tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77258563473800495672024-03-14T03:29:12.045-05:00RANdom Thoughtsgay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-58230482074378580262010-10-15T12:59:00.003-05:002010-10-15T13:56:17.554-05:00Breaking the SilenceIt has been over a year since I last posted. I dont know if anybody even has me on their lists anymore. <br /><br />I felt compelled to exile myself for fear of typing something in haste that would not be in my best interest. <br />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?! <br />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. <br /><br />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. <br />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.<br />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.gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-23834005546861564472009-06-29T20:50:00.006-05:002009-07-07T23:29:05.799-05:00An American in Paris<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CRANDYL%7E1%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CRANDYL%7E1%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CRANDYL%7E1%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> 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font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">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.
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<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Thursday June 4, 2009<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thursday evening, boarding the plane, “Priority passengers may board first”.<span style=""> </span>Im in fucking business/first class!!<span style=""> </span>We ain’t in academia any more Toto.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>It’s so true!”<span style=""> </span>The champagne was flowing, warmed nuts,<span style=""> </span>appetizers.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>And we, moved from the champagne to the wine with dinner.<span style=""> </span>Dessert, then after dinner drinks or coffee.<span style=""> </span>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?
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I arrive at hotel around 9:30 AM. , Friday.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I’m staying at the Millenium Opera Hotel, in the Opera District.<span style=""> </span><span style="">It's a 4 star, at a great rate. Thanks, Priceline! </span>I’m able to check in that early.<span style=""> Cool! </span>I pseudo unpack, brush my teeth, take a hot bath, then up and off to my first Parisian adventure.<span style=""> </span>First stop:<span style=""> </span>Le Centre de Georges Pompidou.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I see two great special exhibits—Alexander Calder and Kandinksy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I decide to have dinner, from a recommendation from one of the books I’d bought.<span style=""> </span>I was given directions from the front desk and can’t find it.<span style=""> </span>After 45 minutes give up and walk down a side street and find a bistro that looks interesting.<span style=""> </span>Terre du Truffes.<span style=""> </span>Everything on the menu had truffles in it of some sort.<span style=""> </span>I ask Raphael, who speaks little English for recommendations.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><i style="">Ecritez-vous le menu por moi, s'il vous plait?</i></b><span style=""> </span>I asked Raphael to write my menu down for me, in my pigeon Franglais.<span style=""> </span>He writes in both French and English.<span style=""> </span>I would have liked to wrap him up and take him home with me.<span style=""> </span>The decadence of the night was vanilla ice cream with a truffled caramel sauce.<span style=""> </span>OMFG!<span style=""> </span>Every bite of that meal (and nearly every meal in France), was an orgasm for my taste buds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Saturday, June 6<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s raining outside today.<span style=""> </span>As Barbra sings, “Nobody’s gonna rain on my parade.”<span style=""> </span>I get the umbrella, find get my directions from the front desk, and begin my walking trek to Musee D’Orsay.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I pass through the Louvre, and cross the Seine by a footbridge.<span style=""> </span>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.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"> After two days of walking.<span style=""> </span>I decide to take the subway back to my hotel.<span style=""> </span>I have to switch not only trains, but from the suburban line to the Paris City line.<span style=""> </span>As I’m uncertain of whether these connect at the same place, I ask a young man.<span style=""> </span>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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Being a bit beat on my feet, I ask for a dinner recommendation from the front desk.<span style=""> </span>He suggests a place around the corner just a few blocks away.<span style=""> </span>This time, when I ask the waiter, “Ecritez-vous le menu por moi?”<span style=""> </span>He tells me “Here’, keep the full menu.”<span style=""> </span>Most of the remainder of my dinners in France, the waiters let me have one of the full menus.<span style=""> </span>How cool, for a self-avowed foodie!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Lyon<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have never felt so un-like the boy from Bumblefuck<span style=""> </span>in all my life.<span style=""> </span>I’m in Lyon, France, at a meeting with international heavy hitters.<span style=""> </span>I’m their peer.<span style=""> </span>OMFG.<span style=""> </span>Opening night<span style=""> </span>reception /Dinner was in this hospital built in the 1200s.<span style=""> </span>We specifically were in the nun’s rectory or rectortoire.<span style=""> </span>It’s the huge old fortress of a building by the Rhone River that I had to walk around <span style=""> </span>three times and ask for direction in my [pigeon Franglais , to realize there is no front door.<span style=""> </span>Only the original carriage gate/now car entry to get to the inner courtyard to access the building.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Paris is great, but there is something extraordinarily special about Lyon.<span style=""> </span>More so that Paris, I felt like I had gone back in time. <span style=""> </span>Old Lyon is like a time warp, somewhere between the World Wars.<span style=""> </span>The bistros.<span style=""> </span>The cobblestone streets and alleys.<span style=""> </span>The place oozes old world charm.<span style=""> </span>A Lyonaise man could have easily swept me off my feet.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The conference is very good.<span style=""> </span>I’m making some good international contacts for work.<span style=""> </span>I am asked to serve on a committee, with this organization, which is something I’ve been working on. <span style=""> </span>I’m with some heavy hitters in my profession.<span style=""> </span>This is something that would not have happened with me in academia, even though I was working on the groundwork.<span style=""> </span>The University would not have sent me to this conference this year.<span style=""> </span>I’m feeling good.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Monday night, the attendees at the conference are treated to a private tour of “L’hotel de Ville”, or Village Hall.<span style=""> </span>This was built in the 12<sup>th</sup> Century.<span style=""> </span>The building is amazing.<span style=""> </span>We have personal guided tours, which ends with a reception of Kir and Hors d’ouvres.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My co-worker K, who is at the meeting and I go to dinner<span style=""> </span>with two guys that she knows from other organizations in the US.<span style=""> </span>One of them spends a good deal of time in France, so he was our translator for the evening.<span style=""> </span>I can speak some French, but have trouble understanding it when spoken back to me.<span style=""> </span>My brain doesn’t think in French.<span style=""> </span>I think my dyslexic mind<span style=""> </span>manifests itself with this.<span style=""> </span>It’s frustrating. <span style=""> </span>I want to be able to ‘hear’ in French without trying to translate to English<b style="">.<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Conference ends on Tuesday afternoon.<span style=""> </span>C and I decide to meet and wander (and wonder) around Old Lyon, which is where her hotel is.<span style=""> </span>I ended up in New Lyon—not as charming.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>My only caveat was that we eat someplace where we would be outside on the sidewalk/cobblestone alley, not indoors <span style=""> </span>After a good deal of walking and wandering, <span style=""> </span>we settle on one of the first places we’d spotted.<span style=""> </span>She wanted s a good steak.<span style=""> </span>The meal was great.<span style=""> </span>This time I had to write down the menu as, it was just posted on black boards.<span style=""> </span>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?!
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><b style="">Wednesday June 10<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back to Paris.<span style=""> </span>I now wish I’d had planned to stay one day on my own in Lyon to explore after the conference.<span style=""> </span>But, I’m back in Paris for one more day.<span style=""> </span>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<span style=""> </span>I bought, The Central Marais.<span style=""> </span>It fit the bill.<span style=""> </span>It was above a bar in one of those really old buildings on a side street, with tall windows and shutters.<span style=""> </span>It was not the 4* Millenium Opera, but it wasn’t picked from Priceline (which got me really great hotels, btw).<span style=""> </span>This was for one night, and it was the one night for which I had not originally made plans.<span style=""> </span>It was while I was in Paris that I made these reservations.<span style=""> </span>I did want one night in the heart of homo Gay Paree.<span style=""> </span>It’s raining again.<span style=""> </span>I was museumed out.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I did some <span style=""> </span>shopping, mostly window . On the way back l stumbled along a little designer boutique of men’s clothes.<span style=""> </span>Actually, these little boutiques were peppered all over the Marais.<span style=""> </span>There were lots of shades of purple.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I walked out with a new shirt and a cardigan sweater with leather elbow patches (both were purples.)<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>I ask one of the bartenders for a dinner recommendation.<span style=""> </span>He directs me around the corner about 3 blocks to<span style=""> </span>Le Gai Moulin.<span style=""> </span>On the menu is “Kangarou Steak”.<span style=""> </span>OK, I’ve got to try it.<span style=""> </span>It’s not every day you get the opportunity to try “Kangarou” with Béarnaise sauce.<span style=""> </span>It was like a tough cut of a good beef steak.<span style=""> </span>It was my least favorite meal in France, which means it was only a 4 star, instead of a 5+ star meal.<span style=""> </span>Still incredibly amazing—just mildly orgasmic for my taste buds.<span style=""> </span>There are two guys at the table next to my right,<span style=""> </span>(and the tables are so close, it’s almost like eating family style.<span style=""> </span>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).<span style=""> </span>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?”<span style=""> </span>The state, London.<span style=""> </span>And, I offer that I’m American, from Chicago.<span style=""> </span>We have a nice conversation, he goes back to his seat.<span style=""> </span>I tell the Londoners that I’m headed for London the next day.<span style=""> </span>They offer recommendations of what to do, where to go.<span style=""> </span>It was roughly after 8:00 pm when I was eating my dinners in Europe.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>In most places, it, wasn’t until after 9:00 -9:30 that the dinner crowd started picking up.<span style=""> </span>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.<span style=""> </span>There’s no rushing you, trying to ‘turn the table’.<span style=""> </span>If you want to stay till they close, they’re not going to kick you out.<span style=""> </span>You nearly have to tackle the waiter to get your check <span style=""> </span>or “l’addition” when you’re ready to leave.<span style=""> </span>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?”<span style=""> </span>We determined, it’s because they cook REAL food, not loaded with artifice and chemicals and hydrogenated poly saturated dog turds.<span style=""> </span>And they walk.<span style=""> </span>They eat good, rich food, but they eat appropriate proportions.<span style=""> </span>They don’t “supersize” their meals.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>It’s a lifestyle, I could become accustomed to.<span style=""> </span>Je t’aime France.<span style=""> </span>I’ll post about London and the last half of my European adventure.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I'm going to try and get back into a rhytm with my writing and posting again.
<br /></p> gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-65349258831420209282009-04-25T00:42:00.002-05:002009-04-25T00:48:40.621-05:00CVID STORIES, NEW CHAPTERThe 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.<br />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. <br />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.<br />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©gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-46411714902295814652009-03-28T22:39:00.001-05:002009-03-28T22:41:48.751-05:00ChangesIt 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. <br />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. <br />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.”gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-90258467817550198012009-03-01T21:10:00.005-06:002009-03-01T21:15:33.088-06:00My Aunt AliceSunday 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? <br />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. <br />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. <br />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.<br />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. <br />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.<br />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. <br />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. <br />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.gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-50311557807061781482009-02-05T20:39:00.003-06:002009-02-05T21:12:33.968-06:00Never Say NeverHere’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.<br />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.<br />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. <br />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.” <br />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. <br />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.<br />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. <br />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:<br />… 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 . . .<br />Only, no longer out of reach—I just have to work on the ‘meet a guy’ part. <br />wtf/rle©gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-80428907230114913352009-02-04T20:36:00.001-06:002009-02-04T20:40:28.813-06:00Really, I don't......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.<br />It’s no Hemmingway, but a bit less non sense-ical than it was—I hope.<br /><br />wtf/rle©gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-34740701161067957372009-02-02T23:32:00.005-06:002009-02-04T20:22:19.790-06:00San Francisco, Synchronicity, other Miscellanea, and a Proclamation.San Francisco, Synchronicity, Other Miscellaanea & a Proclamation<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.”<br />I replied, “I have CVID.”<br />“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.<br />“People tend to avoid me when I mask up”, I replied.<br />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?<br />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.<br /><strong><span style="color:#ffff00;">I’m making a proclamation that 2009 is going to be the year that does NOT SUCK SHIT! </span></strong>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.<br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br />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/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-22028581600845267042009-01-20T19:52:00.004-06:002009-01-20T21:01:33.917-06:00Back among the LivingI 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. <br /><br />And even when I'm sick in bed, life goes on--the good with the bad. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-37734936119673404462009-01-05T19:54:00.003-06:002009-01-05T20:17:58.541-06:00For those keeping score at home...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.<br /><br />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.<br />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?"<br />He says, "yes."<br />I reply with, "OK, but you first."<br />The ice is broken. If only dating were that easy.gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-53753713819612740522009-01-03T21:03:00.003-06:002009-01-03T21:14:07.064-06:00FULL CIRCLEAfter 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 <br /><a href="http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2008/10/taking-plunge.html">http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2008/10/taking-plunge.html</a><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />©wtf4/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-79194677950668383032008-12-06T22:23:00.004-06:002008-12-06T22:43:21.747-06:00MemeI’m self responding to a meme from Mark at <a href="http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/">http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/</a> 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. <br /><br /><strong>Shows I Watch</strong><br />1. Prison Break<br />2. Eli Stone<br />3. Survivor<br />4. 30 Rock (People YOU really need to watch this show!)<br />5. ER<br />6. Project Runway (or Bravo show in the timeslot---currently Top Chef)<br />7. Daily Show/Colbert Report (They count as one in my book)<br />8. Supernatural<br />There are many more—I watch too much TV<br /><br /><strong>8 Favorite Restaurants, in no particular order</strong><br />1. Calo {Italian} (Chicago)<br />2. Le Bouchon {French} (Chicago)<br />3. Ann Sather {Andersonville location] (Chicago) (great comfort food<br />4. Tavern on the Green (NYC)<br />5. Joe Allen (NYC)<br />6. K Paul (New Orleans)<br />7. E.A.T. {Deli} (NYC)<br />8. Summer {great Asian between my El stop and my co op)<br /><br /><strong>Things that happened today (over the past 24 hours roughly 9:00 – 9:00; 12/6) </strong>(It’s a very atypical Saturday, since I’m still sickly.)<br /><br />1. Woke up-slowly (the slow part is typical)<br />2. Made mocha latte & cinnamon toast<br />3. Trimmed beard, showered<br />4. Listened to the Saturday morning NPR run (Car Talk, Wait, Wait, This American Life [and the Rock Show-can’t remember the title] <br /> (A trip to the gym would normally have occurred somewhere here)<br />5. Spent time on the computer<br />6. Walked to the grocery store, Came home wiped out.<br />7. Changed the bed sheets and napped<br />8. Fixed some dinner/ateWatched TV & time on pc (& doing this meme.)<br /><br />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.gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-70434487450122213212008-12-03T17:50:00.002-06:002008-12-03T17:53:40.844-06:00Not HypochondriaSometimes 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. <br />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.<br />So, I was right. I’m really sick again. Sometimes being right sucks shit. I prefer my sick when it's combined with twisted.gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-14833011120479632312008-12-02T14:39:00.003-06:002008-12-02T14:48:50.132-06:00Second Annual World AIDS Day Post<em>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.</em><br /><br />Since I wrote my first post last year ( <a href="http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2007/11/world-aids-day-december-1_28.html">http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2007/11/world-aids-day-december-1_28.html</a> ) 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.<br />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.<br />Needle exchange IS a proven HIV prevention method. <br />Safe sex and condom use is essential for prevention of disease transmission.<br />Making condoms available in prisons prevents disease transmission. <br />News flash: telling prisoners not to have sex is just as effective is was for Sarah Palin’s daughter.<br />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. <br />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.<br /><br />©wtf/rle<br />Post Script<br />Any portion of this that doesn’t make sense, I blame on the fever and apologize.<br />Any portion of this that you may find offensive, I attribute to my abrasive nature and make no apologies.gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-65019795802623800652008-11-29T09:26:00.001-06:002008-11-29T09:29:25.263-06:00TRADITION!Tradition<br /><br />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.<br />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”. <br />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.<br />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.) <br />After a two year hiatus, I am thankful for the revival of <strong><em>"TRADITION!"</em></strong>. I’ll lift a glass of Scotch to that.<br /><br />©wtf/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-25497424464956642902008-11-27T11:59:00.003-06:002008-11-27T12:06:16.286-06:00Perception Part Deux: Subjectively objectiveBack 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.<br /><br />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).<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />*Stupid Fucking mormon<br />©wtf/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-91992601760943877392008-10-26T13:21:00.002-05:002008-10-26T13:27:13.398-05:00PERCEPTION: First in a Series in non-chronological orderI’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. <br />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!<br />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.”<br />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. <br />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.<br />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/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-27117144655741920912008-10-01T21:05:00.004-05:002008-10-03T19:42:52.228-05:00Taking the Plunge<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Fb5VMjoO84KdLagvvf5bpwmvvNE-fLWbbvICb7x4iZwkp0RSR9kK6K5pG72OXsacEZ9di9tUcErWvdbVdzu6nnOuqFfycWlIqJFAO679HOBV-EVyeifJdWXXdgeg9M5j75BHc-ei1vrD/s1600-h/Polar+Bear+Plunge+crop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252372373300632466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Fb5VMjoO84KdLagvvf5bpwmvvNE-fLWbbvICb7x4iZwkp0RSR9kK6K5pG72OXsacEZ9di9tUcErWvdbVdzu6nnOuqFfycWlIqJFAO679HOBV-EVyeifJdWXXdgeg9M5j75BHc-ei1vrD/s320/Polar+Bear+Plunge+crop.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>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.<br />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.<br />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’.<br />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:<br /></div><blockquote>“What’s the procedure?”<br />“You stay in the sauna for a while to get your body<br />temperature good and hot. You run from the sauna, down the path (50<br />yards?) to the hole. You jump in.”<br />“How do you get yourself out? Isn’t it difficult?"<br />“You have someone holding on to each hand/arm when you go<br />in, to make sure you don’t go down below the water level. They help pull<br />you out.”<br />(this is the day I learned the difference between ‘buck naked’ and<br />stark naked’.)<br />“I highly recommend you do this buck naked, which means you<br />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."<br /></blockquote><br /><div>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! “<br />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.”<br />I did. The picture above is the result, and the proof.<br />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.<br />©rle/wtf</div>gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-77376875025911017822008-09-30T22:39:00.002-05:002008-09-30T22:44:13.123-05:00At least I was having fun when it happened this timeAt least I was having fun when it happened this time<br /><br />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.<br />I now have a WASTHTR in which merriment was being made.<br />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.<br />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!<br />I shower, leave and call Louie, my massage & physical therapist.<br />“Lou, I need to see you. I think I’ve popped a couple of ribs.”<br />“WHAT?!”<br />I think I’ve popped a couple of ribs.”<br />“How?”<br />“Let’s just say I was having a good time when it happened.”<br />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/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-18498738704406357032008-09-22T22:03:00.005-05:002008-09-23T21:27:27.411-05:00D-DaySome 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.)<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-78898461890925169442008-09-11T23:43:00.009-05:002008-09-12T12:04:33.796-05:00The Song of Purple SummerI 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.<br />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:<br /><br /><blockquote><p>* 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.<br />* 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.<br />* 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<br />was one guy who wanted to ‘manscape’ me. My goal for next summer is to be<br />rid of the last bit of belly, that seems to be clinging for dear life. I<br />have no delusions of a six pack. My goal is flat tummy, and be able to<br />walk through Market Days shirtless, without embarrassment. And speaking of<br />the beach. The gay beach was packed this year! The eye candy was<br />sweet, good and plenty. </p><p>*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.<br />* Since getting rid of Gary MINI Cooper and acquiring Gary Fisher the Bike, I’ve<br />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.<br />* I managed to take off nearly ever other Friday, to give me some long weekends, in which to enjoy the Chicago Summer.<br />* After finally knocking out the sinus infection from hell, I’ve maintained some<br />level of decent health status (for me).<br />* 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<br />me feel really stupid. </p></blockquote>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.<br />Last Summer, when I went to NYC, one of the highlights was seeing the Broadway show <strong>Spring Awakening</strong>, <em>(book and lyrics by Steven Sater, music by Duncan Sheik, based on the 1891 German play by Frank Wedekind)</em> the night after it won all of the Tony awards. The finale of the show is “<em>The Song of Purple Summer</em>”. 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. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CMh3HKnRyg">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CMh3HKnRyg</a><br />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.<br /><br />©wtf/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-56210288646315255352008-08-14T19:11:00.001-05:002008-08-14T19:15:44.994-05:00FLASHBACK: Bamboo Shoot ( Corn) Finger (Thumb)Nail TortureAs 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.<br />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. <br />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. <br />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. <br />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!”<br />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.<br /> “You’re going to have to keep your hand in place!”<br />“You are NOT going UNDER my thumb nail with a syringe while I’m still conscious!”<br />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.<br />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.<br />*Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy<br /><br />©wtf/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-16198257342259645962008-08-10T21:35:00.002-05:002008-08-10T21:52:13.223-05:00How Do You Like Them Apples?I was reading over on one of my favorite bloggers Dr. Mark, {<a href="http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/2008/08/growing-tails-so-far-so-good.html">http://mouseasthma.blogspot.com/2008/08/growing-tails-so-far-so-good.html</a> } 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.<br />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).<br />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/rlegay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-14408752068146300352008-07-27T23:30:00.003-05:002008-07-27T23:40:03.898-05:00AnniversaryJuly 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. <br />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. <br />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. <br />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.gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725856347380049567.post-24513986223533529272008-07-17T20:08:00.001-05:002008-07-17T20:16:36.349-05:00Ass Whuppin'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’. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br />The new season of Project Runway<br />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<br />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.<br />Of course there’s more, but it’s a start.gay CME guyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05817474200268605557noreply@blogger.com2