Posts

This Little Piggie...

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Pop’s big toe on his right foot is still swollen from gout—which he often refers to as, “the gout”—but it doesn’t hurt him as much as it did yesterday. “Thank God for that,” he said, lying in bed this morning. Then he added, “Or thank somebody.” I smirked and said, “You can thank me.” I pointed at myself, in case he hadn’t heard. Pop said, “Thank you and thank the nurse.” The nurse practitioner we saw yesterday was a large, jolly woman who everybody called, “Margie.” She told Pop he’d gotten gout from bumping his toe into something. The infection was verified with a blood test, and Margie told Pop to lay off any exercises that involve his feet. She wrote a prescription and told me that she wanted to see Pop again next week. She didn’t bother with the calf Pop had also managed to bang up somehow. She didn’t think the two injuries were related. Seems like nobody wants to give a straight answer about gout. When Pop asked Doctor Sliverberg how “the gout” might’ve come about, the answer was...
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Caitlin

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The place didn’t serve Guinness, so I ask Caitlin what she could recommend. And Caitlin—she’s our server—she tells me the name of a beer they have that she likes. I tell her that I’ll go with that. By this point, she’d already introduced herself, and I’d already introduced myself and my “wingman,” Spiffy. And this place, it just opened up like a week ago. It’s airplane-hangar massive—like you could fit two or three jumbo jets under its roof. Outside, the hand-painted sign smeared across the road-facing wall calls the place, Sips 'n' Pins. You come here to bowl and/or to play bocce and/or for the pub and/or for the pub grub. Not sure about Spiffy, but before tonight, the word “bocce” meant nothing to me. Caitlin takes to us so well that she tries teaching us the rules. This was a first for her, too. What I mean is, before Spiffy and me, she hadn’t tried to teach anybody else how to play bocce. The beer Caitlin brought me was called a “Fat Tire.” I kept needing her to remind me o...
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StreEA m # 5 9

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I lost the first stream [of the day]. That makes this the second stream [of the day]. The godham COMPUTER lost the first stream. I do not understand WHY it lost the first stream. I did not want to write about my frustration over having lost the first stream. But I cannot help it. I am really, really, QUITE pissed off. This godham machine. Of course, you’re going to blame me. Naturally, you’ll think I’m the one who made the mistake. But no. I went through the same routine I’ve gone through for the last fifty-eight streams and I’ve never had this sort of problem occur. God, I am SO pissed off. I’ll get over it. [Upon further reflection, I kinda-sorta figured out what I did wrong: Instead of duplicating the “blank” stream template document, I created a shortcut. So, fine: My bad.] Fortunately, the streams are schlock. But this stream is certainly not as colorful as the one I inexplicably [and now explicably] lost. I hope this doesn’t ruin my entire day. I’ve a buddy coming in from England...
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The TV

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A year ago, I pulled my TV out of the closet. I’d put it in there because I couldn’t resist switching it on. The point was to watch less and to write more. Prior to 9/11/01, my TV sat in the closet for six months. A smarter man would shove it back in there today. But then that new DVD player would’ve been a wasted purchase. So I’ll compromise. Nightly, I’ll watch Peter Jennings report the world news, and then, from time to time, I’ll rent a DVD. But nothing else, nothing more. Somewhere, Mr. Mamet mentioned that TV was the ultimate medicine show. From Webster’s: “Medicine Show: A show given by entertainers who traveled from town to town in order to sell cure-alls and nostrums.”  11 September 2002
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Feeding Tube

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The feeding tube that’s poked through Great Aunt Hattie’s * nose clogged up last night. The staff at the nursing home tried various ways of flushing the tube, but it was useless without some device that’s only available at the hospital. Poor, half-paralyzed Hattie kept moaning while the nurses futzed with her tube. During this, her son, Shell, switched on the TV. He kept flipping the channels between race car racing and human track racing. Later, one of the caregivers told me that Hattie wouldn’t have to deal with a feeding tube through the nose anymore. Instead, the doctors will plug a feeding tube directly into her tummy. Since last night, she’s only been “fed” intravenously.  Betty rediscovers the “Screw the Golden Years” sign every time Pop and I pay her a visit and wheel her around the assisted living building. She’ll either agree with the sign, or defend “The Golden Years,” depending on how her day is going.  21 May 2007  * Please note that Great Aunt “Hattie” and ...
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Progenitrix Day 2007

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I walked right past Ma and handed the gift to StepDude. “Happy Father’s Day,” I said. He almost opened it. No one else in the room found it funny, save for me. Ma corrected my error, of course, and I said, “Oops.” I snatched the wrapped box from StepDude and delivered it to Ma. “Thank you for bringing me into the world,” I lied. After that, I drove them, along with Pop and Betty, out to La Grange for lunch with everybody else in the semi-immediate fam. That whole day anybody who didn’t know Betty wished her a Happy Mother’s Day. She certainly looks like somebody’s mother. It didn’t affect her, not outwardly, but nothing ever does. Everything is always A-okay with Betty; she doesn’t question and she doesn’t correct. It wouldn’t be in her nature to reply to “Happy Mother’s Day,” with, “Thank you, but I’m barren.” I spent much of the meal teasing little Keira. I would, for example, say that some random thing on the table was mine—a fork, a salt shaker, a bread stick—and she would promptly...
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S TREA M # 5 8

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Ah. Low blood sugar. Or what feels like low blood sugar might feel like. Where were we? Ah: Contraction. Detachment. People fear such notions. But this was how the Chuckster got down to business. He fled the city, fled the noise, the distractions. That’s when he really got down to business. How he focused. That is, if memory serves. I should have it somewhere, that story. But I don’t feel like giving it up – rather, I don’t feel like DIGGING it up. The trick is to count my blessings. That’s one trick. To continue to count my blessings whenever the pangs of error strike. Exempli gratia, I have a roof over my head. I am healthy. I’ve sufficient funding and savings. And my credit? Pristine. Plus, I have one – perhaps two – good friends. I have peace and quiet – relatively speaking. No addictions – save for caffeine. And sugar. And TV. My stresses and worries, for the moment, the precious moment, the precarious moment, are few and far between. But I’ve covered all of this, previously, have...
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Early

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I waited. I was early. The staff stared at me. I walked through the place. That is, I walked through the place before I waited. In other words, I didn’t wait first, although I suppose I could’ve waited outside. But I didn’t. At least, I don’t recall that I did, but I might’ve. The staff offered to “help” me. I explained the situation. I don’t recall how they [the staff] replied, but they left me alone. I couldn’t tell you how many [staffers] there were. Perhaps “they” only amounted to one. Regardless, they left me alone. I went back upstairs and stood by the revolving door. I tried to read through more of the book, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even tell you its title or who wrote it. I couldn’t even tell you what it was about. Was it even written in English? I don’t know. I looked at the time on my cell phone several times a minute. And waited. People revolved in and out. Somebody said that downstairs used to be a nightclub. There is a bar down there. Ten minutes crawl by. I think of ...
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Cataloging Men

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Two hours after banana pancakes and chicken links and fresh squeezed orange juice at Flapjackistan’s Famous Flapjacks with Pop and Betty, I’m eating clams and onion rings and fried zucchini and salami pizza at Poppa Pandemonium’s Pizza in a Pan with Spiffy and Rah-Rah. I was surprised that Rah-Rah was surprised that I didn’t have a girlfriend. Naturally, this made Rah-Rah even more attractive. Rah-Rah sat there and looked at me and thought I’d fit in with the male models you’d find in an Eddie Bauer catalogue. She told me this—after I’d asked—because she had a friend who wasn’t looking for the kind of guy I apparently am. Said friend falls for the kind of guy you’d find in an Abercrombie catalogue. And as for Spiffy, he belonged in an H&M catalogue, according to Rah-Rah.  28 May 2007
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Pop's Right Ear

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Pop (and I) sat in a crowded waiting room for an hour and a half before he could see the doctor who’d charge an arm and a leg to scrape the wax out of his ears. That was yesterday. Sometime overnight, Pop’s right ear started to bleed. Dried spots and dribbles of blood have ruined a silken pillow case. But hey, Jackson Pollock might’ve called it art. I called Pop’s internist. He wasn’t available, but the one who was didn’t seem terribly concerned. Doctor Substitute advised me to call Doctor Ears, Nose, and Throat when his office opened, for eardrops. Here’s hoping we don’t have to spend another hour and a half in Dr. E.N.T.’s office waiting for eardrops, if nothing else. Pop keeps asking why it happened; why at night and not when Dr. E.N.T. scraped out Pop’s ears. The ear that bled? Pop’s right ear? It all but quit on him years ago. Sure, it detects sound, but his brain processes the sound as an audible equivalent of mush. Any working hearing aid turns the mush into louder mush. All th...
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