Category Archives: rants

Alpha, Beta, Gran Turismo

Posted on by

So, it’s like this.

I’ve been in the hospital. Again. This time, I was supposed to pop in Friday morning and have that pesky gallbladder removed, a 90-minute procedure after which I’d be set free on an unsuspecting food chain to wreak uncontrollable havoc, in the style of Cthulhu left in charge of a daycare. SMORGASBORD!

Cthulhu says WOMEN AND CHIRRUNS FIRST

Cthulhu says WOMEN AND CHIRRUNS FIRST

Guess what? Things didn’t quite work out that way.

The Sister informs me “that’s three for three” in the family, going in for a simple gallbladderectomy and ending up with an aerated colon in the bargain. Must be our genetic heritage of deformed gastrointestinal tracts or something (we coasters have an extra pouch to help us separate out the nutritive particles from the rainwater here). My doctor informs me she’s done over 300 of these operations, and this is the very first time she’s chopped a hole in someone’s colon without meaning to. In any case, she sewed up the hole and I am no longer holey.

As if you couldn’t tell.

 

That is one angry looking gallbladder

That is one angry looking gallbladder

 

 

She tells me, additionally, that in her 300-gallbladder career, she’d never seen one as inflamed as mine (and remember, this woman ONLY sees unhealthy gallbladders). It was at least twice the size of an ordinary, inflamed, has-to-be-removed gallbladder. She said she couldn’t imagine how painful my attacks must have been, to which I replied that I reported them as 8/10 on the pain scale only because I’d had a bone marrow biopsy, and that was a 9. I don’t think people remain conscious through a 10.

No, sadly, they do NOT give you your Human Pearls after the operation. Gallstones seem to be a sort of cancer clearinghouse for the entire body, so if there’s cancer anywhere, it shows in your gallstones, so now they give all your lovely Human Pearls to the pathologist to brutally crush and analyze. There goes my business model, dammit.

In any case, after lying in the hospital a few days taking nourishment from a plastic bag and a hose attached through a hole in the back of my hand, getting dosed with superantibiotics (perforated colons have a nasty way of causing the worst possible infections, and are fatal quite frequently) and being bored out of my mind by my charming, sweet, but UNSTOPPABLY CHATTY roommate, I mean, seriously, I’d have my headphones on, she’d wake up, start babbling, notice my earphones were on, say “oh well, let me repeat that so you can hear” and do so, louder. Several times. All. Damn. Day. When they moved her to the physio ward it was sweet, sweet relief, anyway, after all of that they let me go, and not a moment too soon because although they did officially switch me to “solid” food two days before, the kitchen never got that notice and sent nothing but milk, tea (vile brown particle-filled stuff that would strip paint), cream soups, and cream of wheat. I tell you, I would have welcomed the synthetically cheerful jewel tones of Jello like a drowning victim welcomes a life raft. A shiny, wobbly crimson life raft filled with empty calories and pure joy.

Now, let’s back up a little (a phrase which should give one pause, embedded as it is in a blog post about the gastro-intestinal system and catastrophic colon-based events.

 

This is what a GT looks like, y'all

This is what a GT looks like, y'all. My blood is AWESOME under a microscope

 

 

“GT” is a sort of byword for a car that is sporty, racy, competitive, and stylish. So it was with not a small amount of pride that I noticed while reading my medical chart that according to a blood test from the last time I was in hospital, my “Gamma GT” levels were substantial. They were so awesome they were bolded right there on the chart, along with a whole lot of other terms like “AT” and “conjugated bilirubin” which were also in bold. And decorated with a large letter H, each of them.

And why were my Gamma GT levels bolded and H’d? Because, it turns out, normal Gamma GT levels are 51 or less. Mine?

664.

which rather puts into context my medical team’s remark that, had they not tested my liver enzyme levels both when I was admitted to the hospital in November and when I was released (this figure is from the latter, when it had increased threefold) they would never have clued in that my bile duct was blocked and I had a potentially fatal, potentially SOON, situation underway.

Anyhoodle, that got dealt with. Which brung us to Friday, and from Friday the rest of this post has brung us to here. Which is about all I can think to write at this point, except that my blood is SO WAY COOLER than yours under a microscope, so suck on that while you’re watching your big screen tvs and enjoying all those concert tickets I can’t afford. MY BLOOD IS SO WAY COOLER UNDER A MICROSCOPE. Ha! Take that, Mundanes!

Enhanced by Zemanta

Fandumb, Freedom, and Fanarchy

Posted on by
yes, this is they. they is us

yes, this is they. they is us

Well, you can see by the comments on the post below that pointless internet drama is the catalyst for ever-more-random explosions of other pointless internet drama. There’s some sort of magnetic effect going on, in which the drama calls out to drama queens, and so you have a post about a fanblog at WordPress.com being taken down generating a rather heated (or icy, depending on your point of view) and completely unrelated 24 comments about the infallible superiority of the Echo commenting system, my unspeakable rudeness at DARING to insult the commenting system, etc etc.

So I wonder what kind of comments this will generate. It’s a comment thread on Gawker in which the whole thing was discussed again. The Baroness and I have nothing whatsoever in common, but we’ve always gotten along pretty well because we respect one another and don’t believe the world needs to be filled with people who are identical. I mean, how do people who agree on everything even HAVE discussions?

I think Monet died before he really hit his stride artistically.

Yup, he sure did!

End of conversation.

Anyway, here it is for good or ill. By the time I wake up tomorrow, this post will probably have 789 comments about how it’s all my fault NASA cancelled the space shuttle program or something. It’d be typical. Putting it over the jump so this page doesn’t become endless, but all the good stuff is there, INCLUDING THE DEADLY ASSASSIN.

Continue reading →

Soundtrack for a Sulk

Posted on by

Just the thing to listen to after the better part of the week in the hospital, getting out to find eight hundred thousand requests for favours in your inbox. I mean, this is just the thing if you don’t have conventional nukes handy.

Public Enemy: I Can’t Do Nuthin’ For You, Man

via Susan Main

Runnin’ for your life, by the knife

Runnin’ from your wife … yipes

You should’ve stuck with home

Your mind to blow your dome

It was you that chose your due

You built a maze you can’t get through

I tried to help you all I can

Now I can’t do nuttin’ for you man

 

I can’t do nuttin’ for ya man

You got all these people on your back now

I can’t do nuttin’ for ya man

Flavor flav got problems of his own

I can’t do nuttin’ for you man

 

Go lean on shells answer man

I can’t do nuttin’ for ya man

You jumped out of the jelly into a jam

 

Make ya love the wrong instead of right

Not a thief cat burglar through the night

cop told your girl her name was Shirl

About a rooftop crime to steal her pearls

Oozy down the bullets in the gun

 

Just microwave themselves a ton

The you tried to help them all they can

But they couldn’t do nuttin’ for ya man

 

I can’t do nuttin’ for ya man

They couldn’t do nuttin’ for ya man

 

Flavor Flav is the sun

Public Enemy number one

Gotcha runnin’ from the gun (pow)

Of a brain that weighs a ton

Can’t face my facts that’s on the shelf

Cause you want a hand out for your wealth

Eatin’ welfare turkey out of the can

I can’t do nuttin’ for ya man

 

I can’t do nuttin’ for ya man

You want six dollars for what?

I can’t do nuttin’ for ya man

You better man kiss my but

I can’t do nuttin’ for ya man

I’m busy tryin’ to do for me

I can’t do nuttin’ for ya man

That’s the way the ball bounces gee

 

Bass for your face, kick that shit


Christmas Snooze

Posted on by
Meerkats. Behind every conspiracy theory of the last two thousand years. Fucking meerkats.

Meerkats. Behind every conspiracy theory of the last two thousand years. Fucking meerkats.

Yes, I’m in a bit of a mood, and my internal editor who whispers “perhaps you could rephrase that in a more positive way, perhaps by deleting the word ‘motherfucker'” is AWOL until I get my strength back, and yes, I’ve been insulting people’s cats left and right (I don’t think they mind, actually, but HELLYEAH the people sure do, even though I’m pretty sure cats can’t read, except Abyssinians), but even so I’m not sure I have enough bitter gall within me (impacted or not) to do justice to the following video.

WARNING: repeated viewing could induce diabetes.

This makes Alvin and the Chipmunks sound like Pantera.

It makes Thomas Kinkade look like Anselm Kiefer.

This is the Christmas song for people who consider Enya “bad*ss.” And spell it that way.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is “The Christmas Shoes“. Apparently there’s also a tv special, and what they put in it to stretch it out to an hour is anyone’s guess, because basically what you’ve got here is dumbed-down O. Henry run through a White, Middle-Class American Who Admires Black People Especially Oprah and That Other One, Oh Yeah, the President, filter. Production values by Vaseline, Inc.

Yes, that sentence parses, by the way.

I suppose, now that I’ve pondered awhile and self-medicated with repeated viewings of Christmas in Hollis, I suppose I can find it in my worldview to picture a meaningful, even beneficent, role for this song: as an emetic, to bring sweet release and relief after a toxically-enthusiastic consumption of holiday treats. To that end, I present the lyrics, downloaded from (where else?) CowboyLyrics.com.

It was almost Christmas time
There I stood in another line
Trying to buy that last gift or two
Not really in the Christmas mood
Standing right in front of me
Was a little boy waiting anxiously
Pacing around like little boys do
And in his hands he held
A pair of shoes

And his clothes were worn and old
He was dirty from head to toe
And when it came his time to pay
I couldn’t believe what I heard him say

Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see, she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus, tonight.

He counted pennies for what seem like years
And cashier says son there’s not enough here
He searched his pockets franticly
And he turned and he looked at me
He said Momma made Christmas good at our house
Though most years she just did without
Tell me Sir
What am I gonna do?
Some how I’ve got to buy her these Christmas shoes

So I layed the money down
I just had to help him out
And I’ll never forget
The look on his face
When he said Momma’s gonna look so great.

Sir I wanna buy these shoes, for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see, she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful,
If Momma meets Jesus tonight.

I knew I caught a glimpse of heavens love as he thanked me and ran out.
I know that God had sent that little boy to remind me
What Christmas is all about

Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus tonight

I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus tonight

And she will, if I have anything to say about it.

Do me a favour

Posted on by

Don’t ask me for any.

and this is just my Twitter DMs

and this is just my Twitter DMs

Right now I’m sitting at a friend’s house, cat-sitting, while under doctor’s orders to avoid cats. I have just discovered that one of them has peed on every fabric-covered surface he can reach, OTHER than the cat bed and the cat platform, of course. Well, I haven’t just discovered that: I discovered it a while ago, immediately prior to chasing the cat down, rubbing his face in it, giving him what used to be called “what for” and bouncing him off the wall when I tossed him out of the room. And after stripping off the bed and throwing the sheets into the washing machine. And after coming back upstairs to find he’d also peed on the fitted sheet and it had of course seeped through to the mattress pad as well, and stripping both of them off and taking them downstairs to wait their turn with the Heavy Duty cycle. Oh, right, AND after I had to waste 15 minutes chasing the offending varmint out of the other bedroom (broomsticks under beds work really well with cats who aren’t used to physical violence). I’m here because the owners don’t want the cats to be lonely. They’ve already got enough food to last till the Commies come, and their litter was changed this morning, but god forbid cats should be lonely.

Did I mention I’m immune-compromised and allergic to cats? Look, I know there are bigger problems in the world. I could be dying of cancer, like my friend Derek. I could be in intensive care for the second time in a month, like the fellow for whom I’m cat-sitting. I could have gone to American schools.

But I just got out of the hospital, I’m facing surgery that friends can’t help but tell me their friend died TWICE during, thanks so much, I’m on some serious meds with major side-effects, I’m not allowed a single heartening beverage until Friday of next week, thanks to the medicine I’m hallucinating, having chest pains, and sprained my foot yesterday, I have no heat or lights at home, there’s a ONE FOOT LONG HOLE IN THE WALL of my living room where the mildew ate right through, I’m poor, every time I pick a date on which to have an event there’s someone in town who immediately chooses the same fucking day (six times in ten months UPDATE: aw heck, according to his count, which I’ll accept, it’s only been exactly 33 and 1/3rd% of times, or three of nine, UPDATE UPDATED: actually, it’s four in ten or forty percent of the time, is no accident, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed, my dear), and the friend I relied on to let people know I was in the hospital only told my sister about it a few days after I was admitted, and tagged me in a Facebook note, which of course only shows up on MY page as “someone tagged you in a note” and not “hey everybody, raincoaster’s in the hospital.” So there I sat for days and days, saying hi to all the people who came into the room to visit other people. But at least the cats aren’t lonely, so, you know, that’s something. Also, why in god’s name would someone DM “hope you’re okay”? So nobody would catch them at it?

And you know, I probably like you just fine but for now, no, I am not going to take out your garbage. I am not going to help you move. I am not going to check on something for you. I am not going to pass along your messages. I am not going to wash your dishes, or sit your cats, or run to the store for you, or return emails that start with “I need some social media help” and do not end in cheques.

UPDATED: and, if you add me to your newsletter list without my permission even though you personally attended the class where I actually made people raise their right hands and swear not to do that, in all likelihood yes, I AM going to mock you on Twitter in front of thousands of people. That little internal editor that keeps me demure and polite? Has taken a little “time out” and won’t be back till I’m feeling better, so it’s not advisable to piss me off just at the moment.