Baby sis sent me this just to taunt me:

A physician claimed that the following are actual comments made by his patients (predominately male) while he was performing their
colonoscopies:

13. “Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up here?”

I’m having a “running away” fantasy.

I take bankruptcy, erase a lot of debt, and then sell my house and pay off the remaining debt plus have some money.

I sell all my stuff except for a couple suitcases of clothes and other personalty that can fit in the trunk of my car.

I take off and go live in S.C. where my sister who recently visited lives and start and brand new life.

It’s a geographic cure.  The downside is that I’ll be taking myself with me.

What I won’t be taking with me is a lifetime of memories about this town and a lifetime of friends and lovers I care about deeply.

That doesn’t necessarily fit into a dufflebag of clothes.

So the second big idea I have is one that was handed to me last night.

I listened to a woman who is being assaulted and doesn’t know how to escape her situation.

I would solve that problem — if I could — not only for one woman but for all of them.

I have enough co-dependency, knight in shining armor stuff going on that I could devote my life to that cause.  And feel good about myself if I only “saved” one life. 

The downside:  it would kill me.  Such women have a tendency to go back to their abusive men.  It makes my soul shrivel when that happens.  Too many of those women and I would be suicidal.  About the second or third time I heard “He’s sorry and says he will never do that again”, I would put a gun in my mouth because I know they will be back with another broken nose or worse.

So my third big idea is to be a fashion model and write a book about something inconsequential, because those are the books that really sell and make money, not good books as one might think.

Salmon Rushdie’s Satanic Verses sold only a tiny fraction of Stephen King’s any book you can name but certainly The Stand.

The downside:  I wouldn’t make a living modeling and writing is a constant, word by word struggle between my gigantic ego and microscopic self esteem that always leaves me vibrating like a quartz crystal in between.

So my final big idea is to do what I’ve been doing — the best I can from day to day — and try to have a better attitude about it, which is totally an inside job — inside my head.  To simply accept that to live is to have problems and to seek solutions, knowing that solving some problems will simply mean that others will appear.  To live knowing that the best I can hope for is to raise the level of my problems:  it’s better to have money problems than physical security problems, for example, and it’s better to have relationship problems than money problems and it’s better to have to decide between a mountain vacation and beach getaway than to have to decide between buying medicine and buying food.

It seems to me that most of our “problems” are merely choices.  We make our choices the best we can and then judge our choice by the outcome.  Odd, since most often we are not capable to determining the outcome by our choice and we have no certain way to compare the outcome with the outcome that might have come from a different choice.

Now that we’re past my AA “re-birth day”, the anniversary of my birth comes around next week.  I’m still a bubble off plumb, I can tell.  This weekend, I may well go to Dallas on a modeling excursion for Elastic Cafe and the lovely Juliet.  In all events, I know myself and I’ll spend some time reviewing the past year and being hypercritical of my choices.  It feels so good to make myself feel bad.  YUMMY!

   There’s No Way I’m Saving THAT Guy

By Jesus Christ

 All right. I realize I am supposed to be all-merciful, universally loving, the Light and the Way and everything, but even a divine avatar of the Supreme Being’s loving grace has His limits. I know I’ve said many times that there is always room for one more—even the lowliest—at the table of the Lord, but even so, there is just no freaking way I’m redeeming this S.O.B.

I don’t want to name names, but his initials are Gus Feigert, owner-operator of Fei   gert Automotive down on Seybold Road, by the gas station. There, I said it. And you know what? I don’t care. I’m glad I said his name. If he’s going to suffer damnation for all eternity—which, I assure you, he most certainly is—then I don’t see how much more damage revealing his identity during his brief time on Earth is going to cause the bastard in the long run.

The guy is a jerk.

First of all, he overcharges everyone who sets foot in his shop. That’s a given. I’m omniscient, I see what’s going on. He completely doctors the books and hasn’t filed a legit tax return since he opened that damn place. Plus, he’s a tyrant to his employees, slaps waitresses on the ass, and he cheats at cards. Come on. And then, after being a complete boner all week, he still shows up at church every Sunday like clockwork, with that stupid yellow tie he always wears, all smug-looking with that phony-ass grin on his face, and bows his head to “humbly” ask My forgiveness.

Well, not anymore!

He just has this way of getting under My skin, and I have had about enough of it. For years now he’s been pulling this crap, and what do I do? I keep forgiving the ungrateful bastard, every Sunday, like some kind of chump. But does it make any difference? No sir. Come Monday morning he’s back to his old tricks.

Find a new Messianic redeemer, Gus F&#khead Feigert, because I’m not taking your shit anymore. Ask the Holy Ghost for help next time, or maybe try intercessionary prayer to My mom. Maybe she’ll listen to you. But not Me.

Don’t get Me wrong. I’m extremely forgiving—to a fault, maybe. I’ve absolved some of the worst people you can imagine. We’ve got thieves, adulterers, murderers, even Romans sent to persecute my followers out the wazoo up here. In fact, if you ask Biblical scholars or learned clergy, they’ll go so far as to tell you My capacity for forgiveness is infinite. Well, that’s usually true. But not with this a-hole.

Yeah, I know I’m supposed to forgive everybody, and all can find refuge in Me blah blah blah. Fine. Fair enough. But not that prick. No f’ing way.

I don’t have to tell you that I was sent down to Earth by God Almighty the Father in Heaven for a reason. I know that. Forgiving people is kind of My whole thing. So as long as someone comes to Me in full and honest supplication and asks Me to be their personal Savior, I’m pretty much obligated to do it. But come on, this guy? I have suffered on the cross and died for the sins of humanity, but I sure as hell didn’t die for the sins of that ball-buster Gus Feigert, nor was I sent down to this Earth to suffer the agonies of the Passion just to be that obnoxious know-it-all’s personal doormat.

He can go rot in Hell for all I care.

Rush Limbaugh is an overweight

 deaf, Oxycontin addicted,

 draft dodging right wing

blowhard with a flaccid penis.

Story from Forbes.com.

Once more, with feeling?

Rush Limbaugh, who once called himself “the most dangerous man in America,” nowadays seems mostly a danger to himself.

First there was the 2003 incident on the Walt Disney Co.‘s ESPN, where Limbaugh declared that Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb enjoyed racial “social concern” from the ostensibly bleeding-heart National Football League.

Then, the radio star was accused of alleged “doctor shopping,” supposedly deceiving physicians to get overlapping controlled-substance prescriptions. Limbaugh, 55, denied the charges, but reportedly admitted a painkiller addiction. In a deal reached last month with prosecutors, the “doctor shopping” charge will be dismissed if Limbaugh doesn’t get arrested for 18 months.

Here’s hoping Oscar Wilde was right when he mused, “There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” Because on Tuesday, Limbaugh–ranked No. 32 on the Forbes Celebrity 100 list–made the news again. And again, it was a pharmaceutical controversy. But this time, the substance in question is not meant to dull and numb. Quite the opposite: it was Pfizer‘s blockbuster Viagra.

The Associated Press reported that Limbaugh was detained Monday for more than three hours at Palm Beach International Airport, upon returning from some R&R in the Dominican Republic. Customs officials reportedly found a bottle of the erectile-dysfunction drug in his bag–but his name wasn’t on the prescription, according to Palm Beach County sheriff’s spokesman Paul Miller.

The political shock-jock’s lawyer, Roy Black, said the prescription was written in Limbaugh’s doctor’s name “for privacy purposes.” The radio host was released without being charged and investigators confiscated the little blue pills.

Mike Edmondson, a spokesman for the state attorney in Palm Beach County, said it’s often legal under Florida law for a doc to prescribe medication in a third party’s name, if all parties are aware and the medic documents it correctly. The sheriff’s office is continuing its investigation.

Kendall Coffey, a former U.S. attorney in the Sunshine State, told the AP that this latest case may be dismissed if lawmen can confirm with Limbaugh’s doctor that the Viagra was indeed prescribed for the celebrity. Coffey said, “It’s perhaps a little embarrassing, but not highly incriminating.” Blasted media.

Oh, demerol good.

Uhn, demerol bad…

I survived my colonoscopy and now I feel like a very empty tiny kitten.  I slept the day away and felt groggy and faint and HUNGRY. 

I don’t recall ever being shot up like that.  The icy burn of a narcotic in your arm.  Not much fun, really, because I was out for the next two hours and when I woke up, I was not feeling all that great.

Interesting, but I didn’t have an addict’s response of wanting to do that again.

They also gave me some kind of artificial amnesia drug, but I didn’t catch what it was.

Anyway, I’ve had the opportunity to get to know a large number of people connected to St. Anthony’s Hospital over the past few weeks and i must say that they were all wonderful people, down to the very last one.  I had absolutely NO hint of a bad experience with anyone from my family physician, Jeffrey Hirsch, to the XRay and Cat Scan people, to the ER room from my car wreck, the cardiopulmonary center led by Dr. Bajaj, and now all the people connected to St. Anthony’s North Ambulatory Care Center and Dr. Deborah Blalock. 

Lawyers and doctors aren’t supposed to mix well, but this lawyer has nothing but good stuff to say about my doctors and their staff at St. Anthony’s.

Of course, I haven’t looked at the bills yet.

When I find out they charged me $5 for a single Kleenex, I might well go ballistic.

Anyway, for another year I’ll be through with checkups and tests and being poked in the arm with needles after my final checkthrough with Dr. Hirsch in about 10 days.

I’m proud of myself for taking care of myself with this round of exams.  I won’t do anything this rigorous next year, but it’s good to have a “clean bill of health”. 

If I’d quit smoking, even Dr. Bajaj would join the rest in talking about how relatively healthy I am …wait for it … FOR MY AGE.

Speaking of my age, my birthday is July 6.  I share the birthday with my old friend and sumii master, Claude Anderson.  We share a birthday with the war criminal, George W. Bush.  I will be 57.

Lots of people have a crisis on the zero birthdays.  My “seven” birthdays have usually been a turning point for me, but uniformly for the better. 

I’ll be glad when my birthday is passed.  This time of year leading up to my AA birthday and belly button birthday is always, according to my journals, a horrid time for me.  This year, the car wreck.  Years past, breakups and breakdowns and other turmoil.  Then, it seems like I can live without chaos for a few months and get back to “normal”, whatever that may be for me.

I’m thinking about going down to Dallas this coming weekend for a modeling shoot.  It’ll be a nice break.  Road trip.  However, the money is really tight after buying a car, paying $800 for tag, title and tax out-of-pocket, and a whole buttload (couldn’t resist) of medical bills and medicines.  To make matters worse, I haven’t billed any clients this month because I was too busy with the doctors, so … I may just stay home and lick my wounds.  (Of course, Suz, if I could lick there, I’d NEVER leave the house.)

So, the moral of the story is that I must be getting stronger because nothing’s killed me yet.

ttfn

I might have headlined this post “Intimations of Mortality”.

Or “Meditations on being the Grasshopper and not the Ant”

Or “Eat Dessert First: Life is Uncertain”.

 Today, I’m staying home and prepping (read:  shitting my brains out) for my colonoscopy procedure tomorrow morning.

Soon, I’ll have my 57th birthday, another big inch toward the big 6-0.

Meanwhile, I’m floating through life like a teenager.

Sometimes, “teenager” gives me more credit than I’m due.  Sometimes, it’s “like a toddler”.

I’ve actually made the “won’t grow up” thing work for me for a remarkably long time.

Some parts of it would be impossible for me to give up — it’s not like it’s a conscious decision I’ve made to treat the world as a wonderous place full of curious things and people that are endlessly fascinating.  Most of life is to me like a shiney thing you see on the ground and have to stop and pick up and put it in your mouth to see what it tastes and feels like.

I’d be charitable if I gave myself a D- in delayed gratification.

One of the AA “gurus” at one of the meetings I go to says AA should be renamed “Grow UP”.

A lot of the suggestions and “rules” for AA are about being more adult in our relations to other people, our jobs, etc.  It’s about self discipline and a social conscience.

To the extent I am grown up, I owe a lot to AA.  I’m not as selfish and controlling and arrogant as I once was.  Neither am I cured.

Anyway, some of my Peter Pan syndrome is catching up with me these days.

I’ve never saved a dime in my life and when it comes to spending money, I’m a child.  Every gadget and sweet capitalism has to offer has captured my attention and money at one time or another.  No savings and no retirement is not a pretty picture for a man my age.

It’s the same with women.  I have no serious long term exclusive relationship going on and no prospects for same at the moment.  I’ve gone for the flashy but shallow more than once.  Being a droptop batchelor has been fun, but the prospect of a lonely old age is not an appealing one and I’m not doing a very good job of looking for a woman to share my life.

It’s also the same with my health.  Smoking two packs of cigarets a day for 40 years is not a prescription for a long and productive life, it’s a guarantee of a long period of virtual confinement to a room.

A colonoscopy is a sign of my advancing age.  It’s not something one is asked to do at age 30 or even 40.  It’s the province of those of us who are over 50.

I feel like the man in the joke that Steve McQueen tells Yul Brenner in The Magnificant Seven:  A man jumps off a tall building and the people on each floor hear him as he falls past saying “so far, so good”.

I’m not sure I want to post this.  It’s gonna be maudlin, self involved crap, so you might want to pass it up.

 I have a deep sense of being not quite good enough tonight.

It’s the message I’m getting from the universe, no matter what the universe might actually be telling me.

It’s a feeling of inadequacy that I’m comfortable having.  I’ve often felt this way.

It’s an old, damning, shaming, guilty friend.

I can’t meet your expectations and that means I’m less than perfect and that means I’m shit.

“snap out of it,” was my X-wife’s answer.

Damn, I’d think.  Why didn’t I think of that?

Well, of course, that’s what you’d do if you could.

And, of course, I couldn’t just snap out of it or I’d already have done it.

Which made me feel even more inadequate than before.

It’s why we were able to stay together for 30 years. 

I feel different from the rest of you.  Alienated, I believe is the word.

I want to go live in the cave or monastary one over from MCARP.

Once more, I’ve decided to give up on dating.

I’m going to isolate.  I hope I get more done around the house this time than the last time.

My sister is in town.  She is so radiantly beautiful and funny and charismatic.  She has a gift for life that I really envy.  I don’t think I’m the only sibling that feels that way.

Poor Sinatra has had his shots, his manhood taken away and his displaced hip reslotted.  He’s a very quiet kitty right now.  Doesn’t much feel like playing fetch, you know.  I try to pet his furry face every chance I get, but he’s mostly sleeping in corners.

Saw DeShan tonight and briefly kidnapped her and took her to Sidecar.  She fell and I don’t think she felt all that pretty.  I just wanted to hang with her for awhile before she leaves for Down Under, so I didn’t mind her having a fat lip, poor baby.

Tomorrow’s gay pride day parade.  It’s an event described to me tonight as the most audacious, creative thing that happens in this city all year.  memorial park at 36th and Classen — Be There OR Be Square! Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!  (I wonder whose voice they used for those radio commercials?  You know, the drag car races commercials?)

I’m going to go take an ibuprophen for my elbow and get some sleep.  I took two naps today and i still feel sleepy.

Dr. Max?  Am I depressed?

Fuck.

OK.  I’ll snap out of it anytime now.

The Mandarin pictograph for the word “chaos” portrays two women under one roof.

Go figure.

The Gary and Rena, fast friends since their freshman year at OCU, turned 55 this week. 

Today, I’m 11.

Two different kinds of birthdays.

My “birthday” is the 11th anniversary of my first AA meeting and my first day of sobriety.

I had been drinking myself into oblivion every night for almost two years after my closest law school buddies asked me to leave our law partnership.  I was suicidal and had all my paraphernalia in the car to go out to the lake and take my own life in a way I thought would look like an accident so that the insurance would pay off to my family.

Instead, I got arrested and went to jail.

I came out of jail pissed off and jonesing for a cigaret.

Then, I had “a moment of clarity”.

What was wrong was my drinking.

I called a guy I had practiced law with when I first got out of law school.  He was a heavy, heavy drinker, but had sobered up five years before.  I called him and said I wanted to know how he did it.

He stopped what he was doing, left his law office and came to my house and got me and took me to the Western Club on 51st and Western. 

I didn’t know what this place was.  I didn’t know it was an AA clubhouse or an AA meeting until things got started.  I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about AA.

All I knew was desperation.  I didn’t really want to die, I just could not live another day drinking.  I had reached the point where I wouldn’t answer the phone, open the mail or come to the door if someone knocked.  I couldn’t get out of bed most days.  I had sold my car to get money to drink.

At first, I went to AA meetings to get out of the house.  I couldn’t hear what people were saying because I was too busy thinking in panic what I would say if I were called upon to speak.

I had no car and no driver license.  I walked to meetings that hot summer from my house in Heritage Hills. 

I LIKE to remember what it was like 11 years ago.  It reminds me of what I must never forget.  I am an alcoholic.  My life of drinking was miserable and deadly.  All I have I owe to my sobriety because without my sobriety I would be dead.  My friends, my beloved family, my law practice — EVERYTHING — I owe to AA and my sobriety.

I would have missed my precious grandchildren.

Sobriety has not all been wonderful.  My 30 year marriage disintegrated and my father died by inches.  I could not have survived those events while drinking and while having my drinking attitudes.

I did not just live and I don’t just abstain from drinking.  AA has given me some wonderful tools to use to live a happy life, joyous and free.  Somedays, I trudge.  Many days I live from one prayer to another.  More often than not, I’m a pretty damn happy camper.

My best days are the days I live by the AA instruction manual, the so-called “Big Book”.  I honestly believe that book is as divinely inspired as the Bible’s gospels.  It tells me that if I have a problem with people, places or things, the first place I need to look for the problem is within myself.  It tells me that if I am feeling sorry for myself, the best cure is to find someone else with an even bigger problem to help.  It’s as counterintuitive for me as “turn the other cheek” and “a kind word turns away wrath.”

It works.  It really works.

Yes, I was clinically depressed and I went to therapy.  I take an antidepressant.  That helps, too, of course.  My therapist is Jolly Dr. Max.  I also owe my life to him and his professional help and his sturdy friendship that began before he began seeing me and goes on after he sent me along my way.

In AA, I found a belief in a “power greater than myself”.  It is not strictly the Christian God I was raised to believe.  It is a far more forgiving and loving God than the Baptist God I was taught.  As a Baptist, I often made the mistake of confusing God the heavenly father with my punishing and perfectionist earthly father.  It isn’t the fault of the Baptist church, it was my own childish thinking.

I cannot prove to you that God exists, I can only tell you that God proved to me he exists.  i could not quit drinking on my own.  I tried many many times.  When I asked for help from a higher power, I got it and quit drinking.   Make of that what you will, but I believe.

If you think you have a problem drinking, you may very well have a problem.  Seek out AA.  It really works.

It’s a very happy birthday for me.  I have a great deal to celebrate, starting with all of you.