I've been gently chided for not updating in ever-so-long* and though I could give the usual list of non-blogging excuses, let's not do that and just dive right in, shall we?
I'm over my Close Encounter of the Bacterial Kind; all that's left is for me to get off my fat ass, head back to Patient First, and get a third and final chest x-ray** so they can close out their files. Incidentally, should you ever have the opportunity to experience pneumonia, my advice is JUST SAY NO! It is the very definition of Suck-O-Rama.
And speaking of Suck-O-Rama, my poor father just got out of a four-week stay at the hospital for (wait for it!) pneumonia (which, in case you were wondering, was entirely independent of my bout). Now, remember that both my parents are in the Assisted Living facility of a retirement home in Waynesboro, VA; remember, too, that they both have diagnoses of "senile dementia of the Alzheimer's type" (a hedge in that Alzheimer's can be definitively diagnosed only at autopsy). Dad had been in for two weeks before I knew anything about it--Mom hadn't contacted me because (1) she's always confused and in her head this had just happened that very day (and had just happened that very day every day thereafter for four weeks) and (2) Dad has my phone number on speed dial and speed dial is a bit beyond Mom's ability to comprehend***. Dad hadn't contacted me because (1) he has my number on speed dial and so doesn't know it, (2) he's always very confused and finds the hospital voice menus he has to wade through to get my number from 411 totally bewildering, and (3) he didn't have his glasses (nor his teeth) anyway.
He's okay now, as okay as an 87-yr. old man with a degenerative brain disease can be, but he's in no physical discomfort as far as I can tell. I'll go see them Sunday and make my own assessment.
As for me, I'm still going to Super-Secret Support Group meetings, still working through my (ever-expanding) pile of unread books, still seeking out Links O' Interest on the Intarwebs, still feeding Sid-the-Cat, still pondering the Great Mysteries of the Universe, still leading my quiet little life.
"Once again, the world (is) spinning in greased grooves."
And I lied. There is some April Foolery here: The Top 100 April Fool's Day Hoaxes of All Time.
* I'm looking at you, Madame Alexis!
** A little side note here: when I finally went to Patient First they kinda, sorta, rushed me into their x-ray room, slapped me up against the film holder, and did their thing with all expediency, probably because they figured the sooner they got me treated and out of there the slimmer the possibility of their having to wheel me out of there. Ambulances showing up at an HMO to take people away tend to erode patient confidence. During my follow-up x-ray they went about their business a little more leisurely, swaddling my nether regions in a non-form-fitting and completely unflattering lead diaper. I had to laugh; at my age the last thing I'm worried about is mutant sperm.
*** These days lots of things are beyond my mother's ability to comprehend. At one point while Dad was in the hospital she was complaining that though the hotel room she was in was very nice, she was ready to go home. You've probably guessed it wasn't a hotel room but her own apartment.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Pneumonia Sucks!
Some of you already know this, but for those who don't and were wondering where the hell I've been for the past month and why I've been ignoring your e-mails and phone calls and text messages, it boils down to this--I came down with a bad case of pneumonia.
You may recall that Friday, February 8, I went on a fake date with my friend Sarah to the Sex Workers' Art Show, which was cool and wonderful and all kinds of fun and, yes, at some point I'll do a write-up, but all that is beside the point. When I woke up Saturday morning I noticed that I felt a mite... coldified. Not horrible, a tad congested, a bit of a cough beyond my usual smoker's hack, maybe a little feverish in that almost-but-not-quite-early-flu way, certainly nothing that massive quantities of orange juice and aspirin couldn't handle. Sunday came and there was more of the same. Monday... well, Monday I went to work and as the day progressed I realized that the presumed rhinoviruses had decided to have their way with me--I was feeling definitely sick.
Then came Tuesday and the fecal material hit the bladed cooling device:
Fever. Chills. Wheezing. Coughing. Headache. Muscle pain. Joint pain. Shortness of breath. Non-cardiac chest pain. More coughing. More fever. Misery.
And I'm thinking, "Please, dear Jeebus, please don't let this be the flu even though I know it probably is," because I work at a hospital and all we've heard for the past few months is how we should get a flu shot, we need to get a flu shot, we'd better get a flu shot, we're going to have to sign papers if we don't get a flu shot, if we come down with the flu and haven't gotten a flu shot there'll be no sympathy for us and we will be the objects of scorn and derision... and guess who had yet to get one.
I needn't have worried.
By Wednesday morning I was sick enough that I figured I was going to have to get better in order to see a doctor--sitting up was problematic, walking was a hit-or-miss proposition, and driving myself to the doctor was out of the question. Hell, getting dressed was out of the question because now I was having genuine difficulty breathing; in fact, what I was doing was less like breathing and more like gasping.
Wednesday and Thursday were one long, continuous fever dream, which would have been amusing, even entertaining, in other circumstances; unfortunately, I was in no state to appreciate it since all the previously mentioned symptoms had intensified.
At some point during the Thursday/Friday transition I coughed so hard I tore something around my lower left rib. This made further coughing a very, very painful experience and the one time I sneezed was as close to true agony as I ever wish to experience.
This was not flu.
Friday morning I put in a (literally) breathless call to my doctor to no avail--he was booked solid until Monday and the receptionist suggested I go to the emergency room if I couldn't wait until then. What she didn't address was how the hell I was going to get to the emergency room, but I let that slide. Instead, after a quick check to make sure my insurance would cover a visit to someone not my primary care provider, I dragged myself over to the local Doc-In-A-Box, Patient First, since they have a facility right around the corner from where I live. We're talking maybe half a block away.
It took me half an hour to walk there.
Patient First is strictly a walk-in place--no appointments, first-come, first-served, though when I signed in I got the distinct feeling they started hustling things a bit to get me out of the waiting room and into an exam room ASAP. Nurse walks in, takes my temperature (high), resting pulse (didn't catch that one but I'm guessing rapid, say, 80+), and blood pressure (a tad high but not frightening), walks out. Doctor comes in, expresses sympathy, listens to my chest gurgle, swabs a nasal passage for a quickie flu test, draws blood, walks out, hustles back in with a nebulizer, then proceeds to administer what I assume was Albuterol for half an hour in an effort to relieve my breathing difficulties. Then a couple of chest x-rays just for fun. The flu test comes back negative (yay!), but the x-rays are strongly indicative of bacterial pneumonia and me being one sick puppy.
About an hour later I walked out s-l-o-w-l-y with an Albuterol inhaler, a 10-day supply of a seriously broad-spectrum antibiotic (Levaquin), and a bottle of cherry-flavored Tylenol III generic, which is an amusing blend of acetaminophen and codeine intended to reduce my fever to reasonable levels while diminishing, but not suppressing, my cough reflex (it also tastes like ass).
For the next week I was still sick, as in stay-at-home sick, but at least I could breathe and the various aforementioned symptoms slowly (too slowly) receded to tolerable levels. I won't disgust you with the horrendous crap I proceeded to cough up over the next few days (use your imagination if you must); let's just say I felt like John Hurt's character's last scene in Alien.
And now I'm on the mend, though I have no energy and tire easily, a state of affairs they tell me may last a few months, o joy, o bliss.
The good thing about this after missing two weeks of work and dragging for a couple of weeks after that is...
It wasn't flu.
P. S. Daytime television EFFIN' SUCKS!
You may recall that Friday, February 8, I went on a fake date with my friend Sarah to the Sex Workers' Art Show, which was cool and wonderful and all kinds of fun and, yes, at some point I'll do a write-up, but all that is beside the point. When I woke up Saturday morning I noticed that I felt a mite... coldified. Not horrible, a tad congested, a bit of a cough beyond my usual smoker's hack, maybe a little feverish in that almost-but-not-quite-early-flu way, certainly nothing that massive quantities of orange juice and aspirin couldn't handle. Sunday came and there was more of the same. Monday... well, Monday I went to work and as the day progressed I realized that the presumed rhinoviruses had decided to have their way with me--I was feeling definitely sick.
Then came Tuesday and the fecal material hit the bladed cooling device:
Fever. Chills. Wheezing. Coughing. Headache. Muscle pain. Joint pain. Shortness of breath. Non-cardiac chest pain. More coughing. More fever. Misery.
And I'm thinking, "Please, dear Jeebus, please don't let this be the flu even though I know it probably is," because I work at a hospital and all we've heard for the past few months is how we should get a flu shot, we need to get a flu shot, we'd better get a flu shot, we're going to have to sign papers if we don't get a flu shot, if we come down with the flu and haven't gotten a flu shot there'll be no sympathy for us and we will be the objects of scorn and derision... and guess who had yet to get one.
I needn't have worried.
By Wednesday morning I was sick enough that I figured I was going to have to get better in order to see a doctor--sitting up was problematic, walking was a hit-or-miss proposition, and driving myself to the doctor was out of the question. Hell, getting dressed was out of the question because now I was having genuine difficulty breathing; in fact, what I was doing was less like breathing and more like gasping.
Wednesday and Thursday were one long, continuous fever dream, which would have been amusing, even entertaining, in other circumstances; unfortunately, I was in no state to appreciate it since all the previously mentioned symptoms had intensified.
At some point during the Thursday/Friday transition I coughed so hard I tore something around my lower left rib. This made further coughing a very, very painful experience and the one time I sneezed was as close to true agony as I ever wish to experience.
This was not flu.
Friday morning I put in a (literally) breathless call to my doctor to no avail--he was booked solid until Monday and the receptionist suggested I go to the emergency room if I couldn't wait until then. What she didn't address was how the hell I was going to get to the emergency room, but I let that slide. Instead, after a quick check to make sure my insurance would cover a visit to someone not my primary care provider, I dragged myself over to the local Doc-In-A-Box, Patient First, since they have a facility right around the corner from where I live. We're talking maybe half a block away.
It took me half an hour to walk there.
Patient First is strictly a walk-in place--no appointments, first-come, first-served, though when I signed in I got the distinct feeling they started hustling things a bit to get me out of the waiting room and into an exam room ASAP. Nurse walks in, takes my temperature (high), resting pulse (didn't catch that one but I'm guessing rapid, say, 80+), and blood pressure (a tad high but not frightening), walks out. Doctor comes in, expresses sympathy, listens to my chest gurgle, swabs a nasal passage for a quickie flu test, draws blood, walks out, hustles back in with a nebulizer, then proceeds to administer what I assume was Albuterol for half an hour in an effort to relieve my breathing difficulties. Then a couple of chest x-rays just for fun. The flu test comes back negative (yay!), but the x-rays are strongly indicative of bacterial pneumonia and me being one sick puppy.
About an hour later I walked out s-l-o-w-l-y with an Albuterol inhaler, a 10-day supply of a seriously broad-spectrum antibiotic (Levaquin), and a bottle of cherry-flavored Tylenol III generic, which is an amusing blend of acetaminophen and codeine intended to reduce my fever to reasonable levels while diminishing, but not suppressing, my cough reflex (it also tastes like ass).
For the next week I was still sick, as in stay-at-home sick, but at least I could breathe and the various aforementioned symptoms slowly (too slowly) receded to tolerable levels. I won't disgust you with the horrendous crap I proceeded to cough up over the next few days (use your imagination if you must); let's just say I felt like John Hurt's character's last scene in Alien.
And now I'm on the mend, though I have no energy and tire easily, a state of affairs they tell me may last a few months, o joy, o bliss.
The good thing about this after missing two weeks of work and dragging for a couple of weeks after that is...
It wasn't flu.
P. S. Daytime television EFFIN' SUCKS!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Goodbye, Roy; Goodbye Steve
Sunday was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day for my burgeoning pantheon of Short Duration Personal Saviors--the Grim Reaper went into overtime and took out Roy Scheider and Steve Gerber in one fell swoop--and I'm very sad. This is one of the suckier things about getting old: your heroes die.
*sigh*
Poor Roy Scheider. The man had an impressive body of work behind him but all the obituaries want to focus on is his role as Sheriff Martin Brody in Jaws (with vague nods to his supporting roles in The French Connection and Marathon Man). Nary a mention of 2010: The Year We Make Contact, which is a damn fine movie, Kubrick purists notwithstanding, or Sorcerer, William Friedkin's remake of The Wages of Fear. which, yeah, was a commercial flop when it was released, but you've got to remember that in 1977 it was running concurrently with freakin' Star Wars. Friedkin and Friedkin devotees now consider it his best film and hey! What's not to like? "{C}lose-ups...of sweaty people working hard and laboring machines; truck engines and huge wheels spinning in soupy mud and frayed fanbelts in Panavision-70. Great stuff!" said none other than Stephen King in Danse Macabre.
Or All That Jazz, which I'm bold enough to say was Scheider's Best. Performance. EVER!
Dear Roy, I'm sorry you died but I sincerely hope your last moments mirrored your character's last moments in All That Jazz--death as a Broadway production number, all singing, all dancing, all your friends and loved ones playing extras and Jessica Lange leading you into the Light.
That final image of the zipping body bag we'll leave on the cutting room floor.
Steve Gerber, in case you didn't know, created and scripted the '70s comic book character Howard the Duck* and turned the whole notion of funny animal cartooning upside-down and inside-out through the simple expedient of satirizing every single comic book convention (especially those in Marvel) he could get away with. Ya want vampire hellcows complete with capes? Howard had 'em. A Dr. Strange wannabe, the Master of Mundane Magic, sending a "rolling radial six-ply death" hurtling towards an increasingly annoyed Howard? It's there. Politics? In 1976 Howard ran for president on the All-Night Party ticket. Over-the-top villains? How about Pro Rata, the aspiring Chief Accountant of the Universe, searching for the jeweled key to his Cosmic Calculator?
"By whatever means necessary I must procure that key by midnight. For at that hour, the stellar balance sheet comes into alignment...the astral audit may be taken...and I...I alone shall collect the COSMIC DIVIDEND!"**--Howard the Duck #1 (and a barely safe for work page scan from earlier in the story)
I discovered Howard the Duck one hot, sticky summer evening when I popped into the local 7-11 for my traditional trash can-sized cola Slurpee and saw an oversized anthology on the magazine rack. A quick glance brought me to a typical superhero comics panel--a stalwart group of underwear fetishists...uh...defenders of Truth, Justice, and the American Way are standing around discussing how to defeat the Supremely Evil Villain when a bewildered Howard happens to stumble upon them. His response? "Naturally. A room full of zanies. My day is complete."
And I was hooked.
There's a nice tribute to Steve over at The Comics Reporter and another at News From Me. His journal/blog, stevegerblog, remains online for the time being.
Interested parties will want to check out Essential Howard the Duck (review here) and the forthcoming Howard the Duck Omnibus.
Goodbye, Roy & Steve, and thanks! The world's a little less entertaining without you.
* Ignore the movie version. It's just... hideous. Not even Lea Thompson parading around in her underwear made it bearable and I speak as one who sat through The Beverly Hillbillies purely for shots of Lea Thompson in her underwear.
** In my college drinking days it was not unusual for me to recite this little monologue at random moments during the evening followed by gratuitous grandiose gestures and maniacal laughter. Yeah, you really wanted to party with me.
*sigh*
Poor Roy Scheider. The man had an impressive body of work behind him but all the obituaries want to focus on is his role as Sheriff Martin Brody in Jaws (with vague nods to his supporting roles in The French Connection and Marathon Man). Nary a mention of 2010: The Year We Make Contact, which is a damn fine movie, Kubrick purists notwithstanding, or Sorcerer, William Friedkin's remake of The Wages of Fear. which, yeah, was a commercial flop when it was released, but you've got to remember that in 1977 it was running concurrently with freakin' Star Wars. Friedkin and Friedkin devotees now consider it his best film and hey! What's not to like? "{C}lose-ups...of sweaty people working hard and laboring machines; truck engines and huge wheels spinning in soupy mud and frayed fanbelts in Panavision-70. Great stuff!" said none other than Stephen King in Danse Macabre.
Or All That Jazz, which I'm bold enough to say was Scheider's Best. Performance. EVER!
Dear Roy, I'm sorry you died but I sincerely hope your last moments mirrored your character's last moments in All That Jazz--death as a Broadway production number, all singing, all dancing, all your friends and loved ones playing extras and Jessica Lange leading you into the Light.
That final image of the zipping body bag we'll leave on the cutting room floor.
Steve Gerber, in case you didn't know, created and scripted the '70s comic book character Howard the Duck* and turned the whole notion of funny animal cartooning upside-down and inside-out through the simple expedient of satirizing every single comic book convention (especially those in Marvel) he could get away with. Ya want vampire hellcows complete with capes? Howard had 'em. A Dr. Strange wannabe, the Master of Mundane Magic, sending a "rolling radial six-ply death" hurtling towards an increasingly annoyed Howard? It's there. Politics? In 1976 Howard ran for president on the All-Night Party ticket. Over-the-top villains? How about Pro Rata, the aspiring Chief Accountant of the Universe, searching for the jeweled key to his Cosmic Calculator?
"By whatever means necessary I must procure that key by midnight. For at that hour, the stellar balance sheet comes into alignment...the astral audit may be taken...and I...I alone shall collect the COSMIC DIVIDEND!"**--Howard the Duck #1 (and a barely safe for work page scan from earlier in the story)
I discovered Howard the Duck one hot, sticky summer evening when I popped into the local 7-11 for my traditional trash can-sized cola Slurpee and saw an oversized anthology on the magazine rack. A quick glance brought me to a typical superhero comics panel--a stalwart group of underwear fetishists...uh...defenders of Truth, Justice, and the American Way are standing around discussing how to defeat the Supremely Evil Villain when a bewildered Howard happens to stumble upon them. His response? "Naturally. A room full of zanies. My day is complete."
And I was hooked.
There's a nice tribute to Steve over at The Comics Reporter and another at News From Me. His journal/blog, stevegerblog, remains online for the time being.
Interested parties will want to check out Essential Howard the Duck (review here) and the forthcoming Howard the Duck Omnibus.
Goodbye, Roy & Steve, and thanks! The world's a little less entertaining without you.
* Ignore the movie version. It's just... hideous. Not even Lea Thompson parading around in her underwear made it bearable and I speak as one who sat through The Beverly Hillbillies purely for shots of Lea Thompson in her underwear.
** In my college drinking days it was not unusual for me to recite this little monologue at random moments during the evening followed by gratuitous grandiose gestures and maniacal laughter. Yeah, you really wanted to party with me.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Long Time, No Blog
Just some random updates and free-association.
Breaking News
Frequent readers of this blog, all two of you, will have noticed that, for the most part, I lead a pretty dull, uneventful, and boring life. At 52 it's hard not to--I'm way past the Age of Wild, Uninhibited Partying (especially since I no longer partake of mood-altering substances beyond caffeine and nicotine and, really, would rather take a nap) and the idea of a frantic, dope-inspired, meth-fueled, On the Road/Fear and Loathing-style cross-country trip, though wonderful as a fantasy, makes my head and bladder ache. Most of the time I prefer to curl up on the couch with Sid the Cat, a good book, and House reruns playing in the background.
But, you know, every now and then you've just got to say "what the fuck."
Which is a roundabout way of saying, WOO-HOOO! I'm going on a Fake Date this Friday (Feb. 8) with my (24-yr. old) friend, ex-phone sex operator Sarah, to see the Sex Workers' Art Show!
(MySpace page here)
And what, exactly, are we talking about? Well, according to the Gay Community Center of Richmond, "The Sex Workers’ Art Show is an eye-popping evening of visual and performance art created by people who work in the sex industry to dispel the myth that they are anything short of artists, innovators, and geniuses!"
Oh, yeah; this should be a hoot-and-a-half! I just wish Ducky DooLittle and Emily Stern were going to be there!
They Laughed When I Sat Down at the Piano...
The closest I've ever come to learning to play a musical instrument was in 4th grade music class when poor Mrs. Whateverthehellhernamewas tried to teach us simple melodies on that cochlea-crackin' educational device, the Tonette (mine was new and obnoxiously bright yellow; I so envied the people with sibling hand-me-downs in basic black).
I never quite got the hang of it.
Meanwhile, Mom and Dad used to ship me off to my maternal grandparents and their tobacco farm for a week or so every summer (completely unrelated to my lack of expertise with the screechy Tonette) where one of my fondest memories was hanging out with Grandma and singing selections from the Baptist Hymnal while she banged away at the ancient upright piano in the parlor (this pretty much explains why a born-again agnostic knows the lyrics to dozens of obscure hymns and is perfectly willing to prove it at a moment's notice). Naturally, I wanted to try my hand(s) at the keyboard and though I occasionally managed to produce a traditional chord by accident, mostly I was engaged in the independent discovery of atonality. No one ever figured I was a candidate for piano lessons.
In 7th grade I found myself as a tenor in junior high school chorus (even though I probably had no more than a one-octave range) where we were promptly issued these godawful yellowish-beige workbooks on musical theory and notation. I kinda, sorta, vaguely followed what was being discussed ("Hey! That's a staff! And that's a, uh, treble clef! Right?") but was never able to make the cognitive connection between the notes and the sounds they represented. Ever see the movie Drumline? Remember Devon, who couldn't read music but had an uncanny ability to memorize complex rhythms after a single performance? Well, that was me except without the "uncanny" or "single" part, my first experience with any form of illiteracy, but back then I didn't particularly care and so faked my way through two more years secure in the knowledge that what I didn't know would be covered by the people sitting around me.
Still, I was annoyed that I had difficulty grasping concepts many elementary school kids seemed to master in minutes but hey! Chess and microscopes and model rockets and fossil collecting and monster movie making all beckoned and soon all was forgotten.
Fast-forward forty years and as of last week and for reasons which aren't entirely clear to me yet I own a newish Yamaha YPT-210 portable keyboard (check eBay; they're cheap!) and a copy of Piano For Dummies and I'm learning! Slowly, painfully, but I'm learning. There's also the added attraction of the darn thing being just plain fun to noodle with--activate the "sound effects kit" and I'm able to entertain myself for hours overlaying a pre-programmed techno beat with random (but rhythmic) weird-ass sounds. Hell, give me a sufficiently liquored-up, Ecstasy-laden raver crowd and I could keep 'em dancing for a good ten minutes!
Preparedness Notes
I'm always on the lookout for decent sources of Survivalist/Preparedness information and I've recently come across a particularly good online site-- Zombie Squad. Don't be put off by the name--the "Zombie Apocalypse" stuff is merely a semi-humorous metaphor for dealing with natural or man-made disasters (see the Wikipedia entry)... maybe. The discussion forums are particularly interesting, full of solid information and pretty much free of the near-hysterical conspiracy ranting all too typical in similar boards. Well worth bookmarking if you're at all interested in the subject.
Happiness Is A Warm Gun
I hesitate to mention this since so many people have such a viscerally negative reaction to any discussion of firearms and I really, really do not want to come across as a gun nut, but the truth of the matter is I enjoy shooting. Not hunting, mind you, Gawd forbid; shooting. I stalk the wily paper target, have done battle with the evil tin can (though not recently; remind me to tell you the story of the first time I fired a .357 magnum revolver--hilarity ensued), and lived to tell the tale. With the recent massive price increases in larger-caliber ammunition what I haven't had is an inexpensive platform for maintaining my rifle skills (which, at least for me, require frequent practice as in "use 'em or lose 'em")... until now. Now I have a new old school Marlin 981T bolt action, tube-fed .22 rifle which just happens to be very similar to the one I learned on back in the 'Sixties (those were the days when a small gang of 13-yr. olds wandering the local dump with rifles, Coke bottles, and peanut butter sandwiches wasn't a cause for alarm except, maybe, to the rat population). .22 ammunition is ridiculously cheap, which means you can shoot a lot of the stuff without breaking the bank, and the rifle itself was not particularly expensive-- around $100. Sure, I could have bought a fancy-ass, rapid-firing, endlessly customizable, semi-scary semi-automatic weapon, but that would have defeated the purpose-- slow, careful, deliberate perforation of the center of a paper target from 25 yards away and, as an added bonus, this particular model is lightweight enough and unintimidating enough so as to convince attractive women that target shooting can be fun (as opposed to this).
Well, the cat is begging for attention (or food) and I need a bath, so let's wrap things up for now.
Breaking News
Frequent readers of this blog, all two of you, will have noticed that, for the most part, I lead a pretty dull, uneventful, and boring life. At 52 it's hard not to--I'm way past the Age of Wild, Uninhibited Partying (especially since I no longer partake of mood-altering substances beyond caffeine and nicotine and, really, would rather take a nap) and the idea of a frantic, dope-inspired, meth-fueled, On the Road/Fear and Loathing-style cross-country trip, though wonderful as a fantasy, makes my head and bladder ache. Most of the time I prefer to curl up on the couch with Sid the Cat, a good book, and House reruns playing in the background.
But, you know, every now and then you've just got to say "what the fuck."
Which is a roundabout way of saying, WOO-HOOO! I'm going on a Fake Date this Friday (Feb. 8) with my (24-yr. old) friend, ex-phone sex operator Sarah, to see the Sex Workers' Art Show!
(MySpace page here)
And what, exactly, are we talking about? Well, according to the Gay Community Center of Richmond, "The Sex Workers’ Art Show is an eye-popping evening of visual and performance art created by people who work in the sex industry to dispel the myth that they are anything short of artists, innovators, and geniuses!"
Oh, yeah; this should be a hoot-and-a-half! I just wish Ducky DooLittle and Emily Stern were going to be there!
They Laughed When I Sat Down at the Piano...
The closest I've ever come to learning to play a musical instrument was in 4th grade music class when poor Mrs. Whateverthehellhernamewas tried to teach us simple melodies on that cochlea-crackin' educational device, the Tonette (mine was new and obnoxiously bright yellow; I so envied the people with sibling hand-me-downs in basic black).
I never quite got the hang of it.
Meanwhile, Mom and Dad used to ship me off to my maternal grandparents and their tobacco farm for a week or so every summer (completely unrelated to my lack of expertise with the screechy Tonette) where one of my fondest memories was hanging out with Grandma and singing selections from the Baptist Hymnal while she banged away at the ancient upright piano in the parlor (this pretty much explains why a born-again agnostic knows the lyrics to dozens of obscure hymns and is perfectly willing to prove it at a moment's notice). Naturally, I wanted to try my hand(s) at the keyboard and though I occasionally managed to produce a traditional chord by accident, mostly I was engaged in the independent discovery of atonality. No one ever figured I was a candidate for piano lessons.
In 7th grade I found myself as a tenor in junior high school chorus (even though I probably had no more than a one-octave range) where we were promptly issued these godawful yellowish-beige workbooks on musical theory and notation. I kinda, sorta, vaguely followed what was being discussed ("Hey! That's a staff! And that's a, uh, treble clef! Right?") but was never able to make the cognitive connection between the notes and the sounds they represented. Ever see the movie Drumline? Remember Devon, who couldn't read music but had an uncanny ability to memorize complex rhythms after a single performance? Well, that was me except without the "uncanny" or "single" part, my first experience with any form of illiteracy, but back then I didn't particularly care and so faked my way through two more years secure in the knowledge that what I didn't know would be covered by the people sitting around me.
Still, I was annoyed that I had difficulty grasping concepts many elementary school kids seemed to master in minutes but hey! Chess and microscopes and model rockets and fossil collecting and monster movie making all beckoned and soon all was forgotten.
Fast-forward forty years and as of last week and for reasons which aren't entirely clear to me yet I own a newish Yamaha YPT-210 portable keyboard (check eBay; they're cheap!) and a copy of Piano For Dummies and I'm learning! Slowly, painfully, but I'm learning. There's also the added attraction of the darn thing being just plain fun to noodle with--activate the "sound effects kit" and I'm able to entertain myself for hours overlaying a pre-programmed techno beat with random (but rhythmic) weird-ass sounds. Hell, give me a sufficiently liquored-up, Ecstasy-laden raver crowd and I could keep 'em dancing for a good ten minutes!
Preparedness Notes
I'm always on the lookout for decent sources of Survivalist/Preparedness information and I've recently come across a particularly good online site-- Zombie Squad. Don't be put off by the name--the "Zombie Apocalypse" stuff is merely a semi-humorous metaphor for dealing with natural or man-made disasters (see the Wikipedia entry)... maybe. The discussion forums are particularly interesting, full of solid information and pretty much free of the near-hysterical conspiracy ranting all too typical in similar boards. Well worth bookmarking if you're at all interested in the subject.
Happiness Is A Warm Gun
I hesitate to mention this since so many people have such a viscerally negative reaction to any discussion of firearms and I really, really do not want to come across as a gun nut, but the truth of the matter is I enjoy shooting. Not hunting, mind you, Gawd forbid; shooting. I stalk the wily paper target, have done battle with the evil tin can (though not recently; remind me to tell you the story of the first time I fired a .357 magnum revolver--hilarity ensued), and lived to tell the tale. With the recent massive price increases in larger-caliber ammunition what I haven't had is an inexpensive platform for maintaining my rifle skills (which, at least for me, require frequent practice as in "use 'em or lose 'em")... until now. Now I have a new old school Marlin 981T bolt action, tube-fed .22 rifle which just happens to be very similar to the one I learned on back in the 'Sixties (those were the days when a small gang of 13-yr. olds wandering the local dump with rifles, Coke bottles, and peanut butter sandwiches wasn't a cause for alarm except, maybe, to the rat population). .22 ammunition is ridiculously cheap, which means you can shoot a lot of the stuff without breaking the bank, and the rifle itself was not particularly expensive-- around $100. Sure, I could have bought a fancy-ass, rapid-firing, endlessly customizable, semi-scary semi-automatic weapon, but that would have defeated the purpose-- slow, careful, deliberate perforation of the center of a paper target from 25 yards away and, as an added bonus, this particular model is lightweight enough and unintimidating enough so as to convince attractive women that target shooting can be fun (as opposed to this).
Well, the cat is begging for attention (or food) and I need a bath, so let's wrap things up for now.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Happy Birthday, E. A. Poe!
Edgar Allan Poe, January 19, 1809-October 7, 1849
After the somewhat pointless controversy over the summer I was pleasantly surprised to see the Poe Toaster managed to complete his annual tribute to ol' Edgar this year. I'd have been deeply saddened if the tradition had ended because some dillwad couldn't stand to leave a perfectly good mystery alone.
MetaFilter notes from 2003
For a fictionalized Poe-tesquerie, check out In A Strange City by Baltimore native Laura Lippman and pass on The Poe Shadow unless you're a true die-hard.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Links Of Interest
I've got nothing in particular to say today, just a bunch of links I've been accumulating and thought I'd share with the group starting with this plaque:
From Jenny Holzer
--If you're looking for a new decorating scheme (or are considering building a temple devoted to the Great Old Ones) you might consider Adam Wallacavage's Cthulhu-esque, be-tentacled chandeliers.
--And speaking of Ol' Squidface, I recently ran across Calls For Cthulhu, a sort of online clearinghouse for all things Lovecraftian with links to such things as Baby's First Mythos and Neil Gaiman's wonderful little story, "I, Cthulhu."
--And speaking of stories, I've noticed more and more authors posting their works online for all to enjoy. Spotted recently: a vintage piece of cholesterol noir, "Lipidleggin," by science fiction/horror writer F. Paul Wilson and Bruce Sterling's "Kiosk," which he describes as "a kind of science fiction that could only be written in the 21st century" (see the Boing Boing blurb).
--And further speaking of online stories, I've just discovered the world of Creepypasta, "scary microfiction for the internet age." No question about it, "creepy" is the proper term. A Google search will pretty much guarantee you won't be sleeping anytime soon.
--On a lighter note, sort of, Turn Your Hamster Into A Fighting Machine (my guess is someone's been reading too much Sluggy Freelance).
--Should the current economic downturn have you worried about global Apocalypse and Armageddon or if you're merely a casual survivalist/preparedness junkie, you may want to scan the list of 100 Items To Disappear First and begin your stockpiling accordingly.
--And finally, be sure to check out Scott Meyer's webcomic, Basic Instructions, on a regular basis.
From Jenny Holzer
--If you're looking for a new decorating scheme (or are considering building a temple devoted to the Great Old Ones) you might consider Adam Wallacavage's Cthulhu-esque, be-tentacled chandeliers.
--And speaking of Ol' Squidface, I recently ran across Calls For Cthulhu, a sort of online clearinghouse for all things Lovecraftian with links to such things as Baby's First Mythos and Neil Gaiman's wonderful little story, "I, Cthulhu."
--And speaking of stories, I've noticed more and more authors posting their works online for all to enjoy. Spotted recently: a vintage piece of cholesterol noir, "Lipidleggin," by science fiction/horror writer F. Paul Wilson and Bruce Sterling's "Kiosk," which he describes as "a kind of science fiction that could only be written in the 21st century" (see the Boing Boing blurb).
--And further speaking of online stories, I've just discovered the world of Creepypasta, "scary microfiction for the internet age." No question about it, "creepy" is the proper term. A Google search will pretty much guarantee you won't be sleeping anytime soon.
--On a lighter note, sort of, Turn Your Hamster Into A Fighting Machine (my guess is someone's been reading too much Sluggy Freelance).
--Should the current economic downturn have you worried about global Apocalypse and Armageddon or if you're merely a casual survivalist/preparedness junkie, you may want to scan the list of 100 Items To Disappear First and begin your stockpiling accordingly.
--And finally, be sure to check out Scott Meyer's webcomic, Basic Instructions, on a regular basis.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Post-Christmas Buying Orgy/Book Notes
So, Saturday, armed with a fistful of gift certificates and some parentally-donated Christmas Cash, I headed off to the local bookstores to do me a little book buyin'.
Because, you know, I don't have anywhere near enough books.*
My first stop was Books-A-Million, the poor man's Barnes & Noble and a store I rarely visit for just that reason (I'm a snob; sue me), but my co-worker Carolyn had given me four (!) gift cards meant for her and her kids saying she had neither the time nor inclination to use 'em. Oh well, her loss, my gain, and in less than ten minutes I settled on Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem (because I'm LOVING The Fortress of Solitude) and Heart-Shaped Box by Joe "Stephen King's My Father But Don't Tell Anyone" Hill, which has been getting rave reviews in the horror community.**
A couple of oatmeal raisin cookies later and it was off to the more familiar stomping grounds of Barnes & Noble where I picked up A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby, If You Liked School, You'll Love Work by Irvine Welsh, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer, and Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology ed. by James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel, books that look really interesting (your mileage may vary) and have been languishing on my Amazon.com wish list for far too long.
Bottom line: I have a comforting pile o' books to read in the coming weeks.
In other news, author Tony Ruggiero {Aliens and Satanic Creatures Wanted (Humans Need Not Apply)} is making an appearance Saturday, January 12 at one of my favorite local bookstores, Creatures 'n' Crooks, which means, I suppose, that I'll be adding a few more items to the aforementioned pile.
Science fiction/science fact fans will have noted that Wednesday was Isaac Asimov's birthday, but, sadly, for devotees of Historical Novels Which Do Not Suck, this was also the day George MacDonald Fraser, creator of the wonderfully slapstick and outrageously funny Flashman*** series, died (nice tribute here). I've been a fan ever since reading Playboy's serialization of Flashman At the Charge way back in (gasp!) 1973 (and, no, I didn't buy Playboy for the articles, but I read 'em anyway), so I'm pretty much sad and nostalgic in equal parts.
By the way, I finished Sara Gruen's Water For Elephants the other day and in one of those...interesting (interesting to me, at least) coincidences, finished it on January 4th. "So, what?" I hear you thinking. "What's interesting about that?" Well, as you might have guessed from the title a crucial plot element revolves around a circus elephant named Rosie who, the author notes, is a composite of a number of real-life circus elephants including the notorious Topsy, responsible for the deaths of three men within three years (though, as far as I'm concerned, for good reason). Topsy was deemed dangerous and in 1903 was killed by electrocution at the (self-serving****) suggestion of Thomas Edison, who also filmed the event. The date? January 4th.
* There are those who claim my book hoarding is merely an attempt to create a gravitational locus strong enough to shift the earth's orbit in such a way as to end global warming. I only wish my motives were that honorable.
** Horror novels are strict adherents to Sturgeon's Law--90% of 'em are pure, unadulterated crap--and having wasted far too much money on what aren't even polished turds (*cough* Dean Koontz *cough*) I'm leery of anything not first recommended to me by people whose opinions I respect. In this case, however, the reviews have been so strongly positive I was more than willing to risk someone else's money.
*** You've got to love a character who freely admits his only talents are horsemanship, languages, fornication, and cricket!
**** Edison was pimping... uh... extolling the virtues of DC current and warning of the dangers of rival George Westinghouse's AC system. See Jan. 4. 1903: Edison Fries An Elephant to Prove His Point.
Because, you know, I don't have anywhere near enough books.*
My first stop was Books-A-Million, the poor man's Barnes & Noble and a store I rarely visit for just that reason (I'm a snob; sue me), but my co-worker Carolyn had given me four (!) gift cards meant for her and her kids saying she had neither the time nor inclination to use 'em. Oh well, her loss, my gain, and in less than ten minutes I settled on Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem (because I'm LOVING The Fortress of Solitude) and Heart-Shaped Box by Joe "Stephen King's My Father But Don't Tell Anyone" Hill, which has been getting rave reviews in the horror community.**
A couple of oatmeal raisin cookies later and it was off to the more familiar stomping grounds of Barnes & Noble where I picked up A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby, If You Liked School, You'll Love Work by Irvine Welsh, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer, and Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology ed. by James Patrick Kelly & John Kessel, books that look really interesting (your mileage may vary) and have been languishing on my Amazon.com wish list for far too long.
Bottom line: I have a comforting pile o' books to read in the coming weeks.
In other news, author Tony Ruggiero {Aliens and Satanic Creatures Wanted (Humans Need Not Apply)} is making an appearance Saturday, January 12 at one of my favorite local bookstores, Creatures 'n' Crooks, which means, I suppose, that I'll be adding a few more items to the aforementioned pile.
Science fiction/science fact fans will have noted that Wednesday was Isaac Asimov's birthday, but, sadly, for devotees of Historical Novels Which Do Not Suck, this was also the day George MacDonald Fraser, creator of the wonderfully slapstick and outrageously funny Flashman*** series, died (nice tribute here). I've been a fan ever since reading Playboy's serialization of Flashman At the Charge way back in (gasp!) 1973 (and, no, I didn't buy Playboy for the articles, but I read 'em anyway), so I'm pretty much sad and nostalgic in equal parts.
By the way, I finished Sara Gruen's Water For Elephants the other day and in one of those...interesting (interesting to me, at least) coincidences, finished it on January 4th. "So, what?" I hear you thinking. "What's interesting about that?" Well, as you might have guessed from the title a crucial plot element revolves around a circus elephant named Rosie who, the author notes, is a composite of a number of real-life circus elephants including the notorious Topsy, responsible for the deaths of three men within three years (though, as far as I'm concerned, for good reason). Topsy was deemed dangerous and in 1903 was killed by electrocution at the (self-serving****) suggestion of Thomas Edison, who also filmed the event. The date? January 4th.
* There are those who claim my book hoarding is merely an attempt to create a gravitational locus strong enough to shift the earth's orbit in such a way as to end global warming. I only wish my motives were that honorable.
** Horror novels are strict adherents to Sturgeon's Law--90% of 'em are pure, unadulterated crap--and having wasted far too much money on what aren't even polished turds (*cough* Dean Koontz *cough*) I'm leery of anything not first recommended to me by people whose opinions I respect. In this case, however, the reviews have been so strongly positive I was more than willing to risk someone else's money.
*** You've got to love a character who freely admits his only talents are horsemanship, languages, fornication, and cricket!
**** Edison was pimping... uh... extolling the virtues of DC current and warning of the dangers of rival George Westinghouse's AC system. See Jan. 4. 1903: Edison Fries An Elephant to Prove His Point.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
