Go Home, Jew-Face!

"...It's something horrible. They ram cop cars in broad daylight. Front-end collisions. To explode the air bags. Doughnuting. Heard of doughnuting? Doing doughnuts? You haven't heard about this? This is what they steal the cars for. Top speed, they slam on the brakes, yank the emergency brake, twist the steering wheel, and the car starts spinning. Wheeling the car in circles at tremendous speeds. Killing pedestrians means nothing to them. Killing motorists means nothing to them. Killing themselves means nothing to them. The skid marks are enough to frighten you. They killed a woman right out in front of our place, same week my car was stolen. Doing a doughnut. I witnessed this. I was leaving for the day. Tremendous speed. The car groaning. Ungodly screeching. It was terrifying. It made my blood run cold. Just driving her car out of 2nd Street, and this woman, young black woman, gets it. Mother of three kids. Two days later it's one of my own employees. A black guy. But they don't care, black, white doesn't matter to them. They'll kill anyone. Fellow named Clark Tyler, my shipping guy - all he's doing is pulling out of our lot to go home. Twelve hours of surgery, four months in a hospital. Permanent disability. Head injuries, internal injuries, broken pelvis, broken shoulder, fractured spine. A high speed chase, crazy kid in a stolen car and the cops are chasing him, and the kid plows right into him, crushes the driver's-side door, and that's it for Clark. Eighty miles an hour down Central Avenue. The car thief is twelve years old. To see over the wheel he has to roll up the floor mats to sit on. Six months in Jamesburg and he's back behind the wheel of another stolen car. No, that was it for me, too. My car's robbed at gunpoint, they cripple Clark, the woman gets killed - that week did it. That was enough."

- Philip Roth, American Pastoral

Hell of a book. Great Jewish writer. I saw A Serious Man again the other day. Love it, and kinda want to watch it a turd time. Lotta Jews as central characters among Jewish communities. American Pastoral in New Jersey, and A Serious Man in Minnesota. East Coast and Midwest Jews. Metropolitan Jews and Prairie Jews... Dr. Zoidberg is a Jew.




Jews aren't good fighters - except for Israelis, those motherfuckers are tough. Although you kinda have to be tough if your first name is Fishel.

Dog Hungry

You ever meet a dog that is so loving and trusting and allows strangers to rub its belly? They're the best, right? Well, the reason they're so openly full of love is that nobody ever fucked with them. Nobody taunted them or beat them or neglected to feed them. They're not tough, but who gives a shit about toughness when you've got rainbows and birthday cake.




On the other hand, have you ever looked into the eyes of a rescue dog that's been abused or neglected? The darting eyes and submissive posture. They've been fucked with, and because dogs aren't psychologically resilient, a lot of them have been permanently ruined. Breaks my fucking heart.

In conclusion, dogs are awesome.

Hang In There, Man!

UPDATE: I'm doing better now, eating rice and pretzels and Gatorade on my couch, watching TV, wearing sweatpants. Although, I recently found out that I'm hypersensitive to Vitamin D, which caused excessive urination, nausea, and nearly a sudden bout of vomitus. I only took 800IU of that shit and it fucked me up! Don't you see why I hate my body now? I've regressed from the fun-loving fatass of my teen years, to the anxious skinny sickling I am today. And now I hate Vitamin D, but Vitamin D doesn't even care.

Moving on to more health related crap, because that's all I've been thinking about lately...




Last week I had a blood test to make sure everything was okay, and all my levels came back fine. Went to the GI doctor today and he says that I have some post-viral gastroparesis that should go away with time and probiotics. Scheduled a gallbladder ultrasound on Sept. 15. Got a ride home from a taxi driver who smelled just like you'd think he'd smell. Getting cold feet about LA, but I'm in too deep at this point. Plus, when I think about spending another winter in Chicago, I get really sad, really fast.

I'm anxious and I need a hug.

I've Lost 10 Pounds on the "What the Fuck is Wrong with my Innards?" Diet

I'm writing this right now because I am scared. My health is really bad right now, and I need to express what's been going on. I'm not gonna go into the gory details, but I will be stating the basic facts of my body's decline. So bear with me on another voyage to the Nest of Grump...




My stomach has been fucked up in different ways since July 4th, when I gave myself gastritis. That night, I foolishly ate some chicken drenched in a cayenne- pepper-rich BBQ sauce, topped it off with some chips and spicy salsa, and promptly went to bed, letting all that crap disintegrate the lining of my already sensitive stomach.

That fucked me up for a week with nausea and heartburn. Stomach acid made its way back into my mouth, giving me the pleasant taste of cat shit mixed with pennies. I ate soy ice cream, drank coconut water (which I discovered is a natural laxative...cocksuck!), and munched on crackers. I lost a little weight, but I managed to get by.

By the end of the month, my stomach was on the mend and I was feeling optimistic about my semi-full recovery. I also had several creative projects (playing drums in a band, re-editing a Gandhi trailer, projecting a video collage for a big ol' gay dance party) that made me feel ambitious for the first time in awhile.

Then, on the 8th of August, I felt the first symptoms of a stomach virus that's still fucking with my system as of today. Extreme nausea, cold sweats, low-grade fever. I rode the worst of it out for 3 days with nothing more than Gatorade, ginger ale, and herbal tea. Started feeling better on the 4th day, so I added some soy milk. Mistake. More nauseous fun time. Anxiety and panic attacks ahoy!




By the 6th day, I felt good enough to go without Dramamine, although I was on edge, interpreting any stomach gurgle as a potential regression to the hellish first 3 days. But I made it through the night with a bucket and old linens beside my bed to contain a potential toxic episode.

7th day. Felt better. Added some soy protein drink to my diet, with some Ensure as well.

8th day. Weighed myself. 173lbs. I've lost 7 pounds. Panic attack. Recovered in about an hour and tried to make myself eat something solid. Almost threw up. Back to sipping ginger ale.

Today is the 11th day. I've eaten some crackers and some applesauce, along with a soy protein shake. I weighed myself before I took a shower and the scale read 170 pounds. That's the lowest I've ever weighed as an adult and it freaked me out.




I need to gain weight, but I can't rush it or else I'll just puke it up. I've had diarrhea 4 times in 6 days now. I have no confidence in my stomach, and I'm losing strength. My anxiety is through the roof, and to top it off, I'm going to LA to find an apartment on the 31st. I need to get better by then, or my plans will be derailed.

I feel like I'm stretched to the limit emotionally and physically. I know I'll get over this sickness eventually, but the future seems out of reach because the present is horrific.




I feel better just by writing all this down. I'm seeing a regular doctor tomorrow morning, and a GI doctor on the 26th. We'll have a lot to talk about. Meanwhile, I'm watching The Simpsons, Futurama, Roseanne, Everybody Hates Chris, and My Name is Earl. Sitcoms and cartoons kill time like nothing else. And that's what I'm reduced to, killing time while I try to keep food down.

I hate my genetics, my Jewish immune system, and I wholeheartedly renew my absolute hatred for my digestive system. Fuck you all. I should dig up Andre the Giant and make you suck his dick!

I'll post an update soon...

Viva Racismo!

Oops...

Oh, Indeed Mr. Omar

Saw this picture of Michael K. Williams, aka Omar Little from The Wire, and all my memories from the show came flooding back. I'm not usually one to publicly proclaim the genius of a particular TV show, because I don't enjoy hearing about people's TV boners, but The Wire is the best show ever made. And Omar is the most bad-ass character ever created. He's cooler than the Fonz and has more heart than Braveheart.

If you haven't seen the show, watch it now. Maybe you haven't gotten around to it, or perhaps you think it's just some shitty urban-police drama. Well, what if I told you that Omar Little is a gay gangster that robs drug dealers, and gets grumpy if he doesn't have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios in the morning? Yeah.


"The cheese stands alone."

"I robs drug dealers."

I'm Sick Of It

After my latest stint in illness prison, I got to thinking about how many times I've come out the other side of sickness a little weaker physically, but with more perspective on my mortality.





Now, I wasn't gonna die, nor do I believe I will ever die, but when I get sick, I think about how I wouldn't have made it if not for medical science, antibiotics, and anatomical research. If I had lived in the 19th century, I would have died at 22 from unclean drinking water or a bad case of candle-hand. But I'm alive in the present day, so the point is moot.





The mind/body connection is fascinating to me. I usually get anxious at the start of an illness, observing the indicators of imminent despair and panicking about how long I'll be fucked. I purchase the provisions I'll need once the symptoms go full blast, and worry about whether or not I'll need to see a doctor. But once the sickness takes hold of my body, I accept it. Like most things, the buildup is worse than the event. All I have to do is medicate myself so I'm not terribly uncomfortable, and just wait. That part has become easier over the years, and I wonder if that's how old people cope. Health-crisis-cruise-control kicks in automatically after having been through enough rough shit to know what to expect.





Sometimes I think about the number of weeks I'm out of service in a typical year, and how many more sick days I'll spend during my lifetime, knowing that I'll get through them all somehow, until I don't. It's rather amazing, the amount of time spent nursing this carcass back to health.

But then, as a typical neurotic Jew, I worry about my body's elasticity. My eyes are getting worse, same with my stomach, but my brain is getting sharper with experience. Or at least more adept at pattern recognition and getting a better grip of what to expect. That's the trade off, I guess. People seek the advice of the village elder for a reason, and it's not to admire his wrinkles.





Lately, I've been imagining a scenario where I've been shot and about to die. When I think about how I'd like my last moments to go, what would comfort me is the presence of a person, any person, whose eyes I could look deeply into, hold their hand, and let go. I'd reach out to anyone at that moment. It could be my worst enemy, or a bum, or the guy who shot me. Any human connection would be welcome.

I have a fear of dying alone in a car or having a heart attack late at night on the sidewalk, without anyone around, clutching my chest with one hand, reaching out with the other for contact. That's probably why people believe in Jesus - so they won't have to worry about dying alone, even if they do. Once again, the buildup is worse than the event itself. They assuage their fears about death by believing that the Magical Emperor of Sky World will take their hand and guide them into paradise.




What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I'm Jewish and I had bronchitis last week.