The Rock, the Island, and What On Earth is This?

It is time as we approach the Deep and Dark December, that I again realize that I have to devote a period of time to this blog thing. I haven't done it much of late, because I'm busy. And I don't often feel I have much to contribute to the blogverse any longer.

Someone recently made an observation about my busy nature. It is that, to be busy, to be occupied, to be doing things. An old friend counseled me in her way of saying something without meaning it be a judgment, that I was doing things to keep myself busy.

She would be right.

The important thing for me is to try and keep myself moving forward, despite the ever-increasing need to focus an ever-declining number of brain cells toward tasks at hand. 

The Simon & Garfunkel tune has always resonated with me. I wonder who that misanthropic character is based on. Interesting that song out of so many wonderful ones from that period showed up on my radar as a young person, and stayed.

I had old Columbia 45's (remember those?) my brothers had and left...I think those were David's, but I can't be sure. Anyway, the music of the late 60's was in the head of a young child, post-Boomer, pre-70's, who knows what I was.

I'm aware of certain things from that period, not all of them good. I remember the music my brothers listened to specifically: Beatles, Stones, CCR, Dylan, the Doors, I think. Not a bad template to learn from, and the generations after that followed them.

Music again is coming back around for me, but it is not taking. An old friend and bandmate is interested again, as is a friend from another project. I don't know.

I honestly don't. I can still write, but do I have the health, and/or the energy to do another band, another project? I have some questions that need to be asked before I commit.

My writing...I am a pre-Curmudgeonly Zen Pagan Bastard who is in a Fucking Hurry. I am trying to be patient.

I had a very interesting experience the past couple of weeks, and I want to share what happened with the online retailer Amazon.

I give you Exhibit A:

"Parasite Girls" came out in 2013, and you can get it from me (when you see me, heh!), on Amazon.com and on Smashwords for cheap, if you have an e-reader, any of them.

Well, this book was mired down in about 8-millionth-515-thousandth place for fiction not that long ago. There are something like 11 million books for sale through Amazon.

My old friend Jim Henry, author of many interesting things, such as the Antiquity Calais series told me that he purchased his books full price for his book signing stock, because it helped his sales numbers.

I thought about that, and so I conducted a test. I bought ONE copy of "Parasite Girls," $9.99 plus shipping. I wanted to see what would happen; it takes a day for the figures on Amazon to catch up.

Next day, "Parasite Girls" was at 255-thousandth something.

What's that tell you?

Was that a fluke? So just for fun, I tried with my latest, "Live from the Cafe."

Well, it was at 7 or 8-millionth whatever, too. That jumped to 250-thousandth or thereabouts.

One book.

One full-price buy did that.

What. The. Fuck?

Not like I'm getting a lot of the cut for those, but damn. So friends, this is why we need to have the support of those who dig what we do.

If a few people, just a few people buy the book, Amazon and the muckety-mucks who know what's what in the literary world will take notice.

"And if two people do it...in harmony..." (Thank you, Arlo Guthrie)

It becomes an organization, or a movement.

You know, I totally get that my writings may not be your thing. I get that money is tight as fuck, and if the tax package those drooling bottomfeeders want to pass in DC goes through, it will be even tighter.

The thing I need, however, is not just that. I have to keep writing, I have to keep working, and I have to get the body of work going in the direction it needs to go.

I'm not seeing the support of the community the way we thought we'd see it. Local bookshops may not be in the keeping of a corporate office telling them everything to do, but they too must stock what they know they can sell. Shelf space is not easy in too many cases.

Doing my best to get my work out there, to get that attention, to get the public to meet the real, live author, and then it becomes the pitch that you hope gets people to whip out their card or their wallet.

Hardest part is when someone is supportive, and says they'll buy your stuff...and then they don't.

I don't mind if you don't, but don't bullshit me. If it is not your thing, I'm cool with it. My work is a semi-acquired taste, I realize that.

But I gotta get the next one ready, and I'm formulating too many things at once, while doing everything else at the same time.

This is how it is. I'm in a hurry, because I may leave this body before all things are in place. So that's why I'm like this.

Okay...now here's the topic of the week.

Sexual harassment, and/or assault.

Yikes.

The body count is rising. From Harvey Weinstein's antics, it now has crossed all manner of business. Roy Moore, in his fake "Christian" arrogance and the idea that women are handmaids and girls are virginal creatures for the taking and abuse is still likely to win a seat in Washington.

Matt Lauer, #1 seat holder on the "Today" show is gone, and suddenly. 

And why am I not surprised about Garrison Keillor?

Well...first of all, I don't know any of these guys. But you see them, and you know the culture we are in.

In the media business, believe me, it hasn't changed much. The Boys Club is still that, and horny, crotch-grabbing, masturbatory world of 40 year olds who didn't make it past middle school for maturity. All you need do is listen to sports talk radio, or any talk radio, and you can hear it.

Let's think about harassment. You know, I was as guilty as some, but thankfully I have not suffered consequences other than embarrassment, having to face something I didn't fully understand, and then owning it.

One reason we have people like this is because we do not have frank, honest discussion about sex, sexuality, and the breaking down of roles, re: what we are and what women are, and how we're supposed to treat one another.

I had no social skills growing up. None. I had very little understanding for attractions, and I didn't always understand what others said. I was behind the curve.

The things we said in college...you have to know, I didn't have hardly any contact with high school peers. I remember emotionally how I was the first year in college, awkward, shy, not mature enough to be there.

I admit that my efforts to know certain people were taken wrong...but that is my fault.

I own not understanding how I creeped out people that were my friends. I didn't know, but I did know. 

That immaturity lasted until I got called out my senior year by a young woman. She let me have it and I deserve what I got.

I apologized, and I think she accepted that.

That incident changed a lot of my thinking, but I still had a lot of growing up to do. I have at times not been correct, but I am certain I've not intentionally hurt anyone.

I learned my boundaries, and I want to think I am ever more mindful of that.

So why has this perpetuated itself all these decades?

Well, let's look at some of what I heard and saw in my career. Certain jobs I had were pretty chill, in terms of the male/female dynamic. I did have one issue with one fellow employee; me forgetting myself, not gauging a sense of humor, a fuckup again, on my part.

Beyond that and before it: I could not be surprised at the sexist, and misogynistic attitude some men (and men old enough to know better) displayed toward female colleagues, be they announcers, in sales, or interns.

Ei, but the interns got shit from some quarters. I remember one station was a mill for interns. One executive had nicknames for some of them. The prerequisite for an intern was not where you went to college, what you were doing in school, or what you had for any kind of track record, but how short were their skirts, and how big were their breasts.

That's an observation. I know what I saw, and heard. I found out that one of the young ladies who was in the place for a time trained as a kickboxer. I was manager of the station at the time; I gave her permission to use her skills as necessary.

She was amused, but she understood, and seemed to have been through it before. I kind of hoped to walk in one day and find one of the offenders lying on the floor after taking a roundhouse kick to the teeth.

One of my colleagues was still thinking he was in his 20's when he was not. He totally was convinced that if a young female sat, stood or breathed in his vicinity that, SHE WANTS ME!!!

FACEPALM.

My point is not to stigmatize anyone or anything like that. My point is, we have all fucked up at least once in our lives.

We have said things we wished we didn't say; we did things we could take back. We can't. We can only hope to show some growth by being sorry, admitting our error, and trying to make it right.

Some people are beyond hope. They truly believe they can do no wrong, that everyone's overreacting, they're lying, they're soft, they're Milennials, they're snowflakes, this, that, etc.

NO. YOU ARE JUST A FUCKING CHILD IN AN ADULT BODY. 

We need to grow up, folks. In so many ways.

We don't live in the past. This is not the set of "Mad Men," or any of those other shows.

I don't give a shit what you look like. I don't care what you wear, or don't wear. If you're working with me, you are a fellow, a colleague and we are working for the same fucking goals.

You might be asking, "Well, don't you have attractions for women?"

Of course I do. I'm just at the point of knowing that in my life, the way things are...I don't see women interested in me. Or anyone, for that matter.

Yes, people, male or female, neutral, this, that whatever, you interest me by what you say, what you do, how you are. I don't have to agree with you politically, religiously, spiritually, or on anything. 

But how do you treat people? And how do you see me?

I take it as a case by case thing, and try to do my best to be the person who would like you to treat me as I do you. If that makes sense.

Yes, some people rub me the wrong way. Some people piss me off. Some people I find abhorrent.

I don't hate anyone. I despise some people, dislike others, have contempt for a few, but I don't hate them.

Hate is a destroyer. The people who spew their filth on social media from behind their keyboards and fake screen names, you are killing yourselves. You are taking a dull, jagged butter knife and disemboweling yourself on the Altar of Facebook.

If you think your employer, your family and friends can't see you, think again. They will find you; hopefully before your ulcerated cancerous soul dies, and your lie in a pool of your own self-satisfaction.

Now some of these people...a disturbing story has come about regarding Ann Curry, a co-host on "Today." I always felt that Ann was a good journalist, who would have made a very good host.

They used her as a toy, a fool, a joke, the token Asian lady. The worst thing they did to her was dress her up like a cheerleader.

Nothing surprised me about morning TV and it still doesn't. News is not delivered from a couch, assholes. I'm showing my age, but so what?

Curry it seems was set up to fail by those behind the scenes, and it appears Lauer, if not behind it directly, was in on the game and approved.

She was gone, Lauer was given millions to re-up in 2012-13, because execs were worried. Meredith Vieira was leaving, and the loss of the appealing and popular host, coupled with the potential loss of Lauer, left NBC in trouble. 

They didn't trust Curry, nor like her, and they ran her out. They treated her like shit.

Now Lauer suddenly got fired. My guess is whatever he did or is alleged to have done was bad enough, or, a long enough pattern beyond circumstancial evidence or he-said, she-said that he had to go.

Keillor...I'll tell you what, the urbane, cultured, intelligent voice of Lake Woebegon was a gifted storyteller, and is. He is a decent author and writer, and he knew how to run a show.

I did not like certain things about "A Prairie Home Companion." For one, his use of executive privilege.

His singing. He can't. I can sing better than that.

I didn't mind his singing the open, "Ah, hear that old piano from down the avenue..." That sets the tone, you know where you are. That was fine.

But his insistance on singing with the guests! No, just didn't work.

And the pervy old geezer...I remember his bizarre, strange, haunted look he had on his face when the show was live on TV several years back. He was telling a story, and he looked and acted for the world as a perv. Something was just not right.

I thought, "Okay, it's how he looks, his voice, this is how he gets the point across."

Then later on, his perverse onstage gushing over a singer named Iris DeMent. Iris is a folksinger from Kansas, and her voice is unique. She is a good musician and a very good songwriter.

Her voice is high. Nails on a chalkboard high; I get it, but I don't.

Well, she was a staple on the show, and I figured out why one time while listening. Keillor introduced her and over-explained how they were going to sing "a love song" together.

He sounded like a quivering, licentious fiddler (not a musician) as he spoke to DeMent onstage in a way that was disturbing. Fucking Disturbing. 

They sang "That's the Way Love Goes," which Merle Haggard made a hit with. She sounded fine; he sounded like himself. Embarrassing.

Why on Earth DeMent kept going on that show I have no idea. Maybe she didn't feel he was doing anything, I don't know. We'll have to ask her.

Now...this incident:

I do not know the woman's side yet...Keillor has admitted to touching her, but that either she moved, or things didn't angle right, and she was taken aback.

He apologized. Is that what happened? I don't know, I was not there.

This is not to defend Keillor, because his track record of treating backstage people is not good. He's not the nicest man, I hear, but to be fair I have not met him.

I think we guys need to check ourselves. Even if we have not said/done anything, and our records and consciences are clear, here is the lesson I've learned over the years.

Men are NOT chick magnets. Women do NOT want us, just because we're there.

I've often felt my physical condition, look, size or whatever is hardly sexy by the standards that we're expected to uphold. Women, well, see what they're forced to deal with. It's worse. I don't think I need to go there.

As a man, I know certain things attract me, but I hope I know that is not what makes a person, not one bit. 

A little advice from an old guy about relationships, and the love thing: my experience has always been, that I didn't expect to fall for someone. 

I was not looking for it. It happened. It didn't matter to me who that person was, the feeling was there, and it went from there.

At my age, I have a lot of what I call Intellectual Friends. People I can talk to, hang out with, discuss things. I find those the best relationships, because those people become your friends.

That's about it.

We are going through them changes, and we've resisted change with every fiber. We can't live in the past anymore, we need live for the now, and for the future. It's changing, all of it is changing, we are changing.

Embrace the change. Accept the change, and know that change does not have to kill you. Unless you want it to. 

If that's the case and you cling to that past, my dear, you're on your own.

Peace, Out.

Cyst Removal, American Health Care and Who in Russia is Reading My Blogs?

Okay...I am lying in bed with my wounded leg propped up, and Mitsuko Uchida is finishing off Schumann's "Davidsbundlertanze & Fantasie" on my iTunes, though I can barely hear it with the fan going.  I am not officially on the disabled list, but I have to be good and not do too much over the course of the next few days.

Right up front, I want you to realize that what I'm writing about is not to bemoan my condition, or that I am at death's door.  I've already been there once, so let's forget that.

But...what was to be a routine procedure turned into a week-long agony of weirdness which brings is to the state of the average person's health care and the wonder of why we need to do something about it.

If you don't know, I'm staying quiet on this because I really don't want to talk about it, but I can't help it.  Here's the deal:  I have over the years found myself susceptible to having a thing called a Sebaceous Cyst, or rather, several of them on my body.

I have two along my jawline, one of which got to be the size of a damn golf ball a few years ago before it blew, and I spent the better part of two days squeezing blood-tinged cottage cheese out of it.  Lovely sound it made, too.  The same one blew again a couple years ago, but cleared itself out with one huge sound of like someone blowing their nose.

I have one on my lower back which has been there for years, and the one on my inside left leg, right near the family pride.  They tend to be hard as rocks, and occur when hair somehow gets twisted up inside the skin (I think).  Sebum, this lovely white substance that is either like cottage cheese or hard as a rock, fills into the area and makes things get really big.

They are not cancerous, nor are they particularly dangerous.  They're just there; some people notice them, some people don't.  I don't like it when people stare at the one on my face, and immediately think something's the matter with me.

Surgical removal is the only way to officially get rid of the things.  Draining them doesn't really work, you have to remove the wall of the offending area.  

So anyway, a week ago I'm on this same bed, and I felt and heard the cyst go...internally.  A very strange feeling.  Where's it going, is it getting into my bloodstream, etc., etc.  These things make you wonder.

I was urged by a friend of a friend to go to find a doctor, fast.  I went to a Patient First outfit, and I must say I like the place.  They're open a lot, and provide decent service for not much money.  

The doctor there took one look at it, there really wasn't much to look at but the now diminished ball; he saw no issue, no sign of infection, but, "We don't do that here."

The above is almost like the mantra for a lot of doctor places.

This fellow says I need a General Surgeon, for an in and out job.  Okay; need to see primary care physician, can't see anyone till Monday.

See where the trouble is beginning?  The delay in getting this looked at becomes a problem.

Well, my primary care physician is on vacation (heard that one before, haven't we?).  I get her boss; a doctor who was way too happy with the world around him.

By the time this dude sees me, that cyst is now reddening, and not looking so good.  I'm doing my best to keep it clean, but the swelling makes it rub...everywhere.  Against my skin, against my clothes, against everything.  It's getting raw, and it's getting ugly, folks, see where we're going here.

Well, the doctor takes one look at this mess and says he does not dare tap it himself.  Okay; why not?

Too many other patients (customers) waiting?  Worried about your skills?  Or are you just grossed out by what you're seeing and I'm feeling?

So he sends me out front to the desk people and it's call the General Surgery people up the street and get me an appointment.  Oh, and drugs.

Antibiotics and me don't get along.  I'm allergic to penicillin, and most sulfa meds.  So they call in a scrip for a powerful, and expensive antibiotic.  Very expensive.

And they try to book me.  Oh, tomorrow they say?  But he won't have the antibiotics?  Let's again ask the doctor if that's okay, shall we?

Appointment lost. 

Meanwhile, I'm standing there, and realizing that the pain that is coming out of that throbbing mass of gristle inside my skin is getting worse.

So they call again..."they have one on the 14th," the young lady behind the counter says.

Eight more days...let's pause for a moment here.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, LADY?  IS THERE ONLY ONE SURGERY I CAN GO TO?  ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?

I'm saying that to myself of course.  They then find one for today (this day), and I figure all right, I can hold out till then.  Knowing in the back of my mind, that I am in trouble.

The glutinous mess inside my leg is now expanding and hardening again.  There's one small area that's flaming red, and losing its skin.  I cannot even put bandages over it, it's that painful.

So, two more fucking days of this and trying to act like everything's okay.  And people say our health system is the best ever?  NO.  NO.  FUCK NO.  YOU SNOTTY LITTLE FUCKTARDS WITH INSURANCE FOR LIFE, GET REAL!

I have insurance, and it don't pay for shit.  I pay $180 for TEN, count 'em, TEN Avelox pills.  They make me dizzy, they make my body temperature rise and fall like the waves around Cape Horn, and you hope they actually work.

So I'm toughing it out.  The only way I can be comfortable and pain-free is lying down or sitting and not moving.  When I stand, not good.

Okay, flash forward to 4 am.  I am awakened by something, and I know it ain't good.

I don't even dare move, but I have to.  Something down on my leg does not feel right.  I feel something there; it's wet.  Thick.  Glutinous.

It blew.  Outward this time.  Now a closer inspection reveals the top of this dome has opened itself up to the air.  It's dark purple, it's ugly, it's bruised, it's bleeding.  Oh, and the pus.

The wastebaskets in my bedroom, office and bathroom became repositories for medical waste.  And lots of it.  The fucking thing is bottomless, and I am in fucking agony.  Two more Aleve (how many of these have I had?) and I finally force my body to calm down enough to where I figure I have no choice but to take the pain of wrapping this semi-fecund mess and hoping I can make it to the appointment.

Bless my friend Alice, for coming to drive me out there.  I could not have done it.  Into the surgery place, which is basically a doctor's office for the specialty; the guy who leads it looks a prize.  

Paperwork, another copay, loud old people SHOUTING AT ONE ANOTHER EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE SEATED BESIDE ONE ANOTHER IN THE FUCKING OFFICE.  And whatever else.

So finally I am brought back to another waiting room, then into the exam room.  More questions, blahfuckingblah and I meet the young female MD who's going to do the job.

Wow.  A smart one.  One who doesn't think she is all that; one who is professional, not a smiley faced nut, and actually seems to have a handle on the matter.  

Nothing against her colleagues, but HOLY FUCKING SHIT.  THIS IS NOW INFECTED, ABCESSED.  WE DID NOT HAVE TO GO HERE.  THIS, as I told one of their receptionists, SHOULD HAVE BEEN DEALT WITH A WEEK AGO.  THEN I WOULD NOT BE HERE.

Well, the Doctor gets down to business.  Now...I should tell you if you are eating, STOP READING THIS RIGHT NOW.  This is not for the squeamish.  This is not even for the sadistic or those who derive cheap thrills out of reading or watching a train wreck happen before their eyes.

Needless to say, breathing near this dome of infected flesh causes pain.  I keep telling myself that I've endured much worse; my car wreck in '94 and all that went with that, yes, damned sight worse.  But this had its own fun little moments, to be sure.

Anyway, the procedure generally calls for a draining of the blood and pus, removal of the cyst (if anything hard actually remains) and a cleaning out of the wall.  First things first, cleaning around it...

...my doctor did a very good job, and she was very keen on causing me as little discomfort as possible.  (Mozart's Mass in C Minor, with valkyries singing along with forboding music has begun...oh this works).

That done, the injection of painkiller, with a very long needle.  The young lady medical assistant did take an effort to hide the length and thickness of said needle from me, but I still saw it.  Strangely, that did not bother me; consider that my dental hygienist went through school sticking those into her own gums as part of her training before she got to me...and you will find that not much fazes me.

"You'll feel a stick, and then a burn..."  Well, not so bad, really.  I felt it, sure, but again the doctor showed her skill at doing this without much issue.

Then we get to the issue.  I barely felt the incision, only about an inch long through the infected epidermal layers, and down and in we go.  The doctor begins the "draining."  Actually, more of a heavy-handed massage of my thigh...the top of the dome had been seeping out all this shit in the morning, so I could only imagine something reminiscent of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919 going on where I could not see.

That is one creepy fucking feeling...you can feel the ooze splattering, gushing and crawling down your leg into the waiting formerly white medical stuff they use down there to catch shit.

I have seen Youtube videos of this kind of procedure; if you want, go there and then you'll really be grossed out.  

Now if this is not enough for you (are you with me still?  Good.), we then get to the main event.  REMOVAL.

I don't know what tool the doctor used, a forceps of some sort, and she started working around in there with it.  Now the pain really starts.  This is a unique brand of torture; didn't last long, but that was enough.

The doctor shows me a piece of the sebum that was in there; half the size of a dime, it looked like a piece of plastic that had been chewed on by some animal.

So while they fill a wastebasket full of the remnants of my leg, they finally clean it off again.  In the past, they used to pack the entire hole with cotton or something other; you'd have to have it removed every day, cleaned, repacked, etc.  They don't do that anymore.

The wound is still open, and the idea is to keep it draining.  You tuck a corner of a gauze bandage into the hole, then hold that in place while you use your second and third hands to wrap it in place.  Not too difficult, but you have to be thorough.  You need to get it tight, but not too tight.

So...hopefully there's a scrip for Vicodin awaiting me, though I don't think I will need it.  The post-operative pain is very little, and Aleve does a good number on me.  I can shower, but I cannot swim, so I need a new training adjustment.

I have to keep an eye on this wound, and make sure it stays good until next Tuesday, when the doc wants to see me again.  Hopefully we'll have made progress; a re-drain, maybe or something other.

Anyway...the point I make about all this is that I really don't feel I should have been made to fucking wait an entire week to have this done.  I would not have an abcess and infection had I been able to have access to my doctor, or any doctor and be able to get this done.

Instead we have this; someone has to be seriously fucked up or near death before anyone will act.  I have never understood the world of insurance billing, but I know when things don't work.

The argument over what kind of health care works and does not work is left to the people who think they know what works.  I don't want anything to do with it, and I'm sick of hearing all the lies about how wonderful it is.

It is not.  It is a fucked up system where bureaucrats and non-medical people are deciding how things will be run, and doctors, nurses, assistants and patients have to figure out how to work within that.

You may not like Obamacare, but is it worse than what we have now?  Or what we once had?  Remember HMO's?  Managed Care?  Horseshit, was what it was, and I know because I had to fight with them every fucking time I went to the pharmacy or to any doctor's office.

So...just to make a long story short, I'm okay.  I'm taking it easy and hopeful this all works out.  I think it will.  Exercise in patience.

###

Now, here's the update on my moving of the blog.  I will likely be leaving here and going to Wordpress.  The aim is to attract a wider audience and have something a bit better to present.

Also, to stop the Russians from pinging me, or whatever it is they're doing.

I'm getting a lot of hits from Russia, but I don't think they're humans.  If you are, please leave a comment and tell me what you are reading of mine.

Some kind of bot or engine is doing it, and I don't know why.  Weird.

Anyway, I shall have hopefully better things to write about.

Oh, and I have studiously ignored the Olympic Games.  They really rather bore me.  NBC's coverage has been absolute shit, and the BBC has totally owned them.  The Brits get that little nuance that there are actually nearly 200 COUNTRIES WHO HAVE SENT ATHLETES TO THE GAMES.  

IT IS NOT THE AMERICAN OLYMPIC GAMES, NBC.  GOT IT?  I doubt it.

Time to crash.  Hope your week went better than mine.  Peace.