Weekend Sendoff

One of my sisters passed this along:

Scratch 'N Sniff Online!

Deformed!

You will never in a million billion years guess what me and Jimi Hendrix have in common (and no, it isn't bipolar disorder)!

I visited my Orthopedic surgeon recently, about my decrepit knees. While Dr. W and I were chatting about glucosamine, his PA came into the room with Xrays of my legs. The three us gazed at my bones and Dr. W pronounced the chondromalcia patella not so bad after all.

Suddenly, he grabbed my hands and asked his PA to take a look at my wrists. "Look at this! Madelung's deformity--and it's bilateral!" The PA tried to hide her shock, but couldn't resist touching them. They talked to each other about how to fix it, white I gazed at my poor old pointy wrists. Basically, the ulna bone pokes out too far where it meets the wrist bones. The surgery to fix it is so extensive, it's out of the question. Besides, I never think about my deformed wrists unless someone points them out.

Naturally, I've been teased about them my whole life. Big deal. The bad news is I cannot flatten my hand, so I suck at yoga, volleyball and gymnastics (which is why I switched to ballet in 6th grade). Other than teasing and sports limitations, it is not much of a deformity. I can't gross people out with it, or get character-actor parts because of it. Although when people do stare at them I can't resist bending them grotesquely and pulling a face.

I don't wear bracelets, they just sail off my arm. Which makes escaping handcuffs a breeze (more on that another time).

When you actually think about all of things that can go wrong in producing a human being, genetically speaking, I'm pretty thankful I got away with pointy wrists, bad knees, and bipolar disorder.

Besides, Jimi Hendrix had the same wrist deformity in both wrists, and he did alright.

Guilty Pleasure

Flava Flav is a clown. He isn't bright or good-looking, but he is successful and respected as a rapper. Flava Flav is a reality-TV phenom. I saw the whole beginnings of him and Brigitte Nielsen on the Surreal Life, with the bizzaro continuation thereof on Strange Love, and was left bewildered by his appeal. He looks like five miles of bad road and is dumber than a sack of hair. I guess fame and money override those glitches in many a hootchie mind.

Speaking of which, I LOVED The Flava of Love. Talk about emptying out the ghetto to cast a TV show. [Please don't think I'm racist. As anyone who lives in the ghetto knows, there's all colors represented on the block. I'm talking about a commitment to ghetto culture, only.] I just know those are the bitches responsible for Century 21's Draconian returns policy.

Anyway, their shenanigans made for excellent guilty pleasure TV. Yeeeeeeeaaaah, boyeeeee!

From the start, I loved "New York", Miss Native New Yorker. She was the only one with any personality (and how) and her diva-like behavior with the other girls was awesome to behold.

Each week another hootchie dropped out of the race to be Flav's whatever, until it was down to "New York", "Hoopz", a pretty and sporty Latina, and "Pumpkin" best described as a white trash family's embarassing cousin. "Pumpkin" spit in "New York"'s face, initiating reality TV's awesomest catfight, which lasted well past the reunion show. That stupid white girl is awfully lucky Flav's beefy bodyguard kept "New York"'s fists of fury at bay. I laughed so hard, I snorked root beer up my nose.

"Hoopz" ultimately won the contest, but the relationship is over 3 months later. Flav's cited reason? "I need a girl who gots time for me, yo."

Naturally, The Flava of Love 2 is in the works.

WebMD limited usefulness and ER/DR boycott

Anyone ever have lower back pain? Would you mind sharing what worked for you?

I got good news from my orthopedic surgeon: my knee problem from all that ballet as a youngster hasn't degenerated to the degree expected. With a month of intense physical therapy, he said, I might even run again!

Woot! Woot!

Naturally, I went straight to the gym and ran on the treadmill. My knees are fine, but there's a white-hot searing pain in my lower back. I get around ok, but staying in one position too long (sitting, standing, lying down) starts to be ouchy. I can't take any NSAIDs (i.e. ibuprofen), but I do have some lovely oxycontin, which I resist taking on top of my knock-out drops--going into a coma might relieve my back pain, but I'm boycotting hospitals right now and Superfly can't do the 24-hour nursing thing.

So! If any of this sounds familiar, pretty pretty pretty please share your secrets.

New Links!

Refresh your heated beverage of choice and take a gander at a couple of new and noteworthy bloggers:

The almighty SUPERFLY!

The muy fabuloso BOBULAH!

Enjoy, and don't say I never got ya nothing.

And now back to waiting for FedEx...

Troubling Prediction

Trouble the Seer sees, in the very near future, our President again making his case for drilling in national parks and forests, on account of dem Arabs in OPEC.

Which they've tried and failed to successfully lobby for at least the last six years. Who are "they"? People in the oil and gas business, with political connections.

But wait a minute: Isn't the entire Bush family and its rotted family tree of cronies and profiteers all in the oil and gas business? Darn tootin!

So, as you fill your tank with gas that (via artificial inflation) costs up to $5.00/gallon, keep the smiling face of George W. Bush in your mind. Good for him: He's making millions off your suffering!

Apres Moi, Le Deluge

Rain, rain, go away
Wind, wind, cease blowing my umbrella inside-out
Cold, cold, take your chill and shove it
Avian flu, Avian flu, seize the greedy OPEC leaders and gas price-gougers

Here's a hint, tri-staters: DO NOT go to IKEA on rainy weekend afternoons

Disclaimer: My poem sucks on purpose. I hate poetry.

Busted reading Gawker!

I know, I know. Honestly, I am so in the habit of loading and reloading Gawker during the day that I forgot I was stopping doing that. My bad.

Anyway! You MUST take a few minutes to watch this video. You don't know the people featured, because you aren't a hipster doofus. A significant percentage of the doofuses are trust fund fuckers with nothing better to do than start headband trends and to claim to have liked the Artic Monkeys long before your dumb ass. Ye Gods.

Where is the Glee?

I should be happy. The kind of happy you only get from vindication: I was right all along! I knew it!

The Bush II Administration is imploding, much like the island of Krakatoa after four consecutive eruptions blew the island apart in a deluge of ash, pumice, and fiery lava rocks.

While Administration majordomos stand around, pointing fingers and laying blame, a colossal tsunami gathers force behind them.

This is where my happy dance ends. You see, if there's one thing we Americans love, it's an Underdog. And when an American, no matter how loathsome, is put in that situation, we tend to rally to their cause. We don't want Mr. Loathsome washed away in a tsunami, we want him to go away quietly, never to be heard from again. So he'll be snatched from the beach and carried to higher ground, because that's what we do.

For example: Charles Manson is still alive in a California prison, giving interviews and inspiring future generations of serial killers. Because the death penalty is "wrong".

There are two long years left for the Bush Administration. If the election was this year, the Democrats could run an orangutan for President and win. Instead, two years of Bush II acting tough, but contrite, and declaring his White House newly sparkly clean and free of the bad people who did him wrong, await. Time enough to groom his probably-loathsome Republican replacement.

Not that I in any way think Hilary has a prayer, mind you. She may believe, as my father insists, she's destined to be the first female U.S. President, but she's wrong. In any case, the next election should be a doozy. There's even talk of running Condoleeza Rice against Hilary! Oy vey.

Disclaimer: I'm neither Republican nor Democrat. I'm just American, with an interest in the hijinks of my elected government. An equal-opportunity wonk.

Tough Love

Today, the Erudite Bouncer features a thoughtful discourse about tough guys; from hopped-up Guidos working their way into the VIP Lounge, to their feudal-age counterparts, the Vikings. Fascinating stuff, you should definitely check it out.

The more I look at this idiot, the more he reminds me of your garden-variety Guido. It must be the way he runs around, talking tough, threatening his "enemies" with all manner of ass-kicking, and engaging in pissing contests with other useless Arab "tough guys".

Hey, Mahmoud! Kus Umak! Boos Teezee, ayir! Charra Alaik!

Heh, heh, I found a site that offers English transliteration of Arabic slurs. My day is thusly made.

(Edited to add: I'm aware Iranians are Persians, not Arabs. I just don't see much difference between the two)

Gossip Crisis

"No one gossips about someone's secret virtues" --Bertrand Russell

I read prodigious amounts of gossip, every day. Why am I compelled to do this? While the momentary distraction from the stress and banality of everyday life is welcome, what value does the minutiae of celebrity lives hold for me?

-Gawker, Defamer, Jossip. US Weekly and Page Six

-I can tell you where Jessica Simpson gets her hair done, shops, parties, and gets in catfights with Lindsay Lohan. I even learned her preference for sexual positions from several different sources.

-I can tell you which remarkably (given their thin talent) successful actors/actress are coincidentally Scientologists.

I am one of about a billion other people in dire need of a gossip intervention. The simple fact that gossip projects public attention away from people actually worthy of our interest, coupled with the sad reality of very young girls mimicing the ridiculous habits of famous ho-bags, i.e. being ho-bags, reducing their caloric intake to whatever nutrition cocaine affords, and making a career out of being photographed at special events, should shame us into re-marginalizing the gossip "industry".

Today, having spent the weekend with Superfly, Trouble Jr., and my parents, I am feeling so over gossip and celebrities. Bunch of weak, worthless strivers they are. I knew this already but brushed off the ick that comes with being a gossip consumer (and lusting after the incredible handbags and shoes those whores get for free most of the time). It took a withering sigh and look of absolute disgust, from Trouble Jr., to shake me out of it. She's 16, you see.

"Mom, why do you care about Hilary Duff being anorexic? She's stupid."

Er, um, I, well...you see..uh...

This is the LAST gossip/celebrity post you'll see here. I will remove links to those sites. This is my Gossip Intervention. Pray for me, friends, that I will find the inner strength to resist mentioning how gay Ryan Seacrest is, for as long as my blog shall live.

Reality TV is next to go. Eep!

Passover and Easter

Having sat through an Easter service that, in addition to being extremely anti-semitic was so boring I begged to die, I am happy to be Jewish around this time of year. It's time for Passover! Bring on the brisket!

Not sure why people say "Happy" Passover to one another, so to all you Heebs, I hope your Passover '06 is peaceful and you survive seeing so much family in such a small space for such a long time. Here is a funny thing from Slate called "The 2-minute Haggadah" for your guffawing pleasure.

Anyone watching the new "Ten Commandments" miniseries? How high were the Writer, Director, and the Casting Director? How hard is it to find a Jewish actor to play Moses?

For you Xtians, I wish a very Happy Easter and I hope you enjoy your weekend with family. Again, not sure why it's a happy occasion, but, enjoy your parades and egg hunts and ham dinners! Can't recommend raiding the Easter candy: those Peeps things are nasty, yo. [shudder]

Far be it for me to be un-PC or exclusionary, so to everyone else: Have a splendid time doing whatever you are doing!

Zoinks!

I cannot believe it, folks: the Denver Nuggets won a Division title against Portland, winning 110-98.

Oh, you didn't know I was a sports geek?

NBA basketball is not my favorite--I'm all about NFL football, baby--but I grew up watching the Nuggets and the stupid Broncos, in Colorado. For the most part, the Nuggets show the Knicks what it means to really suck.

Nevertheless, I scored awesome seats for the playoffs against the Utah Jazz (I hate the Utah Jazz like poison, especially that whiny John Stockton) in the 1993-1994 season. Dikembe Mutombo was on the team at that time, and the team was playing some exciting basketball. The Jazz took the first three games, then the Nuggets (who unseated the #1 Supersonics!) took the next three. Game 7 was a hair-pulling, nail-biting nightmare that unfortunately ended with the Utah Jazz winning 91-81.

Tomorrow night, the Nuggets and Jazz will face off again. I would watch, for old time's sake, if it didn't interfere with my American Idol viewing, and if I had cable. Why do the Idol hopefuls have to violate the songs of Queen, anyway? That ain't right.

Sonsofbitches

Shortly after posting Captain Underpants on Friday, I sent Superfly an email complaining about chest pain. A never-before experienced sharp, stabbing pain deep in my left chest. Naturally, I googled, visited webmd, and after being scared shitless by what I read at those sites, called my doctor. My doctor said, "Go to the ER and have them call me."

Gulp! I was feeling fine otherwise, so I did not call an ambulance. The car service was there in two shakes, and we sped off to the small Brooklyn hospital closest to our place.

Something about the words "Chest Pain" gets you right through triage and into a hospital gown. Nurses and techs came and went, taking temperature, blood pressure, etc. The first ER doctor came in, asked a ton of questions, then sent me for a chest X-ray. These tests all came back negative for heart problems. Whew! But I still had the chest pain, so, what now? ER Dr. #1 says we'll wait and repeat the tests...in 6 hours.

Meanwhile, there is a shift change. ER Dr. #2 thinks he's funny and charming. He's all kidding around to patient's faces; mock-flirting with the gals and ribbing the guys,tickling the kids, but when he is back at the ER main desk (which is directly in front of my bed) he mocks the patients and resumes heavy flirting with his PA. I guess he thinks he's an actor on "Scrubs", but his antics are not amusing when you are trapped in a hospital bed, wired to a variety of bleeping machines, forced to listen to him.

Poor Superfly. He was in a meeting at work when I called to leave my crytpic "Off to the ER!" message. After taking a cab from the UES to the bowels of Brooklyn, he rushed in to find...nothing happening. Proving beyond all doubt shadows that he is the best boyfriend in recorded history, he simply stayed with me, holding my hand and cracking wise. He brought US Weekly and for a Seinfeld joke, Junior Mints. "They're so refreshing!"

Superfly left to get a snack, I returned to forced eavesdropping on the most vomitous flirting you've ever heard. I tried listening in on the conversation of the heart-transplant patient in the "room" next to me, but ER Dr. #2 was louder and more obnoxious. Suddenly, the ER Dr. #2 looked up at me and then at the PA. "What's up with the lady in #3?" She handed him my chart, telling him I had chest pain but that blood test and chest x-ray were negative for heart. "Scans and blood are clear...oh, she's Bipolar? Discharge her."

As Superfly would shortly thereafter note, my blood pressure surged to 120. I was so furious, I really thought my brain can would explode. My boyfriend calmed me as much as he could, assuring me we'd file a Complaint with the hospital, but I was inconsolable.

Yeah, I am aware of the stigma surrounding mental illness. But we are talking about medical professionals and for fuck's sake--I presented with chest pain! I am open about my illness and acknowledge there are bipolars running around who do not take their meds or receive therapy for their illness. I had chest pain, I did everything I was supposed to do, not only do I not get an answer for the chest pain, I get treated like I made the whole thing up. Yeah, I was pretty pissed off.

ER Dr. #2, hereafter known as Dr. Douchebag, must have seen the steam coming out of my ears, because he danced around, avoiding my room, not making eye contact. The nurses were sympathetic, kind, and funny--they rolled their eyes while Dr. Douchebag tried to entice the PA to his "pad in the City", behind them.

Finally, 7 hours after I arrived in the ER, the nurses prepared me for discharge. I was told to rest, not lift anything heavy, and to return to the ER (as if!) if the pain worsened or I developed other symptoms. Suddenly, Dr. Douchebag and his grinning, blushing PA burst into my room with my tests. Adopting his probably well-practiced Soothing tones, Dr. Douchebag smilingly told me the good news/bad news: "Your tests all came back negative for heart problems, Ma'am. It can be difficult for us to find other problems, like muscular or organ problems, though, and they sometimes cause symptoms like chest pain." Not about to be condescended to by Dr. Douchebag, I say, "ER Dr. #1 mentioned something called Esophogeal spasms." He stared at me for a second, then replied, "Exactly. Something like that can be causing your chest pain. It looks like we are going to discharge you now, so follow up with your doctor!" And he scooted away with his cutie pie girlfriend.

Superfly and I were exhausted, starving, and enraged. We left, stopped off at our favorite place for some late-night eats, and went home. My chest pain is almost gone. You know what? I could have saved much grief if I'd just gone straight to the pizza place: Superfly told our friend "Joe" about our ER experience and he said, "Hey! I've had that chest pain before. It lasted a couple of days, scared the hell out of me, then went away." Sonsofbitches. From now on, I take my medical concerns to the pizza place.

Weekend Sendoff

Giddyup!

Damn Hell Ass Kings!

Bonus points for knowing (no Googling!) that Simpsons episode.


As promised, my groggy-ass self is more-or-less awake and completely out of bed. Now I must prepare for my last class, which includes a final edit on the worst piece of music journalism crap you'll never read. Because it sucks so sad, not even Fangoria would publish it.

Anyway, do you think the GOP are crapping themselves over this morning's news that the gajillion hispanics who live in this country are mobilizing their ranks to vote Republicans out on their keisters?

Hence the hasty re-write in Congress on the new immigration legislation.

Nyuck Nyuck.

Now, back to dangling participles, extraneous commas, and obscure references in a short music piece. Oy.

P.S. Apparently, nothing bad happens when you double dose sleeping pills!

Dream, Perchance to Sleep

"The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to."--F. Scott Fitzgerald

Three things shared with F. Scott Fitzgerald: Bipolar Disorder, Writing, and Insomnia. Hey, maybe we'll also share literary greatness one day!

It's 2:30am and I took my handy-dandy knock-out drops almost four hours ago. Granted, this day (or yesterday, for those of you blissfully asleep) was rather spectacular in its suckiness, but those pills have worked magic until tonight. Ye Gods.

Waaaaah!

I'm off to take another--don't expect to hear from me until at least 4:00pm Thursday.

"Sleep, ignorant of pain, sleep, ignorant of grief, may you come to us blowing softly, kindly, kindly come king."--Sophocles

(Trouble) is a Punk Rocker

Man, I had NO appreciation for Ian MacKaye's coolness, back in the day. Too busy being Miss Punk Rock, Colorado in the early-to-mid '80s, I thought the Minor Threat frontman was just another tool, like his buddy Henry Rollins.

Henry is still a tool, but check out Ian!

(yeah, I know it's from 2001, but c'mon--this is some timeless shit, man!)

So, given the choice between my awesome Psychic TV t-shirt and my "LEAVE ME ALONE" t-shirt, which do you think my teenage ("This is drum-and-bass, not techno, mom. God!") daughter chose to wear to a rave?

Harbinger of Doom

I don't know, people, but I got a ba-a-a-a-ad feeling about this.

As you may suspect, I gorge and overdose on news everyday. So do the people who write headlines, online teasers, and news feeds. When you pull up yahoo or msn on your computer, you'll see a bullet list of the most buzz-worthy topics gleaned from all news sources. Right? Right.

The buzziest early buzz right now has nothing to do with Bush, the war in Iraq, Middle East conflict, or felons in the GOP. Slowly, with extreme trepidation, reporters are covering a topic that scares us more than Avian flu with a side of Ebola: Unemployment.

You thought the '90s layoffs were bad? Pal, forget Monster, it's time you revisited the idea of what-you've-always-wanted-to-do. Now's the time!

I know, I know, as if the snow wasn't depressing enough.

Important Influence

Who was that person in your early life, the one who--by example or instruction--turned your perceptions upside down? Maybe it wasn't that drastic; maybe it was just someone who "got" you, or someone who inspired you to make an important change.

Did you have a chance to thank them? If you bumped into them now, what would you want to say to them?

For me, stuck in smarty-pants classes growing up, I was almost completely isolated. My peers were either the lisping thick glasses/retainer group, clumped together at a lunch table trying to solve ancient mathemtical problems; or the un-gifted and non-talented normal kids, who generally treated me like a pod person. Given those options, it's no surprise I turned to books for companionship and escape.

It all started with Thomas Jefferson. My assignment was to create a diorama of Monticello, with accompanying essay on the circumstances surrounding its construction, blah, blah. Whoopee!

However, the more I read on Jefferson, the more I liked him. I researched the people who influenced him, then the people those people cited as influences. While you've already drifted off from boredom reading about this, I found it damn fascinating.

So I'm in Jr. High school, absorbing my Ancient Greeks, Romantics, Philosophers, and Existentialists (in between note-passing and spitballs) and working out a personal philosophy from what I gleaned. I was a big hit at slumber parties, let me tell you. FYI: No one likes a light-as-a-feather, stiff-as-a-board spoiler.

By high school I was integrated into regular classes, but not really included. For spite, I delighted in ruining the grade curve. I am pretty sure I was the only cheerleader who quoted Bertrand Russell off-handedly, but I didn't last long on the squad, anyway--I was kicked off for insolence and brawling.

When I enrolled in a Philsophy and Religion class in 10th grade, it was certain it was a pure easy-A thing. I definitely didn't count on my instructor being a damn wicked genius.

How the hell he ended up in suburban Denver, Colorado is a great mystery. The poor chimps who took that class thinking it would be an easy-A for them were tortured with weekly reading, essay, and presentation assignments. Those blindered by their faith were often reduced to red-faced, shaking anger, or tears. He'd heard it all and was unwilling to coddle. He refused to accept scriptural quotations as backbone in arguments--that would guarantee a barrage of questions that usually began, "Really? That's interesting. How do you know this?" There was no escape, no relief, until you reached the lightbulb moment.

I was used to getting a "pass" in my classes and hiring myself out for tutoring and ghostwriting, and I went into this class unprepared for the momentous changes in my thinking that occurred. This teacher knew all about me before I walked in the first day (secret teacher cabal--I knew it!), and made it his mission to test the limits of my intellect. There may as well not have been 20 other students in the class, every hour was a Lincoln-Douglas debate between my teacher and myself on stuff like existentialism and moral realism.

Sure, I learned that many people simply do not wish to have their minds opened, expanded, wowed, or changed. It makes sense, perfectly logical. Every sperm is sacred. What I can't grasp is why. Why don't you want to know?

On the other hand, this especially timid girl in the class never once made a peep; she listened intently and took copious notes, but never participated in the presentations, debates, arguments, or tirades. Curiously, my teacher never called on her or paid her the slightest attention. She was despised by all, and rumors circulated about an illicit affair.

I pulled Mr. Teacher aside after class one day to register my displeasure with this special treatment. He smiled, listened to me rant about the injustice of it all, and when I ran out of material and breath, he said: "(Trouble), that girl comes from a strict Mormon family. Her parents would not approve of her taking a comparative religion class, but she asked me if she could just sit in and learn." In other words, she gave up a free period for this melee, and completed all the assignments, for nuttin'!

Miss Mormon said two sentences to me in high school: 1. "You are the first Jewish person I've met." and 2. "I liked your Evil Queen costume in the Homecoming Parade."

If you're still reading, I thank you. Wrapping up now! Thanks to my teacher, I have a more balanced point of view; I can debate anything calmly and with proper form; I acknowledge, if not always appreciate, the necessity of differing opinions. Most of all, I learned there's always more to learn.

I still think about this amazing teacher whenever I talk religion or politics, which you already know is constantly. If I saw him, I would cheerfully taunt him about his Kierkegaard obsession and then ask him to be my BFF.

Immigration

Why we talking about immigration right now:

-President Bush's approval rating is at a record low with no sign of reprieve

-GOP politicos are gearing up for their own races and can't wait to hand Bush his ass

-President Bush is obsessive about Leaving His Legacy. Removing Saddam won't cut it, and the War in Iraq will be remembered through history as a ghastly error. Other efforts are likewise deplorable failures, so this is the best his handlers could come up with: Immigration. For a terrific read on the real story behind illegal immigration, read Coyotes by Ted Conover.

Now, back to mah jong solitaire...