observations by davidk

Meanwhile, back at the doctor’s office…..

I haven’t written about medical things for a while.  Lord knows, I have my share of issues, health-wise, but lately there have been no doctors, no nurses, no hospitalizations and no crises.  (Well, not since that four month bout with the sciatica).  But, ahem, we’ve more than covered that.  I know I’m bored with it, and I’m sure you are as well.  (Although i might add, at this point, it’s gone.  It went as it came.  One day I felt better.  The next day even more so.  And over a period of about a week, it ceased.  It was almost scary when it stopped, like the final moments of La Traviata, where Violetta sings “the pain has stopped, I’m well, I’m renewed”.….and then drops dead.  Except I’m still here, and I’m delighted to say that the ordeal is over.  Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition).

So I’m well, thank you very much, but it was indeed time for a checkup and first up was the cardiologist.  You all know my heart stories.  Alas.  Sit.  Let’s discuss.

It was the usual routine;  labs first (drawn blood, for the uninitiated), and then wait a week, followed by the results show at the doctor’s office;  kindof like Dancing With The Stars, (which is neither dancing nor stars), but you show up to see if you’ve been eliminated.

Sometimes you go to the doctor because you’re sick;  vomiting, fever, strep throat, food poisoning, or boils, (actually that last one almost never happens).  He prescribes stuff and off you go.  But sometimes it’s just a maintenance thing.

It’s funny, but doctor’s visits have become a numbers game.  After your blood work-up, you sit with him/her for your allotted 15 minutes and you discuss how you are (on paper).  You think that you feel pretty good, other than the crap that comes with aging, (but there’s no cure for that), but your numbers might say otherwise.  Your PSA is high;  your blood pressure is high;  your cholesterol is high;  your blood sugar is high.  Apparently, high is not so good.  (Well, not since they outlawed Qaaludes.  High was very good back then).  Over the years I’ve had all kinds of reports, (my blood counts betraying me on all fronts).  Lately, I’ve had some cholesterol issues, (high) and some triglyceride scares  (very high).  BTW, you all know what triglycerides are, don’t you?  I mean the actual definition?  Gaze upon this and tell me how we are supposed to go forward:

tri·glyc·er·ide

[trahy-glis-uh-rahyd, -er-id]      noun, Biochemistry, Chemistry .  

Anyway, the bottom line is that my new cardiologist, who, upon seeing my old numbers, with skyrocketing aforementioned triglycerides, and high LDL (not good) and mediocre HDL (also not good),  prescribed this concentrated fish oil called Lovaza.  (It’s prescription strength, big time.  The pills are the size of actual fish! ).  And lo, and behold, (which is a very fairy tale phrase, I might add), my cholesterol is 110.  He’s aghast.  My triglyceride count is 125.  (I actually caught him gloating), and my LDLs are so low that he cut my Crestor in half (again).   He actually said, your LDL is amost too low.  I promised him that from now on, I’d eat the skin on the chicken.  He was sort of ok with that.  (No, I’m kidding.  Lest you think my good doctor is a quack).  So the moral of the story is, there is neither rhyme nor reason in the universe.  If you’ll remember earlier blogs, replete with doctor visits, emergency rooms, ablations, catheterizations, holter monitors, echocardiograms,  and other various and sundry procedures, it’s just amazing that I’m here at all, never mind with those numbers.  So all is well in my world, at least for now.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a pastrami sandwich on rye.  My LDL is dangerously low.  Alas.

I discovered a wonderful old film and I want to share it with you.  It’s not an old film like Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, from 1927, or even Gone with the Wind from 1939, but rather from 1992;  a mere twenty years ago.  But before I tell the tale, you  need a little background.  Sit, let’s discuss.

There’s a new Broadway musical on the block.  (Those of us that currently watch Smash understand that process.)   You find a story, some composers, lyricists, a cast, and off you go.  Normally, when producers attempt this process, it’s because they have a property that they think will fly.  It’s a gamble, at best, (usually with other people’s money), but when the material is right you end up with the likes of Evita, or A Chorus Line or Phantom of the Opera.  Sometimes they seek to produce a musical based on a proven hit movie by adding songs and often dance.  Examples would be La Cage au Folles,
The Lion King,

or Billy Elliot.  They turned out to be great musicals even though the original movies were not true musicals, but rather movies with a song or two or three.  A lot of stuff gets added to make a show.  But sometimes it gets tricky, and the material you start with is not so hot for a musical, but for some reason producers proceed anyway.  Sound strange?  Let me explain.

In a word, this season’s biggest flop on Broadway was Carrie, the musical.  Now, the Brian de Palma film was excellent, but it’s really not musical material;  a psychokinetic teenager covered in pig’s blood,  along with her telekinetic, religious zealot of a mom, all committing murder on prom night.  Really?  Fun stuff, no?  Well, it BOMBED.  I think it ran for all of twenty minutes and closed on page 6.  Back in 1966 there was Breakfast at Tiffany’s with Mary Tyler Moore, (in her heyday), which closed after 9 performances.  (Great movie, shitty musical).  Alas.

Lately we’ve had The Adams Family, Catch Me If You Can, Footloose, Sister Act, etc., all from movies.  None are in the category of Fiddler or Man of La Mancha, but they’re making a buck.  Producers will set anything to music if they think they can sell it.

Which finally brings me ’round to my discovery.

There was a movie called Newsies, loosely based on a turn-of-the-century story about kids in New York that sold newspapers on the street, (for Pulitzer and Hearst), were down-trodden and started a union to fight the bosses.  A feel-good musical glorifying the little guy and the triumph of the human spirit, with the moral of the story being something like, make your voice heard and you can change the world (not untimely even for today).  It got the full Hollywood treatment, by Disney Studios, no less.  Huge production numbers, sets, costumes, hundreds of young actors in giant chorus numbers complete with dancing.  Allen Menken did the score.  As it turns out, it was a huge box office flop.  In a  year when Unforgiven, The Crying Game, and Scent of a Woman were hot, I’m thinking the world couldn’t give a rat’s ass about orphans kicking up their heels, selling newspapers.  (Although in that same year, Disney Studios had a huge hit with Aladdin, which won best score and best song, by the very same composer, Allen Menken).  But the public stayed away from Newsies like poison.  Even I, who am a musical nut, and a movie nut as well, didn’t see it.  Critics refer to it as the movie that killed movie musicals.  Big expense, no return, and there were no more for many years.

OK.  So here comes the kicker.

Because they’ve mounted a Broadway production, husband and I watched the old movie tonight.  Can you guess?  It’s outstanding!  (Perhaps now, we’re in a different moment in time, or a different set of eyes;  not sure), but it was fantastic.  Here come the fun facts.  The leading man, (the head Newsie kid), is a 17-year old Christian Bale, singing and dancing his heart out, and he’s excellent.

Couldn't you just plotz?

I’m thinking this is going to be an amazing show, if they cast it right and produce it properly.  

Of course, if they muck it up, it might close on page 20.

Update:  the Tony Awards were announced today and Newsies is nominated for Best Musical.  (I knew I was on to something).

Here are two minutes worth, from the internet.  See if this doesn’t get you in the mood…..(there are 2 small clips in a row.  Be sure to watch both.)

http://newsiesthemusical.com/about

I want all of my New York readers to get tickets.  See you in the theater.

You know how your life has cycles, and you have events that come ’round every few years that need attention?  Stuff like;  either renew your gym membership or pick another workout joint?  Or, should you sign another 2-year lease on your apartment or think about moving?  Well, i’m at that juncture with my ride.  I lease my car, and it’s time for a big decision.  I need to find my next vehicle.  As they say, the jig is up!  Or in my case, the lease.

This is not the simplest of tasks, unless of course, money is no object, in which case you might say I’ll take that black Bentley please.  The one with the chauffeur.    (Which, if you’ve been following, you know is NOT the case in my world.  So with an eye on my budget, and an eye on style, I have begun the perplexing task of choosing my next chariot of fire.  I know you’ve all bought cars in your life, with the exception, perhaps, of you New Yorkers, so I think you’ll feel my pain as we go.  Sit.  Let’s discuss.

My choices range from the ridiculous to the sublime.  Observe ridiculous:

I know, I know.  It’s lovely and all that, and it’s actually within my budget, and I love the color, but I don’t think I can get my fat ass into it.  And even if I could, how would this sciatic, crippled old man ever get out?  So moving on…..

Husband and I are going at it fast and furious, shopping.  We began with the search for a Hybrid.  (green planet and all, save the trees, don’t eat the tuna, gas at 4 bucks a gallon, etc.)

Turns out, it doesn’t pay for us.  We don’t drive enough.  So I looked in the newspaper for specials and found out one amazing thing.  CAR DEALERS ARE LIARS!!   Did you know that?  You see ads like:

$99/month lease, zero down, sign and drive, (fine print…..price good for first 6 months, remaining 30 at $299/month.)  WTF?  or,

$99/month lease, 36 months.  (fine print…..$4,999 due at inception).  or my favorite,

$99/month lease, no security deposit, no payment for 6 months. (Fine print…..must have 780 credit score, must be a recent college graduate, must be a veteran, must have lost a limb in a recent war, must be married with at least 1 child, and must be employed for twice what you’re worth.)  Or something like that, which NOBODY is.  But damn, it’s a great deal if you can get it.

So, hybrids being out, we moved on to good mileage vehicles in our price range.  Here’s the Veloster by Hyundai.  We liked the look:  

Not a Consumer Reports best choice.  Crappy reviews.  Also, it doesn’t lease well.  Alas.

Moving on we found this:  

I know.  Isn’t this just spiffy?  A little over our range, but hey, I’m 62.  How many more cars will I buy before the grim reaper comes to get me?  (Or before my loved ones take away the keys and say things like, ok old-timer, it’s time for you to stop driving.  Come have some warm milk.)  So I’m thinking, let’s have some gusto.  Did i mention that this is a little sporty?  And that it rides low?  And that Mr. Bum Hip doesn’t have a hot dog’s chance at a baseball game of surviving the getting in and getting out process?

Back to the drawing board.

How about, we wondered, a truck?   No, not a Ford F-150  (Honestly, can you picture me in such a butch vehicle?  My friends would giggle).  Rather, an SUV.  I’ve never had one.  The nice part is you don’t get in by lowering yourself, but more by sliding your ass onto a cheek-level seat, thereby easing back and ass issues.    This might work.  

I can definitely picture me in this beauty.  Not the best mileage, but hey, we don’t drive that much.  Or this one:  

Yep, we’re definitely closing in.

A word about the salesmen….

When you pull up to the dealership, they’re standing outside, in the driving rain, with no umbrella, circling like buzzards, waiting for your car door to open, so they can approach you with a wet shirt and a phony smile and say, Welcome to Abbruzzo Toyota, how’s your day going?  (At which point  you’d like to answer, fine, until just this minute.)

Confession:  At the third dealership, husband and I sat in the car a few minutes discussing strategy while the buzzards got really soaked.  I took a bit of schadenfreude watching them wilt.  It’s not really my fault.  What were they doing in the rain waiting to accost me?  They could have waited inside.  I was just trying to make them better salespeople.

The haggling game is the really ugly part, but I have a bit of an advantage.

1)  I’m poor, so they can’t make me go over our budget.  (I know, that sounds like a weakness.  Depends on how you play it.)

2)  I’m 62, and closing in my 10th car.  The expression, that offer is only good for today, doesn’t work with me.   Somehow, I know they’ll need to sell cars tomorrow too.  Also, the phrase, take it home with you and see if you like it has no effect on me.

3)  I have learned the art of negotiating and then saying thank you, and leaving, despite wet salespeople throwing themselves in front of my car.  I know they’ll call me with a better offer in two hours.

It goes on, but you get the idea.

So we wheeled and dealed, (or is it wheeled and dealt?), and came up with a great lease on a beauty.  The truck won out.   It’s a Toyota Rav 4 and getting in and out is a breeze.
Isn’t it cute?  Although now we have become those people that I used to hate because when you’re parked next to them, you can’t see past their huge vehicle to back out.   Oh well, I say, just deal with it people.  And suddenly I feel so southern:  

Daddy’s got a new truck!

the world has changed.  and i don’t mean, since i was a wee one, (although it has).  i mean since i was a pot-smokin’ hippie.  in my day, (ah, that fateful expression, designating someone who is certainly no longer young…..young people don’t ever say, in my day).  but, in my day, back in the late 60′s through the early 80′s, when you needed to get stoned, you fired up a doobie.   when you ran out, you called your dealer and scored.  (you know this is authentic, because i’m displaying a complete mastery of the stoner’s lingo.)   while i was in college, my dealer was a nice clean cut jewish kid from the suburbs, say…..scarsdale or forest hills, and  he looked something like this,  he lived on campus and was pre-med.  (kind of ironic that someday he’d be prescribing drugs, legally).  and you met, you copped a lid and all was right with the world.  flash forward many years, and the entire experience has changed.  sit.  let’s discuss.

in the later years, when the masses realized that there’s huge money to be made, the nice boys were pushed out of the business and the riff-raff moved in, and the dealers took on a whole new look, like this guy:

or this guy:  

starting to get scary right?  these are not nice jewish boys studying medicine any more.

needless to say, hollywood capitalized on the whole new movement and gave us caricatures of real-life thugs:  say hello to my little friend…..

anyway, back to the story.

there was an article on the news the other night about a pot dealer in the rural south, named darlene mayes.  she was busted for dealing in four states.  turns out, she’s the godmother of the entire marijuana industry in oklahoma, kansas, missouri and arkansas.  they found $276,000 in her house in small bills.  bundles of $15,000 all over the house.  not really so bizarre, you might think.  all drug dealers have wads of cash around.  oh.  did i mention she’s 73?  (clutch the pearls).  she’s somebody’s grandmother.  can you imagine?  here she is.  it’s a mug shot.  she might be better looking than this, but really, at 73?  how hot could she be?  take a look:

the story went on to say that it’s not that uncommon anymore for senior citizens to be involved in the drug business.  they’re quiet, they keep to themselves, don’t talk to many people and are not flashy with the money.  the guy from the DEA said it’s an epidemic.  there’s the case of francis cook,  a pot dealer in england, who was busted with 200 plants and hauled off to the tower of london, (i’m guessing here).  he is england’s oldest drug dealer.  he is 83.  wtf?

or the case of frances torres, 67, peddling drugs to minors in cleveland,

and using her grandson as the in-school contact:

boy, talk about a stoner.  (it’s nice though, that the authorities dressed them in matching jumpsuits.  that way, the others in the slammer know they’re kin).

all of this makes me think about my grandmother.  my nice bubbe.  you know, the kosher one, from the shtetl in lithuania?  i’m trying to imagine her doing high finance with thugs, weighing out bags of pot, or little nickels of cocaine and passing them gingerly,

in a school yard.  or even worse, having people come to the house while she was making chicken soup and matzoh balls.  my grandma?  think about it:  she finishes making the chopped liver for friday night shabbos dinner, opens the fridge to put it in, and pulls out a kilo of pot because mr. z and the crips are waiting on the porch.  and i can just hear her saying:  checks?  i should take a check?  from a drug dealer?  what are you, meshuga?  cash, mister, or no deal!  

you see, my bubbe was a tough bird.  she was a no-nonsense woman, from the old country, who spent a lot of time getting kicked around by cossacks.  by the time she got to this country, i’m thinking she could have gone ten rounds with jake lamotta.  she took no shit from anyone, which is a good thing, but mostly doesn’t make for a loving grandma/grandson experience.  just sayin’.  (truth be told, i never saw her with a dirty harry weapon in her hand, but i wasn’t with her all time, if you know what i mean.  but i can picture it. ) 

i don’t know.  what has the world come to?   gam-gam is a drug dealer.  (personally, i’ve never called my grandmother gam-gam, but i know people who did.  mostly goyim).   what can i say?  it’s a cold world out there.  although i must admit, that if i needed to cop a lid, (for the uninitiated, that’s drug parlance for purchase an ounce of pot,)  i’d rather deal with gammy, than with vinnie “the knuckles”  zambino.

at least gammy’s ounce comes with a knish and a dr. brown’s cel-ray tonic.

has it really been 15 years since james cameron’s titanic was released?  really?  you know it was nominated for 14 academy awards and won 11, tying ben hur for the most?  you did know that, right?  truth is, it didn’t win a lot of important ones, other than best picture and director.  but no actor/actress/supporting anything.  it won lots of music and special effects and sound engineering (what the hell is that, anyway?) and editing (good visual on a sinking ship?) and costumes.    and now, it turns out, honoring the 15th anniversary of the second highest grossing film of all time, (avatar being the highest, by the same director, i might add), and the 100th anniversary of the sinking of same ship, it has been released in a 3-d version in theaters, and also in giant blind–your-eyes 3-d at the imax theater, for those of you that really want to go down with the ship.

now, i have a confession to make.  i’d never seen it.  (clutch the pearls).

how, you might ask, have i not?  well, to be honest, when it was released, i thought to myself, (and i imagine you did too), i know how it ends, so i really don’t need to see it.  i know, not the best answer, but believe it or not, i, and from what i understand, three other people on earth, missed it.  (i’m guessing everyone else has seen it, based on $1.8 billion dollars at the box office.)  and then the years passed, and the furor died down, (the song, however did not), and people kindof forgot about it, and so did i.

flash forward fifteen years.

so now they’re re-releasing it and i decided that i really ought to see it once, at least to relieve the feeling of the cheese stands alone, to which i am prone.  so a queue-up on netflix and voila, the film is mine.

did you know that this film is over three-and-a-half hours?  mon dieu!  that’s really a commitment, so i serialized it and watched it in sections.  part one, the love story begins, up to, but not including the iceberg, (pause for a day) and then, part two, the action story, the sinking ship. (there are some who will decry this practice as killing the pace of the movie, by stopping, but, (remember the premise), i’m old, so every now and then i need to make water, as the saying goes, so it’s better for me as a miniseries, if you take my meaning.   so now i’ve seen it.  not in 3-d mind you, (completely unnecessary) as actually, the only moving part of the whole movie was the water, and big woo.  it’s water.  it’s not pandorans swooping off cliffs, taming their direhorses performing immense roller-coaster thrills, or the giant tree of life, the hometree, eywa, falling on an alien civilization.  it’s just water flooding corridors.  personally i didn’t think i needed to spend $28 for husband and i, for that.

so blu-ray at home was fine for me, thank you very much.

you might ask, how did one of the four remaining people on planet earth, that hadn’t seen it, like it?  i can answer that truthfully now.

it was good.  no, let me amend that.  it was fucking amazing.  what a beautiful movie.  (i know you’ve seen it so bear with me).  here we go:

the beauty, the scope of it and the visual splendor boggled the mind.  the acting, however, was a little wooden.  leonardo dicaprio as jack, was enthusiastic and young and did ok.  kate winslet as rose, carried a quality that was perfect and lovely.  see earlier note about winning prizes for costumes.  take a look:

(you know i have this same outfit, but i can’t wear it anymore as i’ve put on a few pounds).

rose is  from the aristocracy.  she has lines like put the degas in the bedroom.  jack is a poor vagabond artist.  he has lines like, is that a degas?  is that a picasso?   (name-dropper) can i paint you naked?  he also has the following line:  i didn’t do this, rose.  you know i didn’t.  i didn’t do it.  (sad, but true.  who writes this stuff?)  but they meet and fall in love while aboard.  i might add, not before he teaches her to spit.  apparently, this is a skill that is overlooked and not taught at miss muff’s academy for girls, where rose took her education.  she not only learns to spit over the side of the ship like a drunken sailor, but masters the art of hocking a ginder in the back of her throat, forming the subsequent phlegm into a projectile. (too much information?)  she actually gets to use this new-learned skill in her final scene with her fiance, where she completely wets his face and tux with a huge clam from deep in her throat.  well, i found that part utterly charming.  (but then i’m from jersey city, …..we used to have contests in the schoolyard…..but that’s a story for another day.)

i only wish they’d had some dialogue that was not cornball crap.  seriously, the spoken word might have ruined the film in the hands of a lesser director.  if i heard jack…..rose…..jack…..rose…..jack…..rose…..one more time i think i might have jumped ship.   but because of the pace, the sets, the costumes, the story, the music, the cinematography, and the magnitude of the actual ship,the movie was magic.  not even billy zane, as rose’s fiance`, with his hystrionics and flailing nostrils (from the ali mcgraw school of acting) could sink this movie.  nice hairpiece no?  don’t believe me?  google him.  bald as a baby.  a bald baby, that is.the action was truly breathtaking.  i found myself holding my breath at times, when they were underwater trying to escape certain doom.   (i understand there’s an online cult that holds contests to see if you can hold your breath as long as jack and rose in that one swim sequence.  i’m not sure what the winner gets.)

(and of course, spoiler alert, the ship, indeed, does sink and most of the passengers die.)  

the final scenes where rose is afloat and jack dies while holding her in the freezing north atlantic, i must say, brought a tear to  mine own cynical eyes as i watched true love freeze to death.  (kindof as it does in most marriages).  but then gloria stuart, you know, rose, but like a million years later, the old lady, throws the blue diamond into the sea, and croaks instantly (and who wouldn’t, having cast a gem that cost millions to a watery grave?)  she was nominated for an award but i thought they made too big a deal out of her performance.  she was ok, but i think the hoopla was about the fact that she was 87 more than anything else.  she was a real glamour puss in the 20′s (yes, almost 100 years ago), and worked with james whale (the director of the original frankenstein) in early horror.  the fact that she endured for 70 years in show business made people nuts.  but for me, she was just ok.  give me jessica tandy or ruth gordon on a good day, anytime.  anyway, in the film, moments later, her soul is transformed and is back on the ship, climbing the stairs in the dining room, 
 with all of that glorious white linen and her handsome love at the top of the stairs.  (cue the tears).

well, to be honest, i was a tad verklempt.  there was indeed moisture descending down my cheeks.  folks, this is an amazing movie.  sorry it took me fifteen years to see it, but now that i have, it’s another classic love story to embrace, right up there with casablanca and gone with the wind.  and my heart will go on and on.  (if only i didn’t ever have to hear that song again.)

tonight’s feature is about a practice which has been troubling me for a long time.  perhaps since i was a wee one.  it’s about nicknames.

as you all know, my name is david.  i’ve always been david.  never dave.  not sure why.   over the years brother has called me dave, but not parents or sister or other relatives.  not sure why about that either.  he calls me dave but refers to me as david.  he’ll say, hey dave, pass the lasagna, but then follow with, geez i simply asked david for the lasagna and i got attitude.  strange.  but this is  not about me, but rather the bizarre habit of the world-at-large changing one’s given name to something either close, or entirely different.  sit.  let’s discuss.

at first, i thought the concept of nicknames was the same as initials for certain words.  like WMD is short for weapons of mass destruction.  if you say WMD, which is five syllables,  as opposed to the long version, it saves you two entire syllables of speech.  how economical.  practically cuts  your talking time in half. (where’s the sarcasm font?)   now i can see writing WMD instead of the other because it’s a huge difference, but speaking it?  not so much.  same with PTSD.  four letters.  easier to type than post-traumatic-stress disorder.  i get that concept.  so i always figured nicknames were a shorter version of your real name.  until i gave it some thought.

let’s start with a couple of simple ones:

michael becomes mike.  two syllables versus one.  ok.  i’ll buy it.  but when michael becomes mikey, WTF?  what does that get you?  you’ve simply changed the man’s name.  not only that, you’ve infant-isized him.  (i needed a word, ok?).  i just don’t get it.

does this look like a "mike" to you?

how about john?  why, in the wide-wide-world-of-sports does john become jack?  WTF?  same amount of letters, syllables, breath.  why would people change it?  and how about johnny?  that’s longer, you dolts.  i’m thinking if his mother wanted him to be jack, then by god she would have named him so.  don’t get it.

jack lennon? i think not.

why is margaret changed to peggy?  or maggie.  not even close in nature or scope.  although sometimes there really is a maggie.

no margaret here. just maggie smith.

scott becomes scotty.  scotty is longer.  why change it?   (i wonder if that happened before or after the whole scottish terrier issue, which is also a puzzlement.  people buy that breed and refer to it as a scotty.   suppose a guy had a scottish terrier and he named it scott.  would the dog then be scotty the scotty?).

scotty the scotty.

hey, listen up.  i warned you a couple of years back i was a sick fuck.

penelope?  ooh, can’t handle that.  way too long.  let’s change her name to a coin.

call her penny, i dare you.

robert.  oy.  among the worst offenders.  why can’t you just be named robert anymore?  no, you have to be rob, or bob, or bobby, or robbie.  the very idea.

bob? bob pattinson? i don't think so.

then there’s any girl on earth whose first name begins with a d.  diana, darla, denise, dora, etc.  many of them are reduced to dee or even worse, dee dee.  

there’s another whole subset of people that insist on changing your name if your hair is a certain color.  have  you ever noticed that a lot of redheads are often called red?  like red buttons?  or red barber?  (red barber’s first name was walter, for cryin’ out loud).  or worse, they’re nicknamed rusty?  i think tin man’s (wizard of oz) nickname should be rusty.  when dorothy first meets him, he is actually rusty!  and especially because he doesn’t t have a first name to begin with?   and he wasn’t even a redhead.  i swear, i think people are just not paying attention.

she will not answer to "rusty", i assure you.

what about poor elizabeth.  a lovely given name.  no, let’s make it liz.  or beth.  or lizbeth.  or lizzy.  (did you know that elizabeth taylor hated being called liz?)

forever "elizabeth"

a couple more egregious ones:

alexander.  let’s just call him, al.  or alex.  or alec.  or xander.

albert:  mmm, al, bert, bertie ( that last one was from the king’s speech).

archibald.  let’s go with arch.  or archie.

you do realize i’m still in the letter a?   i could go on but i think you get it by now.

i don’t know.  i’m not in favor of it.   i think people should be left with the names they’ve been given.  if they don’ t like their own moniker then they should change it themselves.

husband just yelled from the next room:  dave, what are you doing?

oy.  gotta go.

interesting day today.

as you all know all too well by now, (what?  you all know all?  might as well have said “as all y’all know”.  that southern thang.   sorry about that.)   but as you do all know, the sciatica is a part of me now, like a bad tooth.  (difference being i’d have pulled the tooth three months ago, whereas i can’t do much about this “hip thing”).  so i’m limited in some of my activity.  as previously mentioned, i can’t stand still for more than a minute without the sensation of a hot knife in my thigh.  i can walk short distances but it helps if i sit for a minute every hundred yards or so.  and i can lie down without pain.  (woohoo).  and i can sit…..in a comfortable chair, with no discomfort.

however, this past week, a road trip was upon us.  husband and his cousins wanted to drive to punta gorda to visit some other cousins in town for the winter. (you remember punta gorda don’t you?  slammed by hurricane charlie in 2004?)  i suspect they’ve  rebuilt and i’d love to see it, and loving husband as i do, and totally grateful that he accepts my extended family, with their various and sundry levels of insanity and issues, (hey, i never said i was exempt…..we’re cut from the same cloth.  i’m nuts as well),  i said,  count me in.  i’d love to meet your cousins.  but with this sciatica thing, the prospect of two-and-a-half hours getting there and ditto to get home, i feared the worst for my hip, being confined that long.  so i took a pass and opted to stay home.  husband was saddened but understood.  and it seems i missed quite the party.  sit.  let’s discuss.

he left at around 8:30am in the suv with his local cousins, arrived 3 hours later and spent a lovely afternoon with his cousin.  upon returning home, he said that i’d really have liked her.  she’s 70ish, bright, and charming.  i’m certain that i would have, indeed.

however.

as we sat and chatted over cocktails tonight, he informed me that he was actually glad i didn’t go with.  puzzled, i asked why?  the conversation went something like this:

him:  babe, i’m glad you didn’t come today.

me:  why?

him:  well, it turns out that rosie is as great as i remember her from our childhood.

me:  so?

him:  well…..she has this husband.  he’s older than we are.  like 76.

me:  so?  we’ll be that age someday, with any luck.  i like old people.

him:  um…..as it turns out, he’s not a big lover of gay men.  so i felt a little uneasy.

me:  hey, we’re savvy adults.  we can handle that.

him:  well…..not just that.

me:  what?  what aren’t you telling me?

him:  he uses the expression “fucking jews” a lot.

me:  WHAT?  (clutch the pearls).

him:  yeah.  turns out, he hates jews.  he’s a huge anti-semite.  something about “banking, horns, drinking baby’s blood, killing christ and cheap miserly bastards, damned for all time by the almighty jesus.”  

me:  you’ve got to be kidding.

him:  no.  have i mentioned he also hates blacks?   i can’t repeat it but the n-word came up a lot, especially in relation to the President.

me:  jesus h. tap-dancing christ.

him:  no, actually he kind of likes jesus.

me:  well, i’m guessing that the jesus i know would not like him very much.

him:  probably not.

me:  so what did you do?  did you react?  give him a severe tongue-lashing?  flash the bird?  bitch-slap?

him:  well, it must have been a divine intervention, because about twenty minutes after we arrived, i had an allergic reaction of some kind and my throat closed up and i got a bit of laryngitis and mostly just listened and whispered with rosie, while he expounded about how “obama and his jew cabinet were all communists and way too tolerant of all them queers, and needed to be taught a lesson.”

me:  well, i can only say it’s a very good thing i didn’t go.  this jew homey don’t git laryngitis.  elderly or not, i would have whooped that old racist, bigoted man’s butt.  

him:  yeah, had i been in my own car, i would have decked him and stormed out.  could have given him a reason to hate “italian cousins” as well.

me:  you’re my hero.  

him:  poor rosie.  married to that.  well,  i haven’t seen her for 22 years, and i suspect 22 years from now, one or both of us will be dead,  having hopefully outlived the anti-semitic , racist asshole.

me:  want me to drive to punta gorda and push him in the pool?   i will.    i could fix it so he’d end up on unsolved mysteries.  no-one need ever know what  happened to him.  i’m not from jersey city for nuthin’, ya know.

him:  naw, i wouldn’t.  

me:  so he has NO idea that jesus was a jew?

him:  guess nobody’s ever told him. 

me:  well, do you have  his email?  i’d like to fill him in.

him:  LOL.  let it go. 

me:  ok.  sorry/glad i missed it.  

have i mentioned how wonderful the sciatica can be?

where was i?  oh yeah, sciatica.

i know…..boring.  aren’t you tired of it?  i know i am.  next week will be four months of hopeless, helpless cripple with no relief in sight.  alas.  after rounds of pain medication, stretching, chiropractic, exercise, physical therapy and finally cortisone injections in my ass i am out of options.  the only thought left to me is that maybe it’s not sciatica but something else.  so i finally succumbed, and  at the tender age of 61, (well, actually, 62 this week…..happy birthday to me)…..i went for an MRI.  have you had one?  oh my, this is a story to be told.  sit.  let’s discuss.

after jumping through the hoops, (you know, doctor’s prescription, referral, insurance company clearance, pick a place, make an appointment and show up) it went something like this:

it begins with a few quick questions;  any metal in your pockets?  any jewelry made of metal?  piercings i can’t see?  shrapnel in your body?   (i’m thinking if i had shrapnel in my body, it’s no wonder i hurt) and after clearance, they give you earplugs and you lie on a gurney-like  stretcher and they slide you into this cocoon-like machine.  they tell me that if you’re claustrophobic, that you’d have difficult time of it, but i’m not, so i wouldn’t know.

it’s an imposing piece of equipment.  take a look :

so my tech guy puts a squeeze-toy in my hand and instructs me to indicate if i’m in trouble of any kind as he slides me in.  now, it’s tight in there, but i’m guessing that a coffin is probably tighter.  (i could be wrong, never having actually been in a coffin), but it’s really not so bad that one needs to freak out.  

this looks way  more comfy than the machine.   btw, i had NO pillow.  harrumph!

and then it begins:

there’s a kind of creaking noise you hear like an old water pump priming itself, which is no big deal.  then suddenly, rather loudly it sounds like a cruise ship leaving the harbor…..WAH….WAH….WAH…WAH…WAH…etc for a minute or so.  it’s kind of loud.  then a minute later the jackhammer starts:  rat..tat..tat..tat..tat..tat..tat..tat..tat..tat..tat..tat….etc.  oy.  some very serious noise. but certainly bearable.  no motion,  just a lot of noise.  no pain, no touching, nada.  noise.

for me, what was unbearable was that in that position, my leg was killing me, and you’re not supposed to move.  i thought if i could shift a little i could relieve the pain, but i tried not to. then my nose itched.  which is funny, because even if you wanted to, you couldn’t raise your hand to your face to scratch it.  it’s tight in there.  i thought if i closed my eyes i might actually nod off, with the rhythmic pounding serving as my white noise.  but the leg…..the goddamn leg…..

so i opened my eyes and tried to distract myself for the twenty minutes by looking around the tube.  right off, i saw a black speck just above my eyes.  at first i though it might be a bug.  you know, a tiny insect.  and of course my mind went wild.

i began to think that they’d slide me out of all of that teleportation pod,…..i mean, tube….. and the bug and i would become one, the brundle fly.  (from that movie?  the fly?)  and that we’d swap body parts and i’d get his head and he’s get my hands and i might be stuck with a really tiny fly penis and that would be depressing.  imagine me trying to kiss husband goodnight like this:

or that soon i’d sprout thick hair on my back and have a craving for refined sugar?  and then i realized i already have thick hair on my back and my middle name is krispy kreme, so what am i worried about?  no, none of that happened.  just a lovely twenty minutes in a noisy tube.  (god i’m such a psycho sometimes.)

i should add here that they found nothing.  at least nothing they could blame for my pain.  alas.  oh well, all  things considered, it was not really a bad experience at all.  i can readily endorse having one, should you need it.  but a word to the wise:  be sure to tell the techie the truth, because there was that one story about the woman with the big knockers and the nipple ring, and the electro-magnetic force grabbed it and it took them a week to get her out.  but don’t let that scare you.

just sayin’…..

i’ve discussed in earlier pieces that i don’t exactly wear the jock-strap of the family.   it’s true.  i throw like a girl.  and i don’t mean a softball-playing lesbian either.  i mean a 10-year old girl.  and my least favorite sport in high school had to be basketball, being all of a 5’6″ budding homo, as a freshman.  so it’s  no surprise to learn that we don’t attend a lot of sporting events.  well, truth be told i watch the olympic mens’ gymnastics every four years or so, but that’s pretty much about the beautiful bodies on those boys and not so much about parallel bars or rings.     no big surprise there either.  (seriously the biceps and asses on those young men make me puddle…..right on the spot.)   so it was a tad unusual tonight when husband and i found ourselves at a miami heat game.  i know, clutch the pearls.  how?  why?, you might ask.  sit.  let’s discuss.

i have a new neighbor living next door and he’s a really nice guy.  he’s obviously successful and happy to be in this neighborhood with such fine upstanding neighbors such as husband and me.  (ok, i’m surmising a bit here).  but a couple of weeks ago, he stopped me outside and we had a conversation:

tom:  hi dave,  how’s it goin’?

me:  great tom, yourself?

tom:  can’t complain.  tell me dave, do you like basketball?

me:  not really.  it’s too much like sports for my taste.

tom:  very funny.  ever been to a game?

me:  naw.  if there aren’t fat ladies singing, count me out.  why?

tom:  i have these tickets a friend gave me for march 6th.  take them, please.  as my guest.

now, i’ve never been, but with free tickets, i might be game for a game.  (to turn a phrase) free is good.

so tonight, husband and i had an adventure.

we arrived early, because i don’t generally do stadium stuff, and anywhere there is the possibility of 30,000 fans, i anticipate traffic that could cause you chest pains, and i was right.  

we arrived and made our way inside and were directed to our seats, which just happened to be courtside tickets.  see below:

we were right behind these guys.  pretty awesome seats, no?

the pre-game free throw began and there were a lot of tall men on the court tossing around what seemed like 100 basketballs;  bank shots, lay-ups, 3-pointers, blind shots, dunks, (boy, for a non-sports type sissy, i’m pretty good with the lingo, no?).    and we were literally in the middle of it.  the opposing coach and his staff were right in front of us.  at one point, a player got knocked down on the court and the posse ran out to help;  a towel guy, a heat-pack guy, a broom guy mopping up sweat puddles (yeah, i know, real attractive  job.  i wonder how much it pays?).  by the way, while he was down, the heat girl dancers came out to entertain.  they were a bunch of fabulous women who mostly looked like this:  (i wonder what you have to do to get this  job).  see below.

when we first arrived the crowd was minimal and i wondered aloud to husband, why do they need such a big arena if nobody comes?  just before kickoff, tip-off, knock-off, whatever, the crowd swelled and looked something like this.  and remember, we’re sitting on the floor:  it was deafening!  did i mention that i love the smell of testosterone in the evening?

another thing that puzzled me is that the heat was playing the new jersey nets, and yet their tanktop uniforms sported a big NY.  i asked a few people but nobody seemed to know the answer.  the scoreboard said nj nets, but the shirts said ny.  hmmm.  it’s a puzzlement.  feel free to enlighten me in the comment section.

it occurred to me that i really don’t belong at sporting events.  each time the heat scored, the crowd roared at 20 decibels with horns and sirens and pandemonium.  each time the nets scored it was like a library in that cavernous arena.  not a sound!  i felt bad for the other team, which of course is completely unacceptable in sports.  you have a team, you root and scream for them and hate the other team like poison.  (i’m pretty sure that if you look in the dictionary, that’s the official definition of sport).

the other thing i noticed is that it’s expensive.  the tickets (which were a gift) were $150/ea.  parking nearby ranges from $15-$50.  (i know,  how crazy is that?  i mean, even with free tickets!)  then there are souvenir programs, sports junk, (sorry, licensed sports items), etc.  and then there’s food.

the high rollers (or is that a gambling term?), in the seats which cost hundreds, are apparently instant members of the Dewar’s Club.  what that gets you is entree to the box level for dinner, for which you pay $80/pp, which i think is a lot, but hey, i’m neither high nor a roller.  (there it is again, that pesky top 1%), but the food looks something like this:

for the regular folk, there are  hot dogs, clocking in at $9/ea,

a 12-oz draft beer for another $9,  a styrofoam bowl of chili
for a whopping $14, and cocktails beginning at $12 per single, $18 per double.  whew.  tickets, parking, a snack and a drink or two, and it’s $300 per couple per game.  a tad pricey for me.  i’ll stick to the cheap entertainment like a subscription to the opera.  (well, it’s cheap compared to that!!!)

i should mention that there is a downside to those privileged seats.  every time the heat did something exciting, the entire staff on the bench in front of us stood up to cheer/curse/whistle, and our view of the court was entirely blocked.  oh well.

we left early, as it was a rout for the heat, we were really  not that into it, and all i could think of was the traffic getting out.   husband hated the entire affair, but as ever, he was a good egg about the whole thing.  i enjoyed the grand look-see experience.   and yet, as amazing and entertaining  as it was, i don’t see us lining up for season tickets any time soon

although i am considering buying a jockstrap.  i mean, just as a fashion accessory.

i have a confession to make.  i’ve lied to you.

you know how i constantly tell you that i refuse to watch television that doesn’t have a script?  a/k/a reality tv?  the bachelor, and of course, the bachelorette?  survivor?  (survivor samoa, survivor australia, thailand, africa, borneo, ad nauseum), american idol?  top chef?  dancing with the stars?  (which is neither dancing nor stars…..see chaz bono).  well, there is one guilty pleasure.  and i’m here to confess in front of god and man and baby jesus.  i watch judge judy.

ok.  not every day, or all of the time, but i occasionally drop in on the good judge’s program and i must admit, i get a kick out of the proceedings.  sit.  let’s discuss.

i suppose that the first question one might be inclined to ask is why would anybody take their legal issues to a court of public opinion which is actually public?  as in, on tv?  wtf?  have you completely lost your mind?   the world is not only watching, but laughing at your sorry ass.  let me give an example:

the case of the suing sisters.

sister number 1, let’s call her showanda, (not her real name, but extraordinarily close).  you know the type.

is suing sister number 2, loquisha (no, they’re not twins.  perhaps the mother was in vaudeville.  not sure).

so showanda claims that while she was serving time in prison, (crime undisclosed, apparently irrelevant, your honor), loquisha went to her sister’s self-storage cubicle and borrowed her television, broke it, and now refuses to pay for a new one.  so showanda is suing her.   loquisha, in her countersuit, claims that she paid rent to live with her sister, and was not notified that said sister was not paying the rent until 12  hours before she and her sister were evicted, so she wants compensation for rent paid.  these girls are sisters!!   (i swear people, i couldn’t make this stuff up.  except of course, for the names.)

judge judy takes the countersuit first, and, in  her infinite wisdom, ascertains that loquisha lived for 2 months in her sister’s house and paid 2 months rent.  case closed.  she paid, she lived.  showanda owes loquisha nada.  el zippo.  needless to say she’s pissed off.

now for the original claim.

the good judge ruled that loquisha has to give the television back, and ordered a marshal of the court (not to be confused with a court-martial….i know, this legal crap gets tricky), to accompany loquisha to her domicile to see that she returns it.   now showanda is screaming, “but it’s broken, your honor”, but judge judy, quite frankly, dealing with literally the detritus of humanity, has had enough, and utters, i don’t care.   judgement for the plaintiff, counter-suit dismissed.   good-bye.  (gotta love her.  she knows when it’s over).

ok, deride me for watching, but this stuff is delicious.  it makes my life seem so much  nicer than it actually is.  i can’t even begin to think of anyone i need to sue, much less for a broken television.

the show goes on and on with such cases, each one better than the last, and when they break for a commercial, what do you suppose it’s for?  hemorrhoid cream?  deodorant?  the new chevy cruze?  no, my friends.  it’s for slip and fall attorneys.  the law offices of schwartz and catalano.  (not their real names.  are you crazy?  they’ll sue me!)   so it’s  dial 1-800 get-money.    i swear!   i guess they figure if you’re watching  judge judy, at 4pm in the afternoon, that:

a) you’re out of work.

b) there is a remote possibility that you need money.  (being out of work)

c) yet another remote possibility that you’re out of work because of an injury.  hence:

1-800 get-money.  (to tell the truth, while watching, i got caught up in the moment and gave serious consideration to suing someone.  they make it look so easy.  just call the attorneys and they claim that i might be entitled to $10,000 for lost wages, and they give you money.   but then i think,  hmmm…..if i run up against judge judy in my lawsuit, i’m likely to piss her off.   and that’s never a pretty option.  case dismissed.

big saga tonight.  it was a rough week.  have you ever had a toilet go bad?  well, not really bad but not quite right?  it’s not like it overflowed and flooded the premises, but over the past couple of weeks the flush wasn’t what it once was.  not as stong.  not as vibrant.  not as decisive.  (wait, you realize, of course, that i’m still talking about the toilet and not about me?)  it became an issue that needed attention.  sit.  let’s discuss.

i have a management company whom i pay to fix things in our house.  i pay yearly (and dearly), and whatever goes wrong, (pretty much), i call them and they fix.  so this week my toilet in my master bath took on the demeanor of a lazy flush and i called them.  the repair man came, rootered a bit, plunged (past tense of “to plunge“?) and it was still kind of slow.  his diagnosis?  you need a new toilet.  the counterclockwise water motion isn’t enough to push the water down, due to calcified crud in the holes in the rim of the bowl.  my being an expert on a bunch of shit, but not especially about toilets, it all sounded like a considered opinion to me.  he left, i went to home depot, bought and carried home a new toilet, ordered the installation, and all was going to be right in the world again, come the following morning.

not so fast, kemosabe.

when the installer arrived, he removed the old toilet and gazed into the hole in my porcelain tile floor and announced, you have roots in your pipes.  (come to think of it, i saw a gay porn movie once where there was a scene between a lumberjack and a camper and one of them used that very same line.  but i digress.)  ok, i reply.  can we remove them?  no, says he, you need a professional rooter guy.  i’m not putting the new toilet on because when he roots your drain, it’s easier from here without the bowl and this way he won’t scratch it.  when he’s finished, i’ll come back and install your new toilet.  ok, says me, sounds like a plan.  and off he goes.

next stop, internet, phone calls, rooter appointments and finally a very nice man with a very big tool arrives, (a drain tool people,  minds out of the gutter), and he inserts a cable into my pipe (gosh, that does sound a tad dirty, no?)  and pulls out…..and i don’t think i’m exaggerating here…..what came out was a sequoia tree.  a five foot long root system that looked like the bottom of the tree from avatar (you remember, in the battle for the planet scene, when eywa, the tree of life, tips over and the people of pandora weep?)   well, picture me weeping.  that beast came out of my toilet!!!!    i’m amazed it didn’t grab my ass and shove a branch up, as i sat!  this thing was fierce!  so he cleans out my drain, $200 later, and packs up and leaves.  now, for sure, all things will be ok in the morning after the install.

did i mention i bought a kindof fancy job?  it’s a double flush deal.  sitter’s choice.  there’s the 1 gallon flush for liquids, and the 1.6 gallon for solids.  of course my first question is, and i’m sure it’s yours as well, how do it know?  is there like a little tiny speaker there, so that while you sit it asks, are we done here or do you need to drop a solid?  come on, i haven’t got all day.  i mean seriously, how do it know?  well, it  turns out that there are two buttons on the top.  one for number one and one for number two.  (how grammar school is this?  i mean, maybe the toilet wants to know if you have to go poopies.  oh the indignity!)  anyway, it is really, all things considered, pretty cool.   there’s no handle.  nothing to jiggle down the road.   take a look.:

i know, it’s a freakin’ toilet.  oh, big woo.  but check out the buttons for number 1 or number 2.

if you click on this second picture, i don’t know if you can see it, but the buttons have braille on them.  (i’m thinking if the blind guy found the toilet that’s a miracle in itself.  but to have him be able to select his flush….well, talk about equal rights for the handi-capapble.)

so the installer returns, and upon trying to do his job, announces that my tile floor is very uneven and that the throne will not sit squarely, and might, perhaps, rock a bit.  what to do, what to do?  so he uses shims, to prop it, and pre-mixed grout to various thin and thick applications to level it off, and announces, ok, it’s in, but don’t touch it for a week.  wtf?  through  my tears i ask, a week?  he answers, well don’t even put a hand on it for 24 hours.  after that you can stand and deliver liquids, but do not sit upon it for at the very least, three days to let the grout cure.  (and he thinks it’s the grout that needed curing?  what about me pokey?)

so the ordeal is over.  the toilet is in and it’s a beauty, and barely uses any water.  at the risk of being even further indelicate, since i’m still not allowed to sit, we have yet to see a solid go down but i have high hopes.  i’ll keep you posted.

so this past week has yielded a victory in battle with the bees, (see earlier blog), and now a happy ending to my porcelain crisis.  i am still king of my castle.  unfortunately, i am currently without a throne.

my neck still hurts.  no no.  no sympathy.  shit happens.

i’m in therapy now.  (wow, that makes me sound like a really sick mental case.)   no. not that kind of therapy.  (although god knows a few sessions on a couch certainly couldn’t hurt, at this point in my twisted development, but no.)  we’re talking the big PT.  physical therapy.  simon says, hands on neck.  sit.  let’s discuss.

question:  did you know that there are people in the world who go to school or college or tech classes, and set out to become workers that dedicate themselves to the healing of others?  did you know that?  (well yeah, doctors and nurses and shit, and of course dentists), but others who are not the really high salary types.  just dedicated people who decide to become caregivers?  wtf?  (i’m thinking those people’s souls are so much  nicer than mine.  i have a tendency to sit and sneer, in my way, while they actually take an interest in  my well-being……let’s say for an example…….i see a comedy vein and want to make snarky comments, and they see a collapsed vein and want to help.  see what i mean?  different outlook.)

so i finally got the call from dolora, (remember her?  pat, can i buy a consonant?  a goddamn “s”?  so that my name is not completely ridiculous?) and she informed me that i could come to get my stenotic, arthritic neck treated.  of course i delighted and rejoiced with that call.

off i go, and i’m met with an officious amount of paperwork at intake.  (have i mentioned in previous blogs that the very first question, i mean, the goddamn primary interest of the parties involved is not how are we today?, (the royal we being implied, since it’s just me and my damaged neck),  but rather, the very first question is…..say it with me now…..can i see your insurance card?  

madre di dio.  (ooh, i’ll bet i never told you i speak fluent italian. well i do.)

so after those particular pleasantries, i got to meet my australian therapist, fiona.    (isn’t that a beautiful name?  i mean, if west side story had been set down under, instead of sharks vs. jets it might have been dingoes vs. wallabies and you could actually sing fiona instead of the usual maria.  try singing it.  it works.  just a a thought, mr. sondheim. )  and she’s thin and gorgeous, and so in shape i want to bitch-slap her into my reality, but hey, she’s there for me, so i go with it.  a bunch of intake questions and getting to know you stuff  later, and we’re into it.

stretch this, turn that, point your nose here, stand up straight, does this hurt?, how far can you turn your head?,  how long have you had it?, push my hand, pull my arm, reach behind you, pull my finger, oh, i’m sorry, squeeze my finger, what kind of pillow do you sleep on?, does it hurt in the morning?, and on and on.  ok, i think to myself.  she needs to know.  and so it goes…..

massage was first.

digress…..

for those of you that have never had massage, wft is wrong with you?  the concept of lying on a table with a devoted, trained person with magic hands manipulating your (fill-in-the-blank) is beyond the pale.  you really need to do it.  even if NOTHING hurts.  just do it.

back…..

so ten minutes later i feel somewhat better.  how not?  after that we do some tens unit electric shock stuff (like at the chiropractor, and if you haven’t done that either, wtf are you waiting for?), coupled with some heat therapy, while i lay on my back on a table.   can you spell nap?  i nodded in a  heartbeat.

upon awakening, i felt better.  not ALL better, but better.  and fiona scheduled me for several more.  i, for one, can’t wait.  she was extraordinarily nice, except every two minutes or so, she’d say stand up straight, dahling. (she’s australian not a drag queen.  that’s how they say it.   it reminded me of my hateful mother, always nagging me.  but fiona’s  right.  i’m a slug type sloth that slouches.  (say that three times fast.  i dare you.)

so fiona is from northern australia and speaks a LOT like olivia newton john.  even so, as good as she is, i don’t think she’s hopelessly devoted to me.  she’s just my therapist.  but i think i’m in love.  oh well.  although she did mention traction for next time.  oy.

so, going forward from here, i’ll keep you posted.  the neck is getting there.  (don’t forget i have the million dollar cream to schmear as well.)

stay tuned.

yeah, you know the song.  sing it with me.  when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.  when the……go ahead, i’m listening…..so you don’t know the second line?  really?  ok, it goes, when the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine….that’s ……well you get it.  why bring this up?  husband and i went for pizza tonight.  now, as you know, i’ve mentioned before that i live on a perpetual diet in mortal fear that someday i’ll end up like mother, who, at her peak, standing 5’2″, weighed in at about  250 lbs.  not pretty.  but every so often, i need to cut loose and be really bad.  and when i do, it’s often pizza that is my nemesis.  sit.  let’s discuss.

you know how there are all kinds of pizza?  and seriously folks, i’m a jersey city boy here, so bullshit pizza doesn’t count.  (or should i say bullshit pizza don’t count, and be true to my roots?)  this domino’s or pizza hut or little caesar‘s crap is not pizza, not matter how many commercials you see, or what it looks like in those very commercials.  it ain’t pizza.  it’s cardboard with cheap cheese product atop, and pepperoni sliced so thin, that you couldn’t give a 14 year-old boy acne.    i tried some store-bought bake-it-at-home-yourself stuff.   that doesn’t cut it either.  it’s tough enough to find great pizza in south florida, but the first thing you have to do is eliminate the pretenders.

so that leaves us with actual  pizza joints, as we used to call them.  back in jersey city, the polite term was pizza parlor, but they were mostly dimly-lit, family style restaurants, with booths whose seats were plastic, and the entire place smelled of oregano. when in search of great pizza, that’s a start.  (also, there were usually gentlemen with slightly bent noses sitting around, here and there, with a glass of beer, speaking in hushed tones.   i’m not sure what they talked about, but i am sure it was better not to know.  there are programs like the sopranos for a reason).  and back then, they were called pizza pies.  not just pizza.  it was a different world, pizza-wise.  there was regular crust or sicilian, which is a thick crust with very light sauce.  mostly a bread-like affair.  there were no thin crispy crust or flatbread types.  there were no coal-fired ovens back then, just regular pizza ovens which, at the time, worked just beautifully.  these days, pizza, like a lot of things, has branched out.  i should also add, back then, most pizza was plain cheese and tomato sauce.  oh, the occasional pepperoni or sausage and mushroom or even onions, but nothing really too tricky.  pineapple and ham?  back then?  in jersey city?  you’d get the shit kicked out of you if  you even tried to order it.   there were mob hits for less.   just saying, is all.

anyway, i digressed.

so, in a mood, we went to our favorite pizza haunt of south florida.  it happens that it’s a coal-fired-oven type pizza with actual flames licking at the pie.  (the cool thing about that style, is that the crust comes out a little singed on the edges which adds a crispiness that’s hard to beat.)  the place is called anthony’s.  we go to the original location, although there are  a dozen of them now.  (he branched out).

and here’s the ritual:

we arrive and put our name on a list because it’s standing room only.  we would really like to circle the room and hover over people that are finishing their pies, and kindof urge them to hurry the fuck up,  but that would be rude, even for south florida.  (in new york, i understand you can still get away with that.)  when they finally call us we don’t need menus.   we always start with the chicken wings, (ok, the large order), which are also cooked in the oven with the coals, as opposed to deep-fried, so they’re only half as deadly to the waistline.  they arrive on a plate smothered with sauteed onions and bread toast triangles (which are really just pizza dough rolled very flat and cut thus), but i can’t begin to describe the wonder of these wings.  next up is the house salad.  it’s a lovely mixture of greens, tomatoes, onions, peppers, pepperoncini and olives.  we, of course, order the cup of bleu cheese topping.  (it’s 2 bucks extra but hey, in for a penny…..).

now, you can actually make a meal of those two items and walk away happy, sated and stuffed.  but then you would have missed the point.  the pie.

husband’s half is always the same;  sausage and mushrooms.  to him, if that ain’t it, it ain’t right.  so be it.  i’m a little more creative. sometimes some pepperoni, sometimes some green peppers and olives, and sometimes, (bear with me now), some arugula.  hey, nouveau pizza.  what can i say, i’m an adventurous guy.  (i wonder if you’d get the crap kicked out of you these days in jersey city if you ordered arugula on your pie?  something to think about next time i go visit).

let me say that the pizza is fantastic.  different from jersey city mob pizza, because of the black crispy parts on the oh-so-thin-crust, but it is, for me, the best of south florida.  and of course, after the wings and salad, i can’t eat but two pieces, at most, so there’s lunch to go for the next day.  (actually, i hate that part.  i’m bad two days in a row that way, when i only meant to be bad once.)  oh well.

so if you’re reading this, and you don’t live in south florida, sorry.  you’ll just have to imagine it.  but the rest of you, get your ass over to anthony’s.  (the one by state road 84 near the airport in fort lauderdale), and run the drill. you won’t be sorry.

and it will bring back memories of jersey city, even if you’re not from there.

you know how i often say, “sometimes the universe conspires?”  like how the  guy from husband’s high school, whom he didn’t know 50 years ago, moved into the house behind us?  or my own college roommate, who was on on our cruise last november for a week, but we hadn’t seen each other since the 60s and neither of us knew the other was there and didn’t recognize each other? and then after, we reconnected after four decades?  stuff like that?  and you know i was born jewish, but am now the last surviving pagan on the eastern seaboard, with all semblance of  the original religion of my childhood relegated not only to the back seat, but more like the rumble seat?  well something’s happened and i’m thinking, that pesky universe.  there it goes again.  sit.  let’s discuss.

that selfsame college roommate, with whom i am now close, and who was single for a very long time, finally met a guy.  a male friend.  a boy friend.  a boyfriend.  yeah, that’s it.  and the two of them are having quite a time of it.  i won’t go into details because:

a)  this blog is rated “g”

b) the details are, actually, none of our business

c) they’re having way too much fun and i don’t want to make you all jealous.

so the new guy, let’s call him boyfriend, is a handsome, amiable fellow, and very sweet.  (it’s tough to come into a group of friends that are close, and fit in, but he’s doing just beautifully.)  and of course, it helps that husband and i are not bitchy queens, which makes it just a tad easier, but i take no credit.  he’s welcome because he’s genuinely nice.

now, he happens to be a jewish chap, born in israel.  i mean, the actual middle-east, in that little country surrounded by pugnacious, imperialistic, antagonistic,  neighbors.  i’ve never even been able to imagine what it’s like to grow up in a place where the threat of your very existence is a way of life, but he has, and he’s still a swell guy.

he’s a businessman, and he sells…..how shall i phrase this?…..mystical accessories related to judaism and specifically, kabbalah.  (now, pardon me, but at this stage of my life, the closest i’ve been to kabbalah is reading about that nice gentile italian girl, you know the one, madonna, who went to israel, studied a bit and came home with not only a string of publicity, but an actual red string on her wrist.  i know, i know.  madonna has a string!   big woo.  or so i thought.

anyway, husband and i had lunch with the happy couple today, and we got into a discussion about all of that.  (now bear in mind, i think i’ve told you i was raised full orthodox jew, and i know the rules, and the prayers and the rituals and i just choose not to participate anymore.  i’m not ignorant, just disinterested.)

but this charming fellow went into an elaborate explanation about this red string that is woven in israel, and is often wound in large quantities around the tomb of rachel, the matriarch of judaism.  (he also brought up a good point when he said that if the ancient jewish men weren’t such chauvinists, relegating their women to obscurity, that she would have been as important and well-known as say, abraham or moses.  come to think of it, in orthodoxy today, there’s still a lot of that going on.  but i digress).

now this string is purported to have some mystical powers.  the practitioners of kabbalah cut strands and ritualistically tie it around the left wrist of the recipient, with seven ceremonial knots with corresponding words and prayers, and the wearing of it is supposed to bring good fortune, and more importantly, ward off evil spirits and grant divine protection.  well, i say, pagan or not, sounds like a plan to me.  i mean, who couldn’t use a little good fortune?  and of course, being president of my homeowners association, i can certainly use a little protection from evil spirits, if you know what i mean.

so this genteel gentleman, (is that redundant?  i don’t think so), bestowed the gift of the thread upon both me and husband, recited the prayers, tied the knots, and now we’re good to go.  turns out you don’t have to be really religious to appreciate the mystical  aspects of our being.  i think just honoring and remembering what went before us, is enough.  there are thousands of years of the history of my people before oh-so-important me was born, and i’m thinking we shouldn’t lose sight of that.  ever.  religion or not, at the very least, we all stand on the shoulders of those who came before us and we are indebted to those that have brought us along this far.  and this red string on my wrist makes me think about that, and perhaps climb out of my own self, in order to look inward.  (or i could just be becoming a sentimental old fluff).  not sure.

either way, i’m glad i made a new friend, and i truly sense that this little piece of red string has bound us somehow.  it’s a pretty good feeling.

now don’t run out and buy a spool of red thread and start making knots.  it doesn’t work that way.  (first of all, i’m pretty sure the thread will have been made in china, and i’m thinking 5,000 years ago, air travel being what it was, that rachel never made it to china, so in all likelihood, chinese kaballah thread is a scam.  although the jews do love chinese food, so there’s a chance that maybe back then they had take-out).

could be, if you believe.

day 1

here we go again.

we’re on the annual cruise.  husband and i.  a little different this year, as i kind of know what to expect.  and i’m struggling to write about a different aspect than last year’s cruise.  that one was primarily about food.  (hey, i’m the son of a food addict so i have issues.)  and i promise that there will be food items abounding, but i’m going to try to focus on the fabulous fun, frolicking and frivolity (i’m nothing if not alliterative).  and so it begins.  sit.  let’s discuss.,

it’s now 11.30 on saturday night.  sailing day.    we are, as they say, out to sea.

digress.

you know it’s a funny thing.  it’s a seven day cruise, but what they don’t emphasize is that the day you board the ship is day 1.  i mean they let you board around noon, and your  room is not ready until about 1:00 and the ship doesn’t leave the harbor until 5pm, but  it counts as a day.  we’ll come home next saturday and be off by 9am, so that certainly isn’t a day.  so today counts. that’s why i like to come aboard early.  if this is day 1 of my vacation, then by god, i’m taking it.  and here’s how it went.

back.

we awoke at dawn.  (you know, the excitement and all), and surprise, surprise, it seems my hip went out as i slept;  it was either from loading suitcases into the trunk of the car friday night, or from standing at the “before party” at a local gay bar the night before sailing.  (a bunch of the out-of-towners wanted a “meet-and-greet” to get a jump on the festivities, so we went.)  but god help me, as if there isn’t enough wrong, my sciatic nerve decided to rear its ugly head for a “hey, how are ya?  how’s this feel?”  so the two of us, husband and i, in a frenzy to get ready to leave by 10am, are hindered, to say the least, by old brokeback dave.

there’s a lot to do before we go away.  we have to setup the children; peeps, (the angelic cat), savannah (the old dog, a/k/a grandma, with a bladder problem.  can anyone explain to me why they don’t they make depends for dogs?) and of course, piss boy (if you remember last year).  this year we psyched him out and bought a plastic painter’s tarp and as we loaded the dining room table with items to pack, each night we covered it, so if, like last year, he decided to “gift us” as a departing gesture, our stuff would be safe.  but he was good, so we didn’t have to beat him.  (no, i’m kidding.  we hardly ever beat him).

so we prep the children’s food, change and leave a new kitty litter, portion out the treats for the dog, (for the sitter) including peanut butter covered garlic tabs to ward off a prevailing tick problem.  did you  know that?  if your animal has a tick problem, feed it garlic tablets and it wards off the insects.  (and vampires as well, i imagine) i know what you’re thinking.  you’re thinking the 14 year old dog will have bad breath from the garlic.  news flash…..  have you had a fourteen year old dog give you kisses lately?  trust me, the garlic doesn’t make a goddam bit of difference.  it’s dog’s breath, people, stay with me on this.

having set them up, we pick up friend who’s also cruising, and head to the port.  i drop husband and friend on the pier with the luggage, park the car, join them, mill through the mob and finally board the paradise express.

need i tell you that it’s the gay group again?  those pied pipers? they’re a fun bunch.  not exactly the hottest men on the planet, the average age being over 55, but with the seasoned traveler comes great conversation, camaraderie, and of course, endless sexual innuendo reminiscent of the things they used to do but no longer do. they don’t actually do much of what they’re implying, but they (we) certainly talk a good game.  don’t get me wrong.  there are many hot, sexy men aboard.  it’s just that when you’re my age, we have a tendency to obtain a superpower known as invisibility.  the young hot men look right through us and move on.  but i’m not bitter.  i was young and hot once, and had my day.  someday if they’re lucky, they’ll be old invisible queens crippled with sciatica and i’ll look down from the heavens and chuckle in a very snarky i told you so, kind of way.  i don’t believe in much, but i certainly do believe in divine justice.

i think i’ve told you that husband lost 35 pounds.  his secret?  you promise not to tell?  diet and exercise.  who knew?  (duh, everyone, it’s just that nobody actually does it.)  so, interesting note:  at check-in with the group, the lead travel agent asked husband if he’d like to be a model in the fashion show later in the week.  (bitch didn’t ask me.  but then i’m a paunchy old queen), and husband was simply delighted, and of course said yes.  they didn’t say exactly what he’d model, but count him in.  more about that as it unfolds.

once aboard there was registration (purell), check in and receive hotel paperwork (purell), find your cabin and wait for luggage, unpack when it arrives, muster safety drill (purell),  lunch (purell), tour ship (purell), sailaway, theater show, free cocktail party with name tags so the 700 of us can get to know one-another, dinner (purell), skip dessert, dancers in the lobby, windswept walk  on the pool deck and now i’m talking to you when i should really be lying down.  (they’re really purell happy here.  norovirus-phobia, or something.  i think they probably spend more money on purell than on the actual food we touch with clean hands.  wacky world.

a word about the cocktail party.  it was on the top deck by the pool.  the ship was moving at 20 knots (exactly how fast is a knot?), and the prevailing headwinds were 25 knots.  so together, there were 45 mile an hour winds while you’re standing on the topmost deck of a rocking ship with a drink in your hand.  where i live, (fort lauderdale) that’s called a tropical storm during which: yes, we have cocktails, but no, we don’t go outside.  are you nuts?    i mean, it’s a gay group and all, but that’s not what i had in mind when i thought blow-job.  it was fierce.

so after all of that, quite frankly, i’m bushed.  (and i almost never use the word bush.  you know, too much painful history and all).  so i must rest.   i’ll continue this tomorrow.

day 2

i don’t mean to complain, as this is supposed to be a fun piece, but the sciatica gave me a miserable night’s sleep.  i finally gave in and began to take a cocktail of soma and vicodin.  (yeah, i know.  sounds delicious, but i really wanted my full wits on vacation.)  it still hurts, but now, who gives a shit?  but i’m not going to let it ruin my time.

did i mention that we’re on the celebrity eclipse?  gorgeous ship.  take a look:  (by the way, if you click on the pictures, they get huge!

sister ship to last year’s solstice.  actually, in case you didn’t know, they name sister ships with like names.  for instance, the giant royal caribbean ships are the freedom and the liberty.  the holland america group (the dam ships), are the nordam, (north), westerdam, (west), zuiderdam, (south) and oesterdam (east).  see how it works?  then of course there are the big sisters…..the humongous ships…..the oasis and the allure.  (yeah, i don’t quite get that relationship either).  but for this cruise, the five sisters are solstice, equinox (get it?  the seasons)  and then the eclipse, reflection and the silhouette.  (actually, i don’t quite get all of those either.  seems like they’re all sun/moon related,  i think. but that’s how it works).

the day began with breakfast at the stations of the buffet.  remember them from last year?  well, being the sister ship it’s the same fabulous drill.  great food, beautifully presented.  i’m trying to be good, so i stuck to an omelet, juice, and coffee.  (okay, a few strips of bacon on the side.  i mean, how not?  oh, and i had to taste the corned beef hash.  damn, it was good.  i was hoping it wouldn’t be).

after breakfast was pool time.  lying on a chaise lounge, ship gently rocking me, ipod on my head, maria callas singing norma, and a big iced tea by my side.  can you spell heaven?  people, i’m on vacation.  even my hip eased up.  it was really nice.

next up, lunch.  again, man the stations, full speed ahead.  i kept it to salad with a scoop of tuna.  (and trust me, there’s pasta, and indian food, and chinese food, and thai and deli, and cheese, and desserts and ice cream).  but i abstained.  i’m determined to be good for a least a couple of days, to make sure my pants fit until toward the end.  then, of course, fuck it.

after lunch, the pills kicked in big time and i needed to nap, which technically is not a bad thing.  i’m thinking that’s a popular vacation option on a sea day.  later a sauna, (the hot wooden wall on my damaged hip felt pretty good), cocktails and the first formal night dinner.  and of course, as on the sister ship, my old friends showed up; the baby lamb chops. 

digress.

it’s been a year since the last cruise, and i’ve actually talked about, dreamed about and described to friends, the remarkable baby lamb chops.  i don’t care if the lambs are screaming, clarice, i’m having them!  and they did not disappoint.

back.

funny note.  in addition to friend, there is another couple in our group and the first night the maitre d’ sat our party of five at a table for twelve with some other pied pipers.   it started off amicably enough, but as the  dinner wore on, this little microcosm of humanity  turned out to be….well….ok, just say it,  horrible.  they complained about everything.  the service is too slow, the food is not hot, his portion is bigger than mine, there’s not enough butter, it’s cold in here, bring more breadsticks, last year was better, and on and on until  i wanted to stab them with my butter knife!   i kind of told the one next to me, to shut the fuck up, nicely of course.  i thought about consulting the maitre d’ after dinner to change our table, but i figured, i’d just talk to my group and ignore them.  well, next morning, the concierge desk called and said you  originally requested a private table for your party, so we decided to move you and we’re giving you your own five-top.  now, i’m not sure, but it’s possible that they ousted us from their table, or maybe the house needed a 12 top for a request party.  either way, we were moved and we’re next to the captain’s table now.  husband is in the corner and the empty table is where the captain sits with his party on formal nights.  see picture:

and here he is, that handsome devil…..the captain.

pretty cool, if you ask me.  all the big-wigs are at his table, and the servers buzz like busy little bees in a hive, so our service is now amazing.  see, sometimes the high road really is the way to go.  those evil queens are probably stuck near the kitchen or the toilets or somewhere.  serves them right.

we don’t dress in monkey suits for formal night, but many do.  and sometimes…..just  sometimes…..queens will get carried away.  take a look:

did they actually think that if they’d not worn those outfits that nobody would know they were gay?  bust a gut, people.

after dinner was the captain’s welcome cocktail in the theater, followed by the ship’s singers and dancers in a broadway revue which was really wonderful.  all those fresh-faced kids, with their twirls and high kicks and lifts (on a rocking boat).  quite fantastic.  their salute to les miz and jersey boys was a delight.  more shows to come.

well, by now it’s midnight and we have to push the clocks ahead an hour, having entered a new time zone.  (damn.  i just got finished pushing the clock in fort lauderdale, like, 2 weeks ago.)  so we’re losing an hour of sleep which means i must go to bed.  see you tomorrow.

day 3  san juan

it’s odd, but we arrived in san juan late in the day, about 4pm.  take a look.  it’s getting dark already:

so much for the fabulous beaches and rain forest (el yunque).  btw, if you’ve not been to loquillo beach in your life, put it on your bucket list.  white sands, palm trees on the beach, azure blue sea…..just paradise.

the rain forest too, is an event.  gives you an even greater sense of the wonder of the universe. (spoiler alert.  if you’re a died-in-the-wool creationist, and don’t believe in darwin and his evolutionary theories, then you’ll most likely not appreciate the way rain forests have evolved over the millennia.  just saying, is all).

so, san juan at night.  hmmm.  i suppose seeing puerto ricans in their native habitat is fun for some, but i’m from jersey city.  we had puerto ricans up the ass growing up, so it’s not all that big an attraction for me, if you know what i mean.  but many passengers went ashore and ate palomillo steak and arroz con pollo.  some went to the gay tea dance which the pied piper crew arranged, for mucho bailando, which left the ship beautifully quiet for the rest of us.  i napped by the pool, lying in the shade on one of the coveted canopy chairs that are so difficult to come by, (unless of course, the ship is empty…..<g>).

one of the wonderful amenities of the ship is that every afternoon at 5:30 sharp, there is an all-yu-can-eat sushi buffet on the top deck.  i don’t eat much of the rice, (because i don’t want to spoil my dinner), but i do kindof pig-out on the fish.  take a look at all of this:

if you’re a sushi lover this is a nice plus.

there is a bar on the ship where we gathered nightly.  the bartop, where one would normally lean, is chilled, kindof a refrigerated countertop with ice on it to keep your drinks cold and frosty.  i swear.  your cocktail sits on a counter of ice.  you have to be really careful not to soak your ball gown before dinner.  i saw one queen who’d had one appletini too many, lean on it and his dinner jacket sleeve, yes, the white one, landed on a snow pile.  not pretty.  i stayed away from it.  i’m a sloucher from way back so i knew i’d eventually lay an elbow and get wet.  you know the saying, an ounce of prevention…..

dinner was once again marvelous.  there was a liver pate` that was the consistency of a dense mousse.  not a lump or bump in it.  just the intense flavors of goose liver, cognac, and peppercorns.  schmeared on the french bread i found myself moaning.  (and next to the captain’s table, one really needs to watch one’s decorum).  the pate` was followed by an iceberg lettuce salad.  (ok, tell me again.  what’s up with that salad?  it was so out of fashion for so many years, when did iceberg lettuce come back in?  it’s the same boring watery crunch it always  was, and yet now, fine restaurants get ten bucks for a wedge of it with bleu cheese.  wtf?  remind me in the future to take a pass on that salad.)

the main event was a new york strip steak, rare, as i requested, nestled atop a small pile of rigatoni smothered in a gorgonzola cheese cream sauce.  (someone in the kitchen knows what he’s doing.  gorgonzola cheese and red meat.  need i say more?  just heavenly.

finally, the dessert was a triangle of dark, dense chocolate, with actually the same consistency as the liver mousse.  so creamy, so dreamy, so insanely over the top.  i, however was a good boy.  i only ate a couple of bites, with an eye forever on my waistline, and left the rest on my plate!  oh be still my heart.  there are still many meals to go.

next up, the show.  it was a guy named garth oliver, who was a runner-up on britain’s got talent.  he’s a ventriloquist.  i know, big woo.  or so we thought.  but this guy was a true phenom.  talked a mile a minute, bantered insanely with the audience, giving lessons in ventriloquism.   his first “partner” was a monkey with a squeaky voice that was hilarious.  the thing i love most about ventriloquists is that as the banter gets more and more furious and funny and frantic, approaching “screwball” intensity, one must remember that it’s all coming from one guy.  all of the insanity, the voices, the inflections, the back-and-forth, is one crazy guy.  a good one will have you convinced that there are several characters on the stage performing the routine, but it always comes back to one guy.  very impressive.

i don’t have ship video, but take a look at the guy.  just insane.  and fun.  short clip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ydzolgvi_u

it was truly a side-splitting act and the audience went wild.

finally, for me, a trip up to the sky lounge, where the eclipse gang (the singers and dancers from the big production shows) all gathered to salsa the night away.  some of the audience got into it with them, but they mostly just did their mucho bailando, with hips swirling and girls twirling and high kicks.  they have so much energy it pisses me off that i’m so freakin’ old.  i’d love to throw a high kick, but with the sciatica and all, well…..you know.  Here’s a link to youtube.  After you look, just close the youtube window and com back.  I’ll wait…..take a look:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMhXk_m_Nxw&feature=youtu.be

they never tired, of course, but i did.  so i finished off my wine and headed back to the cabin for some shut-eye.   all in all, a pretty terrific monday.

day 4  st. thomas

still on vacation.  i know, it sounds redundant but the days flow one after another with eating, naps, entertainment, eating, conversation, swims, eating, dancing, fashion shows, eating and drinking.  (i know.  i said eating a lot.  i like eating).

at breakfast today, i got a tad adventurous.  i ordered eggs italian, which is a variation on eggs benedict, the difference being two poached eggs on a slice of crusty italian bread with prosciutto topped with a basil pesto sauce vs. the usual hollandaise.  can you spell yum?  really different and a new gastronomic taste.

following breakfast we forayed into town, (bad hip in tow), to buy some additional wine and some club soda.  i brought some with me, but am going through it faster than expected using it as medicine for sciatica.  (don’t tell the a.m.a.  not sure they’d approve.)  twenty minutes into st. thomas, the hip screamed take me home so back we came.  we’d been there before.  classic case of been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. 

lunch is a bit of a blur as the vicodin kicked in, and shortly thereafter i wrote about day 2 and then napped.  a shower, and a shave later, we found ourselves in the theater watching a cirque du soleil type show, with amazing acrobatics, high wire antics and handsome strong men balancing anorexic women on their heads.  there was a guy with a giant yo-yo on a string  (i swear), doing insane things.   (is it racist to mention that of course he was asian?  the yo-yo guy is always asian.  i think they teach yo-yo in beijing at university.)  there were also some contortionists.  they were very talented and all that, but quite frankly it’s not my favorite kind of show.  picture it:  a guy hanging by one hand from a trapeze swing, with a woman’s thighs wrapped around his ankle and she’s planking (i think that’s the term for the new craze, kindof parallel to the stage), while dangling.  what holds her up and keeps her from falling is, how can i put this delicately?  it’s how tight her…..ok, just say it…..how tight her twat is.  i mean she’s crushing the poor guy’s ankle with her crotch.  after the dismount i’m pretty sure he was limping.  so what it comes down to is a woman hanging by her labia.  all in all, as a gay man, not my cup of bouillon, entertainment-wise.  but i can tell you that the straight guys hooted and hollered a lot.  not sure why.

on to dinner.

vitello in tonnato (for you plebes, that’s paper-thin slices of chilled veal in tuna sauce), one of the world’s delicacies.

uneventful salad.  (seems unless i make it myself on the buffet, the  salads are a tad lacking, for me).

vichyssoise (chilled potato-leek soup).  and they really got it right.  if you’re not a fan, this might have converted you.

there was no entrée that tempted me, so i opted for the standard “every-night” side of the menu, and ordered broiled salmon hollandaise.  delish.  the hollandaise gave me buyer’s remorse about the morning’s eggs.  i should have had the standard benedict.  well, there’s always tomorrow.

so having had the twat show before dinner, we had some spare time after, so we wandered into comedy central for a so-so comedian.  (after the insane ventriloquist the night before, the guy would had to have been seinfeld to get a chuckle, so we left in the middle for one of the pied piper activities at 11:00pm.  are you ready?  this is what gay men do on a cruise.  we all piled into the big theater for a movie:  a mamma mia sing-along!  now, as i’ve said in earlier blogs, every gay man that’s ever sucked a dick thinks he’s judy garland, so this crowd was determined to show meryl streep how it’s done.  (not to mention  poor pierce brosnan.  i’m thinking when they made this movie, harry connick  jr was busy, or something.  would have been a much better choice.)  so, sing along we did, and the characters were transformed from donna and the dynamos to meryl and the ‘mos.  i made it to the act 1 finale, (voulez vous) singing my little gay heart out, and my bed called out to me.  long freakin’ day.  i finished my wine and headed for the big lie-down.  all in all, a pretty good day 4.  to be continued…..

day 5 st. marten or st. martaan (depending on your persuasion).

never left the ship.  we’ve been to these ports a lot, so they hold no interest, whereas an empty cruise ship is my kind of town.   it was essentially a lovely day, taking meals, strolls on the deck, a little stretching in the gym, reading, blogging, watching a movie and of course the ever popular napping (as a result of the overdose of vicodin that seems to be a part of my life now).   not helping the sciatica a whole lot but my attitude is just spiffy.

i mentioned earlier that husband was singled out upon embarkation and asked if he’d like to model in a fashion show.  he graciously acquiesced and waited anxiously for his debut performance.  it turns out that one of the pied piper’s excursions was to orient beach for a bash, replete with food, drinks, and debauchery, (and apparently a fashion show thrown in for good measure).  well, since husband and i weren’t going to participate in that trek to the beach, his debut was cancelled.  (or rather he’d like to think, postponed until another time).  alas, fleeting fame.

the pre-dinner show was a gal who was a female impressionist.  she made it very clear to her audience that her particular job is very different from that of a female impersonator (of which there were several in our crowd).   no, rather, she did song stylings (with wigs evoking certain characters), like cher, celine, beyonce, tina turner and others.  she sang a few songs in her own voice and style and was actually excellent, and the impressions were fun.  of course, doing all of those gay icons, our crowd really loved her.

dinner was good but not as remarkable as some nights so i’ll spare you the details.

the post-dinner festivities included our yearly theme party; this year it was called a decades event and we were encouraged to dress in the garb of the decade in which we were born.  well, having been born in 1950, (don’t bother to do the math, i’ve confessed many times that i’m 61), i was still a wee one by the end of the decade, so if i were going to dress up, i would have opted for a 60s hippie kind of thing, but husband and i took a pass.  he headed back to the cabin after dinner,  to read, and i wandered the deck (in yet another tropical wind event) marveling at the sheer lack of creativity of most of the players.  there were a lot of pretty good hippies, (glad i didn’t do it),

and a few other assorted types.  extra points for the tape on the glasses.  (these guys are actually friends with whom i’m traveling. )

for me, the most creative was a guy born in the 60s, who opted for 1969.  that’s 69 if you take my meaning.  see illustration:

yes, that’s leslie jordan to his left.  more about him later.

so having been tossed and blown, (and just a tad bored), i walked on, and headed for the o.k. corral for a little vicodin-induced shut-eye.  i was slightly depressed as i pondered that there were only two remaining days.

day 6  a sea day.

the days at sea are far and away my favorite days.  the ocean, the sky, the sun, the clouds, the occasional stray shower, eating, lounging and relaxing with no place special to go.  or lying by the pool listening to a calypso band, or watching the fashion show, or taking a crafts class or a napkin folding lesson (not kidding) or in this case, on this particular ship, the glass blowing exhibition.  corning, (yes, that corning) has a show on the top deck lawn, several times each cruise.  (i shouldn’t just toss that off.)  there is a lawn on the top deck.  guests play bocce ball, (you know, your italian grandfather’s version of golf but with no sticks?), or just lie on the grass as if you’re in the park, or perhaps a game of croquet.  it’s really impressive).

so corning has this two hour show complete with ovens, kilns, molten glass, and all the tools of the trade and artisans (including, of course a handsome young man named ross.  i mean, how not?) creating these magnificent pieces right before your very eyes.  see below:

then they raffle off some of them at the end, and the lucky people get to take one home.  it’s really gorgeous stuff and you see pieces that were created on board as you peruse the ship.  see below:

i enjoyed the heck out of the entire experience.

this being the penultimate night, it was the second formal night for dining.   the dining room held the traditional filet mignon and lobster as a main course.  i don’t know about you, but for me, it’s worth the swollen knuckles and the touch of gout the next day.  i have a thing for lobster.  afterward, there was the special entertainment brought on board just for us, and you were not allowed to attend if you were not a pied piper guest.  it was the wonderful comedian, leslie jordan.

for those who don’t know, he played (and won an emmy) on will and grace.  he also has created the character of brother-boy, in del shores amazing play/movie, sordid lives.  he’s a gifted, talented performer and he did 90 minutes of standup to a sold-out gay crowd.  if you  haven’t seen sordid lives, both the movie and the series, you ought to.  just sayin’.   after laughing that hard for that long, it was time for bed.  lordy i love the way the ship rocks you to sleep.  final day is tomorrow.  see you then.

day 7…..finale

i’m still on vacation but i’m a little hateful today.  it’s almost over.  and then i have to go back to my regular life.  you know, you may not realize this but living on this ship is a lot nicer than my real life.  seriously, at home, when i leave my bedroom every morning, nobody goes in behind me and makes the bed, straightens up, wipes my sink, changes my towels, checks the toilet paper, leaves me a bucket of ice and the morning newspaper. ( i’d like that, but no.  husband loves me, but, apparently not as much as my cabin boy.)  that’s not my life.  that’s oprah winfrey’s life.  also, i like picking up a plate and walking through the stations of the buffet and piling food on, without having to prep it, cook it, and clean up after.  i mean, how not?

the reality of it is we have to go tomorrow.  but before that, one more sea day, and as previously mentioned, those are my favorites.  this was a restful day, as the back thing was (literally) a pain-in-the-ass, so i kind of laid low.  typical lazy day, the exception being that after dinner we had to pack.  it was a little easier than getting ready to board, in that:

a)   most of the clothes were dirty so we didn’t have to be so careful about packing them, and

b)  the massive quantity of wine was gone, rendering the luggage about 50 pounds lighter.

so after dinner the bags go into the hallway where sometime during the night, as we sleep, the elves come and deliver them portside waiting to be picked up.

i finally remembered to take a couple of pictures in the dining room.  the first is of the extensive wine “cellar” right in the middle of the room, behind the captain’s table.  take a look:

the second is the amazing chandelier over us as we dined.  truly a work of art:

for the record i think i should add a picture of husband and me having the amazing vacation you’ve now shared with me.  (you’ll notice i’m in coco chanel black.  it hides my fat rolls underneath).

ok, so we’re a little gay too. <g>

before i close, here’s a peek at what the ship looks like to give you a sense of our week.  there’s a lot of amazing artwork abounding.  the first is a “curtain” effect sculpture (made of stone, i swear), take a look:

the next piece is about 6 feet in diameter.  carved wood.

after that is a sculpture that was simply divine:

and then a couple of paintings, wall pieces and mosaic glass.  just astonishing:

i’ve told you about the whole neck thing.  my arthritic, stenotic, stiff, unbearable neck?  for which i ended up with million dollar cream, and nine sessions of physical therapy?  it’s considerably better now.   it’s no longer high on my list of things about which to kvetch, since, (are you ready?),  my back went out, the morning of the cruise.  (we get one goddam vacation a year and i wake up, the morning of, with excruciating pain.  go figure.)  so i limped though the voyage, pumped up on a vicodin/soma cocktail (talk about “out to sea”) and didn’t let it spoil my fun.  but when i got home, i needed to take serious action, lest i end up a rush limbaugh clone and find myself doctor shopping in boca raton, wondering why there’s a ringing in my ears.   sit.  let’s discuss.

i had an appointment scheduled with the good doctor, my sports m.d. (god, i feel like dwayne wade.  i have my very own sports doctor, although i will say, dwayne is a lot taller than i.  i’m not much for sports but i’m feeling pretty butch these days.  broken, but butch ).  the appointment was for the tuesday after the cruise, kindof a follow up on my neck.  of course the doc didn’t know about the whole “back” thing, so when i got there he was curious why a guy with a stiff neck was limping so badly.  i told him about the radiating pain originating at my right hip and running down my leg, numbing my thigh all the way to my foot.

him:  it’s probably sciatica, but we can’t talk about it because you’re not here for that.  you’re here for follow-up on the neck.

me:  but i am here, nonetheless, and the neck is pretty good.  not all better, but much better, and i’m a crippled old fuck that can’t walk, so help me.

him:  without a specific referral for that ailment the insurance company won’t allow it.  but if they did i’d tell you that i’d eliminate most of what i’m pretty sure it isn’t, and decide it was inflammation of your sciatic nerve.  then i’d give you this pamphlet with exercises that look something like this: 

to help you ease it, until you can see your primary, get a referral and come back.  but i can’t until you do that.  how’s the neck?

me:  it’s better.  the physical therapy helped.

him:  it would help the back too.  but i can’t prescribe…..well, you get it.   so, go to it.

me: thanks.

i left his office, called my primary, pled my case, and minutes later a referral was faxed to the sports guy.  they called me, we made an appointment for the next day, to discuss my back.

later that same day, i was back in rehab for the neck, told my tale of limping and cruising to the therapist and asked him for some help.

therapist:  i can’t do anything about your hip and back without a referral and permission from the insurance company.

me:  well, they approved this visit, and i’m here, and we have an hour-and-a-half, can’t we begin. everything is in progress.

therapist:  (loudly) nope, not allowed.  you’ll have to come back.  (whispering),  but if i could, i’d put this heat pad under your coccyx as you were lying with the tens unit on your neck, like this.  and after, i’d show you some exercises and stretches as you were lying on the decompression bolster doing your neck work. (loud again), but i can’t, so i won’t.

me:  (loudly) ah, quel domage. i guess i’ll just suffer.  (whispering), i love  you.

all of the above was tuesday.

the next day, i’m back at old sporty,to discuss my hip.  not so fast, kemosable.  (i love that expression.  i use it a lot.  it’s probably racist, and i’ll probably get letters from the indians…..i mean, the native americans, to knock it off, but…..) first the physician’s assistant does the workup, takes enough x-rays to make me glow in the dark, (which is actually not a bad thing when you’re out late at night in a questionable neighborhood) and gets me ready for the meeting.

i should add here, x-rays these days are so amazingly cool.  it’s all digital, so as the doc looks, it’s not film on a lighted area of the wall anymore, it’s on his computer screen.  and he can lighten or darken and enlarge and zoom in and really see your bones.  i’m thinking it takes a lot of the guesswork out.  no more blurry x-rays.

so he came in, and discussed by aching back:

him:  well, in the pictures, your hips are beautiful

me:  (coyly), well thank you doctor.

him:  no, i don’t mean it that way.  i mean they’re in very good shape, medically speaking.

me:  no replacement in my near future?

him:  nope.  you’re good for at least ten years.

me:  i should live so long with these aches and pains.  (suddenly i sounded remarkably like my jewish grandmother).

him:  the spine is good.  a tad osteoporotic, but you’re well within the five percent acceptable range, so you’re good.

me:  well, that’s at least a relief.

him:  uh-oh.

me: uh-oh?  what kind of language is that for a doctor?  what’s uh-oh?

him:  no, i just noticed a little plaque in your arteries.  not a lot, but i can see it.  you should watch your cholesterol and triglycerides.  (this from the sports guy).

me:  i will.  my numbers are good, but i’ll watch them.  so, what about the current back pain?

him:   it’s definitely sciatica.  i think we can ease the pain with some pills, if necessary, and some physical therapy is called for.    they’ll make you right as rain.  (btw, what’s up with that expression?  i’m thinking rain is only right if you’re having a drought.  rain is not right on a beach day, or a golf day, or a disney world day. they need to delete that phrase from the lexicon.  just sayin’).  so here’s a prescription for the pills, and one for the therapy.  i’ll see you in four weeks.

me:  sounds like a plan.  thanks doc.

so, scrips in hand, i headed out.  i still have three neck sessions left.  i’m wondering, if i have two referrals, two scrips and two permission slips from the insurance company, if they’re allowed to work on both of my malaises at the same time in the same session.  maybe i’ll ask whisper that question and see what happens.

i have a bone to pick.

i’m normally very kind and genteel  (wow, i almost wrote gentile) during the holiday season, filled with tidings of great joy, and with the spirit of the day.  but i’ve been hearing about the complaints people have about holiday greetings.     i, however, am old now, and so i don’t give a rat’s ass about political correctness, so i walk around and say merry christmas to my gentile friends, and happy hanukkah to my jewish friends, and happy kwanza to my non-white friends, and…..(wait.  is that ok?  non-white? or should i say african american?)  see, it comes right back, that political correctness stuff.   and to my pagan friends, (of which i happen to have a few), i say, happy saturnia day.  (don’t ask.  long story.)  oy.  what’s a jewish boy to do at this time of year?  sit.  let’s discuss.

contrary to what some people in the media would have you believe, it really is okay to say merry christmas at this time of year.   i’m a new jersey jew, and when someone says it to me, i know they’re wishing me good things, so how could i possibly take offense?   i will indeed have a merry christmas , even though i don’t celebrate the birth of the baby jesus.  but it’s still a fun time of year, when houses are decorated, as are stores and malls, and carols play from loudspeakers in public places, and for the most part, people are in a festive mood (except for the chronics;  they’re always unhappy.  this time of  year they’re called scrooges or grinches).   do we really think that every time someone regales me with that greeting i should stop and explain?

see what i mean.  my appropriate response should be:

me:  and a very merry christmas to you too.

that way, even though i’m jewish, nobody gets called an asshole, there are no hard feelings, and no pox.  (didn’t we have enough of that with the santeria curse on husband a few months ago?

likewise, if i walk into a store, and the worker-bee speaks to me in spanish, instead of the mother tongue, i don’t get all bent out of shape and decry the death or loss of our beloved country.  but rather, it goes something like this:

see?  no asshole.  no pox.  genteel with the gentiles.  (ooh, i like that).

i guess my question is:  why can’t we all just live and let live.  nobody’s right all of the time, so if people misspeak slightly, upon occasion, why can’t we just smile and go with the feeling of the moment and just stop talking about what’s correct in today’s parlance?  it gets a little tedious for me.

so i’m saying that if this curmudgeon can deal with it, i’m thinking the populace at large should take a lesson.

and with that, i wish you all a merry christmas, happy hanukkah, festive kwanza, joyous feast of the pagans, happy agnostic day, thoughtful atheist day, and of course, a happy healthy new year.  (unless of course you’re jewish, in which case new year’s is in september and it’s completely inappropriate for me to say it now and ……here we go again.

are we done?  has the fat lady sung?  (more about her later).  is the season finally winding down to the point where we can get back to sanity, regarding our daily schedules?  i don’t know about you, but my holiday, christmas, kwanza, festivus season’s cup ranneth over this year.  my girlish figure is shot.  (well, truth be told, it was shot in the 90s, but it’s just an expression).  i’d like to tell you that the madness is over but it’s not quite yet.  sit.  let’s discuss.

eating-wise, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times….. (i know, don’t you love dickens?)

so here’s a brief summary of my sins.

it began, of course, as it did for all of you, with thanksgiving.  we came, we ate, we bloated.  (hail caesar).  this was followed by the previously reported post-thanksgiving cruise, (a/k/a the sciatica journey…see earlier blog) which included several meals already discussed.  upon arrival home, on december 3rd, the feastivities began.  (ooh, i think i just made up a word.  i like it.  combination feast and….well, you get it.  call merriam webster).  it went something like this.

1)  best friend’s party.  it’s an annual event, a boy party, as he likes to say.  he’s a great cook, invites a  lovely crowd, pretty men in scanty clothes working it (and if they’re cute enough, (and these guys were), i don’t mind that they’re not wearing much clothes and touching my food.  i’m funny that way.  if they had been trolls, it would have skeeved me.  but they were handsome and hot so….. god, i’m so shallow).   it was pretty much a food orgy replete with a running chocolate fountain.

moving on.

2)  the following night was my big client’s annual shindig.  a fabulous affair at our favorite italian pizza place.  (there will be a blog about pizza coming up very soon.)  some old friends and some new faces.  (wait.  i didn’t mean my old friends had new faces put on them, as in “work done”.  no, no.   i meant there were new people as well as people i knew. whew.  wouldn’t want to blow anyone’s cover, if you know what i mean).    it was an appetizer, salad, chicken wings, pizza, dessert affair.  divine.

digress…..

chicken wings were invented by the devil himself, to tempt us all into perdition so that we wouldn’t mind having heart attacks, dying and living in hell for eternity.  at least that’s how i see it.  i LOVE chicken wings, but i know they’re so bad for me, so i rarely partake.  however, this place doesn’t fry them. the little buggers go into a coal-fired oven, so i indulge, and they’re actually better than the deep fried ones, taste-wise.  just my thoughts.

back…..

3)  the very next night we attended an opera concert for which i won free tickets.  it was a famous metropolitan opera soprano, and no, she’s not the fat lady in question.  she was actually svelte, lovely and fabulous.  we preceded it by dining at a well known cuban restaurant on calle ocho in miami called versailles.  ropa vieja, frijoles negros, arroz, platanos, etc.  (see, i know some espanol).  i figured i’m fat anyway, so…..  anyway, it was way good.

4)  two nights later found us at the hard rock cafe and casino, sampling the legendary burger menu, with friends.  if you’re a burger guy, it doesn’t get much better than that.  and we had a coupon!

5)  then the dinners with family kicked in for the final week.  husband’s cousins, friends’ bashes,  and the big finale, christmas dinner at the home of our loved ones, brisket guy and his husband, (who is far less finicky these days…..a christmas miracle, perhaps), and twenty friends.  a sublime array of culinary delights replete with home baked bread.  it was a pot-luck event with the guests filling in with side dishes around divine lamb-shank and coq au vin main courses provided by the hosts.   a truly joyous day.  (i was wearing pants with an elastic waistband at this point.  i call them my fat-boy pants.  you have to play your strengths).

6)  a relatively calm week ensued until new year’s eve, when husband and i had two, count them, two parties to attend.  the first was in a swanky aventura high-rise and was a 6:00-9:00 cocktail event with tenderloin of beef, cooked just-right-rare, with two horseradish condiments, and a gorgeous spiral-sliced ham, and chicken nuggets done up in a sweet sauce (divine), and on and on.  a lovely crowd (another boy party).  i drank gingerly as it was meant to be a long time til midnight.  we dallied until the end and wended our way back north where there was a late-night new year’s eve bash next door to our house.  (talk about convenient). this one included dick clark and ryan seacrest.  and of course, lady gaga, who was amazing, as always.  around 1:00am, i hit the hay, very tired indeed.

i awoke to a new year.  (as did we all, no?)

now, realize that through all of this, i’ve still got an eye on my waistline, and i don’t make resolutions because that’s just nuts.  why would i promise to do something in january that i wouldn’t do in july?  silly.  but i’m ever mindful of my weight, so i’m thinking it’s over.  it’s finally over.

not so fast kemosabe.

it just so happens i have two sets of friends, count them, two, who celebrate both little christmas, (12 days after big christmas…..who knew that song actually meant something?), and greek christmas (no, it wasn’t invented by the manufacturers of feta cheese.  it’s a real holiday in greece).  and to kick my teeth in, we have a friend turning 65 who’s having a birthday party.  and all three events are this weekend!

so the answers to the questions at the top of the page are:  no.  we ain’t done yet.  i have five more pounds to gain.  and yes, at the end of this weekend the fat lady will have sung.  and i finally understand why she’s fat!  but…..to paraphrase scarlet o’hara:

as god is my witness, i’ll never be hungry again.  that is until january 9th, when i buy back my soul from the devil and sell it to weight watchers.  

four weeks later…..

you remember where we left off?  me?  sciatica?  suffering like a horse that needs to be put down?  scarfing down the pain pills so fast as to relegate rush limbaugh to amateur status?  yeah, welcome back to my world.  believe it or not, i’m still suffering.  i’d like to say it’s better, but it’s mostly just different.  before, i couldn’t bend.  now i can bend but my right thigh feels like there’s a knife in it.  oy.   but i actually took out the garbage tonight without crying.   i’m in physical therapy now and we’re making progress.   sit.  let’s discuss.

have you ever been?  i mean, in physical therapy?  i’ve described it somewhat for my neck treatment, (see earlier blog), but this is entirely new.  the neck guy, in the previous blog, who “whispered” what he might do, if he were allowed,  is now my therapist.  big time.  (i might add here, that i love him.….with a deep and abiding love that will withstand the test of time, global warming, and republican presidents.)  i’m here to say, he’s the MAN.

each session of therapy begins with people putting their hands down my pants, in my general ass area, and attaching tens pads to my butt cheeks.  (alas, the sad part is that nobody gets a remote thrill from this, as my ass is, how shall i say this?…….61 years old and less than exciting.)  but they truck on, and attach the electrodes, and wire me up and lay me down and raise my legs upon a high stool and zap me, while i’m reclining on a heating pad for 15 minutes, set to a timer.  what can i say?   it feels good, people.  they generally have to wake me at the “ding”.  after that, there are many exercises, that i wouldn’t normally do, (too much work), but i’m hurt here, so i oblige.  there are leg lifts, forward bends, hunched kick motions, ball crunches, (not what you think), pulls, stretches, and general piss me off stuff.  i suffer through it all to get to the good stuff.  my therapist, (the one who, upon occasion, has hands on loan from GOD, rubs my affected area, causing me to wince, groan, moan, smile, yelp, groan some more, and occasionally threaten to rip out his eyes, from the pain.   when he’s done with that, i feel pretty good.  until the magic words…..ok, time for traction.  oy.

now traction is a funny thing.  (not funny, ha ha….. funny, odd).  remember all of those jews during the inquisition movies that you’ve seen over the years?  the rack?  where they kind of rent you asunder?  or the drawn-and-quarter sequence from braveheart?  well, picture that.  they tear you limb from limb on a table that separates as you lie there.  it doesn’t feel so bad while it’s happening, but sometimes the aftermath is not pretty.  well, wtf?  i am, after all a jewish guy, so i feel like i’m picking up the modern day slack, and taking one for the team, as it were.  oy.

after traction, i’m instructed to walk around the gym, feeling the love.  or the pain.  or the shift in my personality from nice to beast.  not sure.  and then i am dismissed.  hugs all ’round, have a nice weekend, see you monday, yada yada.  oy.

so i limped badly for all of yesterday and most of today and then suddenly, this evening i had a breakthrough.  (might have been the wine), but i think not.

it’s definitely helping.  and i sure hope so, because i’m almost out the pain pills.

that’s a funny title, i know, but you’ll understand why, shortly.   i’ve mentioned before, many times, that by professional standards, i’m no athlete.  (actually, by fifth grade schoolgirl standards i’m not an athlete either), so you won’t often find me either engaged in sporting activities or watching them.  but upon occasion, i do frequent a local sports bar/restaurant with over 100 tv screens and more sports happening than you can imagine.  (what’s that line from the movie apocalypse now?  i love the smell of testosterone in the morning.  or is it napalm?  i forget.)  either way, there are a lot of guys in there each time we go.   i have a bone to pick with the decor of this place.  not the multitudinous abundance of television sets, but rather the men’s room.  sit.  let’s discuss.

in this restaurant, the ribs are sublime, the beer is ice-cold and there are usually a lot of hot guys making manly, grunting sounds (especially when their team scores).  personally, i like that more than the actual sport itself.

eventually, it comes time to use the facilities, and here’s how it goes:

i’ll enter the men’s room, step up to a urinal, unzip my pants and proceed to do my business.  as i stand there, glancing up, my eyes espy (in addition to yet another television), a series of pictures on the wall.  here is the first one:

now, i’m as red-blooded as the next guy, and i can certainly appreciate that this girl has a certain quality about her.  i can’t quite put my finger on it, (not that she’d let me put my finger on it), but she certainly deserves to be on that cover.  glancing about i see this one as well:

and yet another, and i see a pattern emerging here.  lots of healthy women:

and one more:

ok, this last one is a little slutty.  i don’t think she’s a sports illustrated gal.  seriously, who dresses like that to drive a cab?

so here’s what i’m thinking.  a straight guy walks into a men’s room to do what the beer is calling him to do.  he is standing with his pants open and his manhood in his hand and is glancing around the room looking at these fine-looking, scantily-clad women.  there is at least a remote possibility that he might get, shall we say, aroused, especially after a couple of brewskies.  how is he supposed to tuck it back into his jeans?   i’m hoping he’s wearing his dolphins or jets jersey NOT tucked in, but rather hanging over his general frontal area.  and what happens if a dad comes in with his little boy to make pee-pees, while mr. el bono is standing there in a state of excitement.  there could be trouble.  just sayin’, is all.

now, here comes the pet peeve and my big question:

what makes the owners of the establishment think that only straight men go in there?  what about me, pokey?

those ladies’ pictures don’t do too much for this gay caballero, and i insist on equal time.  i want to stand in front of that urinal, with my dick in my hand, so to speak, and see this:

see?  i’m an open-minded guy.  i don’t even care what the bathing suit looks like.

or what about this one?

don’t you think that’s the least they can do?  i mean, i’m eating, i’m drinking, i’m tipping just like the hets.  i say give a ‘mo his due.   abercrombie gets it.  the above picture is hanging in the men’s dept of their store.   ok, one more:

ok.  you caught me.  if this one were in there i’d probably piss on my shoes.  it’s a little slutty as well.  but aren’t we entitled to equal time?  at least he’s not pretending he’s a cab driver.

so the next time i’m in the restaurant munching ribs, swilling beer and watching a tight end do, whatever it is a tight end does, i think management owes me.  just sayin’, is all.

something a little different tonight.

let me begin with,  i like brad pitt.  a river runs through it, legends of the fall, se7en, thelma and louise.   i like him a lot.

husband and i just watched a movie.  it was an older movie, circa 1989.  (i know what you’re thinking;  gone with the wind is an older movie, or wuthering heights), but this was relatively older and i’ll tell you what i mean.  it was an early brad pitt movie, from the very beginning of his career.  unlike say, jake gyllenhaal, who started as a kid in city slickers when he was like 10, brad was 24 in his first film in 1987.  he made a dozen or so appearances between 1987  and 1989.  his early credits include man with drink on beach, preppie guy in fight, and 4 episodes of dallas.  he was twenty-six when he made this film, and was essentially, the lead.  he plays a high school senior, and his boyish cuteness carried the look of an eighteen-year-old.   have i mentioned that the film was a huge slice of dreck?  (that’s yiddish for stuff that comes out of your butthole).  sit, let’s discuss.

husband and i watch a lot of movies and i have seen my fair share of crap in my movie-going career.  this movie was a dung-heap.  brad wasn’t alone.    roddy mcdowell was in it as well.  (he must have needed a mortgage payment or something.)  geez, to go from lassie come home with elizabeth taylor in the 40s and the iconic planet of the apes series, to playing a very fey high school principal with a penchant for staring at young girls panties, alternating with dressing in drag on the school stage while alone.   so sad.  martin mull was also in it as comic relief.  he spent the entire movie with an arrow in his chest traipsing across california trying to get help.  have i mentioned it was dreck?  i believe i did.

so it’s this slasher movie, a la halloween, friday the 13th, et al, but with no budget.  it was pitiful.  there was one car in the whole movie (about seniors in high school).  one freakin’ car!   and i’m pretty sure they used a can of dutch-boy red vermillion paint for the blood.  there was also a deranged janitor chasing co-eds with a string mop, through the hallowed halls of what looked like bakersfield high school, a vice-principal who resembled the wicked witch of the west, and an overweight gym teacher who meets his demise on a trampoline.  dreck.

i know what you’re thinking;  why didn’t we turn it off after twenty minutes?  dunno.  it was like an accident on the  highway;  you can’t look at it, but you can’t look away.  i sat for the first forty minutes in utter shock that brad pitt would do this until it finally dawned on me.  he wasn’t brad pitt yet.

here he was, this young good looking guy, trying to make a career of it, and he needed face-time.  he needed producers, directors, (especially casting directors) to see him work.  he also needed to learn his craft, how movies are made, how actors behave on the set, to hone his professionalism, and in general how the business works.  (he’d take away a lot more, later, when he worked with the likes of robert redford, anthony hopkins, frances mcdormand, julia roberts and others.  but when you’re young and aspriring, it’s about the exposure.  take a look.  what a cutie…..

 at the end, husband said, i’m amazed he hasn’t bought up every copy on earth and burned them.   but i say he needn’t.  he was just an aspiring player learning a trade.  nothing for which to be ashamed.  (except that it was dreck.)    the imdb database and netflix archives are filled with early outings from some of today’s major stars.  and a lot of that includes appearances in sitcoms, soaps, kojaks, etc.

i might add here, that the other night we watched a national lampoon film called van wilder, starring a very young (college age) ryan reynolds, before he was ryan reynolds.

that one was actually very good (as national lampoon almost always is), and ryan showed hints of what he’d later become.  so in a sense, we like our faves’ early stuff and watch films of this ilk, often.   (it’s just usually not dreck of this magnitude.)

so even though poor brad was straddled with no screenplay, no budget, no director and no respectable co-stars (other that the two aforementioned bit players, i think he did ok.   and remember that his current wife, angelina, did 14 films before gia, her breakout performance.   if i ever get to meet him, i probably won’t bring up any of this.   i’ll just talk about tree of life.  (between you and me, also dreck).

you know how i tend to go on about injustice?  well, not in the political sense, like how mitt romney can spend his way to the nomination for president because  he can afford it?  i care, but i don’t write about it.  or when police personnel commit the same traffic crime as a hairdresser, but somehow go unpunished?  i care about that too, but don’t opine.   but there are certain situations that i think are just not right and need to be exposed to the populace-at-large (or at least all six of my readers).  the first is about weight restrictions on luggage on airplanes.  sit.  let’s discuss.

these days, i happen to think that the airline industry is out of control with their rules and hidden fees.  the whole system is skewed, and not in a good way.  for instance:

i weigh 170 pounds.  (there, i said it.  out loud.  i used to be 155, but that’s a story for another day).    when i fly, and check a bag, i believe the weight limit on my luggage is 50 pounds.  if it’s 51 pounds i get charged extra.  do the math.  my luggage and i, ideally weigh 220 pounds before i get charged extra.  (stay with me people, i think this is going to piss you off as well).   this first picture is not me, but represents my travel style:

now, along comes mr. lard, (you all know him,)  take a look:

really?

he’s the guy that, before take-off, when you’re sitting in your aisle seat,  and the hot guy with the amazing biceps two seats over is in his window seat (and you’re anticipating enjoying that view for the duration, and flirting a little, across that glorious empty seat between you,),

squeezes his way down the narrow aisle and you suddenly get really religious and begin to pray, dear baby jesus, please don’t let this man sit in the middle seat and loathe my space.)  yeah, that guy.  and when jesus doesn’t come through, you’re stuck next to this guy, and the first thing he wants to do is put up the armrest so that he can spill his girth sideways.  and most of the time, we’re polite because we don’t really want to insult people to their faces.  he can’t even put down his tray table without it being tilted, because it’s resting on his belly.   so he sits with his arms folded for three hours, thinking he’s doing you a favor, because he knows he’s big, and he knows he’s sitting on half of your seat, (which is half-again too small for humanity) and we endure.

not right.  but i’ll come back to this part.

the real injustice comes when he checks his bag.

let’s say, for the sake of apples to apples, that his bag, like mine, is exactly 50 pounds.  so, technically he’s within the weight restriction and doesn’t get charged extra.  but if he weighs in at 325 pounds, and his bag is 50 pounds, that’s a whopping (from the english word whopper-with cheese, would you like fries with that?) total of 375 pounds, compared to my 220.  and he doesn’t get charged extra!  wtf?    but if i go one pound over in the luggage, i do.  fair?  i think not.

as bill maher is so fond of saying, there should be a new rule.

there should be a weight limit, say 300 pounds (and a scale at check-in) for you (holding your bag) and if you go over the limit then you’re penalized.    that way, the thinner people can take more stuff

and the t-rex of the species has to take the cheese wheels and cookies out of his luggage and put them in his carry-on

i think that’s fair.  this is really a pet peeve of mine, and i hope the airlines public relations people read this and change the rules.

now, back to mr. lard whose fat rolls are touching your thigh.

i’m thinking, (and i could be wrong…..or just new york style rude), that when he plants his big-ness in the seat next to me, and moves that armrest up, that i should be allowed to say:

not so fast, kemosabe.  that armrest defines my space and i’d like my little tiny area to remain mine, to squander as i please.  if i choose to regale myself in splendor and tilt that seatback to the full, luxurious 5 degree angle to which i’m entitled, so be it.   it ain’t much, but it’s all i’ve got.  you have your space as well.  please confine yourself to it.  so you will put that armrest down or there will be no peanuts for you, babar!

after all, he wasn’t embarrassed about eating utah, why should i be subjected to sitting next to the mormon tabernacle choir?  and if i hurt his feelings, he’ll have to content himself with eating his cheese wheel and cookies without setting them down on his tray table.

i’ve written about various hoaxes over time, so tonight i thought we might revisit last year’s post about that most romantic of days.   it’s a very odd tradition called st. valentine’s day. you all know the story of the origins, so i won’t bore you with the details.   (briefly, a man named  valentinius, (see photo),

(ok, a very fey man), lived back in ancient rome, when young men, possibly soldier material, were forbidden to marry, because single guys were more willing to fight and die for mother rome, than were men with loved ones.  as a kind of chaplain he performed the marriages anyway, against the will of the emperor, and was found out and murdered and became a christian martyr.   you did know all that, right? should i have said spoiler alert?)   anyway, it was such a romantic gesture that it is suspected of being the origin.     but all of that aside, today, in modern times, valentine’s day is a big deal on several levels.

1) single people of the world, who think it’s a load of crap.  i can just hear them seething. let’s just pick a day to make us single guys and gals feel miserable. i’m a happy person all year long, and single by choice, because i want to be, but somehow on valentine’s day i can’t venture out into a restaurant because i’m alone, single, and loving life, but there’s no significant other on my arm and couples will gaze upon my independence and pity me. ME??? spare me your pity.  do i look like i need it?  (see photo)

think about it, people, it’s one day, out of the whole year.   i mean what’s the point? you either love and have someone all year or you don’t. why the fuss over one day? (see, there’s a groundhog thing going on here. one insane day perpetuated by…..if we only knew….).

then there are the couples. they fall into categories as well.

a) new couples. oh geez, everything is romantic to them. (again, photo)

the moon, the stars, a walk on the beach, cupcakes for two, crying together watching lady and the tramp, (ok, the guy’s a dork, but she loves him with his tears.)   for them, valentine’s day is an excuse to do cutesy things, that actually make the rest of us a little nauseous, but if you say that out loud, you’re a curmudgeon, so we smile and kvell a little for young love and all its glory. (i actually do.  deep down, part of me is a sentimental old fluff. and hey, i was young once, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far,away.)

b) old couples they’ve been together awhile. i’ll get to the gay couples in a minute. let’s talk about straight couples. (wow, could i do a chapter or two about what straight men don’t understand about valentine’s day.  the women will be cheering in a minute.).  women are more romantic than straight men. period.  straight men love manly things; sports, beer, golf, fraternizing with other men, (but not for sex), but including bragging, boasting, talking trash, exaggerating, and general camaraderie.   kind of like grown up college boys.   women are more sensitive, loving, caring, better human beings all round. (i know i betray my own sex, but of course i’m talking here about straight men), and it’s all too true.   so this one day rolls around, and the female half of the equation generally buys into it, that her man ought to show a little emotion or affection by way of a gift. a card. a box of chocolates. a surprise dinner out.  some acknowledgement that he has access to her vagina.  something.   and a lot of guys get it, and they do it. some out of love, some out of fear, some out of  i just don’t want to hear i fucked up, but they do, god love ‘em.  some don’t. no punani for them on the 14th.

c) the gays.   my people.  we get it.   we know romantic love better than ennis del mar and jack twist (brokeback mountain, for you beginners). and it’s the same with us. some guys go all out.  we  have one couple that we love and the two of them are so romantic. they do the nice restaurant thing, and sometimes jewelry.  ah romance.   it’s nice.   and i love them for that.  they told me today, that rather than go out to a crazy overpriced restaurant with poor service because the staff is overworked on a day like today, they bring in chinese food, set it up on the coffee table and sit on the floor in the living room, by the fireplace and have a romantic dinner.  (well, they don’t have a fireplace, it’s florida, ok?)  but they put the dvd of the fireplace on the tv and cozy up and feed each other with chopsticks.  kindof chinese lady and the tramp. (i might have made that last part up.)  but they’re true role models for romance in the gay world.

d) the non-romantic gays.  to them, it’s a night where, as a couple, there are specials and deals at happy hour on drinks, or they cash in on valentine’s day special dinners around town, because they are a couple.  but it’s a little like a free meal at denny’s on your birthday.  just not packed with a lot of emotion or love.  (see photo below).

as for me, husband and i are good.  we have love every day. don’t need a dinner out or jewelry. (thank god, because quite frankly, i can’t afford diamonds).  we know we’re in for the long run, and that’s enough.  i love him, he loves me, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.  (catchy song lyric, no?)   so, in conclusion, who’s perpetuating the st. valentine’s event these days?  hallmark?  godiva?  ftd?  madison avenue?  best buy?  (i actually saw a commercial that said,  buy your honey a kindle.  talk about romance!)   i’m not sure who’s behind it, but i do know, as sure as  punxatawnie phil is going to poke his little head out next year, and the huddled masses will pay heed to that tomfoolery, that there will be some cards, roses and candy circling the globe on the 14th.  so the truth is, this one’s as big a hoax as any of them. the difference is, that by the end of the day, there will be a lot of couples smooching, happy, getting laid, and renewed in their love and relationships, all for the price of a box of chocolates.   not a bad deal, when you think about it.