on my parade.” I get the umbrella, find get my directions from the front desk, and begin my walking trek to Musee D’Orsay. I pass through the Louvre, and cross the Seine by a footbridge. They have a good collection of Van Gogh's, including "La Nuit etoile"--Starry Night. I'm going to see it in person!!! I finally get to the Van Gogh room, tour it. Move on. Then I realize, I missed "La Nuit etoile". I go back, tour the room two more times. I finally see an empty space and see a little notice. It's on loan/tour. It's at the Met in New York. Fuck me hard! That's just my luck! I wander more and see more artists' works. I spend most of the day there.

After two days of walking. I decide to take the subway back to my hotel. I have to switch not only trains, but from the suburban line to the Paris City line. As I’m uncertain of whether these connect at the same place, I ask a young man. He speaks little English, but between my Pigeon Franglais and his limited English, he walks me to the other platform up a flight or two of stairs/escalators and a few turns, to get me to the right place.

Being a bit beat on my feet, I ask for a dinner recommendation from the front desk. He suggests a place around the corner just a few blocks away. This time, when I ask the waiter, “Ecritez-vous le menu por moi?” He tells me “Here’, keep the full menu.” Most of the remainder of my dinners in France, the waiters let me have one of the full menus. How cool, for a self-avowed foodie!

Lyon

I have never felt so un-like the boy from Bumblefuck in all my life. I’m in Lyon, France, at a meeting with international heavy hitters. I’m their peer. OMFG. Opening night reception /Dinner was in this hospital built in the 1200s. We specifically were in the nun’s rectory or rectortoire. It’s the huge old fortress of a building by the Rhone River that I had to walk around three times and ask for direction in my [pigeon Franglais , to realize there is no front door. Only the original carriage gate/now car entry to get to the inner courtyard to access the building.

Paris is great, but there is something extraordinarily special about Lyon. More so that Paris, I felt like I had gone back in time. Old Lyon is like a time warp, somewhere between the World Wars. The bistros. The cobblestone streets and alleys. The place oozes old world charm. A Lyonaise man could have easily swept me off my feet.

The conference is very good. I’m making some good international contacts for work. I am asked to serve on a committee, with this organization, which is something I’ve been working on. I’m with some heavy hitters in my profession. This is something that would not have happened with me in academia, even though I was working on the groundwork. The University would not have sent me to this conference this year. I’m feeling good.

Monday night, the attendees at the conference are treated to a private tour of “L’hotel de Ville”, or Village Hall. This was built in the 12^th Century. The building is amazing. We have personal guided tours, which ends with a reception of Kir and Hors d’ouvres.

My co-worker K, who is at the meeting and I go to dinner with two guys that she knows from other organizations in the US. One of them spends a good deal of time in France, so he was our translator for the evening. I can speak some French, but have trouble understanding it when spoken back to me. My brain doesn’t think in French. I think my dyslexic mind manifests itself with this. It’s frustrating. I want to be able to ‘hear’ in French without trying to translate to English.

The Conference ends on Tuesday afternoon. C and I decide to meet and wander (and wonder) around Old Lyon, which is where her hotel is. I ended up in New Lyon—not as charming. She wanted to go to this big cathedral on a hill. So we do that, and then just begin moseying and wandering the cobblestone streets starting to scope out a potential place to eat. My only caveat was that we eat someplace where we would be outside on the sidewalk/cobblestone alley, not indoors After a good deal of walking and wandering, we settle on one of the first places we’d spotted. She wanted s a good steak. The meal was great. This time I had to write down the menu as, it was just posted on black boards. K is astounded to realize that I am a foodie who is keeping a food diary. Even more astounded than when I showed up for our walk in my bright purple suede Rebock air pump tennis shoes. "Uh, so, Randy, YOU really DO like purple don't you?!

Wednesday June 10

Back to Paris. I now wish I’d had planned to stay one day on my own in Lyon to explore after the conference. But, I’m back in Paris for one more day. I’m staying in a cheap hotel in the Marais (the Gay District) that was recommended for being cheap in the Marais, in one of the books I bought, The Central Marais. It fit the bill. It was above a bar in one of those really old buildings on a side street, with tall windows and shutters. It was not the 4* Millenium Opera, but it wasn’t picked from Priceline (which got me really great hotels, btw). This was for one night, and it was the one night for which I had not originally made plans. It was while I was in Paris that I made these reservations. I did want one night in the heart of homo Gay Paree. It’s raining again. I was museumed out. It was early afternoon by the time I got back to Paris, so I decided that I just wanted to walk around the Marais, find some of the gay bars for later that night, and just wander the streets, getting lost, and finding my way back. I did some shopping, mostly window . On the way back l stumbled along a little designer boutique of men’s clothes. Actually, these little boutiques were peppered all over the Marais. There were lots of shades of purple. There was also a really hot Italian man trying on a purple leather jacket when I wandered in to get out of the rain for a bit. I walked out with a new shirt and a cardigan sweater with leather elbow patches (both were purples.) Given the rain, and my desire to try and not get too terribly lost this evening, I went down to the bar for pre-dinner glass of wine. I ask one of the bartenders for a dinner recommendation. He directs me around the corner about 3 blocks to Le Gai Moulin. On the menu is “Kangarou Steak”. OK, I’ve got to try it. It’s not every day you get the opportunity to try “Kangarou” with Béarnaise sauce. It was like a tough cut of a good beef steak. It was my least favorite meal in France, which means it was only a 4 star, instead of a 5+ star meal. Still incredibly amazing—just mildly orgasmic for my taste buds. There are two guys at the table next to my right, (and the tables are so close, it’s almost like eating family style. They have to pull the table away from the wall because you can’t squeeze your ass between the table to get to the banquette seat). A few tables to my left, a man in a cowboy hat steps over ands, says, “I heard you guys speaking English, I’m from Vancouver, where are you guys from?” The state, London. And, I offer that I’m American, from Chicago. We have a nice conversation, he goes back to his seat. I tell the Londoners that I’m headed for London the next day. They offer recommendations of what to do, where to go. It was roughly after 8:00 pm when I was eating my dinners in Europe. In most places, it, wasn’t until after 9:00 -9:30 that the dinner crowd started picking up. Even such, I love that, among the things the French know about food, is the fact that they know how to savor and enjoy a meal. There’s no rushing you, trying to ‘turn the table’. If you want to stay till they close, they’re not going to kick you out. You nearly have to tackle the waiter to get your check or “l’addition” when you’re ready to leave. I had this conversation with my American compatriots at the conference, “How is it that the French as a population are not an incredibly obese people, with the bread, cheeses, rich foods, patisseries?” We determined, it’s because they cook REAL food, not loaded with artifice and chemicals and hydrogenated poly saturated dog turds. And they walk. They eat good, rich food, but they eat appropriate proportions. They don’t “supersize” their meals. It’s a lifestyle, I could become accustomed to. Je t’aime France. I’ll post about London and the last half of my European adventure.

I'm going to try and get back into a rhytm with my writing and posting again.

CVID STORIES, NEW CHAPTER

2009-04-25T00:42:00.002-05:00

The new gig is consuming a great deal of time. It’s really cut into my blog time, reading as well as writing. Here’s a new tale from the CVID chronicles.
Three months ago, I went in for the monthly IgG infusion. Instead of the usual 2 bottles, (a 20 gram, and a 10 gram), the tech comes in with six 5 gram bottles, from a different supplier. It was a name I did not recognize. I was not pleased that it was six 5gram bottles. It did not bode well for a quick infusion. And it was not quick. They dripped incredibly slow. I quiz the tech, nurse, and my doc about the change in IgG. I was not pleased. The issue was economic. They’ve gone to a cheaper supplier. I’ve heard stories about people having all kinds of problems when their IgG brand is switched on them. Gammagard has been good to me. I rarely had infusion reactions of great consequence—just feeling wiped out, a little achey, flu-ish the night of through the next morning. Overall, not bad. The new IgG, comes from some company in Austria. The next month, back to a 10 and 20 gram bottles. The drip is back to a regular speed. Last week, the third month of the new IgG goes similarly. The tech gets the IV needle in on one stab. After infusion, I’m at the Walgreen’s connected with the medical practice. Suddenly, I start feeling flushed, and itchy. One of the things I had to get at Walgreens was a vial for tetnus, which I had to take back to get the shot. I take it back. Before getting the tech, I go to the bathroom and check under my shirt and pants, I’m red blotchy all over, and itching like hell. The med tech takes me back, I tell him, I’m having a bad infusion reaction, he needs to get the doc again. It’s not that he doesn’t believe me, but wants more info to tell the doc. I dropped trou, and said, “Look at this!” I was not referring to my genitalia. He’s the one straight med tech in the place. I’m rapidly getting hives. They shoot me up full of Benadryl (2x) and some steroid. I guess I’ll not pass the next test for Olympic tryouts. This was my first Benadryl experience. When I finally get off the exam table, where I’d been laying for about 45 minutes, I’m wobbly and woosey. It was like I’d drunk a six pack and smoke a few bowls. Though, there was no sense of euphoria in this scenario. All indications are that I had a severe allergic reaction to this new IgG. My doc explains that reactions usually don’t happen until the second or third time—like the whole bee sting thing. Having never had reactions to bee stings, this was new to me. I’ve had hives once in my life before, when I was in Kindergarden, at Christmas due to an allergic reaction to the something in the stuffing of a big stuffed animal I’d gotten. This was as bad as that long ago childhood memory. I was also given a script for prednisolone steroid pack. If I got hives and then get weight gain and odd fat deposits, I’m going to be really pissed. Additionally, they weaken the immune system. Kind of counteracts the whole getting the IgG infusions.
This week I got hit with a sinus infection. I wake up Thursday, feeling miserable. I go in to work, glands in the neck are thick and swollen. Nasal passages don’t feel good. I call to get in. He has no openings. I call the nurse, she will squeeze me in his one spare appointment, at 2:00. He confirms the sinus diagnosis. I ask for, and get a B12 shot, a shot of rocefin (antibiotic), and the tetnus they had to put back in the fridge at after the SAE from last week, as well as a ‘script for a Zpack.
I worked from home today, which allowed me to sleep until 7:30, roll out of bed, shower quickly, and get to work. I had a productive day.—more so than had I gone in to the office. Now, it’s well past going to bed time, so I’ll close this tome for now. wtf/rle©

Changes

2009-03-28T22:39:00.001-05:00

It has been awhile, not only since I’ve posted, but also since I’ve been keeping with and following some of my favorite bloggers. Aunt Alice’s funeral, leaving the old job, starting the new one have consumed most of my waking hours. On a good note, my health has held up.
The new job is going well. The people are all great. My biggest frustration is my learning curve with all the new systems and procedures. It of course will come in time. Patience is not one of my virtues when it comes to something like this. I want to know how the systems, software, and all things technology work—I want to know it now. Technology has a way of making one (or me) feel incredibly stupid. As I said, the people are great, it’s a good fit. The pace is much faster, which is how and why things get accomplished in the business world and how and they don’t in the slow zone pace of academia. One of the bigger ironies is that the innovative, cutting edge things I dreamed of and tried to do in academia, I will be doing in the corporate world. Why isn’t academia doing the innovative, cutting edge education? I won’t sermonize on that now.
For the present, I may presence will be more sporadic and infrequent as I adjust to my new changes and schedule. I’m working a lot, coming home tired. But to quote Harry Chapin, “It’s a good tired.”

My Aunt Alice

2009-03-01T21:10:00.005-06:00

Sunday March 1, 7:04 pm. I have written previously about my Aunt Alice on here. I won’t link, because I still can’t figure out how to do these fucking hyperlinks easily, and I doubt anyone cares that greatly about what I’ve said in the past. About an hour ago, my phone rings (or barks, as is my designated ring tone). It’s my brother Mike-the one who never calls me unless it’s something bad (which I’ve also written about). He tells me that Aunt Alice has just ‘passed away’. She fucking DIED. Why do we have to use these stupid ass euphemisms?
I’ve been ‘hoping’ for this phone call for almost a year or longer, because she’s had such a rapidly declining quality of life. I’m absolutely stunned and shocked with myself with how incredibly sad and upset I am about this. I really didn’t think I’d cry when this moment happened. But I am.
She was Mom’s oldest sister, the oldest of 14. Mom was #8. She took Mom after grade school and raised her. As such, Aunt Alice (and Uncle Orval) were always really more like Grandparents, more so than my actual grandparents were. My love of, and skill of cooking and baking are legacies from My Aunt Alice & Mom. When I was little, Aunt Alice always made my birthday cake, home-made Angel Food, in the long rectangular tube pan (that you don’t see anymore). Pies, cakes, yeast breads and cinnamon rolls, chicken (or beef) and home-made noodles were staples at every holiday or Sunday dinner. Ham and bean soup and corn bread; fried chicken, chocolate sheet cake, cherry pie, coconut or banana cream pie (the real deal-cooked custard base with meringue top (not this no cook refrigerator shit). Gourmet? No. Great cooking? Yes. Like most great cooks, when you ask for the recipe, she often didn’t have one. “I just make it.” About 10 years ago, in one of my rare moments of intelligence, I asked her how she made her cherry pie (and many other items), and wrote down the recipes. This doesn’t mean she didn’t use or have cookbooks. When she was moving from her condo to an assisted living home, without a kitchen, she let me come and select what I wanted from her cookbook collection. Many of which were the local church compilations that are done as fund raisers—each of them with many of her own recipes.
She also sewed. I still have the house robe she made me for Christmas over 20 years ago. I will never get rid of it. I still wear/use it. I have the original ‘sock monkey’ that she made and we played with at her house. The one she made for me was long gone, but I got the original from her sale when she left her house to go to the condo. I have one of her old quilts. She had reached the point of not being able to hand sew and I lamented to her that I wish I’d asked her to make a quilt for me when she was still able to do so. She made a quilt for each of her ‘true’ grandsons. When moving from her condo, she found one of her older quilts in her cedar chest, and she gave it to me. It has some great older fabrics in it, which I love. It worked out best, as I’d rather have the older more than I would new fabrics. It’s lighter weight, and goes on my bed every summer.
When you hear of people referred to as Pillars of the Community, that was her. In the small farm town where I grew up, she ran a restaurant, and then ran the cafeterias at my grade school, then high school, from where she eventually retired. But people still hired her to make cakes and pies, and breads/rolls.
When I came out, Aunt Alice is one of the people I was afraid of telling. Her response was, “There’s a lot I just don’t understand, but I’ll always love you. I wish I would have known you went through so much pain and hurt.” It was one of the most genuine and real responses that I received from family at that time.
When I was home at Christmas, Aunt Alice had declined greatly. Physically, she was much more frail, and mentally, the Alzheimer’s was really progressing. She still knew who I was, and asked me about my best friend by name. But, she couldn’t find her way back to her room on her own. Reading her Christmas cards, she had to spell out each word before she knew what it was. Then when it got to the names signed, I’d have to read that to her, and she wouldn’t know/recognize the names. It was so sad and painful to watch. A few weeks later, she went to the hospital. She went back to the assisted living home for a few days, but was back in the hospital, and then went to a nursing home. She stopped eating, and an even more rapid decline spiraled much more quickly. When I spoke to my parents earlier this week for Dad’s birthday, Mom said I wouldn’t recognize her. I told Mom, “I just wish she’d go quickly. She has no quality of life. She’s not able to discern happiness. She’s lived a hard damn life. It shouldn’t end like this.” Mom started talking about ‘the good lord’, and I tuned out to keep myself from corrupting that moment with my feelings of what bullshit (and oxymoron) I think ‘the good lord’ is.
It’s going to be a strained week—with her grandsons(my first cousins once removed, who used to be more like brothers to me) and daughter-in-law whom I haven’t seen since my cousin (Aunt Alice’s only natural child) died over 3 years ago and since they’ve sold her condo out from under her and took the money. They left my Mom with all of the responsibilities of being the caregiver, while they fleeced their Grandma of what little she had. Yet another way in which her last years should not have been.
Whether or not there is a heaven, Aunt Alice is much better off right now. My sadness is much greater than I would have imagined it to be at this moment.

Never Say Never

2009-02-05T20:39:00.003-06:00

Here’s what I couldn’t publicize earlier this week. On February 6, my birthday, something is happening to make me remember this one in particular. I signed an offer letter for a new job. Actually, I signed it a few days ago, but post-dated it for this day. I wanted to have something to significantly make this birthday memorable in a good way. I told my current boss on (today) Thursday. It was a difficult thing to do. My career trajectory has usually been one of trying to escape a shitty situation. My job search mode has usually been precipitated by vocational misery or termination/downsizing (a human resources euphemism for “you’re fucked” or “we don’t like fags, but you could sue us for that”). I’m not accustomed to leaving a situation that I like.
I really like my (soon to be ex) boss and job. I was not in a job search mode. When I came to my current job about two and half years ago, I thought I was making my final employer move. I even went as far as to say, “I’m going to either die or retire here.” I expected the former, as I don’t think I’ll ever see retirement. But, shit happens, and in this instance, I’m not saying this in a pejorative nor sarcastic manner. Never say never.
A professional colleague, whom I know from our professional associations/organizations was talking with me last fall after a conference we were both in attendance in Baltimore. He’s also in Chicago. He began telling me of a position in his company that was open and he was looking to fill. At the time I said, nothing.
A month went by with me continuously thinking about this. I finally called him. I needed to speak to him on another issue with the board we are both on. And, in this conversation, I asked, “Have you filled the position yet? Let’s talk about it—informally.” I’m the type of person who never (or rarely) shuts a door when it’s been cracked open. I want to at least peak inside. So, we talked informally. I told him I wasn’t “actively looking” to make a move. The informal conversation led to a round of formal interviews with some of the senior management team. Then, to a second round with the rest of senior management team, of which I will be a part. With each round, I was more impressed with the company, the work they’re doing, and the people. This is an organization with a strong core of leaders who lead, listen and communicate. The level and manner of communication is impressive—and certainly not my usual experience in corporate America. Some of the management team, and the EVP were at the same conference I was at in San Francisco last week. When my plane landed at SFO, I turned on my phone, and there was a text message from my colleague that said, “Can you meet with me and EVP tomorrow night in the hotel lobby at 6:45?” Now, I can be very obtuse at times, but I figured, they wouldn’t be double teaming me to say, “we’re going with someone else.”
I was correct. They handed me an offer letter. I took it to my room, the next day we talked, negotiated some details, a new letter was issued, and I signed and dated it for a week later.
The machinations and bureaucracy of academia (and state government on top of that) move slowly. That has been one of my frustrations in the current situation. The new place will allow me to do some of the cutting edge and innovative projects and work that I thought would be more accessible in academia. Red tape is a great prophylactic to progress.
In addition to telling my boss, the other difficult one to tell was employee. I’ve watched him grow in his skills and abilities, and I like to think I played some role in facilitating and mentoring that. I know he did not get that from my predecessor. I also went to tell the chairman of my CME Committee. I wanted to tell him face to face before I made an announcement on our Committee Conference call today. He’s a man not always known for his tact and grace. But he said some very gracious and kind things to me. Everyone did. In the midst of their disappointment about my news for the organization, they were genuinely happy for the opportunity this means for me. This makes it all the more bittersweet.
As always, my major life events necessitate an excerpt from a Stephen Sondheim musical. For this, I choose, “Something’s Coming”, from West Side Story (his first broadway show-for which he was lyracist:
… Come on, something, come on in, don't be shy, Meet a guy, Pull up a chair! The air is humming, And something great is coming! Who knows? It's only just out of reach, Down the block, on a beach, Maybe tonight . . .
Only, no longer out of reach—I just have to work on the ‘meet a guy’ part.
wtf/rle©

Really, I don't...

2009-02-04T20:36:00.001-06:00

...I don’t blog drunk, that is. I actually don’t drink much at all. (I’m on antibiotics so often, that this and of itself serves its tetotalling purpose). But, I occasionally blog tired, which I did last Monday, and after just reading my post –WTF was I thinking. Obviously, I wasn’t. I generally write in word, so at least it does spell check. I did not do that for the previous post. It had so many incomplete thoughts and/or thoughts that picked up in the next paragraph -- or not. Anyway, I’ve done a rough edit and some corrections.
It’s no Hemmingway, but a bit less non sense-ical than it was—I hope.

wtf/rle©

San Francisco, Synchronicity, other Miscellanea, and a Proclamation.

2009-02-02T23:32:00.005-06:00

San Francisco, Synchronicity, Other Miscellaanea & a Proclamation

I have not posted for awhile. These are some very quick RANDom Thoughts, in buckshot dispersion method. I’m trying to get caught up from the last round of being sick, and I just got back from (almost) a week in San Francisco, where it was sunny, and the weekend that I had free after the conference, the temperature was in the 60s and 70s. It was 11° F when I left Chicago last Tuesday.
The Conference was good. I think the presentation I was a part of went well, and did I mention it was over 70° when I was there, in the Castro? I HEART San Francisco! This Friday (February 6) is my birthday, so the extra days there, post conference was my birthday gift to myself. Good things happened, while at the conference. I have more to write about, and an announcement to make, but not until Friday.
Given my recent bouts of sickness, I geeked up and wore the surgical mask while in the airports and on the plane. When I got back to Chicago, I was waiting for my bag at the carousel and a woman came up to me and said, “I wear masks when I fly too. I have an immune deficiency.”
I replied, “I have CVID.”
“Me too! I knew there was a reason I had to come up and talk to you!” She introduced herself—we did ‘air hand shakes’. Bonnie is her name.
“People tend to avoid me when I mask up”, I replied.
We chatted a few minutes waiting for our bags. She told me about a doc/specialist she went to in NYC, and she has just gone off of the monthly IVIG. We exchanged cards, to discuss further. She was concerned that most all the others’ bags had come. I’m used to being one of the last to get my bag. She then realized she was at the wrong carousel. Synchronicity! You know I’m not a believer in a god. And I have written before about my appreciating for Jungian psychology and his theory or Synchronicity —meaningful coincidences. I love it when shit like this happens. It was the perfect way to end this very interesting trip. My bag comes by finally. Bonnie asks, “Are you coming from NY also?
No, I’m returning home from San Francisco.” Bonnie had gone to the wrong carousel, found me, and we started talking. TOTAL SYNCHRONICITY, with meaningful mistakes. She should not have been waiting for her bags where I was.
I’m making a proclamation that 2009 is going to be the year that does NOT SUCK SHIT! After a bumpy start with the URI, some events have occurred which are going have great impact on me and my future. This I will write about the end of the week for my birthday post on Friday. Please feel free to send lavish gifts.
For those of you wishing to acknowledge the date, to help counteract the universe for me being born on he same day as ronald reagan, (that festering boil on the ass of this nation's history, which ahs now been taken over by the blighted cancer of w & cheney w ho are to true cancers of this nation's history). But I digress Getting gifts and new cloths would easy my pain of sharing a bd with rr,,l rather than Abe Lincoln, my hero.

I did my portion to help the economy of SF by making some clothing purchases. But, My favorite store, “All American Boy” closed down! I was SO bumbed! I arrive last Tuesday at the Marriott, check, and head out the door, to catch the F street car down to the Castro. I have to eat, so hit the little diner I've eaten at before on Castro, just off Market. Receiving my shopper's sustenance, I head a across the street, pass by a dark, empty store with some signage of All American Boy Remaining. I am crestfallen. This is where I bought my ‘Castro 2004, 2003, 2001” annual shirts from when I visite in past years. I must get my “Castro 2009” shirt! I find it back across the street at a new store IN JEAN IOUS. It’s not AAB, but I walk out with some bargains.

Saturday night, on the recommnedation of one of the guys at Parker Guest House B&B, I go to Chow Restaurant at 215 Church st, just off Market. In the Castro, SOMA (South of Market). I ate at this restaurant 3 times in less than 24 hours. If I were doing Dr. Mark’s little survey I’s have a restaurant to add. CHOW is great. Organic food, good, food, and you can tell these people enjoy working there. I like going to a restaurant saying, “I can decide between such and such, and s/he proceeds to tell you details about the dishes you asked about in great detail with the things they like about the particular dish.
I will have more to tell about SF. But I must wait until later in the week for reasons that will become obvious. For now I’m back, tired (but healthy—say something to the Buddha so I stay healthy. More later when I’m vaguegly cogent. ©wtf4/rle

Back among the Living

2009-01-20T19:52:00.004-06:00

I am finally back among the living. This last bronch infection really beat the shit out of me. Each one seems a bit worse than the last. Coughing up bloody chunks of lung just ain't fun.

And even when I'm sick in bed, life goes on--the good with the bad.

The good: Last week, I became a great uncle for the second time, against my protestations that I'm still too young to be a great uncle. My niece had another beautiful baby girl. Both are healthy.

The bad: When I was at my parents' after Christmas, as always, I went to see my Aunt Alice, Mom's oldest sister, who partially raised my Mom, so she's always been more like a Grandma. Her Alzheimer's is progressing rapidly. It's hard seeing her decline. She knew me, which has been a fear of mine for the past year or so, since I don't get down to see her more than 2 or 3 times a year. She's been in a Seniors assisted living facility. Other residents said of Aunt Alice, "we can tell she WAS a really caring compasionate person." Hearing her referred to in the past tense when she's not dead is strange.

Monday she had to go to a nursing home, after a short hosptial stay last week. This fucking disease is a theif. It has stolen her life. Antithetical to the last sentence of the previous paragraph, She is no longer alive. There's no quality of life. She's a body that is rapidly losing its soul. IF there was a god, 'he' would take her to her glory, as the bible thumpers are wont to say. She worked hard all of her life. This is not how it should end. It should have ended before reaching this point.

My love of cooking, and skills thereof are a legacy of my Mom and Aunt Alice. She could cook for 3 to 300. She ran a restaurant when I was little, and later was the cook at the my grade and high school cafeterias before she finally retired, to care for my uncle, who had Alzheimer's before he finally died, not knowing any of us. Fucking cruel universe.

For those keeping score at home

2009-01-05T19:54:00.003-06:00

...Get out your calendars, and magic markers. Start the office pools. I had nearly two full days of health in the new year before getting sick. My first bronch infection of the year arrived on January 3rd. I'm now coughing up chunks of lung. I figure tomorrow and Wednesday are going to be the 'peak' days, when it's at its worst. At this point in history, the anticipation is almost as bad as the actual peak of sickness...almost. My next infusion isn't until next week, so I should be at a decent IgG level--especially since this hit last week. I better be in good health when I go to San Francisco at the end of the month or I'm going to be extremely pissed.

I was not able to get in to my PCP today, so I'll see him tomorrow, proably get a shot in the ass, and put on oral antibiotics.
I'm enough of a regular now, that I have the little playful banter with much of the staff. If "T", the hot little tech comes in with the bottle and syringe, I ask, "Do I need to drop trou?"
He says, "yes."
I reply with, "OK, but you first."
The ice is broken. If only dating were that easy.

FULL CIRCLE

2009-01-03T21:03:00.003-06:00

After Christmas, I was able to visit my friends Jeff and Lynette, the same who were part of the group of friends I was with when I did the Polar Bear Plunge as written about here
http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2008/10/taking-plunge.html
Jeff was the first person I came out to (after my shrink at the student counselling center). At the time it was difficult for Jeff (though he didn’t show it). In addition to being my friend, Jeff was also my minister at the Church/Foundation I was involved with at the time. My coming out was a slap in the face of the theology he adhered to—that he and I both grew up with. Knowing me as well as he did was incongruent to what I was supposed to be in/with the church. He had to rethink and recalibrate his theology and what the church was saying. The night I came out to Jeff, he told me it didn’t matter, that it didn’t change how he felt about me, which wasn’t totally true, but those were the words that I had to hear at that moment in time, and that much he realized, and realized how a negative reaction would have devastated me. He came around. His theology changed (as did mine), and while he helped me through coming out, I was his friend and confident while his marriage was falling apart, and a new relationship was materializing. We were each in our own closets and self and societal imposed hells, in tandem. Before he was willing to admit to himself (or others) during a Christmas break work trip working on a Habitat for Humanity Project, I took him outside one day and said, “Jeff, I expect to be your best man when you and Lynette get married.” That blew him out of the water. –for the record, I was his best man at their wedding(s) the legal one at the court house and the ceremonial one a few months after for family and friends. But that’s another story. Jeff ended up leaving the church. So, in addition to being a godless homo heathen, I can claim some role in taking a hetero minister out of the pulpit. They became Unitarians. I became an eventual atheist, with Buddhist leanings. But I digress, yet again.
Jeff and Lynette have a beautiful teenage daughter (M), (along with Jeff’s son (F) from his first marriage) whom I have watched grow into the incredible young adults they are. They are the closest I will ever get to children of my own. I’m closer to them than I was my nephews and niece growing up (due to geography and strained familial relations for some years.) I have always had a special connection to F & M. M came out to her family about a year ago. She’s currently dating a girl from school. She really wanted me to know about it, and wanted to tell me about it. But I needed to initiate the conversation. I had to get cues from Jeff, as I wasn’t sure how much I was ‘supposed to know’. I didn’t want to say or ask too much, to embarrass her or anger her at her parents for telling me family stories outside. At one point, Jeff & I walked to the kitchen. He said, “M is dying to tell you about her girlfriend.” That was all I needed to be able to go back to the family room and make/find an opportunity to ask M about her gf. I was honored that she wanted me to know.
Jeff and Lynette live out in a beautiful wooded area. It’s like a retreat for me to visit them. Birds, deer, wild turkeys, and other kinds of woodland wildlife are right outside the windows. On Sunday afternoon, Lynette, Jeff and I took a walk down the road(s). It was a bit too wet, icy and treacherous to tromp through the woods. As we tend to do when together, we conjure up ‘Another Olde Lang Syne” and reminisce with wonder about where the years have gone, how gray Lynette and I both are (Jeff barely has a dusting of S&P at his temples and he’s the oldest!) While on this walk, Lynette thanked me for asking M about the gf, and the manner in which I did so. Then, Jeff thanked me for being who I am, and for teaching him so much as it made all the difference in how he responded to M when she came out to them. I was so blown away and so deeply touched. We have been strong, deep friends for almost 25 years. To have this added dimension—to have been able to have this kind of unexpected impact on all of them is the cherry on the sundae, the icing on the cake--choose a metaphor. It’s really an honor. For many people in my large circle of family and friends, I have been their ‘first gay’. Over the holidays and ‘season of reminiscing, others have told me how much knowing me has impacted them and taught them. It’s sort of like my own version of being Jimmy Stewart in “It’s A Wonderful Life”. They are great reminders to receive, and important for the times when I contemplate my worth and value to the universe. I know that there is a legacy that is mine, that will remain after I’m gone.

©wtf4/rle

Meme

2008-12-06T22:23:00.004-06:00

I’m self responding to a meme from Mark at http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/ He tagged me a long time ago for a 6 word autobiography which I never completed, as I found the 6 word limitation much more difficult that I realized, and I’ve felt somewhat guilty (well, as much-or little as I allow myself to felt guilty—giving up religion is so liberating! So, here goes. I’m not certain if there’s significance to the number 8.

Shows I Watch
1. Prison Break
2. Eli Stone
3. Survivor
4. 30 Rock (People YOU really need to watch this show!)
5. ER
6. Project Runway (or Bravo show in the timeslot---currently Top Chef)
7. Daily Show/Colbert Report (They count as one in my book)
8. Supernatural
There are many more—I watch too much TV

8 Favorite Restaurants, in no particular order
1. Calo {Italian} (Chicago)
2. Le Bouchon {French} (Chicago)
3. Ann Sather {Andersonville location] (Chicago) (great comfort food
4. Tavern on the Green (NYC)
5. Joe Allen (NYC)
6. K Paul (New Orleans)
7. E.A.T. {Deli} (NYC)
8. Summer {great Asian between my El stop and my co op)

Things that happened today (over the past 24 hours roughly 9:00 – 9:00; 12/6) (It’s a very atypical Saturday, since I’m still sickly.)

1. Woke up-slowly (the slow part is typical)
2. Made mocha latte & cinnamon toast
3. Trimmed beard, showered
4. Listened to the Saturday morning NPR run (Car Talk, Wait, Wait, This American Life [and the Rock Show-can’t remember the title]
(A trip to the gym would normally have occurred somewhere here)
5. Spent time on the computer
6. Walked to the grocery store, Came home wiped out.
7. Changed the bed sheets and napped
8. Fixed some dinner/ateWatched TV & time on pc (& doing this meme.)

I will follow Mark's lead and invite any of my throng of regular readers (alll three of you) as well as any one else who stumbled along here to take up this meme for themselves. I won't be doing any formal tagging.

Not Hypochondria

2008-12-03T17:50:00.002-06:00

Sometimes I wish the illnesses were JUST in my head—that I was somehow imagining it. After 3 days in bed, vacillating between chills and sweats, soaking the sheets, I saw my dr. today. (I called Monday morning, this was the first opening and I didn’t call the nurse to bump me in this time). I have fucking strep throat—AGAIN! Second time this year. This isn’t on the list of approved illnesses for CVID. WTF?! Seriously, WTF!? I’m so pissed with myself that this one didn’t enter my radar as a possibility, and I didn’t figure this one out. Two weeks ago at my last infusion, my throat was scratchy. He did a strep test then. It came back negative. So, instead of being top of mind, my dyslexic brain erased it from the possible options.
This time, my tongue scrape solution barely hit the blotter before showing the + sign. Strep tests are now like pregnancy tests (not that I have any experience with those), Plus you don’t piss on the test strip. Other than that, they’re similar. But, they take a swab from the back of your tongue, mix in a little tube of solution, pour the tube onto the little holder and wait to see if the + sign shows up. Instead of being knocked up, you have strep…and it doesn’t last for nine months.
So, I was right. I’m really sick again. Sometimes being right sucks shit. I prefer my sick when it's combined with twisted.

Second Annual World AIDS Day Post

2008-12-02T14:39:00.003-06:00

Preface: “The road of good intentions is paved with”—what’s the rest of that saying? My intent was to have this posted for the 20th Annual World AIDS Day commemoration and my 2nd Annual on December 1. I started writing it last week. Then the universe intervened and I’ve been in bed the past two days feeling like shit with a fever vacillating between 99 – 102. It’s currently at the lower side. But it messed up my plans for a timely post. So here it is, a gay late and a dollar short, typed in bed on my laptop between the sweats and chills and naps.

Since I wrote my first post last year ( http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2007/11/world-aids-day-december-1_28.html ) I now can call this my “Second Annual World AIDS Day Post”. With some frequency, I will have someone come to me a work with a proposal for a new educational program with the proposed title, “First Annual…” I’m continually trying to explain to physicians that you can’t have a “First Annual “ anything. For something to be an annual event, it has to have occurred AT LEAST once, the year previously. But I digress.
I’m hopeful that the new administration will see the HIV/AIDS epidemic as the public health issue that it is and NOT a moral issue. Yes, W has acknowledged the world wide catastrophe that AIDS is. Yet on the national front, HIV prevention and education funding still lapses.
Needle exchange IS a proven HIV prevention method.
Safe sex and condom use is essential for prevention of disease transmission.
Making condoms available in prisons prevents disease transmission.
News flash: telling prisoners not to have sex is just as effective is was for Sarah Palin’s daughter.
A pointy hat, satin robe, and ruby Prada shoes are not qualifications for making pronouncements about public health and convincing people to not practice safe sex out of some archaic and arcane obligation. The question these people really need to ask, seriously, “WWJD”? Then they need to step back and let people who know public health do their jobs without religion.
The thing that is still increasingly disturbing (and increasing in incidence) is the rate raising rate of new HIV infections among young gay men. Earlier this Fall, I attended an luncheon lecture as part of GLTB week surrounding National Coming Out Day. At the end, the presenters took questions. I raised the question, “What has our generation done wrong, in that the safe sex message did not transfer down to the new generation of gay men?” While the advent of the drug cocktails have been some of the best things to happen, I think we became complacent with the original safe sex message. It lost some of its importance. The message somehow became, “It doesn’t matter if you get infected, you just go on the cocktail.” The thing I just can’t wrap my brain around is how some view becoming HIV positive as a ‘right of passage’ in the progression of fully becoming a gay man. My generation really has fucked up, when we’ve allowed this to become one of the prevailing messages that we bequeathed to the current generations. We have to leave a better legacy.

©wtf/rle
Post Script
Any portion of this that doesn’t make sense, I blame on the fever and apologize.
Any portion of this that you may find offensive, I attribute to my abrasive nature and make no apologies.

TRADITION!

2008-11-29T09:26:00.001-06:00

Tradition

The opening number of Fiddler on the Roof, is “Tradition”. Without benefit of the audio, to give appropriate emphasis it should be “TRADITION!”. (I’m still too technologically retarded to put in the one word link that would take you to the You Tube video.) My first Thanksgiving in Chicago, back in 1995 started a new tradition. I had Thanksgiving with my then landlords and friends, Susan, Sam and their son Graham. Graham was five or six and was the greatest kid. (Now he’s a great young man.) They always have a good ‘family’ sized crowd of a dozen people plus, any given year. They had already dubbed me as “The Upstairs Chef”, as I’d bake and leave goodies for them in the foyer table when I lived there. I offered to make pies. The pies were a hit. After dessert was served, Susan feigned incredulity and jealousy and said, “I used to be the ‘pie queen’ of this building!” My TG role was solidified, and a new tradition was created. My subsequent TG plans were set, even after I moved two years later when I bought my first condo. They were part of my ‘family of choice’, and their extended family and friends became mine by extension. Susan’s Mom, especially took to me. Unfortunately she and her partner were not able to make it this year.
For the past two years, family of origin obligations took me ‘Bumblefuck’ for Thanksgiving. This year, I stayed home in Chicago and was able to regenerate our Thanksgiving Tradition. Of course I brought pies—only two this time (Shredded Apple [another TG tradition of mine], and Caramel Pecan) as other guests were bringing a version of Pumpkin pie. Sam’s sister, when she and her family arrived, generously and genuinely said, “It’s so good to see you again! I’ve been anxiously waiting for your pies.” The sentiment was echoed by Paula and Howard, other friends of SS&G who have become TG “regulars”.
I love this Thanksgiving gathering. It’s comfortable, relaxing, and there’s NEVER any drama. There’s laughter. There’s gratitude. There’s love and affection for old friends and new. I’m able to be myself. They ask questions of me without being intrusive. More importantly, they don’t ignore me or aspects of who I am. There’s never any pretense.
We have some beers beforehand, while noshing on hors d’oeuvres, wine with dinner, and since I’ve turned Sam on to single malt scotches, he usually has new one to try with dessert. (My parents are teetotalers—so there’s no imbibing in Bumblefuck.)
After a two year hiatus, I am thankful for the revival of "TRADITION!". I’ll lift a glass of Scotch to that.

©wtf/rle

Perception Part Deux: Subjectively objective

2008-11-27T11:59:00.003-06:00

Back in late September , as my weekends on the beach were coming to an end for the season, I asked my friend Louie to take some candid pics of/for me, while I still had some summer color/tan, as it was the first time in many years I possessed a hue other than ‘pastey white boy’. Also, I wanted some pics of me since I’ve lost the weight and am trying to get more tone. I’ve made progress, but “Joe six pack abs” I’m not. While I don’t feel fat anymore, I’m not willing to go so far as to say I feel skinny. The last remains of the damned belly won’t go away.

All my life I’ve been self conscious of my body. I was an overweight child—not obese, but overweight. I had a belly. I had boy boobs. The first time I lost a good deal of weight was my sophomore year of HS when I got sick with a really bad ear infection. For the first time, I had a smaller waste than my older “hot” brother. (In 8th grade I was once introduced to someone as ‘the one with the cute, hot brother’. It’s something I’ve never forgotten).
When the SFm* told me he was leaving me, one of the reasons was, “I am no longer attracted to you.” If he was trying to find the way to cut me the deepest, and inflict the most pain and hurt with lasting effects, he found it.

After Louie took the pics, we went to his computer to view and select. I was looking at the pics with some amazement. “God, is that really me?” Subjectively speaking while objectifying the person in the pics, I said, “Wow, I have a nice ass! Who knew?” I haven’t lost touch with reality. I know I’ll never be posing for any calendars. My goal is to be able to be shirtless in the summer without feeling self-conscious.

Looking at photos is a lot different than looking at yourself in the mirror. The experience was a very affirming. The photos went far beyond their intended purpose.

*Stupid Fucking mormon
©wtf/rle

PERCEPTION: First in a Series in non-chronological order

2008-10-26T13:21:00.002-05:00

I’ve started this post 3 different times. What I’ve finally realized I’m trying say too much/have too many thoughts for one entry. Brevity of word has rarely been an issue with me.
I’m in between trips for work—professional conferences. The one I just returned from was very productive for me-professionally as well as personally. I made some good networking connections, and had some meetings that will be beneficial to my institution, as well as a professional organization that I serve on the Board of Directors. I also was told that I’m going to be invited to serve on a committee with an international professional organization, a precursor to being asked to be on the Board of Directors of this organization. I was smoking—on fire!
A friend & former vendor(P) whom I’ve known for 8 years—in fact it was at this same conference that we met in 2008, commented, “You look great/healthy. You’ve lost more weight. You have a different ‘aura’ about you. You are exuding a confidence that I haven’t seen for a long time. You are once again the Randy I first met. It’s great to see you this way again.”
P has always been good about keeping in touch during the interims, when I was no longer her client, when I was out on medical leave.
It’s GREAT to feel this way again--to be seen this way again. After being beat down at the 5th Ring of Hell for 3.5 years, from Dr. “Throw me under the bus”, being appreciated and acknowledge is still something I’m getting used to. Part of my best revenge is that a person I hired at 5RH who is still there, takes every opportunity she can to tell my former boss how of my successes, and brightly I'm shining in this job. I’m glad others can see the good changes in me.
The next conference will have some overlap people, but it’s an organization that I am new to as a result of the job I now have. It’s a sub-set or specialty area within my profession. The worst part is that I’ll be away the night of the election. ©wtf/rle

Taking the Plunge

2008-10-01T21:05:00.004-05:00

Given that my last post may lead one to belief that I am one of a delicate or frail nature, I thought I should write a post to validate my ‘butch’ factor to show that I’m not just some wussy fag.
The picture here is framed and sits on my desk in my office as a reminder to me (and anyone who may question my testicle fortitude) that I’m not a wuss. This is from over 10 years ago, when I had much more hair on my head (in volume and length) , and none of the hair on my head (or body) had begun to migrate to white. That’s me in the hole in the ice. I did the Polar Bear Plunge. This was in a the Boundary Waters (between Minnesota and Canada). I was with a group of close friends that I met/knew when I was grad school. They all remain among my closest and best friends in my life. I had been in said Boundary Waters with some combination of all of these people on a number of times, on (with the exception of Amy’s then husband) on various canoeing/camping trips with the campus church group I was a part of (before I became a godless heathen). In fact, in was in some of these trips that most of us in the group solidified or deepened our friendships. Amy was actually the last woman that I dated (or attempted to date) before finally coming out of the closet. But those are a volume of stories in and of themselves. The fact that she remained (remains) a great friend says a lot about the kind of person she is.
This trip was our (my) only winter trip as a group. We stayed in a cabin, not tents this time, as the actual temp of minus 15° F was beyond our parameters of ‘roughing it’.
The day we arrived, we found the owner of the lodge out on the lake, with this plywood framed ‘box lid’ to one side, and he was re-cutting/punching the hole in the ice, in case anyone wanted to do the “PBP”. I was intrigued. It took a few days to work up my courage. I had questions. He supplied answers:

“What’s the procedure?”
“You stay in the sauna for a while to get your body
temperature good and hot. You run from the sauna, down the path (50
yards?) to the hole. You jump in.”
“How do you get yourself out? Isn’t it difficult?"
“You have someone holding on to each hand/arm when you go
in, to make sure you don’t go down below the water level. They help pull
you out.”
(this is the day I learned the difference between ‘buck naked’ and
stark naked’.)
“I highly recommend you do this buck naked, which means you
wear socks—only socks. This is to keep your feet from getting cut on rocks or sharp ice pieces in the water and from freezing and sticking to the ice when you come out."

Getting out of the hole was my biggest concern. Once that issue was resolved, I was ready. I was going to do it that night when we did our nightly sauna ritual after dinner. I also decided that if I was going to do this, I wanted photographic evidence, as nobody would ever believe I did it by verbal recitation alone. Lynette would take the pic. She was the photographer of the group. Jeff and Amy would each have ‘arm duty’, and Joel would be the stand by in case a third pair of hands was needed to get me out of the hole, and to serve as towel boy when I came out of the water. We all were in the sauna. After our usual amount of time, all of the others with the exception of Joel went to the cabin to get dressed and prepared for my plunge. Joel stayed with me to keep me from losing my nerve. People were in place. The ‘lid’ had been removed by Jeff. Lynette was in position half way down the trail to get a shot of me running down the trail. I start my ‘buck naked’ sprint from the sauna. Lynette clicks the shutter. “OH SHIT,Randy. That was the last picture on this roll of film! “
I couldn’t stop at that point. I had to keep going. And, I did. Let me state for the record, I have never done any hard core hallucinogenic, mild altering drugs. This experience was transcendental. Because my body temp was hot from the sauna, when I jumped into the (literally) icey water, my body did not get cold in this ice water. It was a shock to my body/system. My heart raced. When I came out, steam emanates from every pore of my body. It was bizarre! Additionally, because it was minus 15° F, my socks turned immediately to ice upon exit. I’ll just say this one thing on this issue—there was shrinkage like I didn’t know was possible. I think my nuts ascended up to my clavicle(s). Because it was such a wild (and not unpleasant) experience, I told Lynette, “Go load the camera. I’m doing it again for the photo! I have to have the photographic evidence.”
I did. The picture above is the result, and the proof.
People can (and do often) say a lot of things about me. But they can’t say I back or turn away from challenges. If there’s something I really want to do, I can most of the time find a way to do it. I’ve often been told in my life, “You can’t do that.” If someone tells me that I ‘can’t’ do something or don’t have what it takes, that pretty much is all the incentive I need to do it, if for no other reason than to prove the naysayer wrong, out of my own sense of obstinance . So I can be able to come back and say “fuck you-I did it”. I did the Polar Bear Plunge. Given the chance, I’ll do it again in a heartbeat.
©rle/wtf

At least I was having fun when it happened this time

2008-09-30T22:39:00.002-05:00

At least I was having fun when it happened this time

I have written about various WASTHTR events in the blog, especially in the health arena. Though, I’ve not written about breaking my arm while walking my neighbor’s dog 3 years ago, nor how my physical therapist broke my ribs once in a therapeutic intervention gone awry, nor the breaking of my ribs in a car accident when I was in grad school. Suffice it to say, in all of these events , I was NOT having fun prior to the bone snapping activities.
I now have a WASTHTR in which merriment was being made.
Friday night I went over to the apartment of a new date for the evening. We were having a few beers, talking, watching TV. The evening progressed to a more amorous level. At one point, he was standing behind me, and gave me a big bear hug. I should note here that I am not a man of large stature. I’m 5’5”. I’ve lost over 50 pounds over the past few years and weighed in at 134 last week. He is not a large man, either. He’s under 6’, (and 160-180, I’d guess.) But he is built solid, and strong. HE gave me the vice grip bear hug, and I felt the rib(s)—mine, not his pop. He misconstrued my groan as one of pre-orgasmic ecstasy and not one of pain. Not wanting to ruin the moment, nor freak him out, I allowed him to continue with this misperception. Besides that, I was having a really good time. I thought it was probably a minor dislocation. We continued our play. I won’t go into detail.
I woke up Saturday morning, hurting a bit. I went to the gym—I did my cardio. I went to the butterfly press machine. OUCH. My left rib cage really hurt. I dropped the amount of weight and persevered. I went to the free weights. I lie down on the bench, dumb bell in each hand in an outstretched cross formation. I try to lift the weights up in the air. OMG, the pain was sharp and shooting. FUCK! I could not raise the barbell. FUCKFUCKFUCK!
I shower, leave and call Louie, my massage & physical therapist.
“Lou, I need to see you. I think I’ve popped a couple of ribs.”
“WHAT?!”
I think I’ve popped a couple of ribs.”
“How?”
“Let’s just say I was having a good time when it happened.”
He’s out of town for the weekend. He can see me Monday night. I go over. The lightest touch to my left ribs nearly sends me through the ceiling. He confirms that it’s real. That it’s not in my head—that I’ve popped and/or bruised 2- 3 ribs. I am to take it easy—and wait it out. There’s really nothing to be done for rib injuries other than wait it out. I've discovered one disadvantage to losing a lot of weight. You also lose the cushion and padding that adds a layer of protection. At least I had fun getting injured this time. ©wtf/rle

D-Day

2008-09-22T22:03:00.005-05:00

Some anniversaries are celebrated. Some are mourned. Some are acknowledged or commemorated for the importance of the anniversarizing event. (Yes, I made up/verbicized a word (actually 2, I guess.)
September 23, 1989 is known as Denial Day or “D-Day" or more appropriately, the END of Denial Day. It’s the day I said for the first time, “I’m gay.” This momentous event occurred in a shrink’s office at the Student Counseling Center on Campus. I was scared shitless uttering the words out loud. Although John (my then shrink) would argue that it was hardly out loud. Getting there was a long arduous road, and the path that was ahead of me, following this utterance was equally as long and arduous, if not more so, although at the time, I thought the worst was over.
I had many years of self-loathing and hatred to overcome, indoctrinated by a church and religion purporting to be of “God’s love.” The message I received was that God loves everybody BUT me. I spent years praying for God to change me and “make me ‘right’”. While this wasn’t the solidifying event that led me to, as REM so perfectly sings, “Losing My Religion”, it was the solidifying event that caused me to rethink the concept of ‘prayer’ and the crock of shit that it is, used a bargaining chit to some favor doling entity (IMO) as proselytized by current day religions. I’ve had trouble with the “P” word ever since. The mere mention of it can make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, depending on who may be saying it.
I spent many years as an activist for GLTB issues in the church. This was in large part because the suicide rate for GLTB teens/young adults is at least 30% higher than for others in the same age co-hort. I wanted to effect change, make a difference, as I was nearly one of that statistic. The letters were written. The pills stockpiled. A friend unwittingly stopped me before I followed through with the plan. While never an easy topic of discussion, the passage of time makes it (the topic, not the action) less frightening. I fought within the church to keep other teens/young adults from being part of that statistic. Oddly enough, it wasn’t GLTB issues that eventually brought me to my current beliefs (or absence thereof) to Atheism. But that’s another story.
This story is about burning down everything which was the essence of who I thought I was or tried to be, and the Phoenix that arose from the ashes. I have a love/hate relationship with Autumn. As is fitting with my morbid sense of humor and nature, I like the endings--the death that autumn brings, the senescense. Halloween is one of the “High Holy Days” in the Fagdom Calendar. I’m one of few gay men who does not like Halloween. I spent so many years wearing my ‘masks’, that the last thing I want to do is pretend I’m something I’m not. I’m sure that the Autumn of ’89, plays heavily upon this irrational disdain of Halloween. But, it’s part of who I am in 2008—an out, proud gay man, with few regrets. ©wtf/rle

The Song of Purple Summer

2008-09-11T23:43:00.009-05:00

I have taken a bit of a blog writing hiatus, for a number of reasons. This Summer has been my best Chicago Summer in my memory, and I would have to say ranks up in one of the top Summers ever. As I’ve pondered on this, I at first thought, “This is interesting, as I’ve not been involved in any serious relationship or even serious dating this Summer.” I’ve come to realize that this may be one of the contributing factors to the ‘bestness’ of the Summer. (It’s not bitter and cynical when it’s the truth.) Some of the previous best Summers included a relationship. This time around, there won’t be the ending of a relationship that could tarnish the otherwise good memories.
After about six years in which my life was one big rolling shitfest after another. This has been a welcome respite. Last year, was my ‘transition’ year—with a new job, which was a good move. I’m settled in there. I think I finally started shaking some of the bad shit, much of which was tied to the former job. This Summer:

* I got to see a lot of family (family of origin and family of choice) members that I hadn’t seen in a long time—a few years in some cases.
* I went to my first country concert in an outdoor stadium. This was the beginning of the good Summer, and seemed to be the demarcation of the end of the crappy Winter and Spring.
* I got to the beach nearly every weekend. Being fifty pounds lighter than I was a few years ago, I actually got looks other than, “who is that beached whale?” There
was one guy who wanted to ‘manscape’ me. My goal for next summer is to be
rid of the last bit of belly, that seems to be clinging for dear life. I
have no delusions of a six pack. My goal is flat tummy, and be able to
walk through Market Days shirtless, without embarrassment. And speaking of
the beach. The gay beach was packed this year! The eye candy was
sweet, good and plenty.
*Another side effect of this is that this pastey white boy was in the sun enough to actually get some color/tan. I don't think I've had this much tan since I worked in the corn fields of the South Farms as an undergrad.
* Since getting rid of Gary MINI Cooper and acquiring Gary Fisher the Bike, I’ve
done a good deal of bike riding (for transportation and pleasure/exercise). Being at the beach, I reconnected with some old friends and met some new ones.
* I managed to take off nearly ever other Friday, to give me some long weekends, in which to enjoy the Chicago Summer.
* After finally knocking out the sinus infection from hell, I’ve maintained some
level of decent health status (for me).
* I canceled my land line phone service and got an iPhone. Since I’ve never even had an iPod, the learning curve is still very high. This tiny little machine can make
me feel really stupid.

There are the Chicagoans who have their Summer homes in Michigan or Wisconsin. This I don’t understand. Summers in Chicago are the best! It’s why you put up with the incredibly shitty Winters, here. I don’t want to go away in the Summer.
Last Summer, when I went to NYC, one of the highlights was seeing the Broadway show Spring Awakening, (book and lyrics by Steven Sater, music by Duncan Sheik, based on the 1891 German play by Frank Wedekind) the night after it won all of the Tony awards. The finale of the show is “The Song of Purple Summer”. I left the Eugene O’Neil Theatre deciding that this was my ultimate theme song and would be sung someday at my funeral. “...The earth will wave with corn... I will sing the song of Purple Summer”. This was one of my purple Summers. If my blogging skills have improved enough, there is a YouTube link of the song. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CMh3HKnRyg
This is an expanded version of what I saw over a year ago, and of what’s on the OBCR (Original Broadway Cast Recording). The harmonies are stellar.

©wtf/rle

FLASHBACK: Bamboo Shoot ( Corn) Finger (Thumb)Nail Torture

2008-08-14T19:11:00.001-05:00

As I referred to it in the last post, I thought I’d write about the time in undergrad (which falls into the WASTHTR* listing) of when I got corn stalk rind shoved under my thumb nail. I worked in Corn Pathology at the University. The grad student (Brian) I was working with was studying corn diseases (d’oh) . In early summer when the corn was tall, but no ears of corn yet, we went with huge ass syringe guns, (sort of like squirt guns with needles) and buckets of a fungus solution and inoculated the corn with the fungus above the third node from the bottom. Then in August, we went back to check the level of disease/infection. The way we did this was by cutting the top of the corn stalks about chest high with a machete, and then spit the remaining stalk down the center, to see how far the disease progressed.
I must say, I got very proficient pretty quickly and had my rhythm established until I did my swoosh down with the machete, getting my bent thumb a bit too close to the edge of the corn stalk and ran corn stalk rind under my thumb nail, to about the first knuckle of my thumb. I screamed obsecenities like a banshee, which, given that I had just had a machete in my hand (until I dropped it when the thumb thing happened) seems appropriate.
Brian ran over, looked at my hand/thumb, now dripping blood like a river water fall (and throbbing). He wants to take me back. I want to finish the field. It was getting close to lunch anyway. Against his better judgment, he acquiesced. We put a band-aid over the thumb and we continue. Although my rhythm was now completely out of synch. The thumb was still throbbing.
When we go back to the lab, I want to keep it on the DL. He mentions it to the Prof who says that we have to fill out an accident report, and that I should go to the Dr. The Student Health Service at the University was named for our 25th President. When I was a student there, it did not have the best of reputations and was dis-affectionately known as “Mc KILL-Me”. I really did NOT want to go there, but I was over-ruled, outranked.
I go. There’s no one at the front desk. I go looking for someone and find them all in the lunch/break room. I explain the situation of having corn stalk rind jammed under my thumb nail (will blood soaked dripping band-aid and blood running down my upraised arm as evidence). In what was the beginning of what’s become a recurring theme in my experiences in healthcare, someone says to me, “We’re all on lunch right now, can’t you wait?” Even though I wasn’t as ballsy then as I am now, I was incredulous enough to say, “NO! I’m on lunch too, and I have to get back to work!”
I am taken back to an exam room were peroxide is poured over the wound area. They want to try and extract the corn rind. To do this, they are going to anesthetize the area. They have my hand resting on the arm of a chair, and start coming at me with a syringe—UNDER the thumbnail. I retract my arm quickly. They start again. I repeat.
“You’re going to have to keep your hand in place!”
“You are NOT going UNDER my thumb nail with a syringe while I’m still conscious!”
They then decide they will extract it with tweezers. This was as unsuccessful as it sounds. I left, McKILL-Me with all of the corn stalk rind still under my thumb, and the student health service living up to its moniker. It took about 9 months for the rind to completely grow out. There was still a bit of remnant when I graduated the next Spring.
In the workman’s comp/accident report, I was admonished for not wearing work gloves. But trust me, I learned my lesson. I fully understand how this was an effective method of torture. You can call me a lot of things, but wuss isn’t one of them.
*Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy

©wtf/rle

How Do You Like Them Apples?

2008-08-10T21:35:00.002-05:00

I was reading over on one of my favorite bloggers Dr. Mark, {http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/2008/08/growing-tails-so-far-so-good.html } about his triumphs with his green thumbery. It reminded me of one of my successes from undergrad days in the pomology (tree fruits) class. One of our class exercises was to graft buds from ‘flavorful’ apples to a good root stock. The apple is in the Rosaceae (rose) family. One of the genetic traits for this plant family is that the ‘beautiful’ or favored flowers/fruit often have poor root stocks or systems that are highly susceptible to diseases and other injurious pests. (Kind of like inbred Royalty families). So, to remedy this, you get a good root (which usually has less favorable flowers/fruit) and you graft a stem/twig/bud from the desirable flower fruit onto that stock. Something else most people don’t know, apples are ambisexual, meaning that the plant contains both male and female components, but they cannot self pollinate. i.e. you must have two trees of different varieties to get fruit.
So, I grafted a bud from a yellow delicious and a bud from a red delicious trees to my ‘good & hardy’ root stock. The damn thing actually survived, and both buds were viable. At the end of the semester, I took my sapling home to Mom & Dad’s and planted it, in an unprotected (yes---unprotected) area of the yard. Again, against all odds, the tree survived and in a few years began to bear fruit—red delicious on one side, yellow on the other. It always caused people to do a double take in late summer- fall when the fruit turned colors , and if nothing else, was a conversation starter. (If only I could have carried it around with me to the gay bars, I might have had better luck at picking up guys. I’ve never been a good ‘barfly’-but I digress.) Making this bi-varietal (ambisexual) tree is one of my better memories from those years. I felt like I’d done something significant or lasting (relatively speaking—I know it’s nothing earth shattering).
For reasons I don’t even remember, that semester was a tough one for me. This was all PGR (Pre-Gay Randy). I completely tanked my first exam and think I ended up getting a C in the class, even though it was one of my favorite horticulture classes. It was the same semester I took “Plant Pathology”, and that class I anticipated being difficult so I took it Pass/Fail which was on option as a non requirement. Early on in that semester, the Professor of this class had an opening for a student worker. One stipulation was that you had to maintain at least a “B” average in his class. By the time this all happened, it was too late to switch P/F classes with polmology, so I had to study harder to keep the higher grade in the class I’d elected as P/F. Such is the story of my life. I ended up working almost 2 years in Corn Pathology. I spent the summers inoculating and infecting corn with various diseases and fungi, and then surveying the results, among other things. In a future post, I’ll write about the time I had corn stalk rind jammed under my thumbnail. Let’s just say that really sucked poorly and hurt like a MF. ©wtf/rle

Anniversary

2008-07-27T23:30:00.003-05:00

July 28, 1997 (which was also a Monday) was the day I brought home Euckie the Wonder Dog. I had found her, and she selected me on the Saturday, when I went to Anti-Cruelty Society. I had been going on Saturdays for a number of weeks. Every time I went, it seemed that the dogs had already been ‘reserved’ or adopted by someone else.
That weekend, a friend from downstate was coming up to visit me. Rebecca (or Reb) was actually from my hometown, Bumblefuck. But that’s not how & where we became friends. She was a number of years behind me in school. Her older sister was a freshman when I was a Senior. But she worked at the hospital that I worked at—my first CME job. She worked in PR. Different things at work had us crossing paths, and we became friends.
Anyway, Reb came up to visit. She went with me early on Saturday morning to Anti-Cruelty. We took then otherly named Euckie out to the play area. She was very timid, but longing for affection. She had the longest tongue. Reb commented, “Lesbians would love her.” We seemed to be compatible. I went to the volunteer/staff person. Told her I wanted this dog. IN all of the previous times I’d been there, there was not mention of ‘necessary’ items for adoption, one of which was a copy of one’s condo’s by-laws providing evidence that one’s building allows dogs. Also, they wouldn’t ‘hold’ her while I went back to get a copy of my building’s by-laws. Reb said she would stay with the dog while I went back. I do so. I return. There’s a different volunteer to complete the paper work this time. She NEVER asked for the freaking by-laws! Had Reb not been with me, I likely would have lost the chance to get Euckie. Reb helped me come up with her name. As I used to be a florist, I determined that my dogs would always be named after plants. Now I worked in healthcare. The dog was part Australian Shepherd. Eucalyptus is a plant with healing properties, native to Australia. So, Eucalyptus it would be, but shortened to Euckie.
I have been watching that new dog show on CBS about Dogs and their human companions. It's very bittersweet for me to watch. Euckie was very possessive of me. She did not like sharing me or my attention with others, especially other dogs. While we would not have gotten far in that contest, she was “America’s Greatest Dog” in my book and always will be. I was recently talking with another dog person, who was talking about one of his 3 dogs. He said, “He’s the one in a lifetime—you know, that perfect dog, who just ‘fits’ with you. You know that you’ll not ever have another dog like this—this perfect.” Yes, I did know. I had my ‘dog of a lifetime’. She was the best. She was Euckie. She was my protector and companion for almost 11 years. Happy Anniversary, Euckie.

Ass Whuppin'

2008-07-17T20:08:00.001-05:00

I now have 3 (or at least parts of) posts written, that I’ll probably not post. This is primarily because they are too whiney and bitchy, upon re-reading. And, quite frankly, when I see shades of the less pleasant traits (or words) of my mother glaring back at me written in my own hand, it scares the bejesus out of me—the things I vowed I’d never do nor be like ‘when I grew up’.

That being said, I’m not currently feeling bright and cheery—not that these adjectives are frequently attributed to me. I’m in a slump. I’m discouraged. I’m frustrated. I’m pissed. I just finished week # 4 of being on anti-biotics, and just got a ‘script for a new one—for 3more weeks. This fucking sinus infection is still kicking my ass—or kicking the snot out of me to be more literal. I am reminded of one of my favorite books that I read a few summers ago. I bought this book for the title alone, and was NOT disappointed. The title: “Another Bullshit Night In Suck City: A Memoir” by Nick Flynn. I laughed, I cried. It was a good—make that GREAT read. I recommend it. It’d be a good summer beach read.

I DO try to be mindful that it could be worse. There are people in much more dire straits than I. I remind myself of that. It’s sometimes hard to keep that in focus when the back of my right eyeball feels like a punching bag. Chronically feeling like shit just sucks. It sucks poorly. I just turned down an invitation from my friend Mark, to a cookout, because his out of town guest is HIV positive, and I don’t want to risk exposing this sinus infection from hell on to someone else who is immune compromised. Mentally, being in a social setting would, I’m sure do me good. But feeling like the carrier of the black plague at the cookout would not. So, to try to be less like the me in the first paragraph, I’m listing things I’m looking forward to:
The new season of Project Runway
Massage scheduled for Saturday (legit-not the ‘happy ending’ variety, from my friend Louie, who is an exceptional MT—he’s like a PT/MT
I’m seriously thinking about another tattoo—I just have to figure out what I want this one to be—I know I want another Latin quote, to follow suit with the first one. I have to decide which one from my list—maybe I’ll post the options here for vote and/or comment.
Of course there’s more, but it’s a start.

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

2008-07-16T20:24:00.005-05:00

In lieu of the kitchen sink, I’m including a pic of my kitchen floor. Why? It’s photographic evidence for my Mom, that I do indeed know how to clean my apartment and mop a floor. Not only did I mop, but I stripped off the old wax and re-waxed the floor. This is an event that does NOT occur with great regularity. I even took apart the range top and scrubbed it, and cleaned/polished the stainless steel a few weekends ago. I designed my kitchen and even the pattern of the floor. As a narrow, galley kitchen, placing the floor tiles on the diagonal with the room, gives the illusion that the room is wider and longer than it is. The ceiling I installed (which you can't see, obviously) is a pressed tin ceiling. I tried to meld the old 'feel' of the building/apartment with creating a new, functional kitchen .

The only good thing that occurred from my various surgeries, broken bones, etc., was that when my parents came up to help me out, my Mom would clean my apartment from front to back (with the exception of my bedroom, which was an unspoken mutual agreement that she did not want to be rummaging around in my bedroom. My Mom is generally appalled with my housekeeping (or absence there of) attributes. My apartment isn’t so much dirty as it is messy. Enough so at times, that my gay card could be revoked. When you have chronic health problems, mopping the kitchen floor every week isn’t at the top of the list. I’m a packrat. In that aspect, I am so much my Father’s son. Sometimes I feel like I got all of the negative traits from both each parent, and few of the good.

The view from this pic: I am standing in the back door, off my apartment, looking in. You will note the documentation of my predilection for the shades, tones and hues of purple in the floor and walls. I did the gut rehab of my kitchen BPC*. I have the chef’s kitchen (as much as one can have in a galley kitchen in a turn of the last century classic Chicago building), that my Mom and my Aunt Alice always should have had. Once I had my new kitchen, I had all these plans for throwing fabulous dinner parties and entertaining guests. The Universe had other plans. If I were doing it over today, given the same circumstances and limitations, there are very few things I'd do differently.

Word du Jour: Trochanteric

2008-07-13T22:12:00.002-05:00

As in bursitis. It’s also the diagnosis of the day. Or, GDad, quite literally a PITA.
Thursday was my monthly IgG infusion day. Given the history of the past few weeks and new infirmities, I wrote out my list for things to go over with Dr. K. Tuesday, my R hip (the ‘good’ leg) started hurting—badly. On the pain scale, it progressed to a 6/7 by Thursday. Unlike the pain in my L (bad leg), I knew this was NOT nerve related. It was joint related. I suspicioned that it might be related to my two big bike rides over the 4th weekend.
When the nurse comes to get me to set up my infusion, he takes me to an exam room that is freezing. It could have doubled for the morgue. Once he got the needle in (one stab!), I ordered my own blood tests. I told him to take a blood draw before setting up the IV, that I wanted to get trough levels of my IgG and sub-classes. (thanks, M). He got the vials and the equipment for the blood draw, then set up the IV. I asked him to get me a blanket, as I knew that once that ice cold saline and IgG started coursing through my veins, I’d be freezing in the morgue room.
Later, Dr. K. comes in. “How are you today?”
“Shitty. Neck glands are still swollen. The ear is no longer hurting, but I still feel like shit, and now my R hip hurts like hell. I’ve ramped up my oxy after months of weaning down. I’m NOT happy about that. It’s screwing with my sleep. I’m cranky and bitchy—more so than my usual...”
He checks different things, and comes up with the diagnosis of trochanteric bursitis. And, it is due to the bike riding. God f#cking dammit!! He prescribes a NSAID, and tells me not to ride the bike until it clears up, and then take it easy and not do long rides. So, I finally find something that isn’t mind numbing and makes me want to jam dull rusty needles in my eyeballs like the freaking elliptical or treadmill at the gym and it causes new infirmities. So, no bike rides along the lake this weekend.
I did go to the beach this afternoon, and rode my bike there. It’s not far. We’ll see how I fare with that. It’s late. I’m tired. I’m outta here. Hopefully, I’ll get to the focus group update tomorrow or early in the week.

The Greener Grass

2008-07-07T19:18:00.005-05:00

It’s long been on my mind, but something I’ve been reticent to verbalize or ‘writerize’ about my diagnosis. My guess is that other people with chronic illnesses/conditions/diagnoses think similarly in regards to their own situations, when thinking about or talking to “the great magician in the sky”, as George Carlin used to say in reference to a god.

I wonder what it would be like if I could ‘exchange’ my CVID for something else. When I play this fantasy game in my own mind, I’m usually trading it for HIV—hence my reticence to talk/write about. Let me state for the record, I’m NOT a ‘bug chaser’.* (see first footnote.) Nor, do I advocate the practice.

My thoughts tend more to the philosophic ideals. How would my life be different? Do diabetics dream about trading their insulin injections for something they deem less intrusive? (This is all conjecture, and since it’s my health fantasy, I get to romanticize it the way I want.) In this scenario, my overall health is actually better, because my doc(s) treat a lot more cases of HIV than CVID, and know how to manage it (the disease) better. This is confirmed by the knowledge that my friends with HIV have a better overall health than I do. The other thing, (and this is the one that makes me envious) is that I’d have an already built in community of people like me, with more commonalities that the disease itself. There are plenty of services, support and social groups for my HIV friends. This ties in to a recurrent theme of my life of feeling like I’m always on the outside, looking in. It’s something that is a very common theme among gay people. From our earliest memories, we (or I) always knew that I was somehow different from my brothers, from my classmates, from everybody. And, even though I couldn’t articulate what that difference was for a long time, I somehow knew it had to be kept “secret”. It falls in line with the sense of the “Imposter Syndrome”. Or to analogize this to another group, my friends who are in AA, have that built in community of people like them. Again, I have no intention of abusing ETOH to get a membership card. Given my preponderance of constant anti-biotic use, I would not be able to over drink with any consistency, anyway . But then, if I had that particular disease, adherence to abstinence while on antibiotics would most likely not be in the forefront of my mind.

An additional aspect that frustrates me is that I used to do my share of volunteer work for HIV/AIDS education and prevention & services to people with HIV. That all stopped when I had my first shoulder surgery, which I believe was the catapulting event that was the beginning of my overall health decline. That was followed by the chronic pain problems (which is a completely different chapter). Aside from lacking the energy to be able to commit long term, I’ve re-focused my energies to learning about and working on causes related to CVID. While important and a necessary move on my part, what I do in these regards, impacts fewer people than did my HIV work. It also somehow feels ‘less pure’, as now my motives are now more self-serving.

When I’m able to joke about it, which is most of the time, I say this is just another aspect of how dyslexia has permeated every aspect of my life.** (see second footnote.) Even my body/blood got the letters mixed up. Gay men are supposed to get HIV, not CVID. But then, I've never been one to follow convention. The ironic part being all the years of worrying about HIV, and doing my semi-annual HIV tests (out of habit, not necessarily activity), it didn't occur to me or my various healthcare providers to look at other possibilities, until two and a half years ago. Well, that's partly untrue. For nearly 13 years, I kept saying, "There's something you're not figuring out. Something's not right. I shouldn't be getting sick all the time." And, after all those years, it was the PA who finally diagnosed me correctly.

I close with no answers to my contemplative fantasy disease exchange, but more questions, which is frustrating. As the Baker’s son, sings in the finale of Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods, “No more questions—please. No more tests... No more curses you can’t undo…No more questions, please. Close the door.—Just No More.” Just no more—those three words speak volumes. I believe that most of life’s ponderings can be summed up by and/or found in one of Stephen Sondheim’s musicals/songs. I would say Into the Woods is my favorite Sondheim, but I can’t. That’s like parents choosing a favorite child (although mine did, --shocker! It wasn’t me). All of his shows provide a new/usually skewed—in a good way—outlook. (I wish they would do a revival of this show on Broadway. I’ve only seen this one by smaller non-equity companies in smaller venues. I’d really like to see it on the Big White Way. Although I didn’t get there this year to see Sunday in the Park With George (another Great Sondheim show). But I digress.

*term in the gay community for an HIV negative man who seeks out and has unprotected sex with an HIV positive man with the sole intent of contracting the virus. Some view it as a ‘right of passage’ to becoming a MOTT (Member Of The Tribe). There’s an alarming amount of data indicating the widespread practice of this, especially among younger gay men who never have had to witness the decline and gruesome deaths of their friends who died from AIDS complications, before the advent of Protease Inhibitors and all the subsequent HIV meds.

**the other aspect being that I did not come out of the closet until I quit being a florist. I got that backwards too.

©wtf/rle

Meet Gary Fisher

2008-07-06T21:22:00.004-05:00

Pre-script: This post was written July 5. I didn't get the pic until today (July 13), and thus didn't post until now..

I have a new “Gary” in my life. Back in May, I wrote my good-by message to Gary MINI Cooper – here--> http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2008/04/so-long-gary-with-some-regrets.html.
Meet Gary Fisher. He is my new set of wheels/transportation. One of the things I planned to do with the sale of Gary Cooper was to purchase a new bicycle. The brand happens to be “Gary Fisher”. Having the complete non-sports gay gene, I don’t know, but I think Gary Fisher (the person) was/is some famous bicyclist. Between traveling, and being sick, I hadn’t had much opportunity to ride Gary. Last weekend, I finally got out and rode the Lake Shore Drive bike trail. (Over the 4th of July weekend, I took two good size rides.) My hope is that it will provide the additional cardio needed to lose the last of the gut. The LSD bike trail is another one of the many reasons I HEART Chicago. The current Mayor Daley has done a lot to make Chicago a bike friendly city. In addition to abundant bike trail, the buses of CTA have bike racks on front of the bus, and you can take them on the el to travel to other bikeable destinations--even more reasons to HEART Chicago.

Serious Chronic Illness* pays off, Once Again!

2008-07-06T20:51:00.001-05:00

Last December, I wrote a post about being asked to be part of a focus group regarding CVID, (the illness/ diagnosis I have).
*–sidebar—I never quite know what to call it. Disease doesn’t seem to fit, as it’s not something communicable, and not something I caught from someone else (other than possible in utero); ‘condition’ doesn’t really fit either; which leaves me with illness, but that doesn’t seem to fit either, because it’s actually other illnesses I get (bronch, sinus, (and now apparently ear infections). So, I end up calling it ‘my diagnosis’. What do I call it? Any recommendations, Dr. Mark?
Anyway, I had an email from the Primary Immune Deficiency Foundation, that there was going to be another focus group for Immune Deficiency (non-HIV) patients who receive infusions of IgG. Once again, it pays an honorarium and mileage. However, there was no mention of snacks this time. If I could get one of these gigs every month, I could start breaking even on my monthly meds co-pays at Walgreen’s!
The focus group is next Saturday. I’ll give a report after it occurs.

Seriously Universe, WTF?!

2008-07-03T09:26:00.003-05:00

As noted in the previous post, I was back at my Dr.’s office and got a shot and put on oral antibiotics for the 4th sinus infection of the year. A week into this course of meds, my right neck lymph gland is swollen, and right ear begins to hurt. Tuesday night, I went to bed at 7:30, because I was exhausted and felt like shit. I NEVER go to bed that early (to sleep). I go back yesterday (Wednesday) to my Dr. I’ve now got a fucking otitis (outer ear infection). Onset occurs AFTER a week of being on antibiotics. WTF? So, it’s another shot (on the right ass cheek this time), and extension of the oral antibiotics. Unbelievable. So, I ask if these two infections are related—did the sinus infection migrate to the ear. No. Should I make an appointment with an Otolaryngologist (ENT-Ear Nose Throat) doc? Yes, we should consider it, but not until I’m off the antibiotics. HE wants to monitor this, and see if it (sinus infection) will stay away—or see how long before it strikes again. I ask Dr. K, “ WTF? —I thought these monthly infusions of IgG were supposed to keep from getting these infections so frequently. It doesn’t seem to be working. It seems like I’m getting sick as frequently if not more so since I started them over two years ago.” He says we might try going to every 3 weeks, instead of 4-5 weeks. He’s done that with another patient, and it seems to have helped him. I ask how they determined the IgG dosage? Is it a guess? Should he take blood and see where my antibody level is to monitor it? It seems now would be a good time, as it’s midway point between infusions. “Good question”, he replies. He’s not sure, but will go do a search to find out. He returns 15-20 minutes later. He can’t find any research or data doing a quick internet search, but he’s going to investigate more. He quizzes me about being depressed. “I’m not depressed, I’m pissed off.”
“About what?”
“About being sick all the goddamn time.”
I know the signs of depression. I know the signs in me. When I’m clinically depressed, I have low to no libido. Without going into details, this is currently not an issue. It’s definitely not an issue at this time. I’m just over feeling like shit so often.

Gay Pride

2008-06-29T21:18:00.003-05:00

Today was the Gay Pride Parade in Chicago. It’s my third favorite weekend in Chicago (followed by IML & Halsted Market Days, which I wrote about here: { http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2008/05/i-heart-chicago.html }
I had originally planned to go out to some of the bars this weekend. However, my sinuses had other plans, as I’ve been hit with another sinus infection. The only good part of this is, that when I went to my Dr., in addition to oral antibiotics (which prevented an plans of drinking), he also ordered a shot. My favorite, hot patient tech came in to give me my shot. If someone’s going to come in and tell me to ‘drop trou’, I’d prefer it be him. (Hey, we take small victories where we can get them.) Anyway, sleeping little and sleeping poorly for the past week, combined with the feeling that there’s a tiny man inside my head, using the back of my right eyeball as a punching bag. I wasn’t up for nights on the town. Saturday, I called Mike, the friend I recently reconnected with (that I wrote about here: { http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2008/05/two-unexpected-things-happened-this.html } , to see if he had plans with anyone for the Parade and if he’d like to hang out together to watch the parade. He had plans, but invited me to come along with him/them. I accepted. Mike and I share the same acerbic, dry sense of humor, mixed with a good amount of bitter cynicism. We also lust after the same types of men, so watching hot guys go by is a lot of fun with Mike…”11:00 O’clock-hairy chest, pencil eraser nips; 2:00 O’clock- scruffy beard, solid pecs…” and so on.
I first met up with Mike at Starbucks. From there we went to meet up with his other friends, who Mike knows because they are all friends of Bill. He sees Fred and introduces us. Fred tells us the other guys are a few yards away. We go over, and Mike introduces me to Frankie, Fred’s boyfriend (I’m using pseudonyms to protect the guilty and the innocent). “Umm, uh, hi Frankie, nice to uh meet you.” The others get a few yards ahead of us, out of earshot and I lean over to Mike and say, “I tricked with Frankie before.” AWWKKWARD!! This was not recent, 2 or 3 years ago, but still awkward. What would Miss Manners say is the appropriate way to handle this situation? Do you pretend you’ve never met? Do you acknowledge meeting, but not the circumstances? Mike laughed and said, “Let’s keep that info under wraps.” Not a problem. Mike and I stayed together in one spot back against a building under an awning , and the other guys went 10-15 feet up the sidewalk, at the curb, and we didn’t really mingle.
The Parade was really slow this year. There was about a 20-30 minute stretch where there was a stop in the procession. Rumor is that someone got sick/had an accident earlier in the route, which held up all of the floats behind. Then it got cloudy and dark, and started raining. I was glad Mike chose the awning spot earlier. Guys rushed to us and squeezed in. I love people watching. One of the humorous things to witness is the straight guys, who are trying really hard to be cool, and OK around us gays, but they haven't quite fully crossed to the other side of that bridge. As they are walking through the crowd--the sea of fags and dykes, they hold on to their girlfriends' hands as if they were super glued together, for fear that a momentary body separation will cause us gays to descend upon them and try to bring them play for 'our team'.
The clouds finally passed, and it quit raining. There seemed to be another lapse. It was getting dark again, so Mike and I opted to leave before the next cloudburst. I got to the El station just before the next downpour. It was a fun day, and good to spend time with Mike again.
Now my monologue about “Why Pride?” Every so often the occasional uniformed person utters, “Why do you need to have a parade? We don’t have ‘straight pride. Where’s our parade.” There’s no straight pride parade, because EVERY DAY is straight pride day. Until GLTB people are granted the right to marry, to file joint tax return, to not be prohibited from being with their partners in hospitals, to not worry about being fired for being gay, for not getting tied to a fence and pistol whipped and left to die, or getting bashed for walking down the sidewalk, holding hands, showing (appropriate) affection in public, until we no longer have a government (and president) who tries to be the first ever to make a constitutional amendment to specifically DENY civil rights to GLTB people, as long as people use the bible and religion as a weapon with which to persecute us, we will continue to have pride parades one day every year. The other 364 days we will remain a people who are proud and grateful being who we are. We aren’t going away.

Travel Logue in Reverse, Part 2-Redacted

2008-06-29T21:10:00.003-05:00

I've written the next installment of my Travel Logue in reverse, and have read and re-read it. I've had to redact much of my own writing. In it I write about getting confirmation of my fears that my sister-in-law is a homophobe. Even though my relatives do not read this, I don't think I want those thoughts in a public forum until/unless I can tone it down. Because, I'm extremely pissed and not sure how I want to handle it. Perhaps I'll continue editting and post the re-write.

JOLT & A Weekend of Firsts

2008-06-23T20:15:00.005-05:00

This is a two-fer posting, as I seem to have difficulty in my desired regularity in daily or multiple times a week in posting. I still haven’t continued the travelogue.

This post falls in line with the I Heart Chicago posting a month ago.

I took off Friday. My plan is to take every other Friday off during the summer to give myself some long weekends to do things like catch up on my blog. I obviously failed.

JOLT
Friday night I had plans with my friend Mark to go to the free concert in Millenium Park. Chicago does this wonderful thing of providing free concerts and movies in Millenium Park during the summer. Before Millenium, it was Grant Park. There is the Grant Park Orchestra and Chorus, who play (and sing) classical music. They also get big names to perform. After Taste of Chicago in July, they will start up with Tuesday night movies. People bring picnic dinners, their lawn chairs and blankets and settle in for a night of entertainment under the Chicago sky. (I’d say ‘under the stars’, but you really can’t see them in Chicago).
It’s great, because you have the melting pot that is Chicago at these events, from the white collar ‘suits’ of Michigan Avenue, to poor students from the Art Institute School, to the laborers, and immigrant families.

Anyway, Mark and I were going to picnic and go to the concert. (I don’t even know who was performing. The weather had been dicey most of the day threatening rain and actually raining. We held off until late afternoon, and we decided, yes the weather was going to cooperate. Then it rained a bit, and we opted to go see a movie instead. We have the rest of the summer for picnics and shows in MP. We went to see “The Visitor”—very good flick, I highly recommend it. Mark and I hadn’t see each other, talked in quite a while so we were catching each other up on our lives. In the El, on the way home, Mark says, “And how’s Euckie?” It was like I’d been punched in the stomach—no, it was like he had reaching down into my throat and pulled my intestines back out through my mouth. I stammered out, “Didn’t you get my email in April?! I had to have Euckie put to sleep.” He’d forgotten. He apologized. But it really threw me, because well, it really threw me. Although it’s become ‘routine’ to come home and know that she’s not there to greet me, it’s still difficult on occasion, when I first open the door and for that split second have forgotten that she’s gone, until I open the door and she’s not there. It still sucks shit. But, I was surprised that I had such a visceral reaction almost 3 months after the fact. Fucking grief that lurks around the shadows then sucker punches you when you aren’t expecting it—I loathe you. The times that are difficult, that you would think would be the opposite, are the times when I can be more spontaneous, and not have to worry about getting home right after work, or making plans to go out and be away during the usual walk and feeding times. I mean, I’m now freed up to be more spontaneous, and meet someone after work or go out Saturday afternoon and stay out without coming home in between times. (See story below.) In some ways, that makes her absence all the more profound. Let me repeat. It just sucks shit.

WEEKEND of FIRSTS
Unlike Marc Acito http://marcacito.blogspot.com/ , who has made it a point to do something new every day, I have made no such self-commitment. (Apologies to gdad--I tried making the hyperlink word, and couldn't get it to work--that Turrette's like string of obscenities you heard on Monday night coming from Chicago and me trying to make the freaking thing work.) Saturday morning I woke up early, as my body seems wont to do now that I no longer need to do so for early morning walks. I ate my cereal, drank my mocha latte, and checked things on the computer. I called my friend Bart, who I go with to the gym on Saturdays to see if he wants to go earlier. It’s usually noonish or after when we go. He didn’t answer, must still be in bed. (It was after 8:30 for the record.) I call a bit later and he begs off for the day. So, I get my gym bag, and hop the train. When I’m leaving, I check my phone and there’s a voice mail from my sister*, Karen. She and Brian (her husband) had tickets with friends (another heterosexual couple) for a concert at Soldier Field, and because of all the rain, and crop situation, Brian had to stay and do farm work. Would I like to go in his place. It’s county music—Kenny Chesney, Keith Urban, Leanne Rimes, and Gary Allen. I’d heard of the first 3. I’m not a country music fan. I’m not anti-country music (mostly), it’s just not something I follow. It was a chance to see Karen, so yeah, why not?! It’ll be great to see Karen, and I’ve never been inside the Stadium at Soldier Field. This would be a first. I know it may be hard to believe, but I don’t have season tickets to the Bears games.

We made the arrangements of where to meet at outside the Stadium. The concert is to begin at 4:00. They’d been waiting 10-15 minutes when I arrived about 4:30. Karen dispenses the tickets, we go through the gate. We cannot take our open bottles of water in. Karen can’t take her umbrella. WTF, are we at the airport?! Are these guys TSA guards? Now, had I had a flask of Vodka in my back pocket, we could have gotten in easily with that.

Now, admittedly, it’s been many, many years since I’ve dated women. But I’ve don’t plenty of social activities with women in the interceding years. I don’t remember this: I think once we get in the stadium, we’re going to find our seats. My mistake. First, the woman friend wants to stop at the T-Shirt vendor to check on Keith Urban shirts. (Karen and her friend have crushes on Keith.) She doesn’t like them. OK, off to find our seats. Oh, no. Now they need to go to the bathroom. We find them one level lower. We get back to our level. Let’s get beer while we’re down here. OK, that’s copacetic. We get the beer. NOW, off to the seats. “Oh, why don’t we get something to eat while we’re down here.” I swear, I think it took us over 45 minutes from entering the gate to actually sitting our butts in the seats! Is this typical heterosexual married life? OMG, I was ready to scream. This is the stuff of sitcoms that are supposed to be parody.

The concert itself hadn’t started yet. The music we’d been hearing was recorded. I leaned over to Karen and said, “I don’t mean to be stupid, but who is this we’re listening to right now?”

The concert begins with the Gary Allen guy. He’s good. Then Leanne Rimes. I’d at least heard of her. She was good. Then comes Keith I liked him a lot. To me, he has more of a 70’s rock vibe, a la Eagles, America, Lennard Skinner. And, he’s really pretty hot. I now understand the crushes on him. Nicole was there. The jumbo tron showed her a couple of times. Friday had been Nic’s birthday, and Keith had the audience of 50,000 people sing Happy Birthday to Nicole, while the screen showed her blushing. And speaking of hot—there were a LOT of hot buff country boys at this concert. Who knew so many hot men liked country music. Damn, I may have to begin expanding my musical horizons. It was like the pretty boy section at the gay bars. In addition to the hot men, there were a lot of overweight women, wearing clothing that did nothing to hide, nor showcase their bodies in a flattering manner. With all of the hot men and fat women, it made me think I was the voyeur at a convention of pretty gay men and their fag hags. But, I digress.

I really enjoyed Keith. He’s an excellent entertainer. He did something I haven’t often seen. After he sang his first few songs, he introduced his band, and highlighted each member individually, giving them a turn in the spot light to play and/or sing. I liked that.

By the time it was Kenny Chesney’s turn, it was getting dark. Midway through his concert, the Saturday night fireworks went of at Navy Pier, and we were in a prime spot in the stadium to see the fireworks display over Lake Michigan. This was another Chicago first for me. It was after 11:00 pm when Kenny ended the show. It was a fun afternoon/evening. I had many firsts: Inside Soldier Field (for an actual event even), my first country music concert, my first outdoor stadium “Big League performer” concert, first time seeing the downtown fireworks from Navy Pier. The other firsts of my weekend are not for public consumption, so we’ll end the story with the concert.

* Karen, and her older sister Chris are the daughters of my Mom’s best friend from High School. Their parents are my Godparents, and who would have been my guardians had something happened to my parents when I was still a minor child. Karen and Chris have been more like siblings to me than my brothers, and for years we’ve introduced each other as sisters/brother when meeting one of the others friends. It’s the thing that gays have done so well in creating ‘family of choice’ when family of origin have not been what we need family to be.

Travel Logue, in Reverse Part 1

2008-06-16T22:11:00.005-05:00

Travel log in Reverse, Part 1
I’m way behind. I’ve been back a week now from MD, and still don’t have my travels from Vancouver and MD done. I’m going to write my travel tales in reverse since I have almost two weeks worth to report, and since my blog posts the most recent item first, when all is said and done, it will read chronologically. I started this first entry when, well start reading…

I’m on the train home from downstate (Bumblefuck), back to Chicago. Just after we got in the SUV to go the train station-- (and I use that term loosely, as the depot has no staffed station any longer. It now houses a tanning spa {again, using THAT term loosely}, there is a makeshift ‘shelter’ to apparently protect one from the elements, when waiting for your delayed train, there’s no building or station in which to wait—I had to walk out into the street, and cross the tracks, to enter the car I was to board—the freaking engineer apparently cannot bring the designated car to the actual boarding area—but I digress. We were in the car to the train ‘station’, and my phone rings. It’s an 800 number, and I hesitate answering, but I do. It’s AMTRAK,
“Mr. gayCMEguy, I’m glad I got you, this is Barbara from Amtrak, have you received an update on your 11:27 train from town near BF to Chicago?”
ME: With a hint of reservation in my voice--NO, I’m on my way to the station now.
AMTRAK: There are technical difficulties with your train, it’s still running, but there is no air conditioning on the train. The train is only running a few minutes late. We are also providing bus service and are offering you the option of train or bus w/ A/C. The bus will be running on time. You don’t have to tell me or decide now. Since there’s no station with personnel, you just board whichever. you decide.
I immediately regret, changing out of my shorts and into my jeans.
ME: What’s the arrival time difference?
AMTRAK: They’re on the same schedule, making all the same stops.
I decide that I’ll take whichever arrives first, presuming it will be the bus. At about 11:25, the lights flash and the gates go down on the street crossing. Wow, the train is on time! The train does NOT slow down, does NOT stop, and zooms by. When I arrived, there was what appeared to be a bum sitting/slumping in the shelter. I avoided him. When the train zoomed by, he got on his cell phone, had it on speaker. He was contacting AMTRAK about his train. He was southbound while I’m northbound. He makes small conversation about AMTRAK with me and my Dad. He has one front top snaggle-tooth, with the others appearing to be gnawed down to the gums. It was very distracting.
The Maryland trip:
I ran the gamut of emotions and realizations on this trip. Each time I’ve seen my Dad this year (3 x since Christmas), he is appearing more feeble. This year, for the first time, my parents seem old—seemed to have aged greatly. That’s a hard reality to witness. Now, I realize that I’m fortunate in still having my parents here in which to witness such events. But, it’s still hard. Another realization was that my parents have no business driving long distances. I don’t even want them driving to Chicago to see me. My Dad has always driven like an old man farmer. But his driving scared me. I ended up driving the majority of the trip (15 hours one way). The two short stints that Mom drove, was disconcerting in different ways.
Another emotion that ran high was anger. Since I learned to drive, has always been a terrible back seat driver. The last big driving trip I took with them was when I was college age. We went east to DC, and Gettysburg. This was 25 +/- years ago. I vowed then, I’d never take a trip with my parents again. I had thought that years and time might have mellowed Dad in this aspect. I was mistaken in this thought. I wanted to slap the shit out of him. At one point, gritting my teeth, I literally bit my tongue. I have the ulcered reminder still.

I waffled between, sadness for acknowledging the aging processes, to being extremely pissed off at him. My parents wake up before the ass-crack of dawn. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not a morning person. Dad took the opening shift of driving. I’d take over when we stopped for breakfast. Sunday evening, after an extremely long and arduous day, filled with ample amounts of backseat driving, we were in Ohio. I was one raw nerve, and my eyes were starting to go batty, so I turned the keys over to Mom. We got through Columbus. I figure were going to stop soon, and I wanted to be able to search for hotels on the GPS (btw Garmin is a piece of shit—it was only good for locating hotels and restaurants, for directions, it sucks, I’m glad I did Mapquest, otherwise we’d still be circling Indianapolis). WE stop again at a rest area and Dad takes the keys from Mom. FUCK. We’re about 15 miles away from Springfield, roughly 60 from Dayton. Dad says, ‘we’ll just go on to Dayton.” I snapped. I said, “NO, we’re not! I’m done for the day. We are stopping in Springfield. I begin searching on Garmin. Because of my job, I discounted rates off the rack rate for lodging at all the major chains. So, I plan to call different ones to see who will give me the best government rate. I see a Marriott Courtyard. I think good, if the rate’s decent, it will be better than the fleabags we’ve been in the past 3 nights. I call. They have availability, and the state rate is $80. , cheaper than the MD Econolodge, and the same as the divey Red Roof Inn we were in the first night. Dad screeching to me, “HOW MUCH is it?! WHAT’s the AARP rate? I ask. My discount is better. I book the room, get directions, as I don’t trust Garmin to get us there. I hang up. Dad, asking me what hotel it is. I tell him it Courtyard, a Marriott discount franchise. “Well no wonder it’s so expensive!”
OH, NO HE DIDN’T JUST SAY THAT. This may have been when I actually bit my tongue. I simply said in a firm, but not angry voice, “This is NOT an expensive rate. It’s less than we’ve paid anywhere else.” I’ve never told my Dad to fuck off, but I came pretty damn close at that moment. My Dad was insistent that he was paying the expenses for the trip. Because of this, we all slept in one room, w/ 2 double beds. When I went up to the desk to check in, I took out my wallet and gave the man cash. Dad kept trying to put his credit card out. I told him I was taking care of it. (If you’re going to bitch about the choice, I’m not holding you responsible.) For the record, it was the nicest, and cleanest of any of the places we stayed. We check in, go to eat (at Bob Evans for the 5th time in 4 days, and 2nd time that day.) Fortunately, the Courtyard had a small gym and a pool. I definitely needed to work out some aggression, as well as needed some serious down time alone. Even though I was exhausted, and really could have gone to sleep, I knew I could not go back and stay in the room with them and keep that last raw nerve from unraveling. I hit the treadmill, did a few reps on the weight machine, and then went and sat in the whirlpool for a while until I got too shrivel. At this point I went back to the room, showered, grabbed the laptop and went down to the lobby bar to have a beer and check email, blogs, etc. The bar was closed, but I stayed down there for over an hour until my eyes could no longer focus, and I knew they’d be asleep.
I was pissed at him. I was pissed at myself for letting him get to me. I’m pissed that we so quickly fell back into the old patterns. I thought all these years later it would not be history repeating itself. FUCK! It was like I was 17 years old all over again. He pushed the buttons. Hell, he installed a good deal of them. The more he needled, the more obstinate I became in my resistance. As if this in and of itself wasn’t a living version of hell, six meals in 4 days were at Bob Evans. This was the payback for my refusing to eat at Cracker Barrel for their homophobic anti-gay hiring policies. OK, end of rant.

The Reception
The reception itself was a lot of fun. Meagan and Adam live out in the country in BF Maryland, by his parents’ on a plot of their land. They are not farmers, but it was farmland country. It was outdoors. They had a covered building, (as many farms do). The weather was unbearably hot and humid—pushing 100 degrees F. Adam (who trained to be a chef) did pretty much all of the cooking, prepping of the food. Meagan had it decorated in a very simple understated elegant manner for an outdoor reception. In what will go down as one of my favorite memories of my life, toward the end of the evening, the DJ puts on Dancing Queen by ABBA. Meagan had been up dancing with various people throughout the night. I hadn’t. When this came on, I looked at her, she at me. I gave her the “do you want to dance” signal. “Uncle Randy, YOU are my dancing queen!” We cut quite a rug (or slab of cement floor). Some of her girlfriends all came up and joined in with us. (Side note, WHY is it that I can attract a bevy of hot girls/women, but not the hot gay men?) This reminded me of another wedding reception years ago, for my friend Janet. She is the last woman I dated before finally coming out of the closet. At her reception, the DJ started playing “Someday My Prince Will Come”. Janet was clear across the room talking to other guests, and came running to me, and said, “There’s only one person I can dance with to this song!” And, we danced, creating a great life memory. This dance with Meagan takes a special place in the memory bank as well.
Adam knows that Tommy (my brother, Meagan’s Dad) like single malt scotch, so he order a bottle of Glenlivet for us. The two of us polished it off by the end of the night. I was pacing myself with the drinking, as I didn’t want to be driving all day hungover. I started with beer, and as hot and humid as it was, I was sweating it out almost as fast as I was drinking. Dustin (my nephew, Meagan’s older brother) was there with one of his best friends. They verbally arm twisted me into doing shots with them a couple of times.
An additional bonus was that I got to see Lisa, their Mom, my former sister-in-law, whom I adore. I hadn’t seen her for over 15 years. When I first came out, she was the one member of the family who was completely nonplussed by it, and accepted it (and me) without question. It was great fun seeing her (and members of her family) again.
…to be continued.

On the Road Again

2008-06-05T21:37:00.004-05:00

From the far Northwest to the far (sorta) Southeast. It’s Thursday night and I’m en route to Maryland (via automobile) with my parents. Nearly 12 hours on the road today. Hopefully, less than 5 hours tomorrow in the car. I did most of the driving. We hit 6 states today: starting in Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia, Pennsylvania, W VA (again) and Maryland. The purpose of the trip is to attend my niece’s marriage reception. The Wedding was in December. I wrote about her here http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2008/01/it-is-pretty-great.html.

(Apologies to Gdad--I'm too tired to play with and figure out the link naming thinging, you graciously explained to me.)

I just got back Tuesday from Vancouver, BC CANADA and haven’t even written about that trip yet, and here I am off to the complete opposite end of the continent. VC, BC was GR8, btw! I will write, hopefully this weekend.
My body’s internal clock is so whacked it doesn’t know what time zone I’m in, and whether I should be sleeping, eating or pooping.
One quick tidbit b4 I turn out the lights. After we, stopped, and got in to the motel--This ain't the like Hyatt in VC, BC) I went out to walk around, because I could not immediately go back to sitting. I wander up a road, up a hill, and find a mall. (How incredibly gay of me, I know.) There are no signs of cultural activities such as theatre, music, etc (unless you count Bravo network on the cable TV.) So, I'm wandering JC Penney's, just window shopping. I see a rack of cargo shorts, $40.00, marked down to $14.99, marked down further to $11.99. I can use another pair of shorts (30W), so I figure, I'll bite the bullet. I go to the register. The girl rings it up and says, "$2.11". I say, "WHAT?!", scrunching up my eyebrows. "Yeah, for any purchase over $10.00, you get a $10.00 discount. If you go back and find more, I'll can ring them up separately. I try to help out my customers." There were no more 30W on the rack. But, damn! This was better than a gay garage sale! These are brand new, tags still on, right off the rack. Oh, and the shorts includes a belt! For once a good WASTHTR!

I HEART CHICAGO

2008-05-26T14:44:00.001-05:00

There are many reasons why I love living in Chicago. Summers in Chicago make up for Winters in Chicago. Meeting friends for a picnic in the evening for free concerts and movies in Millennium Park, to name but one.
Memorial Day weekend is one of my two favorite weekends of every year in Chicago. It’s IML or International Mr. Leather competition, in which a convergence of Leather men (and women) descend upon Chicago for the crowning of the new winner, who will carry the title and be an ombudsman for the Leather Community. (Think Miss America, except it’s a burly, hairy chested hunk of gay man beefcake.) I’m by no means what one would call a leather queen. (Although, I did buy a pair of leather pants. I made a promise to myself that if I lost enough weight to fit into a 30” waist again, I’d treat myself to black leather jeans. {I topped out at 34” waist} I found a pair, on a sale rack for $50.) Other than IML weekend, I maybe go out to the bars once or twice during the year. I’ve never even attended the competition. But I love going to the “Leather Mart”, in which vendors of every fetish, and kink you could imagine (and some you never before imagined) display their wares, services, toys, accoutrements. I’ll refrain from providing any graphic detail as MUPD (see next post) reads my blog.
Additionally, people are decked out in full regalia of leather, uniforms, and other fetish drag. It’s a great sociological and anthropological observation. This year was the 30th annual IML, and had over 18,000 international attendees. It’s held at one of the larger conference hotels downtown, this year at the Hyatt. One of the things I love about the Mart, the whole weekend, is that it’s the most non-judgmental atmosphere EVER. People feel free to be who they are, and display that publically without guile or shame. One of my favorite years of IML was the year that the main conference hotel for IML, The Palmer House Hilton, was also the main conference hotel for the Promise Keepers. If you aren’t familiar, this is the neo con religious right group of men (i.e. jerry falwell, jimmy swagart dobson, etc). IT was great watching the PK men recoiling on the escalators as they watched big hairy men, in chains, collars, chaps, with their naked asses on display. Another favorite, was the year I was walking around the Leather Mart with my friend B. There was a vendor who had a gay porn star in his booth to hawk his wares, which happened to include glass dildoes. The porn star was bragging about how indestructible they were, and proceeded to demonstrate their durability (NO, NOT THAT WAY!) by banging (no pun intended) the sex toy on the edge of the table, upon which the indestructible glass dildo shattered into a million little pieces on the 3rd hit. All of us in the vicinity broke out into hysterical laughter. I’m not certain whether the porn star stayed on as spokes-model, or whether any of the devices sold that weekend.
My other favorite Chicago weekend is the second weekend of every August, which is North Halsted Market Days. It’s the largest street fest in the Midwest, in the heart of Boystown, where Halsted Street is closed down, restaurants, bars, and vendors set up on the street, and there are 3stages for live performances. It’s the dog days of summer, and the beefy, hot men are often shirtless. It’s like being a diabetic in a candy shop, but it’s still lots of fun, walking the strip, seeing what vendors are there, and what bands/performers are going to be on which stage at what time. To me, it’s a lot more fun than the annual gay pride parade, because you’re not on the sidelines watching the parade go by, but you’re in the middle of the action, participating (or not) to your heart’s content. You see men holding hands with other men, and women with women, without fear of bashing.

Moments of Grace

2008-05-26T14:28:00.006-05:00

Two unexpected things happened this weekend, that were really nice surprises. I call them moments of grace, removing any religious connotation to the term. Perhaps moments of Will and Grace.

First moment: Last week, I checked my voice mail on my land line (something I don’t do with any regularity). There was a message from a week before from Mike. Mike and I had been friends. I met him the first year I moved to Chicago, when we both joined the gay chorus. We even have the same birthday. We became fast friends. Just friends, nothing romantic. Eight years ago, something happened the ended the friendship. The details aren’t important for the purposes of this post. And, writing of them would break confidences that need not be broken. At the time it happened, I was deeply saddened. As the metaphor goes, the ball was in his court. I kept somewhat updated on him through a mutual friend. His voice mail indicated he’d just had dinner with said mutual friend, which was his impetus to call. I returned the call. We made plans to meet for coffee on Saturday at 9:00. We met. He opened by referencing said incident. I told him of my perception, the feelings it left me with, and why it upset and hurt me so deeply. He apologized. It’s amazing how the two simple words, “I’m sorry”, when spoken sincerely have the ability to melt away an iceberg 8 years in the making. We sat and talked for over 3 hours, with plans to get together and do Chicago “summer activities”. I truly thought we’d never speak again.

Second moment: Upon returning home, I par chance checked my land line voice mail. There was a message from my “MUPM”—My Upper Peninsula Mom. She and “MUPD” –My Upper Peninsula Dad, were visiting their daughter MB, who lives on the south side. I was a ‘bridesman’ in her first wedding. When I was in grad school, I became good friends with both of their daughters. They lived not too far away. MUPD is a retired United Methodist Minister. But, he does not fit the mold of “stodgy, prudish minister”, which often comes to the front of your brain, when you hear “minister or preacher”. MB is best friends with one of my grad school housemates, DJ. DJ, and I by extension got invited annually to what came to be known as “Birthday Fest” for MB’s (and her sister KT’s) respective birthdays. They ‘adopted’ me, and I became “Their Gay Son”, at a time when my relationship with my family of origin was not in a good place, post-coming out. Through various moves they have been MIM/MID (My Iowa Mom/Dad); MIOM/D My Other Illinois Mom/Dad); and now MUPM/D My Upper Peninsula Mom/Dad. I did not get to see them before the last move from Illinois to Michigan last year.
Here was MUPM on my voice mail, saying they were in town at MB’s, and DJ was there too. They would drive (since I no longer have Gary) from the far South side to the far North side and take me to dinner if I was free. I’m So glad I checked the VM. I called back, and the plans were set. The homo gods were looking down upon me, as I had made an extra chocolate pound cake and had it in the freezer from the last time I bake for book group a few weeks ago. So, we could go out for Asian food, and return to my place for dessert. MUPM is a retired Home Ec teacher, so I couldn’t (well I could, but I WOULDN’T) serve something store bought. One of the things I love about this family, is that they are all very quick witted, and zingers and one liners fly from all of us. It’s always a great sparing match of words and wit, and we laugh. Oh how we laugh. They make me feel like I matter--Even now that I’m a godless heathen. MUPD told me once that I was mentioned in one of his sermons when he was guest preaching somewhere.
Aside from the love and affection I hold for this, my ‘other’ family, my “family of choice”. I have the utmost regard and respect. This family’s health travails rival, and surpass my own. MUPD & MUPM are both cancer survivors. MB is a cancer survivor, having just had surgery in December for kidney cancer. KT’s son, is a cancer survivor, having had a rare liver cancer when he was only 2. He’s 11 now, if memory serves. He was truly a miracle child. MUPD just lost a sister to cancer. His Dad had cancer. Through all of these, they maintained their faith, spirit, and belief in a benevolent god, that I relinquished or so long ago. The only thing missing was KT and her family, who are in the UP. In fact, MUPD has written a book, "Now That I Have Cancer, I am Whole" ISBN 978-0-7407-6372-4.
MUPD is the only person who knows me personally that reads my blog. I have intentionally not let other family and friends knowledge of its existence.

After some pretty major losses in the last few months, these were great 'finds'.

Leavin' on a Jet Plane

2008-05-26T10:07:00.003-05:00

Although, as per the John Denver song, my bags are NOT packed, I'm NOT ready to go... yet.

I’m off to the great North East. I’m going to Vancouver, BC, Canada for a conference for work. I’m even presenting at the conference, which, to quote Little Red Riding Hood from Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods, “I’m excited AND scared”. Well, OK, maybe scared is a bit too strong. But extremely nervous is not. The dreams will probably start tonight or tomorrow night. You know the ones, where everything than can go wrong does. You DO have those dreams don’t you? My worst ones were back when I had my florist business. I would dream that I somehow forgot Mother’s Day, and didn’t have enough flowers to sell—or that I missed a wedding by a week, or delivered the flowers to the wrong church. (That one actually happened with a florist I once worked for—(not my fault, for the record). Yet, given my penchant for WASTHTR*, there is empirical evidence to support my paranoia.
I’m most excited about going to VC. I’ve never been, and I’ve heard all of these wonderful things about the city. IF anyone has recommendations, of what to see, do, where to eat, please send them to me. I’ll be there through the weekend, and will have all of Sunday to myself to explore, sightsee.

*Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy

Bus Ride, Part II

2008-05-05T16:40:00.003-05:00

Bus Ride Part II

In the midst of my laughing fits from reading Attack of the Theatre People*, my cell phone rings. Caller ID shows that it’s my brother, Mike, who never calls me for no particular reason. He proceeds to tell me that our Mom is in the hospital, she was taken by ambulance. SHIT!! This is not a phone conversation one wants to have on the bus, especially, the Felini Express. He doesn’t know a lot. Dad, loses/misses a lot of information when transmitting it from one source to another. He’s fully functional and his mental acuity is fine. Communication is just not his strong suit. This is not a judgment nor a value statement, but rather an observation. Add to that the confusion of medical terminology and being flummoxed by the situation, there wasn’t a dearth of information to glean from him, and what Mike did get was even more scant. She apparently was light-headed, almost fainted or actually fainted, then was nauseous. I begin asking Mike about whether she’s been seen by a cardiologist yet. That statement caused the people in close proximity to me, to once again turn and stare at me. Albeit, with different looks on their faces this time. Even in a low voice, this is just not a conversation you want to have on a bus. Had I been out walking, or in a building, I could have at least found a quiet corner or hallway.

Later that night, Dad calls me from home. He doesn’t have a lot more info than what Mike had relayed other than the Cardiologist was going to be by in the morning. I told him that when the Cardiologist, arrived, that Dad was to call me, so I could talk to him.
Sunday morning about 11:00, it’s Dad’s cell phone calling. He gives me the Dr. I tell him where I work, that I’m the Director of CME, and I used to work at the hospital where Mom is (and he works). Without going into detail, there’s no indication of heart attack. They’re doing an Echocardiograph on Monday morning. If everything comes back unremarkable, they’ll send her home.

Last week was such a strange week at work. I may post about that later. It was topped off by a stranger weekend. Was it a full moon?

Post Script--Mom went home Monday evening.

*Marc Acito’s new book

Inspired

2008-05-05T16:38:00.001-05:00

Inspired
My blog is mostly the rants and ramblings of a wannabe writer—snippets of my life for anyone who might stubble over here. Often my writings are of a medical nature, as I work in healthcare, and I’m a major consumer of healthcare services. (I write solely for myself and not for, nor do I represent anyone else in my posts.) Imagine my surprise when I popped over to one of my favorite physician blogs http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/ to see a posting about CVID, http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/2008/04/common-variable-immune-deficiency-cvid.html my disease. Imagine an even greater surprise to read that I was in part the inspiration for the posting. I’m not usually (read: never before) referenced by a legitimate professional. I’m used to being referenced in vain or in less flattering modes, by non (or lesser) professionals. {nonsequitur: can someone help this techno-challenged man and tell me how to create those one word links in my blog, instead of having to put in the whole url?}
Reading about CVID from a treating physician was great, as it’s not a well known or well publicized disorder. While called Common Variable Immune Deficiency, there’s really nothing common about it. In fact, we often go undiagnosed or mis-diagnosed for years before we get the correct physician who knows of it. It took over 13 years to finally get mine diagnosed correctly. On two different occasions, two different physicians were convinced that I was testing ‘false negatives’ for HIV. I’m a gay man, getting chronic bronchial and sinus infections—gotta be HIV. Let me state for the record, these grasping at straws diagnoses were really effective mind fucks. The possibilities were remote, but not high on the radar. While I’ve not been a chaste monk, I’m not what one would consider a heavy player of the field. I’ve had two previous BFs who were HIV positive. We were always careful. But the remote chance was there.
Having just come back from Washington, DC as ‘Lobbyist for a Day’, it was cool to discover that my writing about that experience prompted a physician to do a scientific/medical post about CVID. Thanks, Dr. Mark: for diagnosing and treating your patients, and for making your medical reading public a bit more knowledgeable. Perhaps we (meaning You) did some CME vicariously.

Bus Ride, Part I

2008-05-04T22:07:00.008-05:00

It’s all Marc Acito’s Fault

This story requires some set up.

I am told I have a very distinctive laugh. Once, when I was grad school, I went to see a movie. After a particularly funny moment, in a dark theatre, someone yells “(my surname) is that you?!" After I’d’ been in Chicago for a few years, I went to see/hear David Sedaris do a reading. It was a fundraiser for our local Public Radio station. It was also recorder for future listening. Some months after, I get a call from a friend out of the blue, who asked if I’d been at said reading. I replied, “Yes”, somewhat perplexed. “I knew it! I was just listening to it on the radio, and I knew that was your laugh that I heard!” So, apparently my laugh gives me away.

Certain bus and train lines of CTA (Chicago Transit Authority) are known for the patrons who frequent them. A former columnist for one of Chicago’s Gay weekly magazines once referred to the Clark Street #22 bus as “The Felini Express” for the menagerie of freaks and nuts who seemed to always be on every bus. They’re the people who talk to themselves—loudly; or they may look like a close facsimile of the uni-bomber. You get the idea. They are the people you move away from.

This bus is one of the lines that I live close to and use with some frequency. In fact, I was on this bus on Saturday. Friday night, I was at Unabridged Books, (my favorite bookstore in Chicago) and bought Marc Acito’s new book, Attack of the Theatre People”. It’s funny. It’s very funny. I was reading it Saturday on my ride home on the Felini Express. The bus was full—SRO. I manage to score a seat when someone gets off. I pull the book out of my backpack, I read a passage that made a direct hit to my funny bone. I let out resounding chortle. People stared. I buried my face in the book. It happens again. I let loose with a guffaw. The bus is less crowded now. The guy sitting next to me gets up and moves to another seat. I have become one of those people. I have become a Felini Expressite. It’s all Marc’s fault. Laughing has been comodity of short supply for me. I’ve not been laughing much lately. It felt good—even if it's caused me to join the ranks of the Felini Express People.

Don’t ask me what made me laugh so hard. Go buy the book and find out for yourself. Support your independent bookstore and put Marc’s book on the charts.

Post Script--Tonight (Tuesday) I was transferring trains (EL) coming home from work. I get on the crowded train--SRO. I'm standing near the doorway, holding the bar in one hand, and Attack of the Theatre People in the other. A young, hip woman who was next to/behind me notices the book, and asks, "Have you read his first book? IT was hillarious!" I tell her, "No, this is my first. But it's causing me to have outbursts of laughter on the CTA." She tells me she's going to have go get this one, and tells me to get the first book.

Sweeney Todd --Redeemed!

2008-04-30T20:54:00.002-05:00

Sweeney Todd has been redeemed!—No, not the travesty of a movie. It’s still a piece of shit. Over the weekend, as part of my birthday (February 6, for those taking notes), my best friend got tickets for the touring production of Sweeney, which is in Chicago for a brief (way too brief) time. Additionally, the universe showed me some kindness, and by a fluke I was able to see it on Tuesday night as well. I responded to an ad on CL. This guy had a friend back out on him, and he had an extra . I didn’t even have to pay for the ticket. Blind date, great show, nice guy. For both performances we were in the orchestra level at the theatre.

When the revival opened on Broadway two years ago, I was really bummed that I was not able to see it. (This doesn’t qualify as a regret—see previous post—as it’s not that I had an opportunity to see it and passed on it, I just was unable due to circumstances and finances to get to NYC to see it. I couldn’t wrap my mind around how the actors were also the orchestra. How the heck would/could this work?! I did get to NYC last summer and saw Company, which was done in the same manner (same director) and I got an idea, but these plays are so different, I still couldn’t see how this would work with ST.
With the exception of the leads, most of the Broadway cast (or understudies/standbys) are in the touring production. The character of Tobias (Toby) is also an exception. Edmund
Bagnell, the young man (as opposed to a prepubescent boy in the POS movie) who plays him is EXCEPTIONAL. In my opinion, he stole the show. Instrumentally, he played the violin, and clarinet. All of the characters are on stage the whole time, even when he was not in a scene, he was so totally in character. His facial expressions were incredible. He conveyed so much with his eyes, even from the middle of the orchestra section, he was that expressive. He would get this wonderful maniacal look, and even his violin playing looked maniacal at crucial times. He made the violin a character in the show. Vocally, instrumentally, and theatrically, he was sublime.

It was great to hear Sweeney and Judge Turpin singing in those booming, menacing baritone/bass voices, as Sweeney should be. The “Pretty Women” duets were bravissimo! While vocally, Johnny Depp didn’t completely suck (like HB-C did as Mrs. Lovett), a tenor Sweeney just doesn’t evoke the same sense of foreboding that that a deep bass singing Sweeney does. Benjamin Eakeley, who played The Beadle, and instrumentally played keyboard, clarinet and saxophone, gave a very subdued, yet strong, nuanced performance. He played a slick, smooth operating political sycophant, not some greasy snaggle-toothed street bum.

The performance that was not exceptional, and let me state, she was not bad was Johanna. But her star was less bright in this galaxy of comets and supernovas. Vocally and instrumentally, she shone with the rest. I felt though, that she ‘dumbed down’ the character of Johanna to a caricature, being a bit too ditzy, as though being placed in the lunatic asylum may have been the right choice. Also, I didn’t think that she stayed in character when she was playing cello, but not singing. I’m not sure why a woman was cast as Pirelli, the Barber. That didn’t really work for me. This actress did an OK job, but I would rather see that role play by a man with at tenor voice, not a female alto.

Casting this show had to be a nightmare. The instrumental assignments were not random. Toby HAD to be able play the violin. Mrs. Lovett had to be able to play the tuba. Not only did Benjamin Magnuson, who plays Antony have to be able to sing the role, and act it, but also be able to play, cello and keyboard. Finding the right person for each character who also played the instruments assigned to that character. Then there are the Understudies and Standbys, who are US & SB for multiple characters. It blows my mind. Sondheim writes difficult music to sing. But the music is integral to the character and character development. The music is just as important as the words that are attached to the notes. That’s why I can’t understand why he let the movie be done with sub-par (shitty) singers. (I won’t call them musicians). OK, so you want big name actors to be the box office draw. There are plenty of A listers who can sing well. Cast them. But I digress. If this touring production comes to close to you, go see it! ©wtf/rle

So long, Gary, with some regret(s)

2008-04-24T20:52:00.010-05:00

This past Sunday, I became vehicularless. I sold my car, a 2003 Chili Red Mini Cooper. His name was Gary (as in Gary {mini} Cooper). My cars have always had boy names. It’s the second time I’ve had to sell a car due to economics. Over a five year period, I lost 13 months of income, due to my health, from surgeries, chronic pain, broken arm. I learned to quit asking the question, “WTF can happen next?!” Because when I did, the universe would respond. Let me state, the intent of this entry is NOT a poor me pity party. But, rather a documentation of events. This falls into the category of WASTHTR*

I got Gary in the Spring of 2003. MINIs were just hitting the US. I’m not usually at the far left side of the bell curve known as early adopters. But my friend Ben, had just ordered one. (He IS the early adopter profile.) I was starting a new job in the burbs that was going to be a big commute. I had gotten through the chronic pain debilitation, and one (unrelated) surgery. It was the mark of a new beginning, after a year and a half of hell. I had had to sell my previous car as a result of lost income from the chronic pain convalescence.

The funny (strange funny/ not ha ha funny) thing about working in healthcare is that one would think one would have great benefits relating to healthcare—things like short-term and long term disability. Not so much. Each of those 13 months over that 5 year period was a time with NO income, no disability. The most I ever got was one to two weeks of vacation or PTO time that may have been accrued. So, no income means NO income.

Friends were excited for me. Many made a big deal out of getting Gary, because of the previous year and a half and symbolically what the new car meant for me.
I had Gary less than a month, in fact, I had not yet made my first car payment, when one afternoon, backing out of my space in the parking deck at the Hospital (which would later become known as 5RH**), a Chevy Tahoe backs into me. I have no admissible evidence, but the lady driving the Tahoe was on her cell phone. There was a witness who verified that she was the driver at fault. When the witness (an employee) had to leave, she asked the security guard if she needed to leave her name and contact info. He replied, “No”, as he knew who she was. (I would later regret not taking her info myself.) The funny (this time it IS funny ha ha.) thing was, is that security was there in seconds—literally. Hospital security was not known for their swiftness of action. It wasn’t until I was finally driving out after the police showed up and we did the whole police report stuff, that I realized I had already opened up the moon roof, so my voice could be heard. As soon as I heard the crunch of my back fender, I just started screaming,

“FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!!!!!!!!!”

at the top of my lungs. That’s what got security there so quickly! That was in May. The witness? When I called security the next day to get her name and contact info for my insurance company. They had no recollection of a witness. When I said, “She came up and talked to you!, and you told her you knew who she was!” Of course the Chevy Tahoe driver denied fault. So my first car payment was my $500. insurance deductible.

In September, I was coming back home from a trip downstate to visit a friend. Euckie was NOT with me this time. Being a compliant patient, and following my (PM&R) doc’s instructions, I get out stop at a rest stop to walk around, stretch my legs. Upon re-entering the highway from the rest stop exit ramp, I do my look backwards, see nothing, enter the high, and am immediately hit by someone driving a Cadillac Seville. I veer off to the side, start to open my door, to go to the other car, and I feel pain and dizzy. I stop. I call 911. I get my first (and hopefully last) ambulance ride. While in the ER, on the gurney, on a back board with a C-Collar, I am approached by a police officer who gives me a ticket for improper lane usage. The other driver received the same. Since there were no witnesses, rather than issuing no tickets, as there was no evidence to support either party, they chose to be equal opportunity offenders. I could appear in court to fight the ticket. “I’m sorry for your injuries. I hope you’re OK.” I won’t tell you what words were running through my mind, but I’m sure you can guess. On top of that, I had to piss like a race horse. I learned that this is not an easy task, when flat on your back strapped down, with something pressing on a full bladder. To make matters worse, I find out that the guy who hit me was the son of a Chicago policeman. My chances of contesting the ticket winning that battle were just annihilated.

There was a third incident that happened on December 23 of the same year, leaving the hospital. I was sideswiped by the Electric Company truck. It grazed the side, and took out the side mirror and mirror cap, and door handle. There was no way I was reporting this to the insurance. I went 14 years without an auto insurance claim (and that one wasn’t my fault, either). And, three in a year’s time, with a new vehicle.

I have two philosophies about regrets. The first one is, one should NOT have regrets.
The second one is, or perhaps a corollary of the first is, if you must have regrets, they should be about things you did NOT do. There should never be regrets for doing something, as I think that even the bad experiences in life are hopefully learning experiences.

When I wanted to start my florist business, my Mom was dead set against it. “What’s going to happen if you fail?!” My family has always been a glass half empty (or completely empty) type of people. Affirmation and positive reinforcement were not a part of the arsenal. My response was, “I’d rather try and fail, than not try at all, and when I turn 40 wonder ‘what if’?”

I can say for the most part, I pretty much have led my life with no regrets. And the regrets I do have are of things I did NOT do, or did NOT do sooner. When I was a freshman in college, I was offered a ticket to go see Harry Chapin in Concert. I opted to go to a party instead, rationalizing that Harry came around every year for his ‘World Hunger Concert Tour”. Before Harry got back to a return concert, he was killed in an auto accident.

The next regret is one I vacillate back and forth on. I wish I’d come out of the closet long before I did. It didn’t happen until I was in my late 20s, in grad school. The reason I vacillate on this one is that given the point in history, had I come out in early college, chances are strong that I’d be dead. With my luck, I’d have contracted HIV, when they were still trying to figure out what it was.

My current regret of something that I did NOT do is that I did NOT file bankruptcy when it was recommended by various individuals. I would not allow myself to suffer that sort of shame and become one of ‘those deadbeat sycophants’ on society.

This is what brought me to selling Gary. When I left 5RH to take my current position, I took a HUGE cut in salary—almost half. Yes, it was a conscious decision, partly based on ‘what price do you put on sanity?” The job REALLY was THAT bad. Also, this employer has solid short-term and long term disability plans, as well as a good medical plan. These are things I had to look for in a job. Should I retire from here (it’s unlikely I’ll live to see that), my health insurance is paid for the rest of my life.

I was already asshole deep in medical debt. Last year, to try and reduce some of that debt, I cashed out my life insurance policy, and retirement. As a result, I took a terrible tax hit this year, and owed the IRS. I claim zero dependents, and usually get a very nice return every year. I knew that the cash out would affect that, but I anticipated that it would reduce greatly what I would get back this year, and that I would not end up owing my left nut. I was mistaken. Having no more savings, or retirement to cash out, the remaining thing is to liquidate solid assets…hence, Gary has gone to a new home in Arkansas. If I’d filed bankruptcy, especially before W’s new laws went into place, my life insurance and retirement would have been protected. Stupid fucking pride. What do I have to show for it? Certainly not a car, anymore. On the up side, I've just become more earth friendly.

* Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy
** Fifth Ring of Hell

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

2008-04-21T22:18:00.001-05:00

Earlier this winter I was invited by the Immune Deficiency Foundation to come to Washington, DC to attend their “Capitol Hill Day”, and to meet with my legislators to discuss healthcare funding and reimbursement affecting people who need infusions of IgG to maintain a healthy immune system. If you are a regular reader, you know that I am one of these people. I have CVID and receive monthly infusions of IgG, which is a component of blood, extracted from plasma.

Wednesday night: 9:48 pm (EDT)
We had our dinner and training session for tomorrow. I got my appointments. I’m going to a ‘constituent breakfast’ with Senator Durbin. Throughout the day, I’ll be meeting with someone from Senator Obama’s staff, and two House Reps. It was nice meeting some of the IDF staff, and other Primary Immune Deficiency patients. A special guest was the Mom of “The Boy in the Bubble”. She is the one responsible for getting this bill introduced by one of her legislators. Some of the patient stories were horrific. One woman was told by her insurance company, “We’re not approving your IVIG because it’d be cheaper for us if you died.” This kind of bullshit should be criminal! “Oh, the U.S. healthcare system is fine!” We have a great healthcare system—as long as you’re not a consumer. For one of the richest countries, we have the shittiest healthcare system for an industrialized nation. But that’s not news.
I’m looking forward to the meetings and reporting further. (Although this is all going to be in one post most likely.) The unfortunate part of being in DC right now is that, the Youth for Hitler alumus, with the big hat and red Prada shoes is here at the same time. That’s a pisser. Oh, our dinner meeting got bumped to a smaller room because vp (evil incarnate) cheney took our original room for some function. church and this administration, I’m going to wretch before I get back to Chicago.
The weather is great. I got here mid afternoon, checked in, and went out to enjoy a few hours outside. The hotel is near Dupont Circle –aka “the fruit loop”. That’s a bonus. So I walked down to the “FL”, go to Kramer’s Bookstore and Restaurant (A GREAT Place), and get a table outside on the sidewalk, order a drink, and appetizer and pull out the laptop and relax for an hour and half. I also don’t get out the door without buying a book, “The Best Buddhist Writing 2007”. This is one of my favorite bookstores. I discovered it last fall when I was here. I’m rambling. I have to be ready to roll at 6:30, and you may remember, I’m NOT a morning person. So, signing off for tonight.

Thursday morning, April 17, 6:25 AM. (EDT). I am SO NOT a morning person. Luggage is checked with the bell station. I’m out to get on the bus. Bus is rolling out at 6:45 SHARP! NOT! One person in our group is in a wheelchair. The fucking bus driver doesn’t know how to operate the wheelchair lift. I shit you not, it is 8:00 before we finally leave the front of the Hilton. Traffic is rerouted due to the pope. The President of the IDF is sitting next to me. She keeps saying, “This route doesn’t seem right.” We are assured that it is, that the bus driver knows what he’s doing. We’re deep in Maryland before this imbecile admits that he’s lost. I posed the question, “How does someone get a job in transportation in Washington, DC and not know where the Capitol is?!?!” There is another Illinoisan in the group. We miss our breakfast with Senator Durbin. We’re bummed and pissed. We are finally dropped off at the Capitol, nearly two hours late. A couple of Reps were supposed to get awards from the organization. That didn’t happen either. Those of us who don’t have 8:30 appointments, are able to go to the Capitol building and chow down some breakfast before our previously reserved room is cleared.
We are in DC to Lobby our legislators about HB 2914, which is a Medicare reimbursement add on so that our medical providers can get appropriate reimbursement. Currently, providers get reimbursed for the IgG product, but not for infusion nurses, nor the IV pump. (One woman told about how she had to give herself her own IV, because insurance would not pay for the infusion nurse.) Because our medical conditions are somewhat rare and unusual, medical providers don’t always know how to treat us. Often, we are sent to Oncology centers, to Chemo suites for the infusions. Chemo patients get IgG as a boost to their chemo. For us, IgG is not the add on. It’s the primary ingredient. There are different manufacturers. Each of us responds differently to each ‘brand’ of blood product. We can have adverse reactions to the infusion. I’ve had reactions a few times, fortunately not severe. All this to say that IgG is not generic, as one physician told one of us.
It’s another beautiful Spring day. It’s a great day to be walking Capitol Hill. We are off to our first meeting. It is with Rep’s office of my other Illinois compatriot. IDF has set it up so that we have an ‘escort’, either staff person, volunteer, or blood product manufacturer employee. This person introduces us, and gives the ‘quick and dirty’ of why we’re there—tells about the proposed bill that we are hoping our legislator will support. As constituents/IVIG patients, we are there to tell our stories, and why it (the proposed bill) is important to us. We are the ‘human faces or stories’ of IVIG recipients. The first meeting goes OK. The person we meet with at the Rep’s office does not seem very engaged—like he’s meeting with us only because he has to.
We have some time before our next meeting, with Sen. Durbin’s office. We will have a different host/escort. We arrive sans escort, early. We apologize for missing the breakfast, and relay the bus driver story. We are told that it’s too bad as this morning’s breakfast was a small group and we would have actually had some face time with the Senator. We are doubly bummed and pissed at the bus driver. Our escort arrives, and we are introduced to the liaison that we are to meet. After our ‘presentations’ she asks a number of questions, takes notes, and is much more engaged than our first meeting. We feel this meeting was a success. We have almost two hours before our next appointment. We walk over the Old Union Station for lunch. Our next meeting is with Obama’s Office. This meeting seems as successful as the last one. The liaison we meet with is equally engaged, and tells us she will bring the issue up with the other medical liaisons at their weekly staff meeting. Our final meeting is with my Representative, Jan Schanowski. She actually comes out to meet us, shake our hands, and apologize that she has to catch a plane. Her staff person that we met with listened to our stories and took notes, like the others. She also asked us some really good questions about the legislation, and made connections, “Rep. S is on ‘this’ committee which has crossover to the committee that deals with medical. It was our best and most successful meeting of the day. As we are leaving, returning to the hotel to collect our luggage and head to the airport, our escort for this meeting says to us, “You are lobbyists!”
This day was a really cool experience. It was much more educational that any social studies or government class I was ever in. For those of us who feel like we’ve had so much taken from us (health, financial solvency, dignity, control of our lives) it felt like (for me anyway) that I was taking back a small bit of control. I was at least, not sitting by complacently, letting something happen to me. I was fighting back in some small way. I was able to tell my story to someone who may be in a position to affect change. I was able to be my own advocate. I’m most grateful to IDF for the opportunity to be a lobbyist for a day. ©wtf/rle

Never Enough

2008-04-07T20:54:00.002-05:00

No matter how much time you have, it’s never enough. You want more. But you take what you’re given, and you learn to treasure the good, cloud over the bad—not completely, because hopefully in the bad you’ve gained a valuable life lesson. That part shouldn’t be forgotten. But you don’t want to hold on to the bad like you do the good.

In order to feel the exhilarating heights of joy and euphoria, the converse must be present. You also have to be able to feel utter despair and pain of grief. It’s the yin and yang. Not long after Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died, I felt very guilty because I was so grief stricken over losing her. I realized that I’d cried a lot over her, but never cried when my Grandma or favorite Uncle died. Did that mean I didn’t love them enough, because I didn’t cry when they died? Cognitively, I know that’s not the case. I’m not sure I can explain it. They were part of my life—a major part of my life. But they were not a part of my everyday routine. They did not impact my daily schedule. My Uncle had Alzheimer’s. For many intents and purposes, the Uncle/Man that I knew and remembered had died a few years before his body finally expired. In so many ways, it was a relief. Caring for him was taking an emotional and physical toll on my Aunt. Now the universe is repaying her with her own onset of Alzheimer’s. But, I digress.

There have been three times in my adult life that I have had a grief of this magnitude: Euckie’s death, which obviously is still very raw; when Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died; and when Bruce (henceforth known as the Stupid Fucking Mormon—SFM) told me he was leaving me and moving back to Utah to be with a man he met a two weeks before, when he went back to visit his parents. Ficus (the dog), I was prepared for—as much as one can be. I knew she had cancer. She was put to sleep the day the movers packed up my house for my move to Chicago. The good aspect of that, is that there were so many changes that happened at once. I was in a new city, in a new home which never housed Ficus. There weren’t constant reminders of her absence, because everything was different. That made the adjustment easier (or less difficult). It was 3 months later that SFM left me. As the man (a friend) who bought my house downstate commented, “Man, if you took one of those ‘changes in you life’ stressors test, you’d blow that fucker out of the water!” And so I did.

I wanted more time with Ficus (the dog); with the SFM; and with Euckie. The other thing about time is, when enough time HAS passed, after the grief making event, you are able to be grateful and hold the good memories, gently in your mind, heart, and soul. They do sustain you—even the ones with the SFM.

One of my neighbors gave me a bottle of wine, and told me to “Drown your sorrows.” I’ve never been a depressive drinker. I opted to hold on to the bottle, and will open it when I can drink a toast to the good times I had with Euckie—which is nearly all of them. Although there wasn’t enough time for my liking, in time enough when it’s less raw, I’ll walk our usual route, and it will feel good. It will feel right. She will look down, taking a break from chasing a squirrel, and will smile that crooked dog smile. And the sun will shine brighter for just a moment. ©wtf/rle

Happy 75th

2008-04-07T19:07:00.002-05:00

I heard today on NPR that today is the 75th anniversary of the repeal of prohibition. Drink up!

Sometimes the Universe...

2008-04-06T17:42:00.002-05:00

…is a fucking bitch, with a twisted sense of humor.

Author note: If you've not read the previous post, this one will make less sense. Hell, it may make no sense if you've read the previous post. Just so you know, intrepid reader, I am going to be processing my grief (or some of it) by writing here on this blog.

I am NOT a morning person. I used to have no problems getting up when I needed to do so. But these days, I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed. I relish weekends so I can sleep in. I would take Euckie out before going to bed to empty her bladder, so she would not need to go out at 7:00 am. She usually let me sleep until around 9:00, before putting her paws up on my bed to get me up. This morning (Sunday). I wake up at 7:30. Wide awake. I lay back down. I’m not nodding off. FUCK YOU universe! Funny joke. Ha Ha. I’m not laughing.

So, I get out of bed. I don’t walk Euckie. I don’t fill her water and food bowls. I don’t fix us our Sunday morning eggs. What I do, after I have my coffee and breakfast, is re-bag almost 40 LBS of dog food, that I’d bought a couple of weeks ago. I took it to Anti-Cruelty to donate in Euckie’s name.

The thing I hate most about grief is how it hits you at strange times, triggered by completely unrelated, innocuous events. Yesterday was in the 60’s—the first time we’ve hit those digits this year. My parents drove up for the day. That was a genuine surprise. Well, it was a surprise Friday night when Mom called and asked if I was going to be around on Saturday. If so, they were going to come up for the day. My relatives are not necessarily known for their overt displays of affection or compassion. So, this was pretty monumental. I even got nice notes from my brothers. Sometimes my family surprises me in good ways.

When they left to go back home, I walked them outside to their car. As it was our first great Spring day, I decided to take a walk—I decided to take ‘our usual Euckie walk.” I didn’t expect a stupid walk to make me tear up. I take the repackaged dog food to Anti-Cruelty. I’m driving home. I’m on LSD (Lake Shore Drive, NOT the hallucinogenic), heading north. Radio is playing-Oldies station. “To Sir With Love”, the song from the TV movie in the early 70’s with Sidney Poitier. I know it. I’m singing along. “…who taught me right from wrong, weak from strong, that’s a lot to learn…” I fucking lose it. I’m driving and sobbing. It’s not even a goddamn song about a dog. WTF is wrong with me?!? I felt so fucking stupid, and embarrassed. The only good thing is that I was alone in the car. The mind and heart of grief plays tricks on the soul of grief.

An odd coincidence that I realized is that it was this same week, 13 years ago, that Ficus (the dog, not the plant) was put to sleep. WTF is it about the beginning of Spring and my dogs? Another thing that I’m pissed at the universe with is: It’s finally Spring. You make my poor dog suffer walking on ice in 20 below Chicago winter, you can’t give her at least some days of good Spring weather to enjoy before you start mis-firing her synapses?!
I’m re-reading “Dog Years”. I’m telling you people, buy this book! But I don’t think I’ll read this one on the train for the work commute. I want to try and keep my composure at least in public settings.

Euckie the WONDER(ful) Dog

2008-04-04T17:40:00.005-05:00

This is a long post. It’s been a while since I’ve written. I hope you will bear with me and read through to the end—not for me, but for the subject of this post. The pictures here are of Euckie. She was my constant and faithful, loyal companion for almost 11 years. Yesterday, (Thursday April 3, 2008) I had Euckie put to sleep. This is her tribute.

I adopted Euckie from the Anti-Cruelty Society in Chicago. They thought she was about a year old when I got her. She had been badly abused. One eye was smaller, and that ear was cocked differently from the other. This was a result of being hit or struck on her head from her abuser(s). My personal theory is that she was hit by or dumped from a car, as she totally wigged out if we crossed a busy, high trafficked street or road.

About 2-3 weeks ago, she had a seizure in the middle of the night. The past 3 nights in a row, she had seizures again, each one progressively worse. She seemed to be more impaired after each one. She knew something had happened, and it just freaked her out. Last night it took about 3 hours to ‘bring her down’.

When I called to make the appointment on Tuesday, I knew/felt in the pit of stomach that we were going to the vet, and I was going to come back home alone. Wednesday night, I made her eggs with cheese. Eggs for breakfast is--was a weekend treat for both of us. Instead of her usual one treat per night, she got one every time she went to the cabinet and stared up at the cookie jar with her treats. We had a great night until the last seizure that night—less than 24 hours after the previous one. I begged to the universe, “Let’s us get through Thursday without a seizure. Let this day be as good as possible for her.” This was of course before I knew what the outcome of the trip was going to be.

The vet said that the exam indicated that the seizures were neurological in nature, and that most likely were the result of a brain tumor, given her age and other symptoms. He said I could have had a CT or MRI done to confirm, and if confirmed, there was nothing that could be done.

After the procedure he told me that if she’d been his dog, he would have made the same decision, which at least helped me to feel that I’d made the correct decision, albeit a hard one—actually, the decision wasn’t hard. Following through was. My best friend G (and Euckie’s favorite human) went with me and was with us. We stayed with her, and I held her while she received the IV.

She was the most loving dog I have ever known. Although I’m biased, this is a sentiment that myriad people have said to me over the past 10 + years, time and time again. Last Thanksgiving, at Mom & Dad’s, my sister-in-law told me she’d never seen a dog so devoted to its master before. The devotion was mutual, but I’m certain she was better than I. She was the most loyal and faithful companion, and greatly loved by pretty much everyone who knew her. I think that the best testament of that is this. As I’ve come home and told two different neighbors, they broke down, crying, with me. It wasn’t just for my loss, but because they loved Euckie for the great and loving dog she was. That’s a testament to her, not to me. People consistently have told me, “she such a lucky dog to have gotten you.” That’s not correct. I’m the lucky one. We-I {the fucking strikethrough function isn't transfering on blogger-italics followed by bold indicates what should be a strikethrough replaced word} currently live in a Co op. When I was buying this place, before my offer could be accepted, I had to be interviewed and approved by the other owners of the building. (It’s one of the differences between a co op and a condo.) There had not been a dog in the building before, so we both had to be interviewed, and ‘pass the test’. After we were accepted and moved in, I was told that J my neighbor P’s son, kept asking, not when is the new man moving in, but “When’s the dog moving in?” Euckie was already in like Flynn. The jury was still out on me!

I think that she chose me as much as I chose her 11 years ago at Anti Cruelty. I had been going back every Saturday, after I moved to my first condo. It was almost two months of returning either seeing dogs that had already been adopted, or not ‘connecting’ with a dog. With Euckie, it was immediate. Here was this emaciated, anorexic, terribly frightened dog, with a crooked face and smile, who looked like a patchwork quilt. As one friend commented, “She looks like she was put together by committee!” She was an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix. She was damned smart!

They had given her some name that just didn’t fit. I don’t even remember what it was, now. I used to be a florist. My dogs have been named after plants. My previous dog that I got after college (the first time) was named “Ficus”. I wanted to continue the tradition. Since my new vocation was healthcare, I wanted somehow to tie that in. Eucalyptus is a plant with healing properties. It’s native to Australia. It was a trifecta—plant, health, native origins! It was shortened to Euckie.

Here are a couple of my favorite Euckie Stories:

Not long after I got her, I took her downstate to Mom & Dad’s. She didn’t do well in the car the first few times. (I think she’d been dumped from a car.) But she came to love car rides, especially to Mom & Dad’s because she could be off the leash and run free. The first time we did that, I took her to my old high school, across the street, and she ran in the practice football field. I apparently was not keeping up with her, enough to suit her anyway. She began circling big and ‘herding’ me to get me to go where she wanted me to be.

She loved chasing squirrels. She almost caught them couple of times. Had she not been on her leash, I have not doubt that she would have. She’s the only dog I’ve ever seen who tried (and nearly succeeded) to climb a tree, while chasing a squirrel.

When Mom and Dad came up here after my first shoulder surgery, I was unable to sleep in my bed and was sleeping my recliner club chair in the living room. In the morning, I heard Mom, whispering, “Euckie, come here. Come here. It’s time for your walk.” (Euckie was always eager for her morning ‘constitutional’.) She had camped out beside my chair, and would not leave my side. It wasn’t until I told her it was ‘OK to go’, and I had to get up and take to the door, before she would go with Dad for her walk.

A few months ago I read the book, “Dog Years: A Memoir” by Mark Doty, which is a great book. I highly recommend it. At the time I didn’t realize it was preparing me for today, but in some ways as I read it, I knew that it was. Now it’s almost spooky. I have many pages ‘dog eared’—how apropos. At the end of chapter 1 he writes about his dog Beau. As this is not a critical article, nor a review, copyright infringement prohibits me from excerpting it. So GO BUY HIS BOOK, especially if you’re a dog lover! But he talks about how during his dark times, how his dog(s) gave him his will to live. I totally got that. Euckie did that for me, when my life was at its worst. I wish I could have conveyed that to her. She truly was my savior. One of the serendipitous things about reading the book when I did, is that it made me much more consciously aware that Euckie was getting older, and it caused me to spend more time with her. Instead of sitting at the computer constantly, I’d stop and play ‘tug ball’ with her when she’d bring a toy up to me. Or, I’d stop, and go sit or lie down with her on the floor and pet her. She was nearly 50 pounds, but she thought she was a lap dog. I later regretted that I got rid of that green leather club chair a couple of years ago, because that was ‘our chair’. We didn’t have a good sharing place after I gave that chair away. She made me a better human.

I had her--We had each other for almost 11 years. She outlasted a serious relationship and a few boyfriends. I will--do miss her terribly.

My quote on my home page is the perfect closing. I would just add, if there is anything I’m certain of, if there is a heaven, Euckie is one of those dogs.

Randy

Christianity at its Finest

2008-02-25T18:29:00.002-06:00

This was supposed to post last Friday. I emailed it to myself, and it didn't transfer. When I got home, it was nowhere to be found. If you just understood that, I'm very frightened for you.

The Westboro Church, led by the inbred Phelps family is back at their anti-gay antics. You may have heard of their plans to picket the funerals of the shooting victims of last week’s massacre at Northern Illinois University. Now the plan to carry it further by going to the University to picket. What is the gay tie in to the shootings, you may be asking? There is none. But in their twisted brand of Christianity, this shooting is the result of God’s revenge and anger at gays and lesbians. C’mon, can’t you connect those dots?!

This group has been picketing funerals of gay men and anyone who died from AIDS related conditions for years. They came to prominence when they picketed Matthew Shepherd’s funeral with their usual megaphones, and placards “God hates Fags”, as well as a number of other ‘catchy’ phrases. Of late, they’ve expanded their funeral picketing to service men and women who have died in the line of duty serving our country. Again, using the same anti-gay rhetoric and transferring it onto the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Again, you see the connection, don’t you?!

Groups have wanted to travel to Dekalb, to combat this group’s actions. NIU has respectfully asked people to not do so here:
http://www.niu.edu/LGBT/tragedy/RespondingToHate.shtml

They suggest ways in which you can best support them against the hate mongers.

I have had first hand experience with this group. They came to Chicago to picket Broadway United Methodist Church, because the head minister was a (straight man) gay supportive minister who’s ministry involved many social justice issues. There were enough people to create a ‘barricade’ two people deep, surrounding the church property. Although I didn’t attend the actual worship service, it was one of the most meaningful ‘religious’ experiences I’ve ever been a part of. God needs some new spokespeople.

This post could be a corrolary to Sid's post of the past weekend here: http://surgeonsblog.blogspot.com/2008/02/funnyman_24.html

Too Thin Skinned?!

2008-02-18T21:00:00.002-06:00

I have 3 different blog entries started, very disparate in theme and content. None of them are gelling well enough (in my mind) to keep on topic in a coherent thread. If you are a repeat reader, you know that keeping on topic in a coherent thread is already an issue for me. I tend to jump to non-sequitors, as though I’d never been introduced to the concept of segue. This has been bugging me for going on two weeks now, so I’m going to plow through and get it off my cyber chest.

Let me preface this with saying that I am pretty thick skinned. I can take a lot of crap, and let it roll of my back. I can joke around with the best of them. In fact, I enjoy a good sparring match of exchanging barbs, matching wits with a sharp opponent. I find it invigorating.
I have friend/acquaintance—someone who used to be a vendor of mine when I held other positions. We became friends through our business dealings. I see her anywhere from 1-3 times during the year at national meetings occasional customer calls. She and another former vendor with whom I’m friendly are hard core republicans. We’ve had many a friendly debate over beers, dinner, emails, with one of my favorite retorts to her being, “At least none of our armed service personnel ever lost their lives because Bill Clinton got a blowjob.

About a year ago, she sent an email to both of us, that really torqued my spark plugs. It had to do with bush, and specifically contained some of his anti-gay rhetoric. It hit me on a particularly bad day—I don’t remember why specifically it was bad, but it was. I sent off a return missive, essentially questioning how she could call me her friend, and vice/versa while supporting these policies in particular which were blatantly discriminatory. (I will note, that she is not married, but is considered ‘common law’, because she’s been living with the same man for many years). I iterated how she had the same rights of marriage without the piece of paper which were specifically being denied gay people. I said a lot more, but this was the primary issue.

I came back to the office last Monday, after being out sick for a week. In going through my emails, there was one forwarded from her, of “22 Ways to be a good Democrat”. I’m not going to list them all here, if someone really wants the list, I’ll email it to you. There were three that made my blood boil, and I know it wasn’t a holdover from the 103° F temperature.

6. You have to believe that gender roles are artificial, but being
homosexual is natural.
7. You have to believe that the AIDS virus is
spread by lack of funding/
19. You have to believe that homosexual parades
displaying drag, transvestites, and bestiality should be constitutionally
protected, and manger scenes at Christmas should be illegal.
It went on to
things from abortion rights, to misogynistic comments, etc.

This is the typical bullshit that is spewed out by those rightwing nuts like chris matthews, ann coulter, etc.

This was the wrong day for me to get this email. (I’m not sure there is a ‘right’ day to receive it. I was pissed, I was disgusted, I was offended . I spend too much of my time and energy combating the ignorance of strangers. I don’t have the energy to combat the ignorance of ‘friends’. I did NOT send off a missive this time. I merely replied with, “Please do NOT send me anything else of this nature.”

The other republican (guy) vendor she sent it to, sent a reply to her initial email with, “Randy!?!?!”, certain that this would hit me where it counts.
I’m struggling with this. A week has passed. My anger has not dissipated. I’m not certain that I can forget this. I fear this may have irreparably damaged the friendship. How do I remain friends with someone who takes pride in an administration and laws whose purposes are to deny me the rights that she is granted by the Constitution; who so vehemently defends the only president in our nation’s history who wants to make an amendment to said constitution with the sole intent of ensuring the denial of civil rights to gay people?

I’m looking for opinions people. What to do? Am I being too sensitive? Do I let this one roll off and go back to before? If I do, am I comprising my integrity? Where do you draw the line? © rle/wtf

It Was Bound to Happen

2008-02-14T22:48:00.002-06:00

It was bound to happen

The law of averages, my general luck (or absence thereof), it was merely a matter of time. Today was infusion day. Travis, my favorite hottie phlebotomist comes in to set up my IV. The famed Travis who has never had to do a second needle stab on me with my tiny, rolly, shitty veins for blood draws in the nearly 10 years I’ve been going to this medical practice, and two years of infusions (or has it been 3? Time flies when you're getting poked and prodded.). He comes in, straps the rubber band on my upper (right) arm, feels around for a good vein. (He’s the only person I’ve even known who can make searching for a vein for a needle stick into an erotic experience—but I digress.) He finds two possibilities, but is tentative. “We’re going for the one in the crook of the elbow.” He gets in, some blood surfaces in the catheter. But as he pulls the needle from the cath, nothing. He plays with it for a bit, moving and juggling, but the vein’s not cooperating. With resignation, he laments, “I’m going to have to try another vein.”
“Hey, it was bound to happen sometime. Don’t worry Travis, you’re still my favorite!” He goes to the left arm. I hate it in the left arm, as I’m a lefty. Also, when one of the other nurses took a blood draw last week, when I was in with my strep throat, she used the left arm. It still had some residual hematoma from that needle stick. But he liked that vein. So he went in. Success.

When my doc finally got in. The throat looks good. I tell him a bout passing out at home after my steam shower to sweat out the toxins. I’m mildly chastised for doing the steam shower, with instructions to not ever do a steam, with a fever, unless I totally load up on fluids before and after, and make sure someone is with me. (Even though it DID sweat out most of the toxins. I quit drenching the sheets in bed.) I’m sure sprawled out naked on my kitchen floor was not a pretty sight.

Cupid’s bow missed me (as usual). But I got poked by Travis twice for Valentine’s Day. IT could be worse. ©wtf/rle

Colonel Mustard in the Kitchen With a Floor Tile

2008-02-11T18:29:00.000-06:00

Colonel Mustard, in the Kitchen, with a Floor Tile

WASTHTR*-2008, Vol 2

My birthday wasn’t supposed to suck this year! I know, because I specifically placed that order myself. SOMEBODY’S NOT LISTENING!! I had all these plans of documenting the festivities of my birthday here in this blog.

Instead, I spent February 6, in bed, all hot and sweaty—and NOT in a good way--alone. From a recent post, you already know about me masking up for the airplane trips. I got home. A week goes by, no ailments nor infirmities. YAY me! YAY masks that made me look like a geek. You did your job. Last Monday at work, I was exhausted--just wiped out. Enough so, that I thought to myself, “When I go home tonight, I’m going to walk the dog, nuke some dinner, and crawl in bed.” This is so much NOT my SOP. My neck was really getting stiff on my right side. I didn’t make any connections. In the middle of the night, Monday night/Tuesday morning, I awaken with my right neck lymph gland swollen up like a goiter, with the left side trying to keep up. My throat feels like there’s a gangland rumble going on with switchblades and bowie knives as the weapons of choice. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to breathe. Every action sends a stabbing pain in my throat. Additionally, my whole body aches from head to toes. I have a low grade temp (99.2 F)I wait it out until 10:00 am, to call and try to get an appointment. with Dr. K, that day. They can get me in at 1:40.
He comes in. I tell him I feel like shit, and that I think he needs to do a throat culture. He quizzes me about when my last IgG infusion was (mid January). He looks at my throat and says, “I don’t need to do a culture. You have strep.” I argue with him that I cannot accept that diagnosis, as I’m not going to be sick this year on my birthday (tomorrow). Stupid body. Stupid throat. Fucking strep! CVID, I loathe you! My three month run without antibiotics, is about to end. As par usual, I get a shot in the ass, and put on orals (Z-Pack this time). For the next three days and nights, my temperature roller coasters between 99-103 F. I keep drenching the sheets.
Now, to the part of the story you’ve been waiting for. Thursday morning, I decide to take a steam shower, to see if I sweat out the rest of the toxics myself, and break this fever for good. Fifteen minutes taking a regular shower and the steam shower. I get out, dry off, and wrap the towel around me. I don’t put on the robe yet, as I’m still damp. I go to the kitchen, deciding that I want to make a protein smoothy, as I’ve not really eaten in 2 days. I’m standing at the counter, adding blueberries, banana, and orange to the Waring Blending. All of a sudden, I realize, that I need to sit or lie down. I start wobbling toward the bedroom. The next thing I know, I’m lying on the floor of the kitchen, naked, towel behind me, feeling really, really dizzy and a bit disoriented. I pull myself up, holding the wall and furniture, until I reach the bed. I call my neighbor, and ask her to check in on my in a bit, as I almost fainted. It was then I touched my forehead and pulled back a bloody hand. Blood wasn’t running down my face in rivulets like it did on the back side in this post http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2007/11/professor-plum-in-dining-room-with.html

I guess I must have passed out after all. I don’t remember hitting the floor, especially hitting it with my head. I’ve got a nice goose egg that’s now turning purplish-greenish-yellow (too bad it’s not closer to Easter) and nice bloody scab, dead-center just above my right eyebrow. It doesn’t throb, but hurts even if lightly touched. If it leaves a scar, I figure it can only enhance my butch factor. “Kitchen floor, you wanna piece of me?!” Who the hell am I kidding? You got a piece of me. Just out of spite, I’m NOT washing up the blood stain. This birthday totally sucked wad.

*Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy

© rle/wtf

It IS Pretty Great

2008-01-28T20:40:00.000-06:00

About a year a half ago, my niece (M) called me to tell me she was pregnant. It was not the most ideal of circumstances. She was 19, just out of high school. But she was excited, and I was excited for and with her. When she first called me, I told her that this was impossible, because I’m WAY too young to be a great uncle! For whatever reason, she paid me no attention, and the result is this beautiful little lady here, (with her prematurely gray great uncle).

On February 7, 2007, my great niece Addison was born (one day after my birthday). M & A, who live in Maryland, got married in December. It was a destination ceremony, so extended family didn’t go. This past weekend, I had the distinction of meeting my great-niece (and her Daddy) for the first time, when they flew in from to east coast & came to my parents’ house in Bumblefuck.
I don’t get to see my niece that often. The last time was Thanksgiving of 2003, when the whole family converged for my parents’ 50th Wedding Anniversary. Having always lived southeast, even in optimum conditions, I would get to see her and her older brother (D) maybe once a year. Once my brother and their Mom divorced, the annual gatherings ceased, especially as they got older, and school activities, and working consumed their holidays and summers. I watched them grow up as a second and third hand distant observer.
As she grew up, M was very good at making contact with and keeping in touch with me. (With chagrin, I admit she was much more diligent & better than I at the return.)

I will admit, I was concerned with her having a baby so young. Seeing her this weekend, it’s obvious what a great mamma she is. (A is also a great Daddy.) Any small reservations I may have had were immediately eradicated. Part of my fear was that M would give up her plans of going to college, becoming a mom so young. But, she has started college. Aside from becoming a mom, I was astounded to see the incredible young woman she has become. She was a strikingly beautiful baby, and grew to be a strikingly beautiful woman. The genetic fates were kind, in that she took after her own mother’s side of the family when it came to looks. But it’s not just the outward aesthetics. She makes me feel comfortable with being me around the rest. She’s able to cut through the bullshit. Usually in the extended family gatherings. I am the big pink triangled elephant in the room that people don’t want to address. The familial version of ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Not with M. She’s right in there asking me questions—if I’m dating, what I’m doing for fun, what the gay bars are like in Chicago and how she wants to come and have me take her (and A) out to them. We compared notes on Project Runway. I was able to say, “Christian is such a queeny fag and laugh about it. She allows me to feel and be mainstreamed and ‘normal’ (although I loathe that word). For that, I love her (along with many other reasons.) At one point she commented about me being “Great Uncle Randy—‘It’s so weird to say that!’”
“It’s so weird to hear it!”, I responded.

For the past 6+ years, all that the others want to talk about is my health. It’s the ‘safe’ topic—of course unless I was feeling like shit, then it’s uncomfortable again (for them). I don’t think M once asked me about my health, which may sound strange, but that makes me happy. Note to readers: When someone has chronic health conditions/problems, that topic is usually the last thing in the world we want to talk about. Partly because, if we really do feel like shit, you really DON’T want to hear about it. If we are having a good day/week/month, we don’t want to be reminded of and have to think about when it was bad, or how long until the current good streak runs out.

Now to A (her husband). First impression: They were at my other brother’s house when I arrived. So, when they came, I hugged M. She then makes the introduction, “This is my husband, A.” I extend my hand to shake. He ignores the hand and gives me a big hug. No pretension. No macho appearances to make. Hugging the homo uncle upon first meeting—he just scored major points.
The next day clinched it. He and I ended up left in the living room with the TV on, with some football game playing, he looks over at me and says, “Do you want to watch this?” Another male in the family who isn’t sports obsessed. He went to culinary school, and I quizzed him on ways to use the black truffle oil I got for Christmas. He’s pretty quiet and reserved, just as I would be thrust into a whole new family. He was a great observer. He caught the nuances. When different barbs were exchanged, or snarky comments, a small grin would appear on his face, but no outburst of laughter at someone else’s expense. He just took it all in, I’m sure making mental notes to himself about this extended family he just married into. This man and I are going to get along great! He’s a very involved Daddy, and they seem to have a great partnership worked out. He’s definitely a keeper. Did I mention he’s really hot? He exhibits a self confidence that I never possessed. He’s very comfortable in his ‘own skin’. That’s very cool to observe.

I am so incredibly proud of her—of them. I don’t have kids. Never will. Yet as I make this statement, it is as though I somehow had a role in her being the incredible young woman and Mamma that she has become. I don’t. The credit is hers. It may still feel/sound weird. But, ‘Great Uncle Randy’—I can get used to it. It IS pretty great. This little girl is the best birthday gift this uncle has ever received. ©wtf/rle

The Ledger Doesn't Reconcile

2008-01-24T22:21:00.000-06:00

I have perseverated for two days about whether I should write a post about Heath Ledger. That much pondering seems to be a strong indication that I should write. The interesting, non-sequitor reply to my previous post is what I’ll take as the confirming signal to write. I really don’t want to be on the pop culture bandwagon.

The comparisons to James Dean were immediate. I love the three James Dean movies (East of Eden –also one of my favorite books; Rebel Without A Cause; and Giant). I’ve not seen all of Heath’s movies. It’s probably obvious that the one I’m going to write about and the one that has had a huge impact on me is “Brokeback Mountain”. This movie has such an impact that I pre-ordered the DVD and the movie poster (the real deal) when the movie was released. I saw the movie three times in the theatre—Something I NEVER do. (I bitch about the price of movie tickets), and each time I saw it was at full price, no matinees. It was the winter I broke my arm. I had been downstate at my parents for a few weeks, while they helped me out. I came back home when it was time for my regularly occurring appointments with my orthopaedic surgeon. I was still in a good deal of pain, and not able to drive. The movie was showing at an older theatre about a mile from my appt. So, I was able to walk. The first time was a Saturday night. I fully expected to like the movie. I expected it to affect me. I didn’t expect it to impact me and resonate with me to the degree that it did. It was Heath Ledge’s portrayal of Ennis Del Mar that hit me right between the eyes. I left the theatre that Saturday night, feeling like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. Have you ever had the experience where something reaches you so viscerally, at such an intense deep emotional level, that you are so numbed, you can’t even have an appropriate emotional response? Ennis Del Mar did that to me.
I went back the next day, Sunday (OK, I guess I did see one matinee). There was a line that Ennis says, that I couldn’t remember. I wanted to get that line, and I had to see the movie again. Again, smacked between the eyes. I knew what was coming so the intensity wasn’t so raw, and my heart wasn’t in my throat throughout the whole movie this time. Damn it! I couldn’t remember the quote again, after the second viewing.
But, I still had to see this again. I needed to see it with my best friend. We grew up together. I was ‘man of honor’ at her wedding. One of the reasons I moved to Chicago was to be closer to her geographically. I needed to see this with her, to discuss it and process it with her after viewing. I didn’t tell her any more details about it outside of the media flap already surrounding it. As we were leaving the theatre, I said, “What are your thoughts?”
She replied, “That was Bumblefuck*, Illinois!—without the mountains and beautiful scenery.” (*pseudonym for our hometown).
She saw it too. It wasn’t merely my projection. I very easily could have been (nearly was) Ennis Del Mar—rural farm town boy, with a secret, trying to fit it, trying to be something/someone he was never meant to be; shut himself off from people, afraid that they would ‘discover’ his truth. The “love that dare not speak its name”.
There were some eerie coincidences with me and the movie. At the beginning of the movie, the Randy Quaid character (boss) drives up in a Rambler-American. While not the exact model, my first real car was Rambler, that my uncle Orval sold to me for $50. Later in the movie, Ennis is driving an old light green, with white top early 60s Ford F150 (I think it was a 150, maybe 100). That was the truck I learned how to drive in. My Dad’s old beater truck, 3 on the tree, no power steering, taking my first drive on the country gravel roads. The little grocery store, the Laundromat, the small country church, as my best friend said, “that was Bumblefuck, Illinois!” Even down to his mannerisms and speech pattern, talking in that drawl, barely opening his mouth as he spoke. Heath nailed it. That was my Dad and my Uncles. The eerie coincidences unnerved me just a little bit. How does someone you don’t know, have never met, tell your story –get into the dark recesses of your soul and make seem even more real?

I took pen and paper the third time to get the line down that I thought was so profound (to me, not all of humanity). The line is when they are on one of their camping trips. Jack is frustrated that Ennis won’t commit to being together.

Ennis “If you cain’t fix it, you got to stand it.”
Jack “For how
long?”
Ennis “As long as we can ride it.”

As noted above, I was recovering from my broken arm/shoulder. It was another in a long line of major health shit that I’d gone through in 5 years. I was on a medical leave—no income, waiting to go back to a job that I loathed. It was hard to identify which of these hells was worse than the other. This exchange between Ennis and Jack became my mantra. I couldn’t fix it. My arm or my job. I had to ride it out. I typed it out on slips of paper, and put them everywhere that I would see it: in my wallet, in books, in my office(s) once I returned to work. It literally became my mantra. It helped get me through that winter, through that year, and finally out of that job.

Accounting has never been my forté. But this Ledger just doesn't reconcile. It doesn't add up. It certainly makes no sense. Thank you Heath. Give my regards to James Dean. RIP. © wtf/rle

The Lone Ranger Flight Geek

2008-01-23T10:55:00.000-06:00

Flying out to Orlando for this conference, it occurred to me for the first time that I am the flying equivalent of the pocket protector, medical taped horn rimmed glasses engineer. Last year when I attended this conference in Phoenix, I came home and proceeded to get the worst bronchial infection I’ve ever had to date. I’m certain that I got this infection from the plane trip home, with the recirculating air. I missed over 2 weeks of work; was borderline pneumonia; and almost put in the hospital. IT was the beginning of my year long on again-off again rounds of antibiotics. Not wishing to repeat this episode in 2008, I acquired some surgical masks from one of my docs, to wear. So, upon arriving at the airport, I masked up.
Additionally, the pressurization really screws with my ears. So, for a long time, I’ve purchased ‘ear planes’, which look like IUDs for the ear. It’s as I’m sitting, the plane is moving from the tarmack to runway for take off that I start to insert the aural devices, that it hits me, what a total geek I must look like. Now, on the plus side, people tend to ignore/avoid you. Since for reasons unbeknownst to me, I seem to be a freak magnet, this kept them at bay.
Once we landed and deplaned, I went to the bathroom in the airport (no Larry Craig antics), took off the mask and went down to collect the luggage. So far, so good. I’m tired, but because of the change in routine and the different pace one has at meetings/events like this. I’ll be masking up again for the trip home.

The trip home:

Well, so much for warding off the freaks. The shuttle that took me to the airport picked me up at 9:00 am. My flight wasn’t until 12:45pm. I arrive at the airport, mask up, get through TSA security and go to the gate. The gate area is crowded. I find an end seat next to some man, I would guess to be in my age co-hort, somewhere in his 40s. I open my backpack to get out my book to read.
“Have you ever read the Bible?”, says the man I just sat beside.
“Yes, I have.”, I respond as non-committally as possible, without looking at him, not wanting to encourage the continuance this conversation.
“It’s fortunate that you sat next to me. I’m just reading here in Acts about God’s healing powers. Are you a believer? Is Jesus Christ your personal lord and savior.?”
“No, I’m not and no he isn’t. I’m not going to have this conversation with you.”
“Jesus loves you and wants to heal you.”
“SIR, I’M NOT GOING TO HAVE THIS CONVERSATION WITH YOU.”
He continued for a bit longer, without me taking the bait.
Had I not been tired, and had I felt like a good sparring match, I would have said,
“The reason I’m no longer a believer is because of people like you, who think it’s fully appropriate to approach a total stranger, wearing a face mask/barrier, make assumptions about what disease I may or may not have and think it’s your right to come and start proselytizing to me. And because I don’t believe exactly what you believe, I am somehow inferior. I have no use for that type of theology or god.” Had I really wanted to get his ire up, I would have introduced myself as a Sodomite fag.
Instead, I turned my back to him, and pretended to read my book. After a few minutes, he selected a new victim on the other side of him, who was more receptive (or perhaps, less direct) than I in rejecting him.
The mask, my fool-proof anti-polarity method of repelling the freaks has failed me! What does it take to keep me from being the freak magnet?! Tonto, I need your help.

2008-01-22T18:46:00.000-06:00

This falls under the category of “Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy”*.
Alternate titles could be: “Channeling David Letterman” or “Call Me a Rock Star in a Hotel”.
I arrive in Orlando, late afternoon Friday, for the Conference I’m attending, We’re at the JW Marriott, which is the “high end” of the Marriott franchise. As always, when I first enter a hotel room, I turn on the TV, find a channel, and start to unpack. My first thought is, “This JW hasn’t been updated. The one in DC had flat panel HDTV. This is the old tube model, in the armoire/credenza/cabinet, on the ‘pull out’ shelf.
Clothing all unpacked, I unpack the laptop, I have checked out from the IT dept.
As I can’t see the TV well from the desk table, I go to pull out the TV and rotate it toward me. As I start to pull out, the shelf and TV come tumbling out the front and fall to the floor. “Shit, shit, damn fuck me with a crowbar! I can’t believe this just happened to me!” The cable has ripped from the back of the TV. TV is still connected to the electricity, still on, green screen of snow. My AMX limit won’t handle this. I’m going to get kicked out before the conference starts! I call the front desk. “Hello, this is Mr. E, in room 24xxx. My TV and shelf just fell out of the cabinet. I need some help.”
~Five minutes later—‘knock, knock. This is engineering.” I open the door, to greet a small Latina woman. “Oh, MY GOD!”, as she enters the room, seeing the TV on its side, green snow glowing. She begins to turn off and disconnect. A minute or so later—“Knock, knock, engineering.” I open to the door to two gentlemen, of foreign origins. “Oh, MY GOD!”. I begin to see a theme developing. “Sir, are you OK? We’re you hurt?” “No, I’m fine. It didn’t land on me.” The other man is immediately calling the front desk. “We have to move him to another room.”
“Tell them that he’s not hurt. That’s important.”
Sir, is golf course view OK?”
“I’m not so concerned about the view, I prefer a higher level floor.”
“He wants to be on one of the higher floors. Sir, we’re going to move you down the hall to 24xxx. A bellman will bring up new key cards. IF you like, we would like to offer to buy you dinner or breakfast at the best restaurant in the hotel.”
“I’ve not had dinner yet. Dinner would be very nice, thank you.”
Go down, tell them your name, and that Engineering sent you. You’ll be taken care of.”
I go down to the host station. “Hi, I’m WTF, Engineering told me to tell you that.”
“Oh, yes sir. We’ll take good care of you!”
I’m seated by a handsome Turkish man, who tells me Manita will be my server. Manita arrives, tells me that her husband was one of the men who helped me with the TV and she apologizes profusely. She asks me if I’d like a glass of wine while I look at the menu. “Do you like reds?”’
“Yes.”
“Will you allow me to select a nice red for you? You like Cabernet Sauvignon?”
I was treated like royalty! Manita comes to take my plate, ask if I’d like dessert, and apologizes that it was so busy, and that she wasn’t able to come and talk to me more. Before my meal is over, her husband, from Engineering, comes, shakes my hand, apologizes again, and asks me if his wife has taken good care of me. “I told her you were my special guest and to treat you extra nice. We are from former Yugoslavia.” I’m not quite sure why he wanted me to know that.
By the time dinner was over, and a glass of wine was gone, I was able to laugh about the occurrence. But, when that TV first fell, I nearly pissed myself.
©wtr/rle

No Day But Today...

2008-01-16T20:56:00.000-06:00

Had I not wanted to headline this with a quote from the show, the alternate headline of this would be another song, “I Read the News Today, Oh Boy”. It was announced today
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/16/theater/16broad.html that the Broadway show RENT will close June 1, after 12 years, with the distinction of being the 7th longest running Broadway show in history. It’s like hearing that a good friend has just been given a terminal diagnosis. Overly dramatic? Perhaps. But not so much hyperbole as you suspect. This play, its music, its story has resonated with me (and millions of others). I had the great fortune of seeing RENT on Broadway, with the original cast in December of 1996. My friend Eric, who used to be an actor in NYC, was good friends with the Stage Manager, so he contacted her on my behalf so my best friend and I were able to get tickets (and house seats at that) to the hottest show on the Big White Way. Serendipitously enough, I just downloaded the Original Broadway Cast Recording (OBCR) and the movie soundtrack on my mp3, and have been listening to them the past two days. [side note, OCR & Soundtrack are NOT synonyms. Music from a stage performance is NOT a soundtrack. Soundtracks are from movies or tv.]

In addition to Broadway, I’ve seen a touring company production three times in Chicago. If I lived in NYC, I’d be a “RENThead”.

RENT, written by Jonathan Larson is based on the Puccini opera “La Boheme”. It was autobiographical about his life in NYC and his friends, and neighborhoods. It’s not only the show, but the circumstances surrounding the show that helped make its impact so powerful and poignant. The night of the final dress rehearsal, two and a half weeks before it opened on Broadway, the composer & librettist, Jonathan Larson died of an aortic aneurysm. He had been to the E R 2 or 3 times and was sent back home told it was ‘nothing’. Jonathan was the epitome of the ‘starving artist’. He had finally quit his waiter job, because he was actually going to ‘make it’ on Broadway. His show was being produced.

Larson gave voice to those of us post-Viet Nam, the last of the baby boomers and first of the Gen Xers. He gave voice to persons with AIDS. I think the fact that he was a heterosexual man, helped give credence to that voice who’s screaming had fallen on deaf ears during the Regan and Bush the 1st era(s). He died on the cusp of his greatness. He didn’t live to see his dream, and to see how much his work would affect millions of us.
His lesser known (only) other work, produced off Broadway a few years after RENT’s success is “tick, tick...BOOM!”. It was about him turning 30, and trying to determine whether he should give up the dream and get a 9-5, or keep plugging along. Larson was less than one year older than I. While I didn’t live out the same struggling artist life that he did, I lived my version of it. I tried to make it on my own, starting my own business. After three years, it was apparent that while on paper I was ‘in the black’, in reality I was ‘in the red’. I had to trade my dream for a different 9-5. It too has some great music, there is an OCR of it. Get it and listen to it. Especially “Cages or Wings” and “Louder than Words”.

“To faggots, lezzies, dykes, crossdressers too.
To you, to you, to you and you and you and you and YOU.
To people living with, living with, not dying from disease.
Let he among us without sin be the first to condemn.
La Vie Bohème…
…The opposite of war isn’t peace, it’s creation.”

The curtain may close, but your music lives on forever Jonathan. Thanks for giving voice for over 12 great years. Viva La Vie Bohème, indeed.

rle/wtf ©

Saline--It's just like beer

2008-01-10T20:19:00.000-06:00

I have often said, "I don't buy beer, I rent it", as it runs right through me. I have come to the conclusion that saline is just the same. Today was my IVIG infusion day. The day each month I just want to be over. Travis came and got me to hook up my IV. I don't have a problem nor get freaked out by needles (good thing!) But I just don't like to watch it go in, so I always look away after he does the alcohol swab. All of a sudden, he's moving to get the tape to tape the catheter in. I didn't even feel it going this time. "Damn, you're good Travis!" I tell him this often. It's beneficial to keep the people who jam needles in your body on your good side. He hooks up the the first bottle of IgG, and they always hook up a bag of saline to drip along with the IgG. I have a small bladder to begin with. By the time the first (bigger 200 ml or 20g) bottle of IgG is done. My bladder is feeling it. The second bottle always seems to drip slower than the first. By the time it's finally done, I usually have to piss like a field horse. I always see the Dr. sometime during the infusion. He was running behind today, so when the second bottle had emptied, he still had not been to the room. So, I disconnected the line where it hooks into the catheter, and went to relieve myself.
My medical question is, why are IV fluids kept at room temperature and not body temperature? Aside from having to piss out a liter of urine, I'm corpse cold by the time the infusion is over. Last month, when the nurse went to get me a blanket, I found out they've gone high tech. No more big fluffy cotton blankets. It's the space age disposable blanket, that's the thickness of a paper table cloth or napkin. It's sort of like a large version of the bibs the dentist put on you. But surprisingly, very effective in the warming factor.
When I first learned I was going to start this lifetime of monthly rides, I decided I wanted to try and make these monthly contstitutionals as zen as possible. I was at my previous employer, out in the burbs, so it meant I would end up taking the whole day off. I did this for a few reasons: 1) It was not really worth the while to drive for over an hour, to work for 4 hours and then come back; 2) I loathed that job and place, so the anticipated monthly day away was as much a mental health break as anything; 3) In the event I had an infusion reaction, I didn't have to worry about work. (I've had reactions a few times.)
I'd schedule the appointments for late morning or early afternoon so I could sleep in. I'd take a book, and read while the drip ran. This can end up being problematic, as I have to get my arm in just the right position for the drip to go. Slight movements can stop it. The positions are never really comfortable, especially if the catheter is in the crook of your arm.
Now, since I work in the city, I can schedule my appointments for the end of the day, leave work early, be home by 7:00 pm. I'm usually pretty wiped. Instead of reading, now I try to just zone out, clear my head, and if the nurse/tech/ and/or doc are delayed in their frequency of checking in on me, I sometimes nod off. While not feeding my brain, I think it's good, because it's a forced rest. It's two hours + every month that I have to stop and just be, not do. I don't even put my MP3 ear buds in. A forced rest is not really such a bad thing. We should all 'schedule' that for ourselves. But it should really be more than 2 hours a month. It shouldn't require an IV and bag of saline to make me stop and just be. But sometimes it does. I just wish it didn't make me have to piss so much.

The Kite Runner--the movie

2008-01-10T20:05:00.000-06:00

I started this over a week ago. I'm just now getting it finished & posted.

Just to show that I’m not always pessimistically critical,. My book group made a New Year’s Day field trip to go see “The Kite Runner”, as we had read it as our last book. This book grabbed me from the first page, and had me fully engaged. It’s the best fiction I’ve ever read. I have pretty high standards. That is not a statement to be taken lightly. It is the only time in my life that as soon as I finished reading the book, I turned back to the front and began re-reading it again immediately. The book was a going away gift from a friend and former colleague, when I left my previous job for my current one. I was excited, because I would no longer be driving. I’d be taking the train and in my own words, “I’ll become literate again because I can read on the train!” She told me the book was one of the most beautifully written books she'd ever read. She was an English major in Collge. Another assessment not to be taken lightly.
I can be somewhat stoic, holding my emotions at close guard. I would be reading this book (on the train, in public), and my face would start contorting, as I would try to fight back tears from streaming down my cheeks (which I’m sure made it all the more obvious). All of this set up to get to the movie. I had great reservations because I loved the book so much. And, how many times have you seen a movie of a beloved book only to see it butchered on the screen. When the beginning credits showed that the author (Khaled Housseini) was not the screen writer, I was more frightened. This movie? I loved it! They were very true to the original story. I thought they did a great job of editing/condensing to get it to ~2 hours on the screen. From the first “A thousand times over”, at the beginning, I was tearing up.
The group went to one of the member’s apartment afterward to discuss the movie. Brian said it perfectly when he said, “It was like seeing the visual of the poem that was this book.” (paraphrased). I can count on one hand the number of DVD movies I own. This is one I would add to that small collection.
Given my recent movie going experience with S.T., my reticence and apprehension were high. Every movie reviewer who is going orgasmic over that piece of shit Sweeney Todd and has panned this movie are just imbeciles, twice over.
If you haven't read the book. READ IT! Or, go see the movie, then read it.
The book IS beautifully written. I was blown away that a man for whom English is not his native laguage wrote such beautiful prose, and compelling story.

I liked that the reader/viewer also learns a good deal about Afgahnistan from the story.

OK, I'll Say it: Sweeney Todd the movie SUCKS

2007-12-29T10:44:00.000-06:00

Upfront disclosure: I am a Sondheimophile. I even went in with low expectations of this movie. The leads are NOT singers. I like Johnny Depp. But, I'm sorry. Sweeney needs to be a booming bass voice to give it that extra 'ummffth' of forboding and sinister darkness. I thought the movie was more of a caricature--too "Bride of Frankenstein"ish. Helena Bonnam Carter goes FLAT in most of her songs! You're recording this in a studio for fuck's sake! Re-record it and mix/splice it until it's on key through the whole song! I'm so pissed that I pre-ordered the soundtrack.
Antony is some androgenous 'pretty boy', hardly a rugged seaman. But he and Toby at least had good singing voices. I'm really surprised that SS sanctioned this. Really, Stephen?! I do want more of the general public to know your work, as I think you're highly under appreciated and under-rated. But this is not the best example of showcasing your genious. I was not expecting the play to be reproduced on the screen. It would not translate well. But I expected better/more from Tim Burton.

I had a discussion with my friend who is more of a musical snob than I. He liked the movie. He made the argument that it had to be made with big name actors who were not singers, rather than great singers who were not big hollywood names or not get made. My assessment is that it should not have been made then. I can't believe all of the reviewers who have gone orgasmic with their reviews.

2007-12-20T09:01:00.000-06:00

Disease finally pays off! ©

Last Saturday I was part of a focus group. I was contacted a few weeks ago by the Immune Deficiency Foundation (IDF), telling me that the manufacturer of the blood product (IgG) that I get wanted to have a focus group of people who are using/receiving this product. It would last 2-3 hours, we’d get snacks while there, a box lunch to go afterwards, mileage and $150. Was I interested?! Hell, you had me at ‘snacks’! Don’t let this out though, or everyone’s gonna be clamoring to find out how they can get CVID and collect these great dividends!

The focus group was held at a company who does focus groups as it’s business, out near the airport. There were 8 (I think) of us all together. While we were waiting to be taken to “the” room, and filling out the requisite paperwork, I asked, “So, is anyone else here CVID?” All but one of us were. The other was the mother of a 7 year old with multiple ID (immune deficiency, not Infectious Diseases for my medical readers) and autoimmune disorders. IF that doesn’t give you perspective that you’ve got to be soulless. Only two of us were male. The other man was a retired teacher, who I would say was in his 60s-70s.

The experience was very good for a variety of reasons: well, obviously extra cash at the holidays is never a bad thing! But also, it brings to mind the ‘ole shoe parable’. You know, the tale that starts outs, “I complained because I had no shoes, then I met a man with no feet…” There are times when I get pissy and whiney—I know, it’s hard to imagine! Meeting others who have a similar experience or life circumstance as you, helps give one perspective. I would guess that 5 of the other 7 have it worse off than I do. One young woman has to travel to two states away every month for her infusions. It had to do with insurance, her medical provider, and where she was on the “IgG list”. She spent most of the summer in the hospital because she couldn’t get her infusions and got too sick. How whacked is that?! We’re in a major city in the U.S. with major players in the medical arena. She’s force to go to BFE every month? Who knew there was a pecking order on the IgG list—even that an IgG list exists?

The focus group was about a new program that if we registered, we would be guaranteed our monthly treatments, regardless of change in medical provider or location. Not a monetary assistance program, but access to the blood.

Another aspect that was really good was meeting others with the disorder. I have a lot of HIV friends. There is a great supportive HIV community. I have the ID that doesn’t have a built in community. This has left me feeling isolated and a feeling of being on the outside—which is a recurrent theme in my life, but that’s whole series of posts in and of itself, which I won’t delve into. I’m the square peg in the round hole, once again. I have an immune deficiency, but not the ‘right one’, I get treatment usually reserved for cancer patients, but I don’t have cancer. It’s like those tests we took as kids, where you are shown a series of objects and have to select the one that doesn’t belong with the others. I’ve always been that one that doesn’t match with the rest.

The focus group reminded me of my stint at the Rehab Institute of Chicago Chronic Pain Center. Most of my ‘pain-mate’ co-horts were in worse shape than me. Or maybe not, but their pains were different, and maybe psychologically I needed to see them as worse than mine. In retrospect, I bet they did the same thing. We were a very motley crew that one would never intentionally put together, and if one did, one would not have expected us to get along. There was me—gay boy from the farm now in the city; blue collar factory worker; upper middle class suburban retired homemaker/mother; and a street wise woman, my age (40 at the time) from the “rough side of the tracks”, who was already a grandma of one with another on the way. Less polite circles would have called here “white trailer trash”. We had a shared/common unpleasant experience—chronic pain. When you’re in absolute agony (no hyperbole here), status, class and social standing don’t mean squat. We supported and held each other up.

I remember the week I went off the last of the narcs. I was a wreck—physically, mentally, emotionally. I was in withdrawal (and didn’t know it at the time that that’s what was going on with me—that’s one thing they failed to tell me). I’d had a sleepless 3 nights in a row, not only sleepless, but totally wired and thinking I was losing my sanity (what was left of it). I walked in that morning after the third night knowing I looked like absolute shit—again—no hyperbole. J (the suburban homemaker) looked at me and said, “I’m not going to ask you how you are today, I can tell my looking at you, you’re not doing well today.” Then she stood up and outstretched her arms to give me a hug.

While loved ones can empathize with what you’re going through, only someone who’s either walked or is walking that same road truly knows the hell you are living, and what an effort it is some days to literally drag your ass out of the bed. Sometimes it’s that mis-fitted ‘motley crew that’s needed to, as Jackson Browne sings it in “Your Bright Baby Blues”, from THE PRETENDER album (one of the all time best rock albums)
: Take my hand and lead me
To the hole in your garden wall
And pull me through

©wtf/rle (with the exception of the Jackson Browne excerpt)

The Last Six Years of Top 10 or Read at your own Risk

2007-12-18T16:21:00.000-06:00

If you're reading this, you've either received my holiday card and are really hard up for something to do; or you've unwittingly stumbled upon this. This is the only warning you'll receive. Stop now before you regret it! My annual “Top Ten List” has been on hiatus for the past few years (OK, since 2000). The following will explain a bit as to how I was occupying my time-or how it was being occupied unwillingly on my behalf. As you read, I think you’ll understand why this just didn’t seem to be the right fodder for the holiday update—even for my dark and maudlin personality.

The other title for this would be a take off on the David Sedaris essay from I think, his first book, "Happy Holidays to my family and; friends". Only what follows here is the truth and not fiction. And this is why you've not heard from me in over 5 years. I'll give the bullet points. Should for some twisted reason you want further detail, ask. I’ll consider expounding upon the story. I'll start the timeline a bit before 2001, as it is set-up for what follows"

Randy’s Medical Saga
May ’98 - Shoulder surgery (R shoulder); rotator cuff, acromioplasty, w/ surgeon I didn’t
like, and didn’t want. I was stuck due to an HMO

Dec ’98 - 2nd shoulder surgery, to fix the botched 1st surgery, with the surgeon I originally wanted.

Summer/Fall/Winter ’01 - a lot of pain problems, mainly running along the sciatic nerve of my L leg, resulting from bulging discs in m y spine; series of painful cortisone injections in my spine, producing no relief.

Winter/Spring ‘02 - Referred to the Chronic Pain Clinic of RIC; month long intensive outpatient program, 8 hrs/day, 5 days/week for 4 weeks, went through a bad narcotic withdrawal because they weened me off too quickly.

April '02 - I had to resign from the best job of my career after surpassing FMLA time off, and being unable to return to work.

April ’02 – Began working for the designer/general contractor who did my kitchen rehab, managing his office.

October ’02 - 1st surgery for pilonidal cysts, very protracted and painful recovery.

May '03 - Start job (.75 FTE) at Hospital System in the suburbs --minimum of 1 hour, one way commute. Third week of work, some woman backs into my brand new MINI Cooper in the parking deck of the hospital. This is an omen.

October ’03 – Exactly 1 year from the date of the 1st surgery, the cyst area starts bleeding again, the cysts have recurred, surgeon is concerned it could be cancerous as “they never recur."

I tell my boss & CEO that I am going in for serious surgery, with a protracted recovery and would like to work from home, once I’m able. The CEO replies with, “I can’t believe you’re doing this to us!”—Exemplifying the core ‘values’ and ‘beliefs’ of this great catholic healthcare institution. If getting hit in the parking garage wasn’t an omen, this sure as fuck was. This also frayed that one last strand of any religious belief systems I previously held. My new pet name for this employer is “5RH” for 5th Ring of Hell.

January ’04 - 2nd surgery for pilonidal cysts (not cancerous); recovery was even more protracted and more painful than before.

August '05 - Trained for and completed a 20 mile walk along LakeShore Drive from dusk to dawn for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. I raised $2,500. in pledges, and FINISHED the walk--which a was huge victory for me physically and mentally. It was the first big physically active thing I'd done since the pain episode and surgeries. I also lost some of the weight I’d gained from being sedentary for so long, repeatedly.

December ’05 - Slip on the ice, breaking my arm at the R shoulder It’s a surgical neck fracture of the humerus bone—or as the surgeon described it, “think of your upper arm as an ice cream cone, your fracture is where the ice cream meets the cone”. Fortunately, no surgery was required, but missed (another) 7 weeks of work (AND PAY).

March '06 - After another really bad bronchial infection, unable to see my MD, and see the PA at the practice, who begins to ask different questions, resulting in a battery of blood tests. I am diagnosed with a condition known as CVID-Common Variable Immune Deficiency. My body does not produce antibodies to fight off infections. It is a congenital disorder that is usually diagnosed as a child, or in early-mid 30s (which is when my bad, chronic bronchial and sinus infections started). I now go in once a month (for the rest of my life) for infusions of IgG (a blood product).

I now have an unnatural (but not irrational, imho) fear of surgeries, as it seems it takes 2 times to get it correct; and of December, as it historically has not been a kind month to me.
~end of the shitty part~

October '06 - Begin new Job - which I love. I no long work for assholes! YAY ME!

2007 was a rough year health-wise for the bronch and sinus infections. I was borderline pneumonia at one point and close to hospitalization. But comparatively to the previous 6 years, not quite as hellish. I took 4 trips this year (all work related, but was able to squeeze in some fun. NYC was a favorite. I was there the weekend of the Tony’s and being the work diligent fool that I am, I passed up on a ticket to the Tony’s with my friends Eric & Joel, who met me in NYC for the weekend.) I was able to feed my anemic Broadway fix with 6 shows: Company (FABULOUS!); Journey’s End (Incredibly and numbingly moving); Grey Gardens ( I will never forgive Christine Ebersole for backing out and sticking me with the understudy for the performance I saw the night before the awards); The Drowsy Chaperone (fun, cute show); Spring Awakening (I saw this the night AFTER it won all the Tony’s—it was a theatre experience unparalleled to anything I’ve witnessed before. The energy in that theatre was palpable! Three curtains calls and at least a 10 minute standing ovation! It compensated somewhat for Grey Gardens, but I still will never forgive Christine Ebersole; and The Fantastiks—off Broadway. Spring Awakening was by far the high point. Great music, great story (based on a German play from the 1860s. It’s uncanny how although things change, they remain the same. The same issues of adolescence/young adulthood that existed then, exist today. It was quite the provocative play, and banned/censored, or re-written-edited. It’s just like the Bush Administration of current history.

Also in ’07, I did something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time. I got a tattoo. (DON’T TELL MY RELATIVES!) It’s a Latin phrase that has been my mantra through much of the past 10 years. It’s between my shoulder blades on my upper back and reads, “non illegitimi corborundum est”, the English translation is “don’t let the bastards grind you down”. I consider my ‘war badge’ for getting through the aforementioned.

Dreaded Day of the Month

2007-12-12T23:48:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow (Thursday) is my monthly ‘dread day’. It’s my monthly IV IgG infusion. I dread this day every month. It’s not the infusion I dread. It, in and of itself is not bad. It’s mild discomfort at the most (usually). What I hate is getting started. The gods, in their sick and twisted humor, gave me a disorder that requires monthly IVs, while giving me tiny rolly veins. Very few medical professionals have ever been able to get an IV or syringe for a blood draw on the first try. It’s usually twice, the record being 4 the last time I had surgery at a hospital I had not been to before. The medical practice I go to now, has 1 med tech (Travis) who has an almost perfect record with me. There’s one nurse (O), who is pretty good. When I first started the infusions a few years ago, the head nurse (H) who was determined he was going to tap my vein or die trying. It took three tries. The next month, I said, “You get one chance. He blew it. It took about four months, and me finally insisting on Travis. THere have been a few new nurses or techs in the intervening months. ONe time after 2 people, 3 stabs, I finally insisted they find Travis. He said, "Ask for me." I said, "I do! THey won't get you until after they've all tried. Since then, I pretty much get him. A few months back, he came in and, said, "we were all fighting for you in the back. I won." That made me so happy. One, that he considered getting stuck with me as 'winning'. And, to be totally superficial, he's so damned hot. He could multiply stick me, and I wouldn't be pissed like I am with the others. We have a good banter back and forth. He has a sense of humor. One time he was inserting the needle. I never watch the needle go in. I don't freak out by it. I just don't like to see it go in. Once in, I can look down, and help tape it down and secure it. Anyway, He said, "I'm done." I replied, "Wow, I didn't even feel it go in. YOu're good! His retort, "Tell that to ALL the men!" Travis could 'stick' me and I wouldn't protest.
So, here's hoping I get Travis tomorrow. He makes the infusions less sucky.

Great Cancer Post

2007-12-09T17:31:00.000-06:00

I read this great Cancer posting: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-zachary/the-cost-of-living-no-cu_b_56003.html

from this blog http://nosugrefneb.com/weblog/2007/12/07/cancer-research-blog-carnival-4/#comments by Ben, an MD/PhD student, who's site I stumbled upon a few months ago.

Cancer patients, survivors, and loved ones will find the first posting very good reading. The scientists/physicians among you will find the rest interesting. I think Matt has the perfect post script in his response, "STUPID CANCER".

MUPD: if you're reading this, please sharing Matt Zachary's post with MB. Tell her good thoughts and karma are coming her way. ~YGS

Post Script (1)

2007-12-05T19:42:00.000-06:00

I sent am email to 3 of my former colleagues and friends (they're not former friends, they remain friends) from 5RH (5th Ring of Hell) to let them know about the accreditation good news. Following is part of the reply I received from A:

"...Good for you, Randy! This is a full circle moment for you -
you have proved yourself through programming, and now
you got a super review! Now that the documentation is
in hand, I hope they continue to recognize your fine work.
After spending time in this crazy system, I'll bet you were
questioning your abilities. Now you know for certain that
it wasn't about you!Congratulations! ..."

This was incredibly kind, and the sentiment wasright on the money. It's the nicest and best thing someone could have said. Especially someone who knows CME and the process, and my life before this current position. She knew how miserable I was and how completely un(der)-utilized and un-appreciated I was there. I do have one correction, though. We got a good review. It wasn't super. There are times for all of us, when we go through something, and the only ones who can fully understand or appreciate the significance are those who have share that (or previous/similar) experiences. Cognitively, I know I'm good at what I do. When others play continually beat you down, that kind of bullshit plays with your psyche and you DO begin to doubt yourself, even when you know it's bullshit. A corrolary to the addage: "Living well is the best revenge." -- "Doing well is the best revenge!" I"m succeeding at the things, I wasn't allowed to do in my last job--the very things I was supposedly hired to do. Go figure. They pissed away someone who could have done a lot of great things for the organization. What a loss for them. Idiots.
Every little and big success, every abstract accepted is a great way of saying "FUCK YOU" to my former employer. "Doing well IS the best revenge!"

I was there for over 3.5 years. But I'm not there anymore.

Life is good.

(S)cum sucking pig

2007-12-04T19:18:00.000-06:00

The Advocate Online has this latest story about Senator Larry Craig. Eight men have come forward alleging they've had sex with him. Jesus Christ, Senator, have you no shame?! Resign already. For all of the anti-gay legislation you helped pass, karma's a bitch, you hypocritical piece of excrement.

"Eight men say they either had sex with Sen. Larry Craig or were targets of sexual advances by the Idaho lawmaker at various times during his political career, a newspaper reported Sunday.
One of the men is the former escort whose allegations disgraced the Reverend Ted Haggard, former president of the National Association of Evangelicals, the Idaho Statesman reported. ..."

Full story is in the link.

http://www.advocate.com/news_detail_ektid50770.asp

The stars are aligned for me today...

2007-12-03T14:34:00.001-06:00

…And the Gods are smiling upon me. I called today and FINALLY got the word on our accreditation results. We got 4 years, full accreditation, with no interim report. I am shitting happy bricks. Our review/interview was in early June. The physician who was the lead reviewer for us was, well, how do I put this? Oh, I know--A complete f#¢king a$$hole, who had an ax to grind and we were his honing stone. The co-reviewer spent the whole interview trying to mediate and facilitate between the Dr. and us. Even though you know when you’ve done well, when someone else holds the outcome in their hands, you don’t always know how it’s going to turn out. I will get the official ‘piece of paper’ in the mail later this week that has all of the details. But 4 years, full. I’m happy.

Additionally, I received notice today that an abstract I submitted to present at a conference in May was accepted. Vancouver, BC, here I come! If I didn’t have to drive out of town tonight, I’d be sipping some good Highland single malt scotch in celebration. Damn, I’m so frickin’ hot, I’m on fire today!

At Thanksgiving, I got a cold from my nephew. My colds usually turn into the nasty bronch infections. For the first time in 15 or more years, it didn’t! Are these $8K monthly infusions of IgG finally working after two years?!? Woo Fucking Hoo! Let me say it again, WOO FUCKING HOO!! Has the December curse finally vacated?

Unwelcome Visitor

2007-11-29T15:12:00.000-06:00

Ever since Monday, I’ve had the return of an unwelcome visitor—migraine. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a migraine (not related to a sinus infection)—I think the last time I had a ‘stand alone’ migraine was back when I was still working at 5RH (5th Ring of Hell), my former employer. Then, it was easy to determine the causal factors of my migraines. It was all stress induced. I don’t know what’s brought this one on. Pre-holiday dismal-ness? Historically, it’s usually mid December when shitty things happen to me—(bad medical diagnoses, getting fired, auto accidents…) It feels like there’s a tiny boxer using the back of my right eyeball and right side of my brain for a punching bag. The Imitrex is not doing its job.

WORLD AIDS DAY, December 1

2007-11-28T20:31:00.000-06:00

In October of1996 I had the honor of being in Washington, DC for the occasion of the Names Project AIDS Memorial Quilt display on the Mall between the Capitol Building and the Washington Monument and march on Washington. That was probably the last time the Quilt will be in its entirety due to its growing size. At that time, the Quilt covered over 40 acres of land (that’s 29 football fields for you non-agrarians) honoring and memorializing over 45,000 lives lost to AIDS. Although I had previously seen the Quilt 4 years earlier in DC, and was involved in bringing a section of it to The University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign in 1994, its impact was still overwhelming and numbing to me. I kept finding myself walking through the sea of panels, and not seeing individual panels, but panels ‘en masse’. It was just so much to take in, knowing every panel over 40 acres represented one person lost to AIDS. During the candlelight march, when we were walking to the White House, to protest against Bush the 1st, there were the people I’ve seen at every protest, sometimes, social events, churches with their brand of hate mongering in the name of ‘their’ God. They had the signs and placards reading, “God hates fags”,. AIDS Cures fags” to identify a few. (That must mean Lesbians are God’s chosen people, as they've been passed over for HIV.) While I see this vitriolic sewage for what it is, there are many gay men who have heard corollary sermons and speeches in their home churches, schools, and other places that they start to believe it. The primary social activity for a lot of gay men in the early and mid 90s was attending the funerals of our friends and/or partners. Thanks to medical advances, this is no longer the norm. The flip side of this is that HIV is now viewed as a treatable chronic disease, like diabetes. “It’s no big deal if I get it. I’ll just go on a cocktail.” I’ve actually heard gay men say this! For many young gay men, ‘bug chasing’ (intentionally trying to get infected) has become seen as a right of passage, becoming a "Member of the Tribe", and HIV an inevitable consequence of being gay. HIV prevention programs still do NOT do a good job of addressing psycho-social issues. For those of us who have buried too many friends and loved ones, multiple loss syndrome and survivors’ guilt are very real issues. That teens and young gay men see HIV as ‘a given’ is a clear signal that the current message is not effective.

The continent of Africa is becoming a nation of orphaned children, who have lost their parents to AIDS. Teaching teenagers about safe sex is not 'giving them permission'. It's informing them of what they need to do to protect themselves and their partners. Needle exchange is not a moral issue. It's a HEALTH issue. And evidence shows that it works.

Of course when elected officials (and those granted office by the Supream Court) as well as religious (local, national and international) leaders who refuse to advocate the use of condoms, and responsible sex is unconscionable and morally & ethically irresponsible when prevention is so easy. To use god as a prohibition for condoms in a world wide pandemic is the highest form of hypocrisy and blasphemy of that god they purport to glorify. Clicking red Prada slippers 3 times isn't going to make it go away. Dorothy's not in Kansas anymore. If there is a god, then there should be a special place in hell for every last one of these people. THERE ARE TOO MANY PEOPLE STILL GETTING INFECTED IN THE 21ST CENTURY! We are all busy. Our lives are hectic. On December 1, please take a moment, think of those who are gone. And think of what you're going to do to make a difference, to make sure that they didn't die in vain.

2007-11-26T21:46:00.000-06:00

My medical horror stories, Part I or How Doctors (sometimes DON'T) Think ©wtf/rle

This is the first in a series of true life actual stories of my experiences with the healthcare system.

I just finished reading the book, "How Doctors Think", by Jerome Groopman. I also had the opportunity to see and hear him speak recently at a conference. I was pleasantly surprised that it was NOT a dry, academic tome. He used stories of physicians as examples to the physicians' thought processes. I found the book facinating, and was able to identify the traits he describes on many of the physicians of whom I've been a patient.

In Spring of 1995, I moved to Chicago. Later that year, I got a bad cold, that turned into a bronchial infection. That was nothing unusual, as my colds have always gone to my chest.

Only, they started happening more frequently, and the occasional sinus infection would get thrown in for good measure. At one point I said to my then PCP, "There's something wrong with me that you're not figuring out. I shouldn't be getting sick all the time like this." I saw specialists. Being a gay man, the ID doc (a woman) concluded that I must have been testing false negatives for HIV. This would happen again a number of years later. For any physicians who may be reading this, let me state for the record, this is a really shitty thing to do to a patient, and it really fucks with one's head. Groopman talks about how physicians see patterns; look for patterns; and sometime try to make patterns that don't quite fit, because that's how it 'should' be and the odds/probability says it should be that way. I used to joke that I was a walking CPC; that I was the sickest non-immuno-compromised person I know. My HIV+ friends were healthier than me. (The joke was on me.)

In May of 1997, I had surgery on my R should (acromioplasty, and removal of bone spurs on my clavical, and some minor repair to the rotator cuff). The recovery went bad. I developed adhesions. At the time I was on an HMO. When I had my first meeting with the surgeon ("L"), I didn't like him. I told my PCP ("H"). He would not make a referral to anyone else as "this is best surgeon in the city". I knew who I wanted. It wasn't this guy. I wanted a sports med orthopaedic surgeon doc ("B") that I knew and who had done some programs for me. The PCP would not acquiesce. At that point in time, I (foolishly) trusted the PCP. ALWAYS TRUST YOUR GUT INSTINCT! It's your health they're screwing with. When I went for follow-ups, I told the surgeon, "Something is not right." I was not intimating that he did something wrong, but that I wasn't healing the way I should be. First, it was going way too slowly. The general anesthesia seemed have hold over effects. I was lethargic, range of motion was not where it should be, and I was still in a lot of pain. He tried to tell me it was sympathetic reflex syndrome.
The day the proverbial shit hit the fan was when I saw the surgeon "L" again. He agreed that maybe something was not right and wanted to get some films and run more tests. Without going into detail, the next day when I see my PCP "H", the surgeon "L" told him the antithesis of what my conversation with him "L" had been. By this point I was sufficiently pissed. I was on the phone with the insurance co. [side note: Let me state for the record they were some of the biggest assholes I've ever had the displeasure of dealing with. Despite their name, they were anything but humane). They don't like people who know healthcare and how to navigate the system. As frustrated and pissed as I was, I couldn't help but think of the majority of the population who DON'T know how to navigate the system, and get screwed by insurance.] Additionally, the customer service (and I use this monkier loosely) was nothing short of a rude bitch. I had never been treated so dismissively rude by someone who's job is to deal with the public and 'customers' of that institution. Again, she didn't like people who know how to navigate the healthcare system, and who refuse to be duped. I filed a formal complaint with the hospital and the IL Dept. of Insurance. I'm not one to casually do something like that.

I wanted a second opinion, and I wanted it from the doc ("B") I originally wanted to do the surgery. I few days later I get a registered "Dear John" letter from the insurance company 'divorcing' me from my PCP "H", and that I need to make arrangements to get my medical records. WHen I call "H", he says he has no idea of what I'm talking about and that he did not initiate the 'divorce' procedings. To this day, I don't know whether he was as clueless as me, or whether he was feigning ignorance.

I meet with ("P") an internist that I used to work with at a hospital in the burbs. The insurance co, guaranteed that he "P" could make the referral to the surgeon "B" I wanted. After a thorough H&P, he writes the referral. Insurance refuses to accept it because "B" is not at the hospital that my PCP was at, and that I would have to have surgery at "P's" hospital, by one of the staff surgeons. Yes, after I made sure and confirmed with the insurance co. that they would accept the referral from "P" to "B". I had to go through this routine again with some new (unknown "U") PCP, because he could write the referral to the "B". So, I essentially used "U" to get the damn slip of paper that the HMO would accept, and never saw him again. "B" gave the adhesion dx, and recommneds steroid injections in the shoulder [there went all of my Olympic dreams!], as he didn't want to repeat surgery so soon. The nurse fails to mix the three solutions together in one syringe, so I get stabbed 3 times. And, yes, it hurt like a MF--3x. The injections do not help. So, "B" says he thinks he'll have to cut me. He wants to do MUA (Manipulation Under Anesthesia) and a debridement. When "B" came up to check on me in recovery, he said, "Your shoulder started, 'snap, crackle and popping' almost immediately! There were some really bad adhessions!"
"Did you think I was lying all this time? I told you I was in pain." He told me it should have been detected almost immediately (like when I first said, "something's not right" the first time to "H".
I didn't follow into the normal protocol or practice guidelines of how recovery from acromioplasty, and "L" didn't want to consider other options, especially when it might have meant error or his part. [I think the surgery was done correctly, but the follow-up was where he was negligent.--

Surgeon "B"listened to me, the patient; he didn't dismiss me as being unable to assess what is "normal" for me. He respected me as an intelligent, capable human being. He collected as much information as he could to make the DD.

Surgeons tend to get a bad rap from other physicians and healthcare professionals. I always defended them, as I had mostly had good experiences and good working relationships with them. The time I get the jerk surgeon is not working with him, but when he's cutting on me. This is indicative of how my luck runs.

Again, my recovery was much more protracted than it should have been. But I did not develop adhesions this time. I started PT/movement the next day. These surgeries were, I believe the catapulting event(s) that set things in motion for what was to follow. Stay tuned for the next episode.

I've lost my sole, man!

2007-11-26T21:23:00.000-06:00

I've mentioned before that I like Kenneth Cole clothing. OK, I'm obsessed with his line, shoes, especially. I have my favorite pair. Sqaure, blunt toe, black slip ons with a strap and buckle across the arch. They need polished. But, other than that they're in great shape...or so I thought.
For the past few weeks, when wearing my favorite black KC shoes, I kept hearing a 'rattling' when I walked. The (decorative) buckles were not loose. I couldn't figure out what the hell was rattling when I walked.
Today, I took my shoes off in my office and looked at the heels. (These shoes have a thick rubber sole and heel.) The heels had little squares cut out of them, so they were not a solid piece of rubber. It turns out, the rest of the heel was not solid either. I have worn down my heels enough, that I have worn a crack/hole in them, and pebbles had worked their way into the cracks (of both shoes!) and were bouncing around in the little space, every time I walked, causing the rattling sound. With some work, I was able to get the pebbles out of the heels of my shoes. I'm not ready to part with the shoes, but I may have to reconsider wearing them when the snow starts to fall.

2007-11-20T21:40:00.000-06:00

I find myself making this statement to friends that I’ve met after 2001. I feel the need to put qualifiers on ‘me’, who I am now, who I’ve become. Because I’m a very different person than I was in 2000—and not just in the growth that hopefully we all go through as we mature and the years roll by.

Whenever I tell this to someone, I follow up with, “I used to be a really fun and funny person.” I have a very distinctive laugh aparently. I've been identified in dark movie theatres and even once on the radio when I was in the audience of a program that was recorded and later aired by my laugh. More days than I care to count, I’m less fun and less funny. It really sucks (poorly). [Side note: A friend once gave me the dubious honor of naming the “Randy Suck ‘O’ meter”. It gages the degree of suckiness, as I always use a modifier in identifying such things, because sometimes sucking well can be a good thing. Vacuum cleaners you gutter minds!]

I went through the 4 week intensive outpatient program at the Chronic Pain Center of the Rehab Institute of Chicago. It was M-F, 8:00 – 5:00 for 4 consecutive weeks. Those four weeks rate as among the hardest in my life. I’ll talk more about that in some future FLASHBACK post. [Now there’s an oxymoron – Future Flashback] The program takes a behavioral mod approach to teaching pain patients [I loathe the word ‘sufferer’. It’s so damned victimizing and condescending.] coping mechanisms to deal with and learn how to live with chronic pain, as it’s now with you and a part of you that ain’t gonna go away. Let me reiterate: IT SUCKS POORLY!

During one of the group therapy sessions, we were talking about loss, and the things that chronic pain has and/or will cost each of us. I lamented that I used to go on canoeing/camping trips to the Boundary Water (BWCWA) with friends. I would no longer be able to do this because of the chronic pain, and it really pissed me off. The shrink, comes back with {paraphrased with allowance for memory and time passed), “OK, so you can’t canoe and camp anymore. But you can do day trips and stay in cabins.”
Now, before I proceed, let me state for the record, cognitively I understand where she was going with this, trying to get me to see different options and alternatives. It’s behavior mod, I get that. But at that moment in time, I wanted to scream, ‘Fuck you, You Bitch! My life is changing in many and mostly bad ways, over which I have little to no control. How dare you toss out some platitude, thinking it’s somehow going to placate me and suddenly make me feel all better!”

Chronic pain is a thief. Sometimes it’s a silent and stealth thief. Because it’s constant, and in my case, usually not excruciating, it slowly and steadily sucks away my energy (and sometimes it feels, my soul as well). BCP, I used to be able go and do without forethought. I could be tired and ‘running on empty’. But since CP, I have no empty to run on. Before I learned how to manage it, and to know what my particular warning signs are, I could be out with friends, and suddenly hit that wall, and I was spent. One time that is etched in my memory was one August, when I was out with my then boyfriend. We were at a street festival which is my favorite weekend of the year in Chicago. I planned my summers to make sure I was in town this weekend every year. We’d been walking along, had been out for probably 3 hours. All of a sudden, I hit the wall. He knew. He looked at me with an uneasy look on his face and said, “You’re not OK, are you?!” We had to stop. I had to sit and rest. I had to sit and rest to have enough energy to walk to the EL station to take the train home. The day/weekend was blown.

It’s also hard to make plans. I can’t know when I’m going to have a ‘bad pain day’. I’ve lost count as to how many times I’ve cancelled plans because it was a bad pain day. Friends get frustrated because I’m canceling once again. It doesn’t frustrate me. It angers me. It really pisses me off. Anger is a very private thing for me. I don’t let others see me angry. I wait until I’m home and I can punch walls or woodwork or door jams (the latter two are hell on the knuckles, but save on plaster and drywall). The odd thing is that it’s the little things that push me over the edge. Crisis?! Hell, I can handle that. I’m used to them. Knock over my coffee cup, or drop something, and I snap like a dead twig in January.

I had to resign from one of the best jobs I’ve ever had. CP robbed me of that. I don’t like the person that chronic pain has created. I want back the person who didn’t have to think about whether spending the afternoon at a street fair would be too taxing. I want back the man who could meet friends for a vacation and not worry about crapping out on the trip. I wish you’d known me BCP. ©wtf/rle

2007-11-19T20:11:00.000-06:00

In some ways I fit into the occasional stereotypes of the gay man—I love theatre, and musical theatre and even (especially) showtunes. I don’t really follow sports, and I was never athletic. I sucked so badly in Little League, and the one year I played (sat on the bench) basketball in Jr. High.

In other ways I don’t fit the stereotype. My apartment is usually messy. I’m a packrat. Martha Stewart would go apoplectic or have a TIA if she paid an unexpected visit. Friends tell my apartment is very comfortable, homey and welcoming. That’s more important to me than making sure the magazines are in a perfect fan splayed across the coffee table.. I’m not an A&F pretty boy model. Now, I’m NOT butt ugly. I’ve just never been cover boy material. Sometimes I let my hair (what’s left of it on my head) grow long before getting it cut, usually have weekend scruff. I like to think that I dress well, but I’m not what fashionistas would call a ‘label whore’—with the exception of Kenneth Cole. I buy his clothes and shoes for three reasons: I like the cut and fit of his clothes and shoes on my build; I love his look; and I love that his ads are Left Wing (or anti-Right Wing) political. It took a hefty pair of gonads to do that when he first started out. Any corporate entity that openly (or subtly) bashes "W" wins my retail dollars. And the converse it true. I boycott.

Over the weekend, I happened to see a posting on Craig’s List for a garage sale. By nature of the location of the posting, I knew that it was gay men who doing the selling, and had listed lots of clothes. Over the past few years, I’ve lost over 50 pounds, and in particular, ~ 15 this past year. Most of my clothes are very loose on me now (which feels like a great accomplishment). Even my “skinny jeans” (remember Miranda, Sex and the City) are loose. I really don’t fit in the hip hop world, so having my pants below my butt crack is not a good look on me. I’m really not in a financial position to replenish my wardrobe. So, I thought “gay men’s garage sale? I should check it out”.
This garage was better stocked that some Salvation Army resale shops! I was finding Kenneth Cole, Hugo Boss, Ben Sherman (and even an Armani shirt that fit me—and it’s even purple!). Some may argue that the mere fact that I even know these names makes me a guilty party. OK, I was for a brief moment in time, a “label whore”. When I’d filled up 2 kitchen garbage bags, I stopped. Also, it was cold and I was getting hungry.

I went home. I tried everything on. All the pants fit very well. Some of the shirts a bit big, but I knew they would be as they were M and I can now pretty much wear S in most shirts. Having downed a sandwich and warmed up, I decided to drive back across town and hit it again before they closed down. Andy was bagging things up as I arrived. He remembered me. Andy asked what I was looking for. “31 inch waist and small shirts.” I was power shopping. Two more kitchen bags filled, and I was back on my way again. For $36. I got 16 pairs of pants, 13 shirts, 2 ties, and a wool scarf. Not bad for a Sunday. But I am a bit embarrassed that I bought the Armani and Hugo Boss solely for the names. Is there a 12 step program for label whores?
Oh, btw-my ass looks great in the Hugo Boss! © rle/wtf

2007-11-16T18:43:00.000-06:00

FLASHBACK: Here's one of the funnier, lighter of my medical tales. It's a bit long, but I think you'll enjoy it.
“Professor Plum, in the Dining Room with a Cabernet”.© wtf/rle

Monday June 11, 2001, was a typical day. I came home from work with the plans of packing and moving the last few things from the kitchen, in anticipation of starting the gut rehab-remodeling project. I decided that I’d roll up the antique carpet in the dining room and have the cleaners retrieve it, to keep it from getting any worse for the wear during the rehabbing. The only glitch was, that the front legs of the baker’s cabinet were parked over the edge of the rug. No problem! I can gently lift each leg, while pulling the rug out from under it. I get down on all fours to accomplish this task. The procedure is going smoothly until the front left leg, which is being a little problematic. The pad is sticking to the floor. I’m tugging, while hoisting the front left leg up, when my tinker toy-esque wine rack chooses this moment to show its structural instability and 14 bottles of wine come tumbling down upon me. I am conked on the top of my head at the back right side. I look in front of me to see a busted bottle of Zinfandel soaking into the aged, dulled hues which were once a beautiful tawny taupe, brilliant sage, ashes of rose, and delicate azure blue. Damn!

I immediately grab the site of the conking to rub out the pain. Feeling something warm and wet, I pull my hands back quickly, and look at them, and in that brief millisecond as reality strikes, quickly deduce, “shit, that’s not Merlot on my fingers!”

In the flash of cognitive dissonance, I’m in a quandary, “Do I tend to my profusely bleeding skull, or try to save the carpet?!” Even though I had just suffered blunt trauma to the posterior of my cranium, rationality did kick into gear, as I comprehend that wine AND blood are much more difficult to get out of the carpet, than merely wine. I do manage to find the round box of Morton salt, which had been packed away and pour it over the wine spillage (I am a gay man, and DO read Martha, after all!)

I run to the bathroom and grab the burgundy polo hand towel hanging by the sink and press it to the back of my blood dripping skull. (Note to self-- Ralph Lauren’s Burgundy Polo towels soak up a profusion of blood with nary a trace of the sanguineous residue. The shade is a perfect match for human blood!) With bloody towel compressed against the back of my skull, I release that final grasp of denial and ascertain that I am indeed going to have a date with the Emergency Room.

While proficient at multi-tasking, I don’t think that I can drive, shift, and compress a bloody towel at my throbbing skull all at the same time. I call my friend John. “John, I think I need to go to the Emergency Room!” John’s roommate, Douglas has a car and reluctantly agrees to take me to the Emergency Room.
Once I’m in the car, John immediately begins quizzing me on current history to rule out concussion. “Who’s the president?”
When I reply, “THAT ASSHOLE!” John is convinced there is no brain trauma.

Douglas drops us off. We enter the ER. There is NO one stationed at the security stand just inside the door. No triage nurse. I wander around to the registration area, with this bloody towel hanging from my head, and am greeted with, “Have you signed in? Did you see the triage nurse?”
“No, there’s no one there”, I reply.
“You have to see the nurse before coming to registration.” I repeat this scenario three times before Arlita gets it through HER skull that no one is at the triage station. God forbid I don’t follow the ER protocol with precision, bleeding skull or not!

Nearly two hours pass. I finally see the triage nurse who confirms that I have split open my head. I was ever so grateful for this confirming diagnosis, as the blood drenched towel wasn’t conclusive evidence up to this point.

After about an hour, my name is finally called. I get placed in bed number 6. I am greeted by two nurses in succession, who ask me the same questions, promise to return, but dis me for some one whose malady is more emergent (or interesting) than mine. Another hour later, a fourth year resident (I asked, as I knew that this was new resident switch week from my days of working with residency programs) approaches me to tell me she’s going to take care of me. I get the option of sutures or staples, with the caveat that if I opt for the staples, I’ll be out in 10 minutes. (She lied.) Also, being the drama queen, I determine that staples will be much more effective to the story, when I am called upon to recant it. I am then seen by the Attending physician to confirm his Resident’s diagnosis. He wants to hear the story of how this happened. I tell him it’s a stupid story. He loves stupid stories and cajoles me into telling. He appreciates the story; we exchange few tidbits of humor for my benefit (and at my expense).

Both, the Resident and Attending told me that the worst part would be anesthetizing the area before co-joining the flaps of flesh. This time, I was told the truth. This could have something to do with the fact that Madame/Dr. Resident pulled out a syringe that normally is reserved for the large animal clinic at the zoo. This syringe is so large that excess lydocaine which does not go into the skin, comes rushing down my neck and back in rivulets drenching my T-shirt.

Once she thought I was sufficiently numbed (she was mistaken), the staple gun comes out. I get the “Type A” physician (I know, what physician ISN’T type A), who is the consummate perfectionist and doesn’t like the way some of the staples have gone in, so she digs them out and staples again, repeatedly Although I can’t feel (most of) the staples going in, I can feel the pressure she is using on the staple gun like she is trying stretch spandex and secure it so tightly that it no longer possesses the quality of elasticity. But, the part that hurt the most was that she didn’t need to shave away any hair. The male pattern hair loss negated this need.

She is finally satisfied with her skin flap fastening acumen. She tells me I need to come back in 7 days to have the staples removed. I don’t relish the thought of sitting in the ER for another 3 hours next week for a two-minute procedure. I asked whether I could just go to my PCP and have him do it. I’m told that most docs in private practice don’t have the special staple remover medical device (which I later discover is also a lie). I speak to her with sufficient lingo from the medical lexicon, she acquiesces and gives me the staple remover and tells me that I can take it to my PCP.

Finally, I believe that I am ready to go home! Au contraire! The hospital computer system crashes and they can’t complete my discharge form. As this hospital is a member of the parent company with whom I used to be employed, this piece of information was sadly, not a surprise. The attending physician returns and tells me he’ll hand process my discharge, so I can leave. It’s after 11:00 p.m.

Meanwhile, John has been out calling various friends from his cell phone. My story has been securely placed into the fag phone tree system, so I can expect to see a story in next week’s edition of “Gay Chicago”. Our friend Steve agrees to come and pick us up and take us to our respective homes

On the following Tuesday, I visit Dr. Matt, who begins the process of staple removal. Ms./Dr. Fourth Year Resident fastened my flaps of skin so tightly, that Dr. Matt had difficulty getting the staple pliers underneath the staples. This WAS a painful as it sounds. He asks me if I want the area numbed. I replied with, “If you’re going to use a huge ass needle like they did in the ER, the answer is NO!” He comes back with a normal looking syringe, begins to shoot the area. Gee, when you use the appropriate sized needle, it’s not nearly as painful, and is actually a tolerable level of pain. Upon their removal, I finally get to see up close and personal the staples that have resided in my skull for the past week. MY GOD THEY WERE HUGE! I was expecting something of a rather thin/narrow gauge, something akin to sutures. I’m amazed that these strips of metal didn’t set off the detector when I left the ER that night! As souvenirs, Dr. Matt gave me the staple pliers, bent staples, as well as some gauze pads for the minor bleeding as a result of the staple extractions.

There are three amazing things about this story:

This is the first time in my 40 years that I’ve had to be pieced together (by thread or staple) due to accident or mishap. (Given my history, this is TRULY amazing!)
Out of the 14, I only lost one bottle of wine, a Zinfandel.
My dog, who has a propensity to be high strung, (especially as her Dad was screaming expletives and running around with a bloody towel hanging at the back of his head) maintained an incredibly docile demeanor throughout this whole scenario.

So, when I tell you that I have “splitting headache”, I am NOT speaking hyperbole.

2007-11-16T09:52:00.000-06:00

FLASH BACK: All out Lysdexia, Take One

Dyslexia permeates every aspect of my life. I’m old enough that dyslexia and most other learning disabilities were not identified when I was in grade school. Hell, I’m not even sure if the word existed in the late 60s, early 70s. But, I know enough from my degrees in education, and from knowing myself to know that I am mildly dyslexic. I transpose letters when typing (thank Buddha for spell check and automatic word correct!). I transpose words when reading, and the worst is that I transpose numbers all the time. For instance, if I were talking to you and you were giving me your telephone number you could be saying 897/524-6310, and I would likely write down, as you are speaking the words, 897/254-6130. It’s frustrating when I dial the number and reach some unknown person or get the beep of a fax machine. Or I punch in the wrong number on the phone key pad. So then I re-enter the numbers slowing, speaking them out loud as I read from my note and punch them in. If it’s still the wrong number or a new wrong number, I have to try and figure out which numbers I transposed when writing them down.
In retrospect, it explains some of the things I had trouble with growing up. For instance playing piano, I like the piano. I really suck at playing piano. I’m not being modest, it’s true. I don’t/won’t play for an audience. Playing the piano is a stress release for me. (Except for the times when I’m really hitting the wrong notes, then it’s a stress inducer). (I over use parentheses, I know. So call the grammar police.) I think and write in stream of consciousness and non sequiturs or toss in a comment that is tangential to help explain/expound on the previous sentence or comment. Back to the piano. In full disclosure, when I took lessons as a child, I did NOT spend my obligator half hour practicing every day. I was/am easily distracted. I would most likely be diagnosed with ADD today. When I played (and still play) I see the notes on the page. But going from my eyes to my brain to my fingers takes milli-seconds (or seconds) longer than it should. Especially once the notes stretch beyond the staffs. So, I’m stuck with easy piano books, or if I want to really learn something, like Pacabell’s Cannon in D, I have to sit down take it by treble clef/right hand, bass clef/left hand measure by measure, then put them together. For the most part, classical music in a part of my repertoire. The exception being Cannon in D, which is one of my favorite pieces of music. I so envy those who can sit down and sight read anything put in front of them.
Geography-I am so directionally impaired it’s not funny. Well, yes it is funny to an observer. I have absolutely no sense of direction. I attribute this to the dyslexia.
So, where the hell is this all going, you ask? In a former life I was a florist. I was a damned good florist if I can be immodest for a moment. I had my own florist business. It was in my hometown, a small rural farming community. It wasn’t until I closed the business, and went to grad school that I finally came out of the closet—to myself. The whole while I was a florist, I was ‘straight’ or trying to be anyway, in an industry that is well known for a high percentage of gay men amongst its ranks. I had a large number of gay friends and acquaintances, but continuously deluded myself, but probably not most of them. (I even got fired from one job for NOT being gay—but that story is for another post.) I got the whole being gay/being a florist backwards. I came out of the closet AFTER I quit being a florist. This is how dyslexia has permeated another aspect of my life. I am so frequently bass-ackwards. © rle/wtf

WTF

2007-11-14T12:06:00.000-06:00

When I was initially diagnosed with CVID a few years ago, I thought of starting a blog to let family and friends keep updated with the medical goings on. I vacillated back and forth (ok, that’s redundant), feeling it was too self indulgent. Part of my reticence in posting regularly once I started my blog was that I didn’t want it to be/read like a whiny ‘poor me’ epistle. I actually created my blog because I had to have a blog address to post on somebody else’s site. I occasionally post on other sites.
So, WTF. I’m going to give this a shot. It’s not like anyone’s being forced to read this. I’m not ever sure at this point that I’m going to inform the masses about it. I’m doing this for me. Some of it ain’t gonna be pretty. Again I say WTF. BTW, I was “WTF” before “WTF” was cool, and an accepted part of the pop culture lexicon. Back in 1989, when I was closing my business, I was having lunch with a good friend, and made the comment, “If I ever have another business, I’m going to call it ‘WTF Enterprises’.” We’ll he had a bumper sticker created for me that was “WTF Enterprizes”. The “Z” was a spelling error (he’s dyslexic, like me), but I thought it very fitting. When I got hit by a car running a red light, totaling the car, I tried to save the bumper sticker for posterity. The mastic used was of high grade, and the polymer of the bumper sticker itself very elastic, so it was not salvageable. Ironically, we did end up salvaging the car, because I was a poor grad student with a loan payment greater than the value of the car. The car was rolled into my business loan/debt that I was paying off. But that’s another story for a later time.
So, I’m going to try and commit to this. My current vision is that it’s going to be a lot of historical posts interspersed with current day/current topic posts. The historical, because history informs who we are and how we are in the present. It helps to explain who I am and why I am here and now.
If you’re still reading, I hope you enjoy the ride with along with me and come back for future installments. ©rle/wtf

Senescence

2007-10-23T10:18:00.000-05:00

This is, I guess the 'dark side' follow-up to my NCOD posting on http://imablogaholic.blogspot.com/

REAL DEATH
It's autumn, the time of year when nature's cycle goes into 'death mode'. Deciduous trees and shrubs quit sending water and nutrients to their leaves, causing the color change, and dropping from the plant. That's the process of senescence. Non-botanically, it's the process of becoming old. (Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th edition). I love autumn. I like the change of seasons. I even like the death. Yes, it's one of my odd quirks. It's the yan to life's ying. Though it has it's melancholy moments. Death seems to be around me.
Sunday, I was talking with my neighbor (and good friend). This week is the second anniversary of her father’s death. She’s a nurse. I was somewhat taken aback as to how hard it is for her still, two years later.
My Mom called me last night to tell me they’d just returned from the visitation of the father of one of my grade & high school classmate’s/friend’s. T was part of the ‘group’ that I belonged to from Jr. High on. Mom said she’d asked about me, told Mom to tell me she thought of me often. We’d kept in touch off and on, until she’d gotten divorced and moved away from the last address I had for her. I don’t know why she chose not to let me (& others) know she’d relocated. —Embarrassment? Shame? What I know is that I missed not knowing what was going on with her—even if only via the holiday updates. She’s the second one of our ‘group’ to have now lost both parents. Our group knew death from an early age. We lost a classmate to cancer in the 8th grade. Mom was like the Grim Reaper last night, regaling me with the death notices of another classmate’s mother, as well as two other people from the small town where I grew up. I’m reaching that age where this is going to become more and more common. I’m fortunate that I still have both parents living and healthy.

METAPHORIC DEATH
I was in grad school when I finally came out --to myself--when I finally said the words, "I'm gay". To take off on Dickens, “It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times.” That’s NOT a typo. I had begun seeing a shrink at the student counseling center on campus (with whom I credit my presence on earth). Integrity is a trait that has always been high on my list. I felt as though I had none. I felt as though I was a fraud. Even though all the things I’d been taught in church, and even through all the prayers to ‘fix me’. The feelings I had would not go away. I had emotionally, spiritually, and nearly physically “senesced. Something had to change. I had to accept who I was, deal with it or cease to exist. The latter came very close to being a reality. The unwitting intervention of a friend prevented that.
The metaphoric death of the closeted, faux me had to occur for the rebirth of the ‘true’ me to happen. While I no longer consider myself (nor would others) a religious person, I like to think that I’m a spiritual person. It really pisses me off that people think and use these two word as synonyms. But that’s a whole post in itself.
When I get nostalgic about autumn, there’s a tinge of melancholy, but mostly it’s gratitude that permeates my being. The autumn of 1989 was pure hell. But I walked, sometimes crawled, and sometimes was dragged through hell. I made it through and came out on the other side--the phoenix arising from the ashes in spring of 1990. I’m reminded of the death that had to occur in me before I could really begin living. The scorch marks and scars are still present, though mostly invisible to others, they merely reminders of the journey. I’m also reminded that dormant friendships can be revived. I’m looking forward to that possibility.

First time out

2007-01-08T20:26:00.000-06:00

January 8, 2007
New Blog, first posting.

I've been late getting into the game. I've contemplated starting a blog page for a long time and kept feeling it was such an act of self-indulgence. But the few blogs I've been to, I have thoroughly enjoyed reading. I'm not sure how active this will be and what and/or how much I'll decide to post.
By some wierd flukes of fate, someone should happen on to this space, drop a message. I'll see where this experience takes me.

For my first RANdom thought, I'll mention the book I'm currently reading, "What Is the What", by Dave Eggers. It's a novel (although, I believe it to be a biographical novel) about the lost boys of the Sudan. It has been hard reading--not as in difficult to understand or follow, but as in heart and gut wretching to read the details of what the narrator went through. It's another reminder as to just how myopic we are as Americans, not paying attention to anything beyond the borders of North America.
I'm not half way through it yet, but can't wait to keep at it. The further I get, I should be able to post something a bit more intelligent

I got to this book after finally reading Eggers' "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genious", which has been sitting on my bookshelf for a few (+) years. But I'll save that book for a future posting, perhaps.
I'd be interested in comments from anyone who has read or is reading "What Is the What?"