Are We There Yet?

Wow, time is going by so fast. Seems like only yesterday I was a scabby kneed nipper attending Ralph Waldo Emerson Elementary School, kicking ass at kick ball, and slapping the leather tether balls hard around the big pole. It's terrible to have peaked so young. I haven't felt really competent at anything since I won a ribbon for being the last survivor in the circle at an after school Dodge Ball tournament. Now I'm a criminal, passing as eligible for the Senior Special at IHOP, when in fact, I have over a year to go before legally qualifying. And why not? If you look this bad, something good should come of it.

The thought of toughing out another winter fills me with despair. Sweet Jesus, I just don't want to. Perhaps if there was something I could look forward to. Something to live for. Something like the promise of a, oh, I don't know, maybe a... Beer Bike! That's how I want to die! A massive coronary while peddling around on a Ten Seater Beer Bike! I saw one on google yesterday and it was beautiful. A bar on wheels with pedals under every stool! And the perfect answer to the warning "Don't drink and drive, you might spill your beer"; recessed cup holders in the bar. Add Karaoke and you have the perfect commute. Only problem is they're in Amsterdam. And they say this is the greatest country in the world. Yeah, right.

The Answer, My Friend, Can Just Blow Me!

At first I thought it was a joke; Bob Dylan found wandering along a residential street without proper identification and taken into custody by two "twenty-something" police officers who had never heard of him. Never heard of BOB DYLAN. Jesus wept.

When asked why he was in the area he replied that he was "on tour". Poor old man. For years I suspected he'd sold out. After hearing of his impending "Christmas" album, I was certain of it. There is nothing more dismal than another Jew making a Christmas album. But this... I had no idea he was an advanced Alzheimer's case.

Makes me glad Abby Hoffman is not alive to see it. Tottering old Bob, taken to the station by young punks so profoundly ignorant of their American heritage they have no idea who the icon behind the wire mesh is. Fuck me dead. I hate this century.

It's All Just Chemistry

Sage observations from the detached on the meaning of life.

"It's all just chemistry", she murmered as I looked with a mixture of fear and horror at the post-operative patient in the bed. He rested, but not comfortably, connected to a maze of tubes and wires, every quadrant of his body having been assaulted medically in one way or another, too many bags to count dripping who knows what, and a machine keeping watch on all functions.

They opened everything that was closed, and closed everything that was open, as somebody once said. Veins harvested from legs, arms and neck fitted with IV spigots, chest cracked open, heart remodeled and fitted with a spiffy new plastic valve, aneurysm patched up, and a couple of detours grafted on for good measure.

They said he wouldn't remember, but he seemed to know I was there at the time, and it seemed to matter. I knew I was there, and I would remember. So I stayed as long as I could.

All day on the table. Half way through the next before the wake up call and tube removal, breathing on his own. Five days before return of cognizance. A lot of ugly in between. Worries about "pump head" , 1 to 2 out 100 die withing two months. Post-op infection. What else have you got?

Just chemistry? There might be a little more to it.