Trotted off to the orthopedist yesterday to seek professional advice concerning my ailing right knee. It had been over a week, and while it wasn't getting worse, it was swollen like a round grapefruit, hurt like Tabasco in the sun, and damn sure wasn't getting any better. After x-rays and some hands-on twisting and gnarling of the damaged limb, the doctor fears that the cartilage has been torn. Medically speaking, the "cartilage" is actually known as the meniscus. The meniscus is a C-shaped piece of fibrocartilage which is located at the peripheral aspect of the joint. The majority of the meniscus has no blood supply. For that reason, when damaged, the meniscus is unable to undergo the normal healing process that occurs in most of the rest of the body. In addition, with age, the meniscus begins to deteriorate, often developing degenerative tears. Typically, when the meniscus is damaged, the torn piece begins to move in an abnormal fashion inside the joint.
Because the space between the bones of the joint is very small, as the abnormally mobile piece of meniscal tissue (meniscal fragment) moves, it may become caught between the bones of the joint (femur and tibia). When this happens, the knee becomes painful, swollen, and difficult to move.
This tearing of cartilage in my knee will probably lead to my eighth surgery. But first, the doctor has put me on an anti-inflammatory medication, and if this doesn't recede the symptoms, then it's off to the MRI Center, and perhaps surgery down the road.
Slamming Sam, I just can't catch a break since I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism two years agoone ailment or health condition after another.
Nobody's yet responded to my note saxing this Situationist group, but Laurent's short muffin has everybody stirred into great swirls of chatter. Tom must be right. I am FRAUD. BOLD CAPS. A bossy brass blowhard (nee: that WIRED online discussion with SUCK and ECHO) clueless and simply not built for the imaginary beanies of his take on Topeka KANSASS. No, just crass, that's what he'd say. The dirt worst. A pathetic loser wired out on a messy wordslop. Uhmmmm...a Chas been, off chasing fickle dogs, chewing red meat son of a gun. And a good handful waste of moxy bandwidth to boot...ragged imperialist, cancor at the root falsetto. Nix iMote, he might say, it's NOTHING. Just a jackass I know I heard. Or to remain self-righteous I can snort back, "Oh Tom just knows how to push my buttons, and according to him, he doesn't like what I'm doing to his."
Steve issues a statement, "Spent too much time talking about myself in my last message to comment in full on the Howell/Thy exchange. Did read it through, however. To see ourselves through other people's eyes ... or mouths, as the case may be. Though I actually did start writing a response. Started off with a cheap kitchen metaphor, but realizing that was not accurate bidirectionally and not wanting to rewrite Goethe's treatise on colors ... how did that line from that Rites of Spring EP go?"
& I mote
But yesterday I could have passed. I was ready to pass, take a rain check on that opportunity to visit with Bob, chow, and chortle, but I conceded with a certain joy. And we subsequently tore the leaf off the fig. Had a good time. Tim stepped in after work dead tired but micromanaged a string of Shipman logistics to finish his chili mac specialty of the Bob before retiring to his mat. Yeah Bob. Thanks for the memories, the perspective, the piss in the wind. Next door neighbor for 3 years, ain't it Bob? Bought the house next to the one we mortgaged just shy of ten ago. And just like it says on the label we've been some sort of sneaky friends for twelve now...
Blum came over last night for a chili cookoff conspired by his afternoon phonecall. He'd slept for three days straight thru Monday he announced while admitting he'd gone out a couple of times (took in the town is more like it) & he woke up in a birdzing straight & flinging. Or maybe not. Does Bob do that? Ever? Okay, we need a Bob mimic. Anybody here?
Awake by afternoon he now seemed bouncy enough, on an even keel as we used to say down coast, to wax poetic over chili and beer, so we mixed & matched ingredients, and warbled with our talents. We were out of stuff so Bob went to the Safeway. Returned grinning with six varieties of peppers. Needless to say a warming torch during this morning's constitutional had me grabbing for more than grain as my next of kin. Sue followed Bob. I had a stiff neck upon waking that morning, and with all the it of yesterday crawling exactaways down between my shoulder blades as the day wore ondriving spiked letters, plumfiring fearsome and weary words with the puffs versus enuffs we all were relieved of by that alcohol binge with the boys & Baby by evening. I think again I've noticed this deathkick pattern I can't escape until the grave. Every time I don't partake of at least one beerglut a weekend by Monday I fail the polyglot, hang a stiff neck, or am bound to broker a bad intestinal tract. All of which then pertly leads me straight to a beer fix and another series of egg questions we all have to sit down with but mostly right now it just seems MY problem. Am I to fix this broken machine of personality disorders, work a savvy solution or two, or three, or just perpetuate it by mimicking it, or stumble through that popular sin of omission by simply ignoring it. Not an easy tally to finesse. Always results in a mudslide of rambling wreck claims. But yesterday I could have passed. I was ready to pass, take a rain check on that opportunity to visit with Bob, chow, and chortle, but I conceded with a certain joy. And we subsequently tore the leaf off the fig. Had a good time. Tim stepped in after work dead tired but micromanaged a string of Shipman logistics to finish his chili mac specialty of the Bob before retiring to his mat. Yeah Bob. Thanks for the memories, the perspective, the piss in the wind. Next door neighbor for 3 years, ain't it Bob? Bought the house next to the one we mortgaged just shy of ten ago. And just like it says on the label we've been some sort of sneaky friends for twelve now...
Now mind you not too many weekends pass me dry, except in the mouth on hangover dehydration mode, but it is uncanny how my tensed up natural reactions to life enforce their nerve ending moxy along my spinal cord, specific to my neck and shoulder areas, and as it's put to me by fate's own finger, a single night's guzzlement tends to soothe the savage beast of course tagged with an ogle of limitations and side effects walking right on in with assorted blessings & barnacles, as bait for the U mote I Mote we all Mote for iMote debate...
There is always the dream to go back to where I came from, to build meaning from the sky down until people suddenly find themselves in the lap of luxury stuck with the problems of their lives knowing nothing they do can change THAT fact, but here is Gabriel barely in print thinking this misery that's upon us requires attention. We can tame it, or we can let it eat us alive.
Everywhere I spy I see it's just that "doppleganger?" gig or how's that go in the bigs baby? Tracking with the whole saider figs?
The taunt to be like them, not MORE than them, but less than them I CAME NOT to be.
Space, so I went to the dentist Monday to have two cavities filled with the sweetness of all that girly magic floating around Dr. Mainstream's office. As you might recall I was having work done last summer until I got sidetracked with death in the family I handled hard, and everything else in this modern age of ghetto living that requires more than three fingers of coping. Experiencing no pain before the drilling & filling, now I've got an infection complete with metallic taste and persistant ache in one of the two he worked on. Guess that's why they call dentistry and doctoring a practice...
Sue just walked in and we both swore to cut out this badass drunkenness routine for good before it rots us beyond redemption. But, of course I've been swearing this after every drunk for years now, and while I'm doing better, my calculations fail me, as next time always seems to be just around the corner with some friend's face attached to it. Fact is I'm just a social mess. Can't go out without drinking. Don't wanna go out when I'm not drinking, but can't stay cooped up ALL the time, whatta mess!
Sue & I buzzed off to a metalcore show last night. If my pictures turn out, it was worth it. If the camera work was drab, I hated it. The music of the headlining band, the Genitorturers, is not bad for the genre but in honesty is simply a front for the group's leather bondage & piercing fetishes. Last night's show paled in comparison to last year's go, except last year I didn't have my camera. This hangover sucks a strawful. The two Genitorturers shows plus another of some local friends are the only rock shows we've been to in about eighteen months, and frankly I don't miss that lifestyle at all. Been eating my weight back lately, though, as the hangovers keep me stuffing my face all day long trying to feel something other than complete misery. Too old & too tired for this rabble rousing routine.
How's the office rumor machine treating you these days? Mental health, they should know better. Last Sunday, I indeed was planning on calling you, but I didn't focus on it until nearly three o'clock my time, and you were long gone to the game I reckon. Maybe I'll catch you this Sunday. That web site thing doesn't seem to be happening. None of the five sites I staked out have provided any password data, yet the names and directory codes show up. The icons show that the addresses have indeed been secured but there is no way to begin construction of the interface until I (we) get passwords. This completely baffles me. I had no problem getting my other five sites locked in, and now have three of them partially, or perhaps I should say, primitively composed and viewable with any Net browser on a good day when bandwidth (wireload) is available. I don't mean to be talking over your head but I'm just venting I guess, puzzled by this anomaly. Since I am virtually stealing these free sites with fake E-mail addresses (not my own, in duplicity) I am powerless to deal with the Geopages people on this issue. Nuff said until I can chat orally with you.
Meanwhile the whole right side of my mouth hurts and my belly's bulging beyond gluttony's fair pace, and oh man, can't measure the nasty aches and jumping pains stirring me crazy, rattling all my muscles & bones. Sue just walked in and we both swore to cut out this badass drunkenness routine for good before it rots us beyond redemption. But, of course I've been swearing this after every drunk for years now, and while I'm doing better, my calculations fail me, as next time always seems to be just around the corner with some friend's face attached to it. Fact is I'm just a social mess. Can't go out without drinking. Don't wanna go out when I'm not drinking, but can't stay cooped up ALL the time, whatta mess! Trust that you feel better after knowing I feel better than it surely reads, surely. Until later...
Hangovers, toothaches, passwords, and the professionals who own them,
"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""