RevSpork

Stuff to get off my chest

I have to confess: I've been holding back lately.  I've been too nice, I choose my words carefully, and for what?  Five years ago, I averaged over a hundred visits to my blog daily.  Now it's about fifteen.  How can I offend anyone if there's nobody here to offend?  What's the worst that will happen?  I lose twenty percent (or three people) of my audience?  Screw it.

• Your baby is ugly.  I'm sick and tired of being told that this baby or that baby is cute.  There's no such thing as a cute baby.  All babies are ugly.  If I had a baby, it would be ugly too.  If babies were so goddam cute, Anne Geddes wouldn't have snorted all that angel dust and dressed them up as vegetables.
• Attention, young black men: retire the saggy, baggy pants.  It's been twenty years now; you don't see white people still wearing Hypercolor T-shirts, do you?  Most of you weren't even born when this hideous fashion started.  If you want people to see your underwear, wear them on your head.  You'd look like less of a moron, and if you didn't - hey, at least it's a new trend, for crying out loud. 
• Immigrants from Mexico: fine, come on in.  Welcome aboard.  But do me a favor: quit flying the Mexican flag at pro-immigration parades.  Your motherland is about two years away from becoming a failed narco-state; it was founded by a combination of crazed human sacrifice lovers and psycho-Catholics with funny-looking metal hats; its favorite sport is soccer, yet the national team is so bad, it routinely gets its ass handed to them by Americans.  Face it: Mexico is Afghanistan without the burkas.  
• Hey, suburban Cubs fans: when you're on the Red Line, at least act like you care whether the team won or lost.  You can tell, for instance, how the White Sox played by the reactions of their fans on the train: they smile, or sulk, or riot.  But these Cubs fans?  You can't tell.  They're smiling like mentally disabled kids on the short bus from McDonalds.  The Cubs could have lost by sixteen runs, and they would still sport the same looks on their faces.  I doubt they even know what the final score was.  If you can't give me some indication of how the Cubs did, then stay off the train.  Real Cubs fans wouldn't even be on the train; they'd be passed out somewhere on Clark Street or pissing on a homeowner's front yard.  

Man, I'm glad I got all that off my chest.  I hope my therapist doesn't mind if I skip my next appointment.

Random musings - a most common blog title

I'm glad "Random musings" faded as a blog name fad.  It sounds like something from a college litmag.  If someone attempted to regale me with their "random musings," I'd be prone to punching them in the mouth.  And on that note, some Random Musings:

- TypePad has a new look, which means it will take me about six months before I can figure out how to post again.  Here's hoping people will actually see this.

- I replaced our broken shredder a few weeks back, and I've tossed out six bags of shredded old bills, junk mail, and everything else I could find in the office that neither I nor Tori could justify keeping.  This included Tori's bank statements from 1997, a relic I assured her she really didn't need anymore.  Now I'm digging through stuff we had collected around the time of our wedding; among other artifacts was an edition of The Onion published the week of our wedding.  Talk about a tough call.

- I aggravated my digestive system yesterday.  Since my bout with pancreatitis, I was told to lay off the high-fat foods and other junk.  So what was my diet yesterday?  A cheeseburger, an all-dressed Polish, a vodka collins, a large Italian ice, and French toast.  A true international feast, don't you think?  Which is why today I've eaten a handful of cherries, almonds, and banana creme-flavored Ensure, which is probably manufactured in a plastics plant in China.  Oh, and tofu.  Yum-fucking-my.

So there are my random musings.  Aren't you delighted?  You'd better be, or I'll muse yer ass off.

On being evicted from my hospital bed

The last test I endured at the hospital on Friday was a CAT scan.  Overall, it wasn't a bad experience: it took less time than the sonogram, where I spent what seemed like six weeks having my gut kneaded while being told to hold my breath.  Nor did I nearly pass out, as was the case during my X-rays.  A smiley face informed me to hold my breath for six seconds, I listened to the machine whirr, then I was told to breathe again.  All in all, it was a friendly little stop on the ER tour. 

When I was wheeled back to ER, I found my wife, who had spent the last eight hours watching over me in my ER room, in the hallway near the front desk.  We had been evicted from our comparatively homier digs in favor of a more recent tenant, and there were no other rooms available.  I asked her about the new patient.  Heroin and Oxycontin, was the reply. 

A little over an hour later, when I had been discharged and we were walking to Walgreens to pick up my new meds, we discussed the patient.  Although I had not seen him, Tori had: she described him as a white guy, no older than his mid-twenties, casually but not sloppily dressed, unconscious, with an oxygen mask over his face.  He could have been one of those college kids who drank too much at a fraternity party on a Friday night, but that would have not explained the steady march of doctors, nurses, and orderlies - the latter pushing over a half -dozen machines - into a space not much larger than my college dorm room.  It was a hospital version of the old clowns in the tiny car trick, but lacked the humor.  The same nurses whom I cracked jokes with a few hours earlier walked in and out of the ER room with grim looks on their faces.  Doctors and nurses discussed the patient within earshot of Tori and me: his friends had found him unconscious; he was suffering from pneumonia and septic shock.  It was quite possible the patient would not survive the night. 

While at Walgreens, Tori and I discussed our own drug histories.  Tori's, of course, was nonexistent; mine wasn't much more impressive, outside of making the acquaintance of alcohol and maybe a couple dozen marijuana cigarettes in my college years.  More importantly, neither of us succumbed to the "temptation" of hard drugs, simply because it wasn't a temptation.  As turbulent as my younger years were, it never occurred to me to numb the pain in that manner.  We were part of the "just say no" generation, I suppose, but I wasn't necessarily anti-drugs: I simply didn't regard it as an option for myself.  Had someone in high school offered me heroin or cocaine, I would have turned it down without a second thought.  Was that because of the propaganda, or was it because I saw family members struggle with drug addiction?  Maybe a little of both.  At any rate, neither Tori nor I could imagine ourselves in that young man's bed, a dozen doctors, nurses, orderlies, and machines all working to save his life.

I'm a little spooked

Here's my present state: I'm okay...sorta.  It hurts when I yawn.  Or burp.  Or inhale deeply.  The only solid food I've eaten since Thursday has been two Reisen chews and a dozen or so saltines. 

On Friday morning, I walked into my doctor's office complaining of upper abdominal discomfort.  About twelve hours later, I exited the emergency room with pancreatitis.  During that half a day I experienced many personal firsts: my first doctor's recommendation that I go directly to the ER; my first injections of morphine; my first CAT scan; and of course, the first time a pretty blonde medical student with a Southern accent violated my personal space in a BIG way.  All in all, it's been a very unpleasant few days.

Pancreatitis is, for the most part, not that big of a deal nowadays.  It's an inflation of the lining of the pancreas, causing serious discomfort and pain in the upper abdominal region.  If untreated, however, it could unleash a whole lotta harm, including death.  So it's good it was caught early on.  However, it's a serious enough condition that I was almost kept in the hospital overnight and possibly longer. 

The flaw with the diagnosis are the list of causes: alcoholism, abdominal trauma, and gallstones, none of which I suffer from.  More tests were done, however, and I hopefully will have more information when I return to my doctor's office Monday morning.  Stay tuned.

In the meantime, I've been on an almost entirely liquid diet.  I bought gallons of Ensure and Slimfast for breakfast and lunch, and meat broths for dinner.  As a treat, I have popcicles in the freezer.  I need to drink oodles of water as well, most of which I drink straight but sometimes (like now) I mix with a little Tazo iced tea for flavor.  If my tests go well Monday, I may graduate to solid but soft foods like mashed potatoes and applesauce...for upwards of a month.  No alcohol.  No high-fat foods.  No fun whatsoever. 

I've suffered from maladies before.  Bronchitis, flu, pneumonia.  But this pancreatitis really spooks me.  It was so unexpected, so totally from left field.  When I come down with a cold, I know it could trigger bronchitis, or the flu, or even pneumonia.  And those are pretty dangerous too.  But I've always had problems with my lungs; I can see one of those babies coming from a mile off.  My most recent malady, however, is a painful reminder that my other body parts are not immune to acute problems, and just because they worked perfectly fine for close to four decades doesn't mean they'll keep it up for another four. 

I'm headed for bed now.  I'll probably listen to some NPR podcasts and pass out in the middle of some Ira Glass monologue.  In the meantime, I hope my pancreas responds well to prayer.

All hail your Emperor, Citizens of Phoenix!

As you read this, I, the Reverend H.L. Spork, have dispatched my well-trained army of lesser Reverends to take over city hall here in Phoenix. I decided upon this course with extreme reluctance, as I believe in freedom, democracy, and all that bullshit. However, in the week that I've resided in this city, I've come to believe that only with a temporary interruption of democratic government can Phoenix save itself from itself.

My mother has lived in Phoenix for a quarter of a century now, and I've dropped by now and again since 1985. Arizona is a very, very strange state, ravaged by flash floods and wildfires (sometimes in the same month), where parts of the state can hit 100 degrees in March while other parts are hit by several feet of snow. Politics here are simply insane, a patchwork of crazy libertarians, even crazier right-wingers, Mexicans, and heat-blasted hippies, all of whom loathe the government. Arizona is a state where authority of any kind is held in contempt, even on occasions when it decides upon a course of common sense. If the state passed a law banning jumping off cliffs, Arizonians by the thousands would immediately form pro-cliff jumping rights groups, lobby the state legislature to repeal the law, and litter the bottoms of cliffs with their corpses, all giving the middle-finger salute.

This year is no different: Arizona, like most states, is facing a huge financial crisis. The state government is struggling to stay afloat. One of the biggest bills getting through the state legislature? A bill that would allow gun owners to take their firearms into bars.

Phoenix, as the state capital, largest city, and financial center of the state, is the epicenter of this loonyness, and in order to save the state from itself, I have taken over the city. As you know, I am a benevolent despot, and I promise to run the city of Phoenix with a loving but stern eye, making decisions based upon what is best for the city. Once I sit myself down at the throne of Phoenix (artificially cooled because of my sensitive hiney), I will enact the following laws. So it is written, so it will be done:

Rule #1: You don't get lawns. C'mon people, this is the fucking desert. Even the grass near sewer pipes is dead. There's barely enough water for bathing, let alone watering your damned lawn. You want a lawn, grow what God intended to grow here, namely cacti, succulents, and rocks. On a related note:

Rule #2: Anyone who owns a golf course within a 50-mile radius of my throne will be hung from the nearest seguaro.

Rule #3: Hanging truck nuts from your vehicle is permissible, but you must trade them in for your real nuts. Only one set of nuts per vehicle.

Rule #4: Any senior citizen who complains about paying taxes for K-12 education will have their scooters taken away. You can crawl to the Hometown Buffet for all I care.

Rule #5: Driving tests will become far more difficult than they currently are. Not only will Phoenix residents be required to read at a third-grade level and drool in no more than one direction, they will have to pass an IQ test. Any prospective driver who fails any one of these tests will not be allowed to drive, but will be issued a recently-confiscated mobility scooter.

Rule #6: All NRA gun nuts who complain about not being able to bring their firearms into kindergartens or unfairly banned from owning a nuclear weapon will be shipped to Afghanistan, where they will undoubtedly find paradise on earth.

Rule #7: Your hockey team has to move. Your team sucks, nobody cares about the sport here, and quit pretending that your city is just too damned big not to have a hockey team. Los Angeles hasn't had an NFL team in nearly fifteen years, and they're doing just fine. If God wanted you to have hockey in Phoenix, there would be naturally-occurring ice here. See any? Next case.

Rule #8: Cox Cable must merge with Comcast and rename itself Asshole Communications.

Rule #9: Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio must enter an eating contest to see how many green bologna sandwiches he can eat in one hour, then will lead himself in a one-man chain-gang march through the city dressed in pink underwear.

Rule #10: Anyone else cuts my mom in traffic cuts ME off in traffic too. Watch yer ass.