10 problems with proverbs
1. "Blood is thicker than water"
Oooooo......k... and a milkshake is thicker than a martini... and a volleyball is thicker than oatmeal... is there a point here?
2. "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs"
So what is this one implying? I can’t have breakfast unless I’m willing to attack a few unfertilized chicken fetuses?
3. "Don't cut off your nose to spite your face"
No clue here. But self mutilation as a learning tool just never sits well with me.
4. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth"
Well I’m certainly not going to get all that close to the OTHER end.
5. "Don’t count your chickens before they hatch"
This one’s just dark man... what sullen, morose mother came up with this sunny outlook on life and poultry?
6. "Strike while the iron is hot"
I don’t get it. What on earth due work-stoppage forced labor negotiations have to do with eliminating unsightly wrinkles from unpressed fabric?
7. "You can’t tell a book by it’s cover"
Um... yes you can. If it looks like a book, and it has a cover, odds are... it’s a book!
8. "The early bird gets the worm"
But what about the hard-partying bird that just stays up all night and never goes to bed? By this philosophy, isn’t he likely to be equally rewarded for acting irresponsibly? What kind example does that set for the children of the world? Or for Danny Bonaduce?
9. "Variety is the spice of life"
Personally, I like basil.
10. "Don’t put all your eggs in one basket"
Another chicken reference? Ok, that’s it. I think someone’s contemplating poultry just a little bit more than is truly healthy...
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Random thought #18
I know they say “the pen is mightier than the sword” and I’m all for believing them on that and stuff... but if I’m walking through some dark alley... and it’s like the middle of the night... and I come across some strange angry-lookin’ dude... I’m gonna hope he has a pen.
...a guy with a pen probably has more honorable intentions than a guy with a sword. Plus, I don't think a pen can decapitate you.
...a guy with a pen probably has more honorable intentions than a guy with a sword. Plus, I don't think a pen can decapitate you.
Random thought #17
Cows moo.
Sheep baa.
Horses whinny.
Crows crow.
Dogs bark.
Frogs croak.
Lions roar.
Cats mew.
Geese honk.
Snakes hiss.
Ducks quack.
Even a turkey gobble gobbles.
But how on earth do you describe the sound a Camel makes?
Sheep baa.
Horses whinny.
Crows crow.
Dogs bark.
Frogs croak.
Lions roar.
Cats mew.
Geese honk.
Snakes hiss.
Ducks quack.
Even a turkey gobble gobbles.
But how on earth do you describe the sound a Camel makes?
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Random paragraph #22
After spending the better part of an hour neck-deep in the refuse and filth that consumed the dumpster behind Wally’s Steak-o-rama, Bobby was spent... At this point, even if he DID find his retainer, he sure as hell wasn’t putting it back in his mouth. That being said, he really had no choice but to keep looking. After all, his mom was standing just a few feet away, watching his every move... tapping her foot and glaring at him with a look that seemed to indicate she would like nothing better than to see him spontaneously combust right then and there. Pushing a rotten banana peel off his shoulder and removing the broken syringe from his lower back, Bobby dove headfirst back into the sludge. "jeez," he thought, "she hasn’t looked this angry since that time I played hooky to go visit Anton at that Russian bathhouse."
Thursday, September 22, 2005
List #4
11 questions that don't need answers
1. Why are farm animals typically kept in what is linguistically a reservoir for ink?
2. Why is Spam – when it has a distinct reputation as one of the more well known “broke foods” – so darn expensive?
3. Why do Mickey and Goofy have to wear pants if Donald Duck doesn’t?
4. Why can an 870,000 pound mass of steel and jet fuel (carrying between 400-500 people no less) achieve heights in excess of 30,000 feet, when I can (even on my best day) only get my squat 185 pound frame about 10 inches or so off the ground?
5. Why doesn’t anyone tell Pooh that he is becoming obese, and if he keeps eating honey like he does, the sugar he loves so much will eventually kill him?
6. Why did I immediately think of pooh and obesity after considering my inability to take flight?
7. Why do birds suddenly appear, every time ewes are near?
8. Why did we as a society decide that the quest for the perfect paper fastener had been completed once the paper clip was invented?
9. Why can’t I pick up a paperclip without bending it so out of shape that it can never suitably be used for its intended purpose again?
10. Why is the person with the pocket-watch and funny hat who drives a train called the same thing as the guy in tails who holds a baton and tells the violins when to play... and why do both share their name with the technical term for any material that allows for the flow of electrons?
11. Why do I not have anything better to think about?
1. Why are farm animals typically kept in what is linguistically a reservoir for ink?
2. Why is Spam – when it has a distinct reputation as one of the more well known “broke foods” – so darn expensive?
3. Why do Mickey and Goofy have to wear pants if Donald Duck doesn’t?
4. Why can an 870,000 pound mass of steel and jet fuel (carrying between 400-500 people no less) achieve heights in excess of 30,000 feet, when I can (even on my best day) only get my squat 185 pound frame about 10 inches or so off the ground?
5. Why doesn’t anyone tell Pooh that he is becoming obese, and if he keeps eating honey like he does, the sugar he loves so much will eventually kill him?
6. Why did I immediately think of pooh and obesity after considering my inability to take flight?
7. Why do birds suddenly appear, every time ewes are near?
8. Why did we as a society decide that the quest for the perfect paper fastener had been completed once the paper clip was invented?
9. Why can’t I pick up a paperclip without bending it so out of shape that it can never suitably be used for its intended purpose again?
10. Why is the person with the pocket-watch and funny hat who drives a train called the same thing as the guy in tails who holds a baton and tells the violins when to play... and why do both share their name with the technical term for any material that allows for the flow of electrons?
11. Why do I not have anything better to think about?
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
List #3
7 Random thoughts I had today
1. Fat people shouldn’t own inflatable furniture.
2. Snow globes are really only entertaining for a few seconds – they probably make great gifts for people with ADD.
3. If cows had wheels they’d be a lot easier to mooove.
4. A rowing machine neither transports you anywhere, nor reduces the work involved in a given task. In that regard (as far as I’m concerned), it fails at both objectives its name implies.
5. I firmly believe that skinny people are unable to appreciate the full benefit of overstuffed chairs.
6. I have no idea what “NERF” stands for.
7. It’s kinda sad... though they sound more like names for a pet ogre on a 70s kids’ TV show, “google” & “blog” are now words that people in suits utter everyday with a straight face.
1. Fat people shouldn’t own inflatable furniture.
2. Snow globes are really only entertaining for a few seconds – they probably make great gifts for people with ADD.
3. If cows had wheels they’d be a lot easier to mooove.
4. A rowing machine neither transports you anywhere, nor reduces the work involved in a given task. In that regard (as far as I’m concerned), it fails at both objectives its name implies.
5. I firmly believe that skinny people are unable to appreciate the full benefit of overstuffed chairs.
6. I have no idea what “NERF” stands for.
7. It’s kinda sad... though they sound more like names for a pet ogre on a 70s kids’ TV show, “google” & “blog” are now words that people in suits utter everyday with a straight face.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Random Paragraph #22
37 weeks he’d spent at Miss Daisy’s Academy of Dance. 37 weeks foxtrotting, waltzing and quick stepping. 37 weeks filled with bruises, blisters, & calluses. All in the name of the dance. So, as he watched the great white swim away with what used to be the lead leg in a formidable paso doble, he cursed. At the shark, at God, and at Miss Daisy herself. She’d told him time and time again he’d never have a professional career in ballroom... that he just didn’t have, as she put it, “the legs of a dancer.” Well now, thanks to fate (and the mighty carcharodon carcharias), she’d finally been proven right.
Silver Linings #13
DARK CLOUD :(
No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to find any logical or rational nutritional justification for eating a Krisy Kreme donut or two... or seven.
SILVER LINING :)
With taste akin to glazed sunshine, and enjoyment on par to sliding bareback down a sugary rainbow, logic and nutrition should bear no weight in reasoning an activity such as this.
No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to find any logical or rational nutritional justification for eating a Krisy Kreme donut or two... or seven.
SILVER LINING :)
With taste akin to glazed sunshine, and enjoyment on par to sliding bareback down a sugary rainbow, logic and nutrition should bear no weight in reasoning an activity such as this.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Adventures with magnets (part two)...
All right, so when last we left our story, I was staring down the business end of a magnet that meant serious business...
Trying to force the image of being burned alive from my head (lest I somehow taint the results of what was about to take place), I deposited my remaining loose articles in a small wicker basket (how quaint) and proceeded to make my way over to “the machine.” Having been briefed at length on the various frightening and dramatic reactions other people had encountered upon embarking on this experience, my formerly calm outlook was now replaced with a growing fear – not really over what was about to happen, but rather a fear of embarrassing myself in front of the three professionals who now stood before me.
Now why exactly I cared what the woman wearing the bunny-print smock thought about the way I was conducting myself is a separate question altogether – and is one that I guess will have to be left for another occasion...
So, I laid down on the table and tried to make myself comfortable. I had just begun to convince myself that things weren’t so bad after all, when they brought out “the helmet.” Apparently, the medical personnel I had just been asked to put MY faith in, had such little faith in my ability to keep my head still that they felt it would be necessary to lock me into place like a battery in a flashlight. I soon came to learn that the helmet also served another purpose... helping to funnel the magnetic rays more directly into my skull.
Lovely.
To add insult to my impending fear of injury, I was then given earplugs and additional weighted “pillows” to help protect me from... something.
I can’t really tell you what they were supposed to protect me from, because once they put the earplugs in, everyone took on the audible characteristics of an adult from the “peanuts” cartoons, and I no longer possessed the capacity for discernable conversation.
Example:
Me: “Excuse me oh kind purveyor of the magnets lady... why are you smooshing sandbags into my head?”
Her: “wah, wah, wah, wah waaah... wah wah.”
Me: “but shouldn’t I be concerned if I’m letting someone expose me to something that requires these types of precautions?”
Her: “wah”
Me: “but what if I need to get out really quick... you know, like if there’s a fire or something?”
Her: “ha, ha, ha... waah, wah”
Then she walked away chuckling...
My fears fully realized, she hit the button to start my ascent... my descent... my... well whatever “cent” applies to lateral motion...
I began to slowly slide into the tube and I must admit... it was pretty freaky. Trying to come to grips with the fact that the ceiling was now only about an inch above my forehead, with the side walls just slightly wider than my frame... well that was a bit much... I never really considered myself to be susceptible to claustrophobia, but at that given moment in time, given my surroundings... I was beginning to get a strong feeling that my body was more than willing to take it up as a hobby...
So I closed my eyes... and that’s when the noises and the shaking began.
Correction... first there was the buzzing. Imagine if you will, being trapped inside one of the machines that gives hearing tests to fourth graders... You know, the ones where you sit on the hard-backed chair in the nurse’s office, and she plays all sorts of buzzing sounds, and expects you to raise your hand every time you hear one... well imagine that you’re inside one of those, and you can’t move or see anything... and instead of just hearing the sounds... imagine that you get a little shock every time one of the little “buzzes” is played...
(you know, kind of like if you stuck the wires from a smoke alarm together without disconnecting the power first – not that I’ve ever done that 17 times or anything)
Sounds like fun, huh?
Ok, so not EVERY sound was accompanied by pain... but enough of them were that I was beginning to get mildly suspicious... and I began to wonder if maybe something was wrong with the machine.... I was starting to worry that I was going to end up the subject of one of those weird news stories where something really bizarre happens and some poor schmuck has to watch his own nose disintegrate in front of his face because someone forgot to press the right switch...
(yes, I think about things like that)
I considered saying something... but I knew any indecipherable response I would get would probably accomplish nothing but to annoy the lady behind the controls... and as they always say:
“He who angers the magnet-lady.... um... probably won’t be able to carry credit cards in his pocket for a really long time.”
...or something.
Basically, I just had to hold on and hope for the best.
Sure enough, about 20 minutes later, the noises and the clicking and the shaking and the pain all stopped, and they pulled me back out of the machine.
I was congratulating myself on a job well done (and starting to get my pulse to return to normal), when she appeared with the needle. Still locked in the helmet, there was little I could do to avoid her. She injected me with... something... and smiled, saying it was “wah, wah” and would “wah wah wah,” my “wah wah” (I still had the earplugs in).
Left with no other choice, I simply smiled back and resigned myself to the fact that I was no longer in control of anything that would happen to my body (heck... if these people decided they wanted to shave my chest and use it to play a marathon game of “Risk,” well the best I would be able to do is undulate my tummy in hopes of simulating a large earthquake).
Then... they slid me BACK into the tube, for another round of the human buzzer... which mercifully, was much shorter than the last.
When all was said and done, I changed back into my clothes (trying not to disturb the fresh band aid on my arm) and quickly made my way back out to my car, quite sure that somehow my body parts must have retained at least some sort of magnetic charge (I confusing quite a few people in the parking lot when I tried to see if my face would stick to a lexus)...
It wasn’t really as miserable an experience as I have described... I’ve embellished here, and I’m being a bit overdramatic... In fact, I had made peace with the whole experience and even almost forgiven the people involved in my torture for causing me such anguish when I received a certain phone call last week... It seems they “forgot” to run a couple of tests when I was there, and now (and I swear this is the truth) they need me to come back so they can run them again...
Wonderful.
Maybe this time I’ll wear a thong... that should have me out of there in no time.
Trying to force the image of being burned alive from my head (lest I somehow taint the results of what was about to take place), I deposited my remaining loose articles in a small wicker basket (how quaint) and proceeded to make my way over to “the machine.” Having been briefed at length on the various frightening and dramatic reactions other people had encountered upon embarking on this experience, my formerly calm outlook was now replaced with a growing fear – not really over what was about to happen, but rather a fear of embarrassing myself in front of the three professionals who now stood before me.
Now why exactly I cared what the woman wearing the bunny-print smock thought about the way I was conducting myself is a separate question altogether – and is one that I guess will have to be left for another occasion...
So, I laid down on the table and tried to make myself comfortable. I had just begun to convince myself that things weren’t so bad after all, when they brought out “the helmet.” Apparently, the medical personnel I had just been asked to put MY faith in, had such little faith in my ability to keep my head still that they felt it would be necessary to lock me into place like a battery in a flashlight. I soon came to learn that the helmet also served another purpose... helping to funnel the magnetic rays more directly into my skull.
Lovely.
To add insult to my impending fear of injury, I was then given earplugs and additional weighted “pillows” to help protect me from... something.
I can’t really tell you what they were supposed to protect me from, because once they put the earplugs in, everyone took on the audible characteristics of an adult from the “peanuts” cartoons, and I no longer possessed the capacity for discernable conversation.
Example:
Me: “Excuse me oh kind purveyor of the magnets lady... why are you smooshing sandbags into my head?”
Her: “wah, wah, wah, wah waaah... wah wah.”
Me: “but shouldn’t I be concerned if I’m letting someone expose me to something that requires these types of precautions?”
Her: “wah”
Me: “but what if I need to get out really quick... you know, like if there’s a fire or something?”
Her: “ha, ha, ha... waah, wah”
Then she walked away chuckling...
My fears fully realized, she hit the button to start my ascent... my descent... my... well whatever “cent” applies to lateral motion...
I began to slowly slide into the tube and I must admit... it was pretty freaky. Trying to come to grips with the fact that the ceiling was now only about an inch above my forehead, with the side walls just slightly wider than my frame... well that was a bit much... I never really considered myself to be susceptible to claustrophobia, but at that given moment in time, given my surroundings... I was beginning to get a strong feeling that my body was more than willing to take it up as a hobby...
So I closed my eyes... and that’s when the noises and the shaking began.
Correction... first there was the buzzing. Imagine if you will, being trapped inside one of the machines that gives hearing tests to fourth graders... You know, the ones where you sit on the hard-backed chair in the nurse’s office, and she plays all sorts of buzzing sounds, and expects you to raise your hand every time you hear one... well imagine that you’re inside one of those, and you can’t move or see anything... and instead of just hearing the sounds... imagine that you get a little shock every time one of the little “buzzes” is played...
(you know, kind of like if you stuck the wires from a smoke alarm together without disconnecting the power first – not that I’ve ever done that 17 times or anything)
Sounds like fun, huh?
Ok, so not EVERY sound was accompanied by pain... but enough of them were that I was beginning to get mildly suspicious... and I began to wonder if maybe something was wrong with the machine.... I was starting to worry that I was going to end up the subject of one of those weird news stories where something really bizarre happens and some poor schmuck has to watch his own nose disintegrate in front of his face because someone forgot to press the right switch...
(yes, I think about things like that)
I considered saying something... but I knew any indecipherable response I would get would probably accomplish nothing but to annoy the lady behind the controls... and as they always say:
“He who angers the magnet-lady.... um... probably won’t be able to carry credit cards in his pocket for a really long time.”
...or something.
Basically, I just had to hold on and hope for the best.
Sure enough, about 20 minutes later, the noises and the clicking and the shaking and the pain all stopped, and they pulled me back out of the machine.
I was congratulating myself on a job well done (and starting to get my pulse to return to normal), when she appeared with the needle. Still locked in the helmet, there was little I could do to avoid her. She injected me with... something... and smiled, saying it was “wah, wah” and would “wah wah wah,” my “wah wah” (I still had the earplugs in).
Left with no other choice, I simply smiled back and resigned myself to the fact that I was no longer in control of anything that would happen to my body (heck... if these people decided they wanted to shave my chest and use it to play a marathon game of “Risk,” well the best I would be able to do is undulate my tummy in hopes of simulating a large earthquake).
Then... they slid me BACK into the tube, for another round of the human buzzer... which mercifully, was much shorter than the last.
When all was said and done, I changed back into my clothes (trying not to disturb the fresh band aid on my arm) and quickly made my way back out to my car, quite sure that somehow my body parts must have retained at least some sort of magnetic charge (I confusing quite a few people in the parking lot when I tried to see if my face would stick to a lexus)...
It wasn’t really as miserable an experience as I have described... I’ve embellished here, and I’m being a bit overdramatic... In fact, I had made peace with the whole experience and even almost forgiven the people involved in my torture for causing me such anguish when I received a certain phone call last week... It seems they “forgot” to run a couple of tests when I was there, and now (and I swear this is the truth) they need me to come back so they can run them again...
Wonderful.
Maybe this time I’ll wear a thong... that should have me out of there in no time.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Adventures with magnets (part one)...
So here’s a question...
Do YOU know what it would sound like if a woodpecker and an Atari 2600 got into a heated debate?
Well thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I do.
Let me back up a step or two here...
Last night I went to the hospital for my MRI. Nobody’s really concerned about my health, or expects anything other than the standard blobs and goo to show up on the films, but all the same, the doc wanted me to go, and I guess there were a couple of med techs who had nothing better to do on a Thursday night, so it was universally decided that spending an hour or so pummeling my cranium with high intensity radio and magnetic waves would be a wonderful idea...
Ok... technically, they exposed me to a large noninvasive device, which utilizing the properties of magnetism, created nondestructive, three-dimensional, internal images of the soft tissues of my body.
But they did it a lot.
And they stuck a needle in me.
And it hurt.
And they seemed to enjoy it.
And I think I heard them giggling.
...but I suppose that’s beside the point.
Here’s the rundown on what happened.
After getting to the hospital and checking in, a young woman ushered me into a small room and asked me to remove the majority of my clothing.
Normally I would consider this an auspicious start to any evening (and would frankly find it hard not to grin and giggle like a schoolboy with a frog in his pocket), but seeing as I was already acutely aware of what they had planned for me, it failed to produce anything other than a shrug and an obligatory smile.
I ventured into my stall, drew the curtain, and began to assemble my wardrobe for the upcoming festivities, which consisted mainly of my underwear (which I made sure to choice specifically for the occasion), my socks and shoes, a thin robe, and a “Johnny.”
If you’ve ever been in a hospital... or been TO a hospital, or heck, even seen a hospital on TV, then you probably know what a “Johnny” is... It’s that big flap of floral patterned fabric (looking disturbingly like wallpaper you might find in a Nantucket B&B) that you’re supposed to use to cover your abhorrent nakedness. It’s purposely left open in the back, with two comedically-designed ties that theoretically allow you to secure both it, and... ahem... your dignity.
Now the hospital was nice enough to give me a robe to wear as well, thereby eliminating any possible drafts that might arise due to my inabilities to properly secure my “Johnny” (that sounds dirty), but my question is this... nobody was going to be poking around with any of my real squishy parts... or looking to examine anything I don’t normally show off at parties... in truth, the only part they were really even going to be messing with was my head, a part of my anatomy that I already keep more or less out in the open on a pretty regular basis... so why did I need the “Johnny” and the robe?
“24 of 46 MRI facilities responding to a survey in 1999 (52 percent) reported the occurrence of MRI-related injuries and/or deaths resulting from undetected or misplaced metal objects either in the room or on the patient’s person”
Ok, so I guess I understand the need for the special, limited engagement, standing room only performance of “Flarf Nude,” but still... couldn’t somebody design some sort of getup that’s appropriate for this type of occasion? Did I really need to bundle up like a mentally challenged sherpa mounting an ill advised trip to the top of mount crazy?
Oh well...
Sheepishly walking beside the med tech (who I noted, didn’t seem to have any reservations about turning me into a living science experiment), I tried to imagine what lay ahead. I had heard all sorts of stories about what MRIs were like. Everything from tales of claustrophobic fits and nausea, to cold sweats and panic attacks flooded my brain. As we made our way down the hall, I came up with countless scenarios as to what my future might hold (one of which involved a stethoscope, a poodle, and an Armenian circus geek named Tullio). But I can honestly say that I was not in any way, shape or form expecting what greeted me as we turned the corner...
A trailer.
That’s right... a run of the mill, hook me to a big rig, east bound and down, jerry reed and floppy eared dog, “where’s the bandit” trailer...
My MRI machine... the piece of equipment I was about to get uncomfortably intimate with... the pinnacle of modern medical achievement standing before me... was housed... in a trailer. All I can say is, it’s not exactly comforting to realize that the set of “E.R.” has more advanced medical surroundings than the ones I was currently being asked to subject myself to. And to make it even better... the only way I was allowed to get into said trailer, was via a small motorized loading platform built into the side. Apparently, stairs are far too hazardous for someone in a “Johnny” to take on. Instead, I got live the life of a crate of peas being prepped for delivery. I stood on the platform and watched the tech press the magic button that began my 17-second (yes, I counted) ascent into the trailer.
...lifting me a grand total of three feet off the ground.
And then... there it was. A hulking behemoth in beige with a miniscule little hole in the middle (which was presumably, where they were going to try to stuff my pudgy little frame)... It looked a little bit like a bloated bagel, and for whatever reason, that thought kinda comforted me... until that is, I suddenly had the revelation that when one also took into consideration the table/conveyor belt that was emanating from said hole, it bore more of a resemblance to something else entirely...
...in short, a smaller version of every crematorium I had ever seen on tv.
That thought... not so comforting.
[to be continued]
Do YOU know what it would sound like if a woodpecker and an Atari 2600 got into a heated debate?
Well thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I do.
Let me back up a step or two here...
Last night I went to the hospital for my MRI. Nobody’s really concerned about my health, or expects anything other than the standard blobs and goo to show up on the films, but all the same, the doc wanted me to go, and I guess there were a couple of med techs who had nothing better to do on a Thursday night, so it was universally decided that spending an hour or so pummeling my cranium with high intensity radio and magnetic waves would be a wonderful idea...
Ok... technically, they exposed me to a large noninvasive device, which utilizing the properties of magnetism, created nondestructive, three-dimensional, internal images of the soft tissues of my body.
But they did it a lot.
And they stuck a needle in me.
And it hurt.
And they seemed to enjoy it.
And I think I heard them giggling.
...but I suppose that’s beside the point.
Here’s the rundown on what happened.
After getting to the hospital and checking in, a young woman ushered me into a small room and asked me to remove the majority of my clothing.
Normally I would consider this an auspicious start to any evening (and would frankly find it hard not to grin and giggle like a schoolboy with a frog in his pocket), but seeing as I was already acutely aware of what they had planned for me, it failed to produce anything other than a shrug and an obligatory smile.
I ventured into my stall, drew the curtain, and began to assemble my wardrobe for the upcoming festivities, which consisted mainly of my underwear (which I made sure to choice specifically for the occasion), my socks and shoes, a thin robe, and a “Johnny.”
If you’ve ever been in a hospital... or been TO a hospital, or heck, even seen a hospital on TV, then you probably know what a “Johnny” is... It’s that big flap of floral patterned fabric (looking disturbingly like wallpaper you might find in a Nantucket B&B) that you’re supposed to use to cover your abhorrent nakedness. It’s purposely left open in the back, with two comedically-designed ties that theoretically allow you to secure both it, and... ahem... your dignity.
Now the hospital was nice enough to give me a robe to wear as well, thereby eliminating any possible drafts that might arise due to my inabilities to properly secure my “Johnny” (that sounds dirty), but my question is this... nobody was going to be poking around with any of my real squishy parts... or looking to examine anything I don’t normally show off at parties... in truth, the only part they were really even going to be messing with was my head, a part of my anatomy that I already keep more or less out in the open on a pretty regular basis... so why did I need the “Johnny” and the robe?
“24 of 46 MRI facilities responding to a survey in 1999 (52 percent) reported the occurrence of MRI-related injuries and/or deaths resulting from undetected or misplaced metal objects either in the room or on the patient’s person”
Ok, so I guess I understand the need for the special, limited engagement, standing room only performance of “Flarf Nude,” but still... couldn’t somebody design some sort of getup that’s appropriate for this type of occasion? Did I really need to bundle up like a mentally challenged sherpa mounting an ill advised trip to the top of mount crazy?
Oh well...
Sheepishly walking beside the med tech (who I noted, didn’t seem to have any reservations about turning me into a living science experiment), I tried to imagine what lay ahead. I had heard all sorts of stories about what MRIs were like. Everything from tales of claustrophobic fits and nausea, to cold sweats and panic attacks flooded my brain. As we made our way down the hall, I came up with countless scenarios as to what my future might hold (one of which involved a stethoscope, a poodle, and an Armenian circus geek named Tullio). But I can honestly say that I was not in any way, shape or form expecting what greeted me as we turned the corner...
A trailer.
That’s right... a run of the mill, hook me to a big rig, east bound and down, jerry reed and floppy eared dog, “where’s the bandit” trailer...
My MRI machine... the piece of equipment I was about to get uncomfortably intimate with... the pinnacle of modern medical achievement standing before me... was housed... in a trailer. All I can say is, it’s not exactly comforting to realize that the set of “E.R.” has more advanced medical surroundings than the ones I was currently being asked to subject myself to. And to make it even better... the only way I was allowed to get into said trailer, was via a small motorized loading platform built into the side. Apparently, stairs are far too hazardous for someone in a “Johnny” to take on. Instead, I got live the life of a crate of peas being prepped for delivery. I stood on the platform and watched the tech press the magic button that began my 17-second (yes, I counted) ascent into the trailer.
...lifting me a grand total of three feet off the ground.
And then... there it was. A hulking behemoth in beige with a miniscule little hole in the middle (which was presumably, where they were going to try to stuff my pudgy little frame)... It looked a little bit like a bloated bagel, and for whatever reason, that thought kinda comforted me... until that is, I suddenly had the revelation that when one also took into consideration the table/conveyor belt that was emanating from said hole, it bore more of a resemblance to something else entirely...
...in short, a smaller version of every crematorium I had ever seen on tv.
That thought... not so comforting.
[to be continued]
What's up, doc (part II)...
So last week I saw a specialist.
It was a visit that went pretty much as scripted... The doc asked all sorts of questions, poked and prodded me with various implements and appendages, had me walk a (relatively) straight line, and shined lots of lights of various levels of brightness into the assorted orifices of my anatomy.
All in all, a successful application of medical care.
He was professional, courteous, arrogant and condescending... in other words, everything I look for in specialist. Unfortunately though, aside from telling me I was an idiot to think that something other than the fact that I have migranes might be causing my problems, he didn’t really have much to say...
Correction... He knows what the Tullio symptom is.
You should now be impressed.
I know I was... want to know why?
Because he told me I should be impressed... many, many times.
When I told him about some equilibrium problems I was having (related to some stuff going on in one of my ears), he informed me I was displaying... [insert dramatic pause] the Tullio symptom. Then, he got all excited, started smiling, and immediately ran from the room.
I interpreted this as a positive sign... an indication that perhaps he had had an epiphany, and now, with a simple flourish of his pen upon his mighty pad of prescription, he would be able to remedy all my problems.
I would be incorrect in this assumption.
Upon returning, he said (with a very self-satisfying smirk on his face) that he was one of maybe 2 or 3 doctors in the entire Boston area who would be able to recognize the Tullio symptom.
And he said that this was something extraordinary.
[insert second dramatic pause]
I wasn’t sure how exactly I was supposed to react to this... Was I supposed to applaud? Give him a gold star? Swoon and fall to my knees? I still don’t know... but whatever he was expecting, I must not have delivered, because he seemed to be under whelmed by my reaction to his revelation. In fact, I think I even saw him pout a little. Then, he handed me a page of “research” he had printed out from the internet that described the Tullio symptom. This was all well and good except for one thing... he/it didn’t tell me anything... I didn’t know if this new found diagnoses was related to my recent episodes... or if it was some impending harbinger of doom that would trigger me going into some sort of delusional rage, giving all my possessions away and frolicking nude with reckless abandon... or even if I might now morph into some form of superhuman that would be able to read minds and fight crime with a special unit of the FBI.
He didn’t know any of this...
All he knew was that HE knew what it was called... and most people didn’t.
...so there.
The rest of my visit proved mostly uneventful. He doesn’t really think anything’s “wrong” with me per se, and most likely I’ll just have to see if I can manage my symptoms on my own. Maybe by eating different foods. Maybe by altering my sleeping patterns. Maybe by pounding medications like they’re chicklets... only time will tell which things will work out best.
That being said, he did want me to have an MRI... you know, just in case.
Reassuring.
In truth, since I have a family history of noggin’ problems, it was kinda a no brainer (pun fully intended) to order the test. These things can be passed on, and it would probably be prudent to make sure that nothing serious is going on – either as a result of my recent symptoms, or simply as a result of my genetics.
Or, to use his exact words...
[insert third dramatic pause]
“We might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
Very reassuring.
It was a visit that went pretty much as scripted... The doc asked all sorts of questions, poked and prodded me with various implements and appendages, had me walk a (relatively) straight line, and shined lots of lights of various levels of brightness into the assorted orifices of my anatomy.
All in all, a successful application of medical care.
He was professional, courteous, arrogant and condescending... in other words, everything I look for in specialist. Unfortunately though, aside from telling me I was an idiot to think that something other than the fact that I have migranes might be causing my problems, he didn’t really have much to say...
Correction... He knows what the Tullio symptom is.
You should now be impressed.
I know I was... want to know why?
Because he told me I should be impressed... many, many times.
When I told him about some equilibrium problems I was having (related to some stuff going on in one of my ears), he informed me I was displaying... [insert dramatic pause] the Tullio symptom. Then, he got all excited, started smiling, and immediately ran from the room.
I interpreted this as a positive sign... an indication that perhaps he had had an epiphany, and now, with a simple flourish of his pen upon his mighty pad of prescription, he would be able to remedy all my problems.
I would be incorrect in this assumption.
Upon returning, he said (with a very self-satisfying smirk on his face) that he was one of maybe 2 or 3 doctors in the entire Boston area who would be able to recognize the Tullio symptom.
And he said that this was something extraordinary.
[insert second dramatic pause]
I wasn’t sure how exactly I was supposed to react to this... Was I supposed to applaud? Give him a gold star? Swoon and fall to my knees? I still don’t know... but whatever he was expecting, I must not have delivered, because he seemed to be under whelmed by my reaction to his revelation. In fact, I think I even saw him pout a little. Then, he handed me a page of “research” he had printed out from the internet that described the Tullio symptom. This was all well and good except for one thing... he/it didn’t tell me anything... I didn’t know if this new found diagnoses was related to my recent episodes... or if it was some impending harbinger of doom that would trigger me going into some sort of delusional rage, giving all my possessions away and frolicking nude with reckless abandon... or even if I might now morph into some form of superhuman that would be able to read minds and fight crime with a special unit of the FBI.
He didn’t know any of this...
All he knew was that HE knew what it was called... and most people didn’t.
...so there.
The rest of my visit proved mostly uneventful. He doesn’t really think anything’s “wrong” with me per se, and most likely I’ll just have to see if I can manage my symptoms on my own. Maybe by eating different foods. Maybe by altering my sleeping patterns. Maybe by pounding medications like they’re chicklets... only time will tell which things will work out best.
That being said, he did want me to have an MRI... you know, just in case.
Reassuring.
In truth, since I have a family history of noggin’ problems, it was kinda a no brainer (pun fully intended) to order the test. These things can be passed on, and it would probably be prudent to make sure that nothing serious is going on – either as a result of my recent symptoms, or simply as a result of my genetics.
Or, to use his exact words...
[insert third dramatic pause]
“We might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
Very reassuring.
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