A Catcher's Companion

(Something New, My First Book Review)


It was during my middle ages that
I read A Catcher In The Rye for the
first time. I remember opening the
book with great curiosity and antici-
pation and some trepidation because
the book had been banned, its author
charged with writing pornography,
followed by an obscenity trial.

About midway through the book, I was
thinking, "Gee, for a nasty book this one
sure is mild." Then, I realized my error.

I was confusing Catcher with Cancer,
Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, that is.


However, rather than throw the book down and pout disappointedly, I continued
reading Salinger's book because my life was being altered and I had sense enough
to realize it. (Credit The Man for making me a thinking being.)

I remember exactly where I was sitting when I finished it: in Rome, our apartment,
on the divano under the window, early evening. I put the book down and yelled,
"WHY DIDN'T ANYONE MAKE ME READ THIS BOOK WHEN I WAS A 16 YEAR
OLD DORK!!!"

It was like waking up with an extra arm, or something. At first you find it merely
interesting and then useful, especially when you're carrying several heavy bags of
groceries up the stairs or when you want to hail a taxi, but then you have an
epiphany one day where you make the realization that if you'd only had the arm
earlier on your life would have been so much better.

(The old adage "better late than never" does apply in this case, but only in the
puniest, most conciliatory way.)

That first paperback copy of Catcher is long gone. The Man loaned it to a Roman
friend who was trying to perfect her grasp of the English language. She put the
book in her purse which she then slung on the back of her chair at an outdoor cafe
in Campo Dei Fiori, which is tantamount to putting up a sign that says, "STEAL
THIS PURSE." Everyone knows you chain your purse to your leg with an extra heavy,
polished, chrome-plated, steel chain dog leash, preferably one with a smooth
action, swivel-bolt snap release when seated for dining. Anyway, some gypsy
came along and swiped her bag containing our copy of A Catcher In The Rye.

I now own four copies of Catcher so don't feel sorry for me...but more about that later.

Journey with me now back to the present...well, the present minus five months or so.
I'm talking to mon oncle (that's French for "my uncle," but it's also the title of a great
French film made in the 50's or 60's which you definitely should see and which makes
me think I should review some films here as well...)(oh, and mon oncle is just like the
word "monocle," but I forget how one became the other...)

Anyway, I'm talking to mon oncle and he mentions that his son, my coz, Sean, has a
book out. What?! Why didn't I know about this? Why doesn't anyone ever tell me
anything? More importantly, why don't I have a copy? I always knew Sean was a
writer, but published? Wow. I was impressed and family-member-of-the-rock-star
proud. And, AND, IT'S A BOOK ABOUT A CATCHER IN THE RYE!!!

I'm motivated.

I go to Amazon and buy the book. I keep thinking I'm going to send it to Sean and
make him inscribe it to me, but I keep not doing it. But, what I do do is keep reading
the book and enjoying it.

It is designed to be read along with Catcher, corresponding chapter by chapter,
offering definitions and explanations about the life and times of Holden Caldwell
in post WWII New York City.

A Catcher's Companion can also be read on it's own, which is what I do. It is
interesting, humorous and full of information that is slowly being lost and
forgotten, or ignored. It's a fun way to review our society's past, our foibles and
our amazing innovations, linguistically and otherwise.

It's interesting to me, that today's young folks don't know what "galoshes" are...
or who Cary Grant or Gary Cooper were...what a "Gladstone" was used for, or a
"highball"...or that for entertainment people used to go see "burlesque" shows...
they haven't read authors like Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Somerset
Maugham and Ring Gardner... and that occupations like an "elevator guy" and a
"stenographer" along with "skate keys" and (OMG!) "phone booths" don't exist
anymore!

I've never thought much about what today's young readers go through when
confronted by literature from a past era. It's no fun reading something that
causes confusion. That leads to boredom. I'm thinking Beowulf here, which
may be an absurd comparison, but a dark cloud passes over my head every
time I hear that mournful name. I'll never forget the sense of bewildered hysteria
I felt trying to read it in my college lit class and dying because I was constantly
stressing out about things like, "What the heck are 'mead benches' and what
happened to the helmeted guy who was smitten in the breast with a bitter arrow?"

A Catcher's Companion enhances Salinger's work for today's generation of readers,
young or old.

So, if you haven't read A Catcher In The Rye, you definitely owe it to yourself to do so.
And, A Catcher's Companion is the perfect accoutrement to have with you on the journey
into Holden's world.

In fact, I'm thinking Christmas here. After all, Catcher is a Christmas story...sort of.
What a perfect gift for that special someone. Two brightly wrapped books, A Catcher
In The Rye and A Catcher's Companion, tied together with one perfectly curled ribbon.

As I mentioned above I already own four copies of A Catcher In The Rye. I have this
compulsion to grab and buy whenever I see one at a second-hand booksale. My four
have different book covers. I even have the plain ox-blood cover that Mr. Salinger
preferred above all the others. How do I know his preference? I've read about it in
A Catcher's Companion, where else?

Boy, you're gonna make someone so happy.

But, whatever happens, DON'T give Beowulf to anyone...EVER!!

Addendum: Beowulf is mentioned in A Catcher In The Rye. I forgot. How odd. But all
you need to EVER know about Beowulf is illustrated in A Catcher's Companion so you
can just scratch that worry off your list.

Tantamount To A Miracle

I was driving around grocery shopping the other evening and here are
a few things I noticed:

1. My local impersonal, grocery-store/warehouse is going downhill along
with the rest of society and I'm kinda sad about it because they really
have the best produce section in the greater Lime Plant City area. What
I noticed the other night is that they are selling fewer items in larger
quantities. For example, there aren't many small jars of mayonnaise
available. You have to buy the large jar which I don't want because my
cupboards are too small. And, I only wanted ONE roll of paper towels but
I had to buy two in a package and that made me start thinking about how
little storage space I have and how if I'd married a dentist I'd have a
big, walk-in pantry full of space for hundreds of rolls of paper towels
and this train of thought really got me down.

2. The cost of things is on the rise, which is understandable since we
import everything and the dollar is practically worthless. But, still,
$4.20 for two rolls of paper towels is ridiculous. In my world, paper
towels are "throw-away" items. But, now I'm going to have to wash them
out and hang them on the line to dry for reuse.

3. The music in the store was hideous. I just wanted to grocery shop,
not attend a Foo Fighters concert. The median age in the store on this
particular Wednesday evening was about 70 and all us geriatrics were
bumpin' and grindin' our way through the isles getting more and more
riled up and irritable with each passing decibel.

Note to Grocery Store Corporations: I shop less when I'm pissed off.

And, what were those parents with the obviously extremely-sick-and-
feverish-toddler-slumped-over-in-the-shopping-cart thinking?! Why would
they subject their red-faced, sniffling, hacking baby to such vile music?
However, if their goal was to infect half of northeast Ohio with the plague,
well then, they probably succeeded.

The final straw was that I noticed this store no longer stocks Lunds
Pancake Mix, which, as any serious pancake eater knows, is the best
pancake mix on the four innermost planets in this solar system! And,
they have great packaging. I guess Lunds wasn't corporate enough to
compete with, say, Bob's Mills...yuck!

I didn't actually want to buy any Lunds, but it just made me mad that it
had been removed from the shelves. So, I stomped off with what I had in
my grocery cart (which is bigger than my Geo), paid for everything, even
the over-priced paper towels, and got in my dinky car to go over to the
other major grocery store a few miles away.

Only a few miles away but in a different universe, this store was full
of young, old, happy, sad, thin, fat, smart, dumb, contemplative, head-
scratching, blabbing, silent, upright-walking, knuckle-dragging beings
that, if you could have dumped them all in a boiling hot cauldron and
cooked them, would have made up a human stew worthy of a Michelin star,
a stew that would turn the staunchest vegetarian into a cannibal eager
to lick the spoon.

And, they have a Starbucks!

It was wonderful! My journey to the center of the vortex of the human
race was complete. Satiating. Somewhat disorienting.

But, I had serious work to do. I needed to finish my shopping and get
home to The Man because I live in fear that some day he's going to come
out of his poetry-writing revelry, look up and realize that the crazy
woman who usually runs around yelling about stuff is gone and get it
into his head to go out looking for her and fall in the pond and get
eaten by Frank the bluegill.

But, then I experienced a miracle! I was driving home and it was now
just after dusk. I drove past brittle corn fields, the corn dry in the
husks. I passed a farmhouse complex with two barns and two silos, plus
other smaller outbuildings all whitewashed. Each of the tallest structures,
house, barns and silos, had small windows set right at the top near the
peak of the roof. In each of these high windows the farmer had placed a
lighted pumpkin (plastic, I assume) on the window ledge. As I gazed over,
my eyes were met with such a beautiful sight. The buildings were glowing
softly in the aftermath of the sunset and were just visible against a
darkened sky. The muted, orange balls of light from the pumpkins shown
like eerie beacons above a sea of dead corn.

It was the best autumnal effect I've seen in a long time, very subtle and
alluring and it single-handedly made me like it here in The Land of O and
think that maybe there is hope for America.

And, if you know me at all, you know that me thinking these kind of thoughts
is tantamount to a miracle.

I drove home and, happily, The Man was not yet out of his revelry and hadn't
been eaten by Frank, which, in my book, makes for a perfect day.

Barnacles

I think all young girls, say starting around 17 or 18 years old,
should be required by constitutional law to spend 20 hours a week
with an old woman at least 55 years old, not related, an anonymous
hag, someone who will tell them the truth and not sugarcoat it,
the truth about getting old.

Here's the deal. Yesterday, The Man mentioned to me that it was
the twentieth anniversary of the Loma Prieta Earthquake that shook
San Francisco and resulted in the horrendous collapse of the Bay
Bridge. We were there. We were in an Airporter Bus on The Golden
Gate Bridge, as a matter of fact, having just returned from visiting
family in The Land of O, for irony's sake!

I'll never forget, we were about two-thirds way across the Bridge
and the bus driver had just turned on the radio so that we could
all listen to Game Three of The World Series between the S.F. Giants
and the Oakland A's, a real hometown series. Suddenly, the bus
swerved sharply and we hit the curb, bouncing back into the traffic
lane. The Man looked out the window and saw a person on the Bridge
walkway thrown off balance trying to stay on his feet and not fall
over the side.

We were very lucky. We made it home safely. We lived on a boat and
so had nothing to worry about. No destruction or loss. We even had
earthquake supplies stored in a plastic tub thanks to my anal tendencies.

Well, anyway...it was a very drastic situation and we remember it well.
However, the shocking part is that it happened TWENTY YEARS AGO! I am
ten years older NOW, than The Man was THEN! Or, to put it another way,
I was one young hot chick and The Man was a galloping stud and what the
heck happened?!

I mean that earthquake feels like yesterday! Yet, here I am knitting
shawls, wondering if I have arthritic feet and thinking that Assisted
Living looks like fun.

Just last week I went to see a dermatologist. The Man has some moles and
bumps on his body that look like something the astronauts brought back
from the moon mission. Even wearing TWO pair of glasses I am unable
to determine if the entities growing on his legs and back are ornamental,
fungal or death stars. And (I shouldn't divulge this), but one of his
circular moles actually has a smiley face on it. I am not kidding!

MY obsession with HIS moles compelled ME to make appointments for US
to visit the dermatologist and to let him rake us over the dermatological
coals.

(Oh, wait, NOTE TO MYSELF: In my next life be a dermatologist...WHAT A
RACKET!!)

So, we went to the office and I went in first. The doctor was a young,
short, very clean looking guy. He had a younger resident working with
him. The nurse was there, too, which made for a happy and crowded
examination. I, naturally, was the only one wearing a paper gown. The
others were clothingly advantaged. But, we did okay. We made small
talk while the doctor started hunting for anomalies. He was very serious
and thorough. I asked him about the weird thing in my ear, the weirder
thing on my chest and the really weird thing on my backside. He glanced
at them all and proclaimed them to be age spots.

Age spots. How sad sounding. No smiley faces for me.

I asked him about the bright red dots that are spread across my torso
like constellations, a sprinkling of stars and planets floating along
in the Milky Way of my belly fat. These heavenly bodies are something
to behold. I thought the doctor might be impressed because up to this
point my examination was entirely unremarkable. (Another note to myself:
Never, NEVER try to impress a doctor! They are only impressed by things
that kill you...and half of the rest of the planet.)

He commented that, yes, I had quite a few of them. They're dead veins,
he said. Then, he added this immortal phrase: "You're covered with the
Barnacles of Age."

That's when I got to thinking. Why didn't anyone prepare me for this moment?

WHY DIDN'T ANYONE EVER TELL ME THAT ONE DAY I WOULD BE COVERED WITH
CRUSTACEANS!!!!

This is why I think every young girl should get a few lessons in what the
future holds.

Think about it, old women out there. Think about the pearls of wisdom
you could bestow on some young, naive, dumb-dumb girl who thinks she's
going to be soft and supple with silky shiny locks of grey-free hair
forever.

You're probably cackling, "The young won't listen, why bother!" Well,
I'm not so sure about that. It would depend on how you structure the
course. You can't be nice. You have to be stern and unrelenting. You
have to frequently shake your knarly, arthritic finger at them and make
them do homework and term papers on topics like The Sagging Chin and
Bladder Control. And part of the curriculum would be based on my award
winning textbook entitled: That's Not A Mole, That's a Barnacle On My Butt!



ADDENDUM: Oh, and just so you know, the dermatologist didn't say
ANYTHING to The Man about his assortment of bodily oddities which
brought us in to this den of insults in the first place! He didn't
mention the words "Age Spots" or "Barnacles," he didn't wince at
the obvious rotted bits hanging here and there, he didn't recoil
in horror when he got near The Man's toes.

Which is inspiration for my NEXT textbook: It's a Man's World,
Girlie, So Get Used To It!

The United Sachs of Goldman

I dragged The Man to the Regal Cinema for our 2009 film-viewing experience.
We went to see Michael Moore's latest documentary, "Capitalism: A Love Story,"
the inspiration for my title of this blog.

I don't do much political commentary here, but I would like to tell everyone
to see this film. Even if you're a RightWing/FundiChristian/HateRadiofreak,
go see this one. Oh, he does disparage George W. a few times, but...well...so.
Other than that, I think ALL OF THE PEOPLE should at least consider the
depressing realities that this documentary illustrates so well. I like Michael
Moore because the guy has cojones. I mean, who would stand in front of the
CitiBank building in New York City holding a large money sack demanding that
Citi give back the money it stole from the American tax payer. Or, who would
show up at A.I.G. to make a citizen's arrest on the C.E.O. Oh sure, he had a
camera crew with him and everyone knows who he is, but still. He's got guts.
He doesn't hide behind a microphone or in a sound studio. He puts himself out
there on the street, in people-who-matter's faces and I have respect for that
kind of bravery because I could NEVER do that. I much prefer weeny-bitching
in the safety and comfort of my own living room like, I suppose, most Americans
who are programmed to think things like, "Heaven forbid I should actually put
my self on the front line because, geewhiz, it might be dangerous and I might
get arrested and what would people think." Moore has none of these qualms.
I support him in his efforts and I admire his ability to put an interesting,
thought provoking, entertaining, emotional film together. He made me raise
my eyebrows with skepticism, struggle with understanding difficult concepts,
laugh out loud and seethe with rage. He made me proud of my country like I
haven't felt in a long time. And, he also made me cry for my country, which
is another thing I haven't done in a long time. As I left the theatre, I was
keenly aware of my fellow citizens. It was a strange sensation. I felt this
intense oneness with my fellow theatre-goers, like we were all comrades
fighting for the survival of our common ideals, like I wanted to shake their
hands and say hello to them, to connect somehow, to stand in the parking lot
singing "We Are The World" or something.

Lexapro

Aggression, anxiety, balance issues, blurred vision,
brain zaps, concentration impairment, constipation,
crying spells, depersonalization, diarrhea, dizziness,
electric shock sensations, fatigue, flatulence, flu-like
symptoms, hallucinations, hostility, highly emotional,
indigestion, irritability, impaired speech, insomnia,
jumpy nerves, lack of coordination, lethargy, migraine
headaches, nausea, nervousness, over-reacting to situations,
paranoia, repetitive thoughts or songs, sensory & sleep
disturbances, severe internal restlessness (akathasia),
stomach cramps, tremors, tinnitus, tingling sensations,
troubling thoughts, visual hallucinations, vivid dreams,
nightmares, speech changes, worsened depression.

So, anyway, that's what I've been up to. How about you?

You see, about a year and a half ago my doctor asked me if I were anxious
and depressed. I said, "Sorta." He said, "I can give you a happy pill
if you want." Honestly, he used the term "HAPPY PILL" which just made
it all sound like such an excellent idea, you know? How could "Happy" be
bad for you. So, I said, "You bet!"

Well, now here we are, many months later and I've decided to stop taking
Lexapro, which is the drug's trade name.

The Man encouraged me to quit, saying he wanted the "old me" back. I guess
he likes the hysterical type. But, I decided to quit because the drug is
making me fat and sleepy. Also, there is the fact that the pharmaceutical
company (Forest Laboratories) which "managed to turn this medicinal after-
thought into a bestseller" (New York Times, Sept. 2, 2009), is under Senate
investigation for paying doctors to prescribe the drug to children, etc....
but I don't really care about this because everyone knows that the
pharmaceutical companies are always screwing around.

No, what's important to me is the "fat" part. Almost everyone who takes
this drug complains about the weight gain that follows. So, I ask you,
WHAT KIND OF NINCOMPOOP PHYSICIAN WOULD PRESCRIBE A DEPRESSION
MEDICATION THAT MAKES A WOMAN FAT, HUH? I mean, 99.9% of the reason
I get depressed is because of my weight! How dumb is this guy that he doesn't
know this about me and just about every other woman on the planet Earth?

Anyway, I had no idea. I just thought I was getting fatter because I wasn't
exercising enough or because I was getting old and all my internal organs are
starting to drop to my ankles. But, then I began reading some testimonials
from people on Lexapro and it was all the same thing - they were all getting
fat and hating it.

Another common reaction is tiredness and excess sleeping. I was aware that
I was sleeping more. I'd go to bed at 9:00 and easily sleep until 8:00 the
next morning, dreaming epic dreams, some in foreign languages! It was great,
but not very normal. Also, I noticed that after a thirty-minute lap swim,
I'd come home and need a two hour nap to recover.

All this summer I've been wondering about my complacency. Dust bunnies the
size of tumble-weeds would roll across the floor and, rather than sweep them
up, I'd place mental bets on which one would reach the wall first and explode
on impact. I named the two spiders in the bathroom because, in my mind, "Gee,
everything needs a place to live."

It took me a long time to put two and two together. When I finally figured
it out I decided to taper off the drug very slowly...because this so called
"Happy Pill" will come after you with pitchforks and cauldrons of boiling
tar if you try to escape its clutches, I read.

Everything was fine until I had That Darned Wisdom Tooth (TDWT) pulled.
Well, it was sort of my fault, but anyway, what with all the pain pills
and antibiotic pills and my statin pill, I decided that I'd just quit
the Lexapro altogether because, in my post-surgical, warped mind, it
was one less pill to take.

All went well for about seven days, except for some dizziness and loud
buzzing in my head, which I assumed were affects from the antibiotics
or the Vicodin I was taking for TDWT. But, then I started getting these
brain zap things and then it occurred to me that maybe this had something
to do with the Lexapro.

Duh.

They actually have a name for what I'm going through. It's called SSRI
Withdrawal Syndrome. Yes, it's a "syndrome" and it can last from one to
SEVEN(I Want My Mama)WEEKS!

Today is Day 12 and here are my withdrawal symptoms to date:

Buzzing brain - it's like I can hear every single synapse;
Brain zaps - which are entities in and of themselves and may not be from this world;
Bouts of ferocious irritability that amaze even me;
Dizziness - but only when I'm standing up;
Sleep disturbance - which really gets me because I was so loving that cozy,
deep, gaaaaa sleep I was getting before. Now, I'm waking up at the ungodly
hour of 6:30 and 7:00 in the morning;
Speech impairment - which The Man finds amusing when I'm trying to verbally
abuse him;
Oh, CRYING! - I hadn't cried in the last 18 months, since starting the drug,
but the other day in the driveway this stray kitten shows up and it's meowing
and rubbing itself on my legs and it wants to be loved and petted and I just
looked up at The Man and said, "I can't handle this," and I stormed into the
house, stomped up the stairs, fell on my bed, and had a FANTASTIC crying fit!
It felt soooo gooood ...well, except for the fact that the cute little kitten
was going to have a terrible life and probably premature death, and because we
leave the country every winter I can't have a cat of my own like I was saying
I wanted just the day before, but oh, it felt so good to cry about it;
Hallucinations - I keep thinking this clump of wood in the backyard is a two-foot
long frog. It startles me almost daily.
Vivid dreams/Nightmares - I am seeing more snakes than usual in my dreams
but I can't say they've been really disturbing or scary...so far.

Other than the above, I feel fairly good. I am able to act normal when
around other people and while negotiating small cash transactions.

But, I want to say that this is ONE HELL OF AN EXPERIENCE I am going through.
And, I also say, that I have never experienced withdrawal LIKE THIS from any
other mind-altering drug I've EVER taken in my life, including those consumed
during the rowdy 80's in Hollywood and San Francisco!!

So, anyway, that's what I've been up to. How about you?...or did I already ask that.

Great Words NEVER Uttered By The Man

Here's a hundred dollars, Babe. Go get yourself something nice.

Oh, darn tomato sauce! I'll never get this stain out!

Gee, there's only one chocolate chip cookie left. Here, you have it.

Will you please stop washing my clothes all the time!

I don't care what it costs!

Honey, where did you put the Comet. I want to clean the toilets
before Darrel and Walter get here.

Mmmmmm. This tastes so good, it must be bad for me.

I'll drive!

I couldn't decide between the roses or the orchids, so I bought you both.

I'm sick and tired of your constant demands for sex!

Do these shoes make me look fat?

It's a good thing I remembered my hankie.

Yippee! We get to go Christmas shopping!

Tsk, tsk. Just look at all this dust!

OMG! You let me walk around all day wearing mismatched socks?!

Does our medical insurance cover liposuction?

If I were a color, what color would I be?

Hand me my rolex watch, would you? Not that one, the other one.

The point of this exercise is to illustrate the fact that what one doesn't say
is as revealing as what one does say.

I'm developing the science of anti-observation, a substratum of quantum
mechanics, I think, because I am observing the un-observable.

The Man is my test rat.

Words

(This is completely copied from www.davidpbrown.co.uk. When I read it my
morning coffee squirted out my nose.)


The Washington Post published a contest for readers in which they were
asked to supply alternate meanings for various words. The following were
some of the winning entries:

Abdicate
(v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

Carcinoma
(n.), a valley in California, notable for its heavy smog.

Esplanade
(v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.

Willy-nilly
(adj.), impotent

Flabbergasted
(adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.

Negligent
(adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in
your nightie.

Lymph
(v.), to walk with a lisp.

Gargoyle
(n.), an olive-flavored mouthwash.

Bustard
(n.), a very rude Metrobus driver.

Coffee
(n.), a person who is coughed upon.

Flatulence
(n.), the emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run
over by a steamroller.

Balderdash
(n.), a rapidly receding hairline.

Testicle
(n.), a humorous question on an exam.

Semantics
(n.), pranks conducted by young men studying for the priesthood,
including such things as gluing the pages of the priest's prayer
book together just before vespers.

Rectitude
(n.), the formal, dignified demeanor assumed by a proctologist
immediately before he examines you.

Marionettes
(n.), residents of Washington DC who have been jerked around by
the mayor.

Oyster
(n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddish expressions.

Circumvent
(n.), the opening in the front of boxer shorts.

Frisbatarianism
(n.), The belief that, when you die, your soul goes up on the roof
and gets stuck there.




The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any
word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting or changing
one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are some recent winners:


Sarchasm
The gulf between the author of ironic wit and the reader who doesn't get it.

Reintarnation
Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

Giraffiti
Vandalism spray-painted very high.

Foreploy
Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of obtaining sex.

Inoculatte
To take coffee intravenously.

Osteopornosis
A degenerate disease.

Karmageddon
It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes,
right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like a serious bummer.

Glibido
All talk and no action.

Dopeler effect
The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Intaxication
Euphoria at getting a refund from the IRS, which lasts until you realize
it was your money to start with.

Ignoranus
A person who's both stupid and an asshole.

My Final Words Of Wisdom Tooth

The right side of my face is all pooched out and there's a big red blotch that
isn't a bruise and so I don't want to think about what caused it.

Here's the funny thing, though...at least I thought it was funny when I thought
about it this afternoon...'course, I'm on opiates...

But, get this. The other day after my surgery while I'm sitting there - wondering
where exactly my brain is since I know for a fact it is NOT in my cranial cavity
anymore because I distinctly remember it waving bye-bye and flying out my ear
during the first phase of drilling leaving me high and dry and forcing me to have
to really work hard to sit upright and look normal now that the ordeal is over -
the dentist comes in and starts telling me all the things I have to do and all
the things I must NOT do cause I could die probably.

The litany went something like this:

Okay, everything looks good. You can remove the gauze when you get home, or after
an hour whichever comes first. If bleeding continues, try biting down on a wet
teabag. You'll have to go to the pharmacy and get three prescriptions filled. Two
are for pain and one is an antibiotic that you have to take three times, spaced out
evenly throughout the day for the next ten days. Make sure you take all three and
don't miss a dose. The pain medications are Vicodin and Oxycodone. These seem to
work best if you alternate them, you know, take one then take the other the next
time. You can't brush your teeth today, but you can tomorrow and you should also
rinse your mouth out with salt water, 1/2 teaspoon in a glass of warm water, but NOT
today, starting tomorrow. I don't want you to suck anything through a straw and
don't spit! Don't blow your nose for at least three weeks. If you sneeze make sure
you keep your mouth open. Don't let your ears pop. Oh, you're not planning on
flying anywhere are you? No? Good. If you get a cold you can use your regular
antihistamine and if your nose runs, just wipe it, don't blow. Keep ice on your
cheek, twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. But after two days, switch to heat,
twenty on, twenty off. For the next couple of nights sleep in a recliner if you've
got one. Keep your head elevated and this will alleviate swelling...blah, blah,
blah, blah, blah.

His lips were moving but all I could hear was: GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE,
GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE, GETMEOUTOFHERE...

But, the whole time he's talking, my empty head is nodding up and down like a
bobblehead chiwawa on the dashboard of a Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and I'm going,
"Uh huh...uh huh...uh huh," like I AM GETTING ANY OF THIS! I wanted to ask him,
"Hey Buster, where were you when by brain left? It was that big gray, ripply mass
with the cute little bat wings that popped out and flew away when you were in there
drilling for the Lost Dutchman Mine!

So, I didn't comprehend anything he said and I felt really guilty about it but I
couldn't help it. In the car on the way home I was trying to read the written
instructions and The Man asked me what I thought I was doing and I told him I have
to read this stuff and he said I was nuts and to just sit back and relax.

Then, I was there in the pharmacy still totally numb and worrying that my bloody
piece of gauze was going to pop out as I listened to some old lady who told me that
television was all sex and bad words and that Obama was all for abortion and that he
was going to close all the churches just like in Russia, and then the pharmacist
called my name and asked me if I had any questions but I couldn't think of any
because I didn't even know what the prescriptions were for because my brain was in
Madagascar hunting wild Fossa.

Today I became concerned that I had missed a dose of the antibiotic and it took me
about an hour to figure out that I could just count how many pills I had left and
that would tell me how many I'd taken so far, but then I realized that I was having
difficulty counting normally because I HAD remembered to take the Oxycodone.

And, that's when I began to wonder.

If I can't keep track of all this stuff, how do the stupid people do it without
killing themselves?!

I made the realization during the surgery that the whole procedure was from some
evil science-fiction world and I was willing to go along with it.

But this post-surgery rigamarole is just too much!

And, that's all I have to say ever again about the matter!

Except tonight I have to drive to the airport and pick up my brain which is
arriving very late and will have, I'm sure, tons of baggage.

A Wisdom Tooth Poem of Horror

Yesterday I had a scare
while seated in the dental chair.
Sit back and read, then say a prayer
thanking God that you weren't there.
It wasn't fun, it wasn't easy.
It would've made a grown man queasy.

I went in for a simple transaction,
better known as wisdom-tooth extraction.
But, as you’ll see, this simple subtraction
turned into a chain reaction
of horror and fright difficult to express,
but let me try and recount my duress.

It all started out in a manner routine
no indication from the x-ray machine
of difficulties that might arise unforeseen
that would eventually turn me a yellowish-green.
I declined the anesthetic administered by vein
and was given instead SEVEN shots of Novocaine.

That was a mistake I now know in hindsight.
Unconsciousness would have been an utter delight.
I would have avoided the trauma and fright,
the need to hold on with all of my might.
But, I decided to be brave and save $300 dollars
which is why I’m not welcome in The Community of Scholars.

Then in mask and gloves appeared my oral surgeon
ready to work on me, his wisdom-tooth virgin.
Whilst I quickly looked for something to purge in
he lifted his arms and started to surge in.
I closed my eyes and pretended to be
walking in a meadow of daffodil and sweet pea.

He had told me that this was “only a twenty minute ordeal”
so I meditated in order to avoid having to feel
the panic that started rising somewhere in my heel
and spread through my body like liquid hot steel.
I entered a state of total submission,
as he prodded with tools from the Spanish Inquisition.

Forty-five minutes later he was still at it.
By now my jaw needed wiring, my lip was split,
my hands were shaking and, I have to admit,
I was on the verge of throwing a fit.
His latex gloves were filled with sweat dripping
onto my face and down my arms slipping.

The tooth wasn’t moving, it wouldn’t come out.
At one point the tool slipped, I let out a shout!
The dentist was panting, the nurse looked with doubt.
I felt like I was going to die, just about.
The pulling, the tugging went on ad infinitum
and it got to the point where I wanted to bite ‘em.

I was no longer able to meditate clearly.
The drilling affected my concentration dearly.
The sound was so loud, my skull grated severely
It whizzed up my brain stem and shuttered me queerly.
Instead, I began earnestly beseeching my tooth
to relinquish it’s hold on my jawbone, forsooth!

But all my pleading fell flat on deaf ears.
No matter my curses, my gut wrenching tears.
My tooth wouldn’t listen, it said it adheres
because it likes where it’s been all these years.
I had to admit, it did have a point
but, please, I said, please!, I want out of this joint.

Finally, finally, finally, at last!
The tooth popped out, sick of being harassed.
It came in two pieces, the crises was past
T’was a dentalian battle unsurpassed.
We three, the doctor, the nurse and me
all cried out in VICTORY!

The stitches were sewn with jubilant elation,
some x-rays followed, then a brief consultation.
I was given prescriptions and other information
about what to expect with regained oral sensation.
The Man was admitted to find me still breathing
and happy I’d survived this horrendous de-teething.

Now I’m recuperating in a drug induced haze.
My jaw is all swollen and will be for days.
The Man he is helping me get through this phase
with icepacks, pudding and the piano he plays.
I lie on the sofa and thank my stars lucky
that the day after tomorrow I won't feel so yucky.

But, one thing I do not understand, heaven knows,
is why I can’t for three weeks blow my nose!
And, when I sneeze my mouth mustn’t close!
This, until the wall of my nasal cavity re-grows.
I must be careful and try not to go mental
'Cause the last thing I want is to go back for more dental.

Now, I am weary and must go and rest,
I've tried to describe it all to my best.
I hope you've been able to perceive and digest
how important it was to get this off my chest.
So, this is my story, I swear on my youth,
it's the tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth.

You Can't Take Me Anywhere

This evening The Man decided to go walk along the pier. "Fine," I said, since I had
no intention of joining him. I usually go along, but tonight I thought not. After all,
I'd had a massive swim at the pool and had, after all, fixed dinner, and had, after all,
fed the fish, and had, after all, watered the pots. I after-alled out of going.

But, then I waited...and waited...and waited. He didn't come home. Where was he?
Did he fall down in a ditch? Did he stumble off the pier and drown? Did he get lost?
Did he get hit by a jet ski? Did aliens abduct him?

I mean, I was at a loss. I began to panic. He was out of my sight for thirty minutes
and there I was gasping for air thinking he must be dead and that I had nothing to
wear to the funeral except for an excellent pair of black Earth shoes that are really
just to die for.

I decided to go out and rescue him. I jumped up from the computer and jumped
onto my bicycle, neglecting to put on my shoes...or anyone's shoes, for that matter,
since this was an emergency!

Yes, I left the house on two wheels and shoeless...but, I figured that this was okay
since this is Lime Plant City and I had just polished my toenails this very afternoon.

I peeled down to the breakwater, running the stop sign, looking for The Man. He wasn't
lying along the side of the road. I couldn't see him thrashing about in the lake. I didn't
see any evidence of police intervention at the local bait shop. But, then, just as I was
about to head out onto the pier, there he was, sitting on a bench along the water's edge,
talking to a friend.

And, that's kinda when all hell broke loose.

You see, this friend is a right-wing, Fox News disciple, studying up for his final exam to join
the heavenly angels of racially-bigoted-hated-filled-close-the-borders-gimme-my-social-
security brotherhood.

I didn't know this when he told me to sit down and join the conversation. But, I will
say that I'd just left the house after reading all kinds of bad news on Alternet.com...which
tells you a little about where I was coming from when I sat down with this NUT CASE!

So, there we were...sitting lakeside, enjoying the late-summer tranquility and a few
mosquitoes, chit-chatting about my bare feet.

Then, somebody mentioned "healthcare."

Then, hell'th took over.

We got into it.

I don't know. Maybe it was the glasses of wine I'd had with dinner. Maybe it was the fact
that I'm doomed tomorrow because I'm going in for a much belated wisdom tooth extraction.
I don't know. But, whatever it was, something in me snapped. I got mad. Real mad.

I decided not to just smile and go "Hmmm. Uh huh..." to all the visceral garbage this guy
was spewing out. I decided to fight.

Later, The Man said I needed to work on my delivery. He's probably right. I did get a
little heated. But, I was steaming mad and let it fly. I couldn't help myself. I'm just so
sick, so sick, so sick of the racism and bigotry and fear and hatred I keep hearing from
uneducated people who can only spout out slogans and repeat sound bites they hear on Fox.

Listen, if you want to impress me, if you want me to listen, be original, okay?

Give me thoughtful countenance, not regurgitation!

Now I'm thinking I've ruined a friendship. I don't feel apologetic at all, though. I just
feel sad and miserable. I'm sad because I live here with nimrods, and I'm miserable
because I don't know where to go to escape them.

Not that I'm Dagney Taggert...but, Who is John Galt? And, more importantly, where
is Galt's Gulch. I need to go there.

I can't really remember the plot of Atlas Shrugged, but I do remember the mindless,
weakness of the people. And, that's what I feel now. And, that's why I got mad. And,
that's why I couldn't just shut up and go, "Hmmm...Uh huh..."

I'm really starting to worry. I'm really starting to think I'm living in an insane world.

And, let me tell you, if I'm starting to feel this way, it's a bad situation because I am
not an innovator, I am a reflector. I reflect what's going on. I'm representative of
the status quo. And, if the status quo is this screwed up, we're in for it.

I feel so sad.

I'm will continue thinking about this as I go under the knife tomorrow morning
at 9:45, at my oral surgeon's office, where they want a $300 deposit before they'll
do anything, in spite of the fact that I have dental insurance!!!