Thursday, October 28, 2004
Reminiscing in the waiting room
It's hard to take yourself too seriously when you're sitting in an overly air-conditioned room, shorts around your ankles with another man's rubber glove-clad hand on your nuts.
For the first time in a year, I went to the doctor today to check out some symptoms that are more than likely in my head. Despite a somewhat harrowing experience, I remembered how much I like hospitals. That's not to say I have great memories of hospitals. I remember being frightened to death going into surgery for chronic ear infections when I was 7 and watching my slightly delirious grandma deteriorate after brain surgery last year in less than dignified, fluorescent-lit circumstances.
But the open-backed gowns, the fear and the vulnerability are all part of the draw: there's simply no bullshit.
The hospital waiting room is a great leveler. People from various backgrounds sit quietly in plastic chairs, worry and read five-year-old issues of Country Living. Moms look nervously at their ill children and people flip through pages more to fidget than to read, wondering what the doctor will tell them.
In the first waiting room of the day, I caught up on my Reminisce magazine, as that was the only magazine available. Reminisce was an appropriate title, as none of the copies in the room were newer than 2002. I may be a bit out of the demographic for "the magazine that brings back the good times" but I dove into it, learning more than I ever could have imagined about pie recipes and why that darned internet is so confusing.
Then a nurse called my name, took my weight, and left me to stare at the wall until the doctor arrived. When he did, he gave me a head to nuts to toes physical as I awkwardly answered questions like, "Do you drink?"
"Well, yeah, but, you know, not regularly, I guess."
Following that, the doctor sent me down for a battery of tests that quickly put me in my place.
The bloodwork went relatively smoothly. I looked away, like a pussy, so as not to get queasy at the sight of my own blood, filled the vial and moved on.
Then, a rather curt nurse taped a bunch of very cold electrode-like squares on my arms and chest and hooked up an EKG to check my heart. There was no problem until she started tearing the adhesive strips off with much of my chest hair still attached.
Despite my employer's rather Draconian drug testing policy, I don't regularly pee in a cup and it's more of a challenge than I had envisioned. I followed the instructions, swabbing my junk with anti-septic, pissing a little in the toilet before pinching it off, positioning the cup and the peeing. Despite my efforts I still managed to spray my hands and my pants.
Mercifully, the nurse did not laugh at me when I handed her the cup with droplets dotting the front of my pants.
For the first time in a year, I went to the doctor today to check out some symptoms that are more than likely in my head. Despite a somewhat harrowing experience, I remembered how much I like hospitals. That's not to say I have great memories of hospitals. I remember being frightened to death going into surgery for chronic ear infections when I was 7 and watching my slightly delirious grandma deteriorate after brain surgery last year in less than dignified, fluorescent-lit circumstances.
But the open-backed gowns, the fear and the vulnerability are all part of the draw: there's simply no bullshit.
The hospital waiting room is a great leveler. People from various backgrounds sit quietly in plastic chairs, worry and read five-year-old issues of Country Living. Moms look nervously at their ill children and people flip through pages more to fidget than to read, wondering what the doctor will tell them.
In the first waiting room of the day, I caught up on my Reminisce magazine, as that was the only magazine available. Reminisce was an appropriate title, as none of the copies in the room were newer than 2002. I may be a bit out of the demographic for "the magazine that brings back the good times" but I dove into it, learning more than I ever could have imagined about pie recipes and why that darned internet is so confusing.
Then a nurse called my name, took my weight, and left me to stare at the wall until the doctor arrived. When he did, he gave me a head to nuts to toes physical as I awkwardly answered questions like, "Do you drink?"
"Well, yeah, but, you know, not regularly, I guess."
Following that, the doctor sent me down for a battery of tests that quickly put me in my place.
The bloodwork went relatively smoothly. I looked away, like a pussy, so as not to get queasy at the sight of my own blood, filled the vial and moved on.
Then, a rather curt nurse taped a bunch of very cold electrode-like squares on my arms and chest and hooked up an EKG to check my heart. There was no problem until she started tearing the adhesive strips off with much of my chest hair still attached.
Despite my employer's rather Draconian drug testing policy, I don't regularly pee in a cup and it's more of a challenge than I had envisioned. I followed the instructions, swabbing my junk with anti-septic, pissing a little in the toilet before pinching it off, positioning the cup and the peeing. Despite my efforts I still managed to spray my hands and my pants.
Mercifully, the nurse did not laugh at me when I handed her the cup with droplets dotting the front of my pants.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Shoot me
This is the hottest October on record in Baton Rouge - it's almost November and it is consistently in the mid-80s and humid. Not pleasant. Perhaps a sign from God to his Halloween-hating flock in Louisiana asking them to lighten up a bit?
From all accounts, it's also the best early season snowboarding in Tahoe. Ever. Shoot me.
From all accounts, it's also the best early season snowboarding in Tahoe. Ever. Shoot me.
Friday, October 22, 2004
Druz 1, Red Sox fan 0
First, a preemptive fuck you to all those who have or are planning to taunt me about the Yankees' monumental collapse. I took in the Greg Norman-izing of a once-proud franchise at the usual watering hole and I should have known I was already sending bad vibes. The bar, Ivar's, has a green sign with a four-leaf clover on it and when I got in there I was surrounded by what I imagine was every Boston ex-pat in the Baton Rouge metro area.
We all know what happened (thanks, everyone, for your calls) but, you know what? Unlike those drunken, rioting Irishmen in Beantown, I turned to the Red Sox fan sitting next to me, tipped my hat, shook his hand and told him the truth: they deserved it.
It felt good, classy. Then some drunk, sweaty, bloated fuck with a Sox hat leaned in awkwardly between me and my fellow Yankees fan and slurred, "How 'bout them Yankees."
I sprung into action, ripping off one of the all-time great drunkards and replying, "Yeah, well the Yankees will be good next year and you'll still be drunk and fat in the morning, asshole."
Fortunately for me, the Sox fan, who was the size of three of me, was too surprised to kick my ass.
What else is there to say but, go Cardinals!
We all know what happened (thanks, everyone, for your calls) but, you know what? Unlike those drunken, rioting Irishmen in Beantown, I turned to the Red Sox fan sitting next to me, tipped my hat, shook his hand and told him the truth: they deserved it.
It felt good, classy. Then some drunk, sweaty, bloated fuck with a Sox hat leaned in awkwardly between me and my fellow Yankees fan and slurred, "How 'bout them Yankees."
I sprung into action, ripping off one of the all-time great drunkards and replying, "Yeah, well the Yankees will be good next year and you'll still be drunk and fat in the morning, asshole."
Fortunately for me, the Sox fan, who was the size of three of me, was too surprised to kick my ass.
What else is there to say but, go Cardinals!
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Take that, Satan
Raise your hand if you worship the Devil. Come on now, be honest. Now raise your hand if you celebrate Halloween. I should be seeing the same hands, you goddamn pagans.
Confirming that I, indeed, live in the Twilight Zone, the city council in Baker, La., our fair neighbor to the north, is considering banning Halloween. Is it because of safety issues or an overextended police department? No, it's because of the "anti-Christian values" of the holiday. Little-known fact: a 5-year-old dressed as Sponge-Bob is actually a vessel for the Dark Lord and looking into the child's eyes will inject you with Satan's filthy seed.
Well, it's true, so get wise.
At a recent meeting of the Baker city council - the same city council that already changed Halloween from Sunday, Oct. 31 to Thursday to avoid interfering with the Lord's day - some councilmembers said they are going to push for a resolution to ban Halloween from their city next year.
Baker City Councilman Charles Vincent called Halloween a Satanic celebration in print, but his fellow-councilman, Fred Russell on-upped him (and don't think the Lord didn't notice):
""We are a Christian city," Russell said. "Jesus is lord over Baker." (I swear to Fred Russell's God that is a quote pulled from the front page of The Advocate).
Confirming that I, indeed, live in the Twilight Zone, the city council in Baker, La., our fair neighbor to the north, is considering banning Halloween. Is it because of safety issues or an overextended police department? No, it's because of the "anti-Christian values" of the holiday. Little-known fact: a 5-year-old dressed as Sponge-Bob is actually a vessel for the Dark Lord and looking into the child's eyes will inject you with Satan's filthy seed.
Well, it's true, so get wise.
At a recent meeting of the Baker city council - the same city council that already changed Halloween from Sunday, Oct. 31 to Thursday to avoid interfering with the Lord's day - some councilmembers said they are going to push for a resolution to ban Halloween from their city next year.
Baker City Councilman Charles Vincent called Halloween a Satanic celebration in print, but his fellow-councilman, Fred Russell on-upped him (and don't think the Lord didn't notice):
""We are a Christian city," Russell said. "Jesus is lord over Baker." (I swear to Fred Russell's God that is a quote pulled from the front page of The Advocate).
Thursday, October 14, 2004
The gay porn lobby
My car is in the shop (again) so I'm driving a swank '98 Dodge Neon from Rent-A-Wreck (that actually is the company's official name). All of my CDs are in my ailing Subaru so I'm stuck listening to the radio, which is fine until 7 p.m. rolls around. Then, NPR switches to classical music and there are no good music stations in Baton Rouge, unless you dig REO Speedwagon.
So I turned on Savage Nation tonight, knowing it would at least be amusing to hear the lunatic fringe of the lunatic fringe. MSNBC fired Savage Nation host Michael Savage last year, as some of you know, after he referred to a gay caller as a "sodomite" and said the caller should "get AIDS and die."
Sure enough, as soon as I tuned in Mr. Savage informed me that the Democrats today are "just like the Communists of the Soviet Union." He then railed against a Louisiana State Supreme Court decision to throw out a recently passed constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage, saying the judge was in the pocket of the "gay porn" lobby.
It's hilarious, except that people believe him. Yikes.
So I turned on Savage Nation tonight, knowing it would at least be amusing to hear the lunatic fringe of the lunatic fringe. MSNBC fired Savage Nation host Michael Savage last year, as some of you know, after he referred to a gay caller as a "sodomite" and said the caller should "get AIDS and die."
Sure enough, as soon as I tuned in Mr. Savage informed me that the Democrats today are "just like the Communists of the Soviet Union." He then railed against a Louisiana State Supreme Court decision to throw out a recently passed constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage, saying the judge was in the pocket of the "gay porn" lobby.
It's hilarious, except that people believe him. Yikes.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Profile
I was bored last night so I filled out my profile. Check it out if you're interested, or don't if you're a douche.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Parrot Beach
Well in to double digit drinks, I was in no mood for a surly DJ. When he had the balls to stop Simple Minds' classic (and a Druz karaoke favorite) "Don't You Forget About Me" midway through the song, I did what any self-respecting drunk would do. I started swearing at the DJ at the top of my lungs (to my surprise he heard me in a loud, crowded bar).
It was the end of an epic evening that started with a celebration of my self-described white trash neighbor, Becky's 44th birthday. Becky is great, always there to hang on the porch with cheap beer and stories from her home state of Arkansas that, at times, involve the Border Patrol, an eight-ball and handguns (I realize the border patrol is not in Arkansas but trust me, it somehow makes sense).
The festivities were at the new Baton Rouge nightspot, Parrot Beach, sort of a Jimmy Buffet meets Satan club/bar with a soundtrack about 10 years behind the times and enough frat assholes to, uh, fill a large bar (for those of you familiar with Davis, think The 'Tina on a larger scale with hotter waitresses and more douche bags).
By the time I got to the bar, Becky was barely standing, but still eager to give all of her friends a birthday grind. I ended up driving her home and, after two of us had to practically had to carry Becky to the car, she spent the whole drive telling me that she could drink me under the table.
I dropped her off, got back to the bar and got down to business. As revolting as Parrot Beach is, it was still a blast because really, what else can you do at a place like that but get utterly blitzed? And we did. By the time the night was coming to an end my friends and I were all on the dance floor, singing as poorly as we were dancing.
Then DJ Douche Bag pulled his Simple Minds stunt, I let him know how I felt about it and he said, over the PA, "Hey you, why don't you shut the fuck up." It was time to go.
It was the end of an epic evening that started with a celebration of my self-described white trash neighbor, Becky's 44th birthday. Becky is great, always there to hang on the porch with cheap beer and stories from her home state of Arkansas that, at times, involve the Border Patrol, an eight-ball and handguns (I realize the border patrol is not in Arkansas but trust me, it somehow makes sense).
The festivities were at the new Baton Rouge nightspot, Parrot Beach, sort of a Jimmy Buffet meets Satan club/bar with a soundtrack about 10 years behind the times and enough frat assholes to, uh, fill a large bar (for those of you familiar with Davis, think The 'Tina on a larger scale with hotter waitresses and more douche bags).
By the time I got to the bar, Becky was barely standing, but still eager to give all of her friends a birthday grind. I ended up driving her home and, after two of us had to practically had to carry Becky to the car, she spent the whole drive telling me that she could drink me under the table.
I dropped her off, got back to the bar and got down to business. As revolting as Parrot Beach is, it was still a blast because really, what else can you do at a place like that but get utterly blitzed? And we did. By the time the night was coming to an end my friends and I were all on the dance floor, singing as poorly as we were dancing.
Then DJ Douche Bag pulled his Simple Minds stunt, I let him know how I felt about it and he said, over the PA, "Hey you, why don't you shut the fuck up." It was time to go.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Might as well fish
As my buddy, Ethan, revved the boat engine the other day, all it kicked up was a wall of Pearl River mud and the boat stayed right where it was. We were stuck but, after taking inventory, and realizing we had beer, smokes, tunes and bait, Ethan cast his line and said, "Well, might as well fish." And fish we did, while stuck in the shallows of the Pearl River, near the Mississippi border, while a line of thunderstorms got closer and closer. For two hours we drank, smoked and (everyone but me) caught quite a few fish until a kindhearted redneck with a cigarette and torn shirt that read "Beer, helping ugly people have sex since 1862" threw us a rope and pulled us out.
I have now been fishing six or seven times down here and caught exactly one fish (it was too small to keep) but I understand, now more than ever, that fishing has very little to do with fish.
Later that night I walked into my friend's house and was greeted with this scene: loud drunk people in a heated discussion and a .357 Magnum sitting right next to the booze. Fortunately the gun was unloaded.
I walked into the kitchen to see Lying Bobby, a racist cable guy from Mississippi, holding court in the kitchen telling his (mostly false) tales of adventure and representing his home state well. Within five minutes of meeting him, Bobby had already complained about how the "Africans" had figured out how to disarm anti-theft devices and steal cars and told this story in his thick drawl (parentheses mine):
"I was in the Army Rangers and my body is breaking down from all the abuse they gave us (alcoholism and a pack a day probably don't help). They would make us run 20, 30 miles a day in the heat with a 150 pound pack (not possible) and a 23-pound M16 (an M16 weighs less than 7.5 pounds fully loaded). But, hey, that's the kind of training you need to go and fight these sand-niggers."
I have now been fishing six or seven times down here and caught exactly one fish (it was too small to keep) but I understand, now more than ever, that fishing has very little to do with fish.
Later that night I walked into my friend's house and was greeted with this scene: loud drunk people in a heated discussion and a .357 Magnum sitting right next to the booze. Fortunately the gun was unloaded.
I walked into the kitchen to see Lying Bobby, a racist cable guy from Mississippi, holding court in the kitchen telling his (mostly false) tales of adventure and representing his home state well. Within five minutes of meeting him, Bobby had already complained about how the "Africans" had figured out how to disarm anti-theft devices and steal cars and told this story in his thick drawl (parentheses mine):
"I was in the Army Rangers and my body is breaking down from all the abuse they gave us (alcoholism and a pack a day probably don't help). They would make us run 20, 30 miles a day in the heat with a 150 pound pack (not possible) and a 23-pound M16 (an M16 weighs less than 7.5 pounds fully loaded). But, hey, that's the kind of training you need to go and fight these sand-niggers."
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
More booze, please, but welcome
Welcome, Amber, to our dorky world. Amber Knight - art fan, citizen of the world, drunk - has started a blog and can be found at http://amberknight.blogspot.com. There is a distinct lack of boozing so far, but she has but three posts so we'll give her time. Though she can't possibly be as interesting as me, check it out.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
FUCK
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 R H E
SFO 0 0 0 2 0 0 1 0 0 3 6 2
LOS 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 7 7 7 0
WP: Y. Brazoban (6-2) LP: D. Hermanson (6-9) S:
10/2 - Final
San Francisco 3
Los Angeles 7
GAME DAY RECAP Saturday, October 02
Giants stunned by LA comeback
Dodgers claim division title with seven-run ninth
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 R H E
SFO 0 0 0 2 0 0 1 0 0 3 6 2
LOS 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 7 7 7 0
WP: Y. Brazoban (6-2) LP: D. Hermanson (6-9) S:
10/2 - Final
San Francisco 3
Los Angeles 7
GAME DAY RECAP Saturday, October 02
Giants stunned by LA comeback
Dodgers claim division title with seven-run ninth
