Monday, July 25, 2005

I met her in a club down in Old Soho. You drink champagne, and it it tastes just like Cherry Cola. She walked up to me and asked me to dance...

Is it time to get down?

Get down on your knees?

C o m e O n. ComeOnAndTellme. T e l l M e W h a t Y o u N e e d. I s I t Time For Me To Get Down? Get Down On My Knees?

I got two more minutes, and, I'm gonna get you what you need.

Sharks patrol these waters. Don't let your fingers dangle in the water. And don't worry about the day-glo orange life preserver. It won't save you

Well, well, well.

A few comments before I just dive into the usual "I saw some fantastic shit; check it out, and here are my droll, mildly clever comments regarding same."

I don't go to the doctor very often (read: never). In fact, since 1990, I have been to exactly 5 (five) doctor appointments, four (4) of which were limited exclusively to the issue of the full reconstruction of my ankle.

So, other than for my ankle- which is great, thanks for asking- I have visited a physician exactly once (1nce) in the last fifteen (15) years.

(Parenthetically, I think that "1nce" is the phonetic spelling of Buckwheat's famous "Unce, tice, fee tines a Nady" song.) (Parenthetically.)

So, anyway, that 1nce time that I went to El Doctor was just a week or so ago. I'm 35 (treinta y cinco) years old. Figuring that the life expectancy for your average Duder is 75, and considering that the manner in which I lived the calendar years 1987-2005.5 probably knocked a good ten-spot off the back end, I am over the proverbial hill and sliding blissfully down the glacial moraine into middle age.

When you have lived life like I have, the prospect of a professional popping the hood, taking a look and giving you an estimate, inspires terror. You can hear a weird "ta-thump, ta-thump, ta-thump, chugga-chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga-chugga, HOOOOO-womp, HOOOOOO-womp" when you go around a corner. You try to ignore it, and pretend that is the sound everyone makes when they corner, but you know, deep down, that there is a $600 repair lurking.

Here I am, sitting in Jackson Lake Lodge, and I get the call from my wife... "Your results are in."

"Shit. They are?"

"Uh, yeah, they are."

"Well? Is there an alien living inside me, waiting for the right moment to break free?"

"Hang on."

"Give it to me straight."


"Don't sugar coat it. Tell me. Do I have some feak, mutant, siamese baby twin growing out of my abdomen?"


"What's the bad news? Jesus, I know there is something bad. Just tell me."


"Sure thing. Shutting up. Shutting up right now. I'll just shut up and let you..."


"Oh my God. It's that bad. There IS an alien. No, wait. Worse than an alien."

At this point, I actually, for once in my life, shut the fuck up.

My cholesterol is 158. My resting heart rate is 52. My blood pressure is 130/65. My blood sugars, nicker-noodles, and dispsy doodles are all within tolerance.

I guess, on paper, I am a strapping, perfectly healthy, 6'2", 213 pound Dude.

Can anyone tell me, then, why I feel like I'm such a fucking mess?