Today, on the front of the AJC Living section (I only got it because apparently Publix is promoting newspapers now) there is a picture of Santa Claus, shirtless, ironing his red suit. This is a depressing picture to me. Christmas for me always started on Thanksgiving night after they lit the tree on the top of whatever building Atlanta could put it on. Not now, it starts tomorrow. In a few malls in the metro ( whatever that means) Atlanta area Santa Claus is coming. He will be there for a good eight weeks up until he has to go back to the north pole and make Playstation 3's for all those greedy kids out there. I love the Christmas season, I love the decorations, I love getting gifts, but it is the beginning of November and yesterday it was probably 80 degrees outside, and if you know like I do Santa's blood runs cold. It needs to be a little chilly for Santa to be around.
So, now I expect him on the 25th of November. I don't want any complaining from him or any of his compadres because they brought this on themselves. I want toys, and I want them now. At one time I only had to wait a few weeks after I told him what I wanted to get what I needed, but now he needs to come with the quickness. I want gifts everyday from now until November 25th, and I want them wrapped. No Fed Ex, no UPS, none of that, and if it comes from eBay, we have a problem. Listen, Santa, you need to get your act together and stop these dumb promotions. You're not making any money, these toys don't cost anyone anything, and you think that coming to my town, and setting up shop early will make it better? Go back to the frosty north and wait until you come down the middle of NYC until you decide to break out the promo machine. Oh wait, you get paid for those pictures, don't you? Okay, okay, I understand the entertainment industry is in a slump, but November 3rd you have to come here? I am not welcoming you. You are not welcome until November 25th when you come out of the oven and shoot presents out of your head. This is what it has come to Santa, you have cheapened a good holiday, and have wore us out with your materialistic views, and we expect presents at the end of November, and then we'll pop champagne on December 1st to celebrate the new year. You really screwed it up, Claus. You really screwed this up.
See Santa at Perimeter Mall this weekend. Sit on his lap and tell him he is a tad early.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Assassination of the Half Gate Limited
I watched quite a few movies this past week, here are my thoughts. These are in order of when I watched them.
1. Half Nelson- Gosling is great, the camera work and script are not. Note: Handheld camera is okay, "shaky, NYPD Blue cam" is not.
2. Black Sheep- A movie about killer sheep on a rampage should be great, right? This had it's moments, namely one of a guy beating the crap out of a sheep, and then the sheep driving the truck over the side of a mountain. Moments like this were few and far between. Black Sheep, you could have been great.
3. Sleepaway Camp- One of the most disturbing endings to a movie ever. If you haven't seen this, I'm not saying rush out and get it, and it is not for the squeamish or easily disturbed, but if you haven't seen this and like this kind of teen horror film you owe it to yourself to see what people have always told you about, but will never actually tell you.
4. The Darjeeling Limited- I saw this twice this week. I love Wes Anderson movies, love 'em. As my friend Adam Pinney says, "I'm a Wes Anderson apologist." That is what I am, but I was not impressed with Darjeeling as a whole. It seems Anderson has become obsessed with his own style, and doesn't know how to shake it up. Yes, he writes hilarious dialogue, and very interesting characters, but his movies are as whole, other than Rushmore and Bottle Rocket, kind of sloppy. I enjoyed Darjeeling, but I was kind of disappointed.
Side note: On the Wednesday screening, Jason Schwartzman was there and did a Q&A. Emmi had done a drawing of Max Fischer (Rushmore) back in her Freshman year at RISD, and I thought it would be a funny gift to give him. So, after his Q&A he was walking up the crowded aisle, over run with fans, and I stopped him and told him we had a gift for him. So, Emmi gave him the Mona Lisa of Max Fischer, and he was excited, he said his girlfriend would love it, and then gave Emmi a nice forceful, appreciative hug.
5. Gone Baby Gone- I love movies about Boston. I don't know why. I can't explain it. I've watched The Departed way too many times. I watched Good Will Hunting a lot when it came out. Mystic River was an ehhh kind of movie, but it was rough and tumble as a Boston movie should be. Gone Baby Gone is a good movie, not great, but good. Casey Affleck is amazing, but as Alex Orr said, Harris and Freeman could have been played by anyone. And if someone else had played Harris' part, it could have brought a better nuance to the character, Ed Harris isn't the most subtle of actors.
6. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford- One of the best movies of the year, or the best movie of the year. How in anyone's right mind can they not like this movie? It is amazing. Flat out incredible. The train robbery sequence is one of the collest things I've ever seen. Casey Affleck, once again, steals the movie, he seems like he is going to cry or burst out of his nervous, made-fun-of, obsessed skin at any moment. Pitt is great as is Paul Schneider and Sam Rockwell. Why can't Hollywood make these kind of movies more? Because they don't have it in 'em. If this film is overshadowed by a certain Ridley Scott film come Awards season it will be a crime.
7. No Holds Barred- I'll ask the question Rip asks, "What's that smell?" The response, "Dooooooookkkiiiieeee." Yes, this film is dookie. It is hilarious, also. Yes, the Hulkster cries, he gets angry, he gets revenge and all is well in the end. Except for maybe his brother who gets his neck sent into traction by Zeus.
8. The Gate- Young Stephen Dorff and his friend open a gate to hell that unleashes tiny demons into the world. I don't know what to say. It was rock n' roll that caused it, explained it, but ultimately couldn't stop it. What could stop the evil? That's right, a rocket and Stephen Dorff's love. You think I'm joking?
1. Half Nelson- Gosling is great, the camera work and script are not. Note: Handheld camera is okay, "shaky, NYPD Blue cam" is not.
2. Black Sheep- A movie about killer sheep on a rampage should be great, right? This had it's moments, namely one of a guy beating the crap out of a sheep, and then the sheep driving the truck over the side of a mountain. Moments like this were few and far between. Black Sheep, you could have been great.
3. Sleepaway Camp- One of the most disturbing endings to a movie ever. If you haven't seen this, I'm not saying rush out and get it, and it is not for the squeamish or easily disturbed, but if you haven't seen this and like this kind of teen horror film you owe it to yourself to see what people have always told you about, but will never actually tell you.
4. The Darjeeling Limited- I saw this twice this week. I love Wes Anderson movies, love 'em. As my friend Adam Pinney says, "I'm a Wes Anderson apologist." That is what I am, but I was not impressed with Darjeeling as a whole. It seems Anderson has become obsessed with his own style, and doesn't know how to shake it up. Yes, he writes hilarious dialogue, and very interesting characters, but his movies are as whole, other than Rushmore and Bottle Rocket, kind of sloppy. I enjoyed Darjeeling, but I was kind of disappointed.
Side note: On the Wednesday screening, Jason Schwartzman was there and did a Q&A. Emmi had done a drawing of Max Fischer (Rushmore) back in her Freshman year at RISD, and I thought it would be a funny gift to give him. So, after his Q&A he was walking up the crowded aisle, over run with fans, and I stopped him and told him we had a gift for him. So, Emmi gave him the Mona Lisa of Max Fischer, and he was excited, he said his girlfriend would love it, and then gave Emmi a nice forceful, appreciative hug.
5. Gone Baby Gone- I love movies about Boston. I don't know why. I can't explain it. I've watched The Departed way too many times. I watched Good Will Hunting a lot when it came out. Mystic River was an ehhh kind of movie, but it was rough and tumble as a Boston movie should be. Gone Baby Gone is a good movie, not great, but good. Casey Affleck is amazing, but as Alex Orr said, Harris and Freeman could have been played by anyone. And if someone else had played Harris' part, it could have brought a better nuance to the character, Ed Harris isn't the most subtle of actors.
6. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford- One of the best movies of the year, or the best movie of the year. How in anyone's right mind can they not like this movie? It is amazing. Flat out incredible. The train robbery sequence is one of the collest things I've ever seen. Casey Affleck, once again, steals the movie, he seems like he is going to cry or burst out of his nervous, made-fun-of, obsessed skin at any moment. Pitt is great as is Paul Schneider and Sam Rockwell. Why can't Hollywood make these kind of movies more? Because they don't have it in 'em. If this film is overshadowed by a certain Ridley Scott film come Awards season it will be a crime.
7. No Holds Barred- I'll ask the question Rip asks, "What's that smell?" The response, "Dooooooookkkiiiieeee." Yes, this film is dookie. It is hilarious, also. Yes, the Hulkster cries, he gets angry, he gets revenge and all is well in the end. Except for maybe his brother who gets his neck sent into traction by Zeus.
8. The Gate- Young Stephen Dorff and his friend open a gate to hell that unleashes tiny demons into the world. I don't know what to say. It was rock n' roll that caused it, explained it, but ultimately couldn't stop it. What could stop the evil? That's right, a rocket and Stephen Dorff's love. You think I'm joking?
Friday, August 24, 2007
Now is the time our heroes die.
Just recently two modern filmmakers, Ingmar Bergman and Michaelangelo Antonioni, died. Last year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Robert Altman died. These are three filmmakers that had a staggering output of films, I don't know the actual numbers of their films but put together it would be close to a hundred. Altman has had the most influence on me as a writer/filmmaker/film lover. His films always do the right thing for me. I know plenty of people who hate his movies. They say that they are to muddled or busy or that the camera work is too messy. I don't believe them. I can't believe that they are bad movies because his characters are so well made and real. It is not a coincidence that he made "Short Cuts" from Raymond Carver's stories, they are both interested in the "in between" moments, the words that are said, the actions done, that ruin lives or make lives. Altman is an original, no one makes movies like him, no one has made the kind of ensemble films that he has and then make "Secret Honor" or "3 Women". He is one of my favorites.
Bergman is a filmmaker that I can only take in doses, unless that dose is "Fanny & Alexander" which is perfect. I haven't seen enough of his films, but "Cries & Whispers" is perfect also. It is one of the most painful films I've ever seen. the choice of shots is perfect and the acting is so real it's unbelievable. I guess I've seen around six of his films (a three pack which caused an anxiety attack), and that is not enough. My friends are always bragging about what Bergman they've seen, and I need to catch up.
Antonioni is amazing. He let's his films breathe, which is long for "they're slow". He let's takes go on forever, or a person to actually respond without hard cuts. Once again I haven't seen enough of his films, but "L'Avventura" is one of my favorites. "Blow Up", if only for the concert scene with the Byrds, is as cool as it gets.
Here's a list of heroes who aren't dead yet, but could be very close:
1. Jack Nicholson
2. Jean-Luc Godard
3. Albert Maysles
These are three guys that I love. Three people that are a huge influence on me. Altman, Antonioni, and Bergman made me sad when they passed, I've had my time with each, but with all of these people they are leaving behind their work. That's what everyone wants, whether you love or hate what these guys do, it will always be around to confront you or comfort you. And I will always be sad about Chris Farley, who might have influenced me more than anyone, no joke, I love that guy.
Bergman is a filmmaker that I can only take in doses, unless that dose is "Fanny & Alexander" which is perfect. I haven't seen enough of his films, but "Cries & Whispers" is perfect also. It is one of the most painful films I've ever seen. the choice of shots is perfect and the acting is so real it's unbelievable. I guess I've seen around six of his films (a three pack which caused an anxiety attack), and that is not enough. My friends are always bragging about what Bergman they've seen, and I need to catch up.
Antonioni is amazing. He let's his films breathe, which is long for "they're slow". He let's takes go on forever, or a person to actually respond without hard cuts. Once again I haven't seen enough of his films, but "L'Avventura" is one of my favorites. "Blow Up", if only for the concert scene with the Byrds, is as cool as it gets.
Here's a list of heroes who aren't dead yet, but could be very close:
1. Jack Nicholson
2. Jean-Luc Godard
3. Albert Maysles
These are three guys that I love. Three people that are a huge influence on me. Altman, Antonioni, and Bergman made me sad when they passed, I've had my time with each, but with all of these people they are leaving behind their work. That's what everyone wants, whether you love or hate what these guys do, it will always be around to confront you or comfort you. And I will always be sad about Chris Farley, who might have influenced me more than anyone, no joke, I love that guy.
Ricky the Dragon Steamboat and my Lost Youth.
This isn't really about Ricky the Dragon, but it does have to do with wrestling and my childhood. Some kids were WWF and others WCW. I was WCW. I would wake up every Saturday morning around 6am, or my father would wake me up so I could watch the early edition of WCW, I also watched the 6:30pm on Saturday, and the 8pm on Sunday. Why I was a wrestling fanatic early on, I don't know, because I hated it once I got into middle school and went "grunge". In 1990, all I thought about were GI Joes, the Stinger splash, the figure four leg lock, and what a hit to the solar plexus (sp?) was.
The other day I decided to check youtube for some old school wrestling, of course it was there, and the pinnacle of my wrestling love was there in all it's glory. Terry Funk and the Great Muta whipping the Nature Boy Ric Flair. I hated Ric Flair, I absolutely hated the guy. When Terry Funk injured Flair's neck on the announcer's fold out table I jumped for joy, not because of Terry Funk, that guy was a redneck and was right up there with my disdain for the Four Horsemen (Arn Anderson was a balding wimp.), but because Ric Flair got what was coming to him.
Anyway, back to Flair getting stomped. So the Great Muta had spit Kool-Aid in Flair's face and he Funk were having a good roundabout punch fest with the blonde, and then.....and then....who appears? At first, all you see are the pink tights with the scorpion, and that's all it takes. "It's Sting!" "The Stinger's coming to the ring!" The announcers are screaming, I'm standing in my living room in awe with my orange Nerf sponge basketball ready for a dunk on the sliding glass door squeezed as tight as it would go. Sidenote: Sting and Flair were incredible rivals back in the day. Is Sting really gonna help him? Is this really happening?
Sting runs into the ring and pounds the Great Muta and Terry Funk with Flair. This is it, my respect for Ric Flair, and another white boy, Larry Bird, go through the roof. If Sting can respect Flair, then I can respect the Bird. So, the match ends with Sting and Flair with their arms raised triumphant, collaborators and buddies who a few weeks later will take those two on again in a cage match (the greatest of all wrestling ploys other than the Royal Rumble), with two rings, not one, but two in a cage. I don't think their friendship lasted long because Flair, moron, turned on the Stinger. So, this takes us to Six Flags over Georgia.
My cousin, Kyle, and I and my dad were waiting in line for the Great Gasp when two large Samoans walk up. Yep, it was the Samoan Swat team, one of our favorites, with their kids. And the first thing out of Kyle's mouth is, "Is wrestling fake?" This is like "is Santa Claus real?" for a wishful ten year old. And one of the Samoans replies, to an eleven year old, "If I wanted to knock you out, I could do it." Kyle turns to my dad and goes, "See, I told you it wasn't fake." Dad replies with nervous laughter.
I always believed wrestling was real, I never doubted it, until I bought ARMY combat boots, steel toed, at P & M in Athens, and started listening to Nirvana (overrated). I've had those boots since I was 13, I threw them out the other day with other things that I didn't need because I'm trying to lighten my moving load. I went out to the dumpster the next day, and someone had gone through all the crap I threw out, and there were my boots, that I had worn to every concert from age 15 to 22, lying on the ground. So, I picked them up, looked at them again and threw back in the trash. I felt a little bad about throwing them out, but then I realized how stupid it was to put too much meaning into a piece of clothing, and to carry these shoes that don't really fit anymore around with me. What, was I gonna get them bronzed? Thinking about what things: cd's, clothes, old GI Joe packages I've saved, mean to me, are nothing compared to the fond memories I have of my childhood, and how I will never be the same optimistic, free wheeling, naive kid that I was. I think a lot about how I was eighteen years ago, it s a very romantic view, and I hope that the feeling of those memories will take sometime again soon. There are fleeting starry eyed moments when you are an adult, and when they hit, you know, because your throat gets tight, your eyes well up, and you get the feeling that you may never experience that again.
The other day I decided to check youtube for some old school wrestling, of course it was there, and the pinnacle of my wrestling love was there in all it's glory. Terry Funk and the Great Muta whipping the Nature Boy Ric Flair. I hated Ric Flair, I absolutely hated the guy. When Terry Funk injured Flair's neck on the announcer's fold out table I jumped for joy, not because of Terry Funk, that guy was a redneck and was right up there with my disdain for the Four Horsemen (Arn Anderson was a balding wimp.), but because Ric Flair got what was coming to him.
Anyway, back to Flair getting stomped. So the Great Muta had spit Kool-Aid in Flair's face and he Funk were having a good roundabout punch fest with the blonde, and then.....and then....who appears? At first, all you see are the pink tights with the scorpion, and that's all it takes. "It's Sting!" "The Stinger's coming to the ring!" The announcers are screaming, I'm standing in my living room in awe with my orange Nerf sponge basketball ready for a dunk on the sliding glass door squeezed as tight as it would go. Sidenote: Sting and Flair were incredible rivals back in the day. Is Sting really gonna help him? Is this really happening?
Sting runs into the ring and pounds the Great Muta and Terry Funk with Flair. This is it, my respect for Ric Flair, and another white boy, Larry Bird, go through the roof. If Sting can respect Flair, then I can respect the Bird. So, the match ends with Sting and Flair with their arms raised triumphant, collaborators and buddies who a few weeks later will take those two on again in a cage match (the greatest of all wrestling ploys other than the Royal Rumble), with two rings, not one, but two in a cage. I don't think their friendship lasted long because Flair, moron, turned on the Stinger. So, this takes us to Six Flags over Georgia.
My cousin, Kyle, and I and my dad were waiting in line for the Great Gasp when two large Samoans walk up. Yep, it was the Samoan Swat team, one of our favorites, with their kids. And the first thing out of Kyle's mouth is, "Is wrestling fake?" This is like "is Santa Claus real?" for a wishful ten year old. And one of the Samoans replies, to an eleven year old, "If I wanted to knock you out, I could do it." Kyle turns to my dad and goes, "See, I told you it wasn't fake." Dad replies with nervous laughter.
I always believed wrestling was real, I never doubted it, until I bought ARMY combat boots, steel toed, at P & M in Athens, and started listening to Nirvana (overrated). I've had those boots since I was 13, I threw them out the other day with other things that I didn't need because I'm trying to lighten my moving load. I went out to the dumpster the next day, and someone had gone through all the crap I threw out, and there were my boots, that I had worn to every concert from age 15 to 22, lying on the ground. So, I picked them up, looked at them again and threw back in the trash. I felt a little bad about throwing them out, but then I realized how stupid it was to put too much meaning into a piece of clothing, and to carry these shoes that don't really fit anymore around with me. What, was I gonna get them bronzed? Thinking about what things: cd's, clothes, old GI Joe packages I've saved, mean to me, are nothing compared to the fond memories I have of my childhood, and how I will never be the same optimistic, free wheeling, naive kid that I was. I think a lot about how I was eighteen years ago, it s a very romantic view, and I hope that the feeling of those memories will take sometime again soon. There are fleeting starry eyed moments when you are an adult, and when they hit, you know, because your throat gets tight, your eyes well up, and you get the feeling that you may never experience that again.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Cat Scans are incredibly peaceful.
Today started as any other work/prep for work day for me, anxiety over the new job, dealing with film cameras, I've rarely if ever used, and a feeling that I might be in the wrong business. So I got up, got my gear together, took Mr. Cupcakes out for his morning poop, and got on the road to the camera rental house.
As I got to the rental house I had a strange, tingling sensation in my left hand, not in my arm, in my hand. I told the other guys there what was going on. Before I go on I will add that two years ago I thought I had diabetes because my circulation in my hands were bad. I looked up my symptoms on the internet, the best place for any and all medical advice, and that's what they said, or that I would have to have my fingers cut off. Anyway, the day after that discovery I watched three Ingmar Bergman films in a row (these are good films if you want to just eat ice cream and walk around the room). Except that I didn't get through the third film. At the climax I began tasting metal in my mouth and I couldn't breath, so like any red blooded American I jumped in a cold shower, didn't really help because I thought I was dying. It went on for a good solid two minutes of heavy breathing, life evaluating, shower water drinking, will writing panic. I was okay, but the next day I went ot the doctor and he gave me Lexapro (an awful drug) and told me I suffered from depression and General Anxiety Disorder. Now, that you see what thinking of dying or diseases does to me, let's get back to July 26th, 2007.
"Is your speech slurring at all?" Ramon asked me. In my brain, "It could be. Is it? I don't think so, yeah, it probably is." Out of my mouth, "You tell me. I don't think it is." Ramon, "Do you you exercise?" Brain, "I should do better. I don't ever really exercise." My mouth, "Yeah, I play tennis, a little." Brain, "Two weeks ago, today. We are gaining weight by the minute, Ramon."
As the exchange with Ramon goes on I can feel my brain begin to turn on me. Brain, "It's time to hyperventilate, Hugh, it's time to make a fool of yourself, Hugh." I excuse myself from the room, go outside, do some stretches, anything to make the ants stop running over my hands. They don't stop, they get worse, so I go back in the building and sit down at one of the computers. Google this for fun one day, type in "Tingling in left hand" and see what comes up. One of the first pages that I click on a lady says, "If my hand is tingling and I smell burnt toast, does that mean I'm having a stroke?" Brain, "Was that a whiff of Sunbeam you just smelled, Hugh?" Me, "I think it was. Was it?" Now my brain and body go into the whole keep it under control, GET OUT OF HERE! phase of what could be a terribly embarassing moment for all of us, and so I went to the hospital.
In the car on the way to the hospital, I called my wife, because I think if her husband is going to die in a hot car in traffic she should know where he is going, and where the body could possibly be found (Collier Rd. in front of the Mcdonald's). And she told me to stop at the grocery store or the pharmacy and check my blood pressure. Brain, "That's a great idea. That will make you feel a lot better." So, I went in to the pharmacy, sat down at the machine, stuck my arm in and waited for a machine to tell me I'm alright. There is a STOP button on those machines that they tell you to push if you feel faint, I was sure I was going to faint so I kept a finger over the button and just hoped that when I fainted or died that I didn't soil the underoos and ruin everyones day at Eckerd's. This is when things went south, I looked at the numbers on the screen and their corresponding numbers on Above Average, Too High, Perfect, and my blood pressure was in the range of Bobby Knight playing the Blue Devils in the Sahara. Off the charts. I just knew that my heart was going to explode and shoot all over the greeting cards or onto the front stoop of Stooge's bar & Grill. So I bolted, went straight to the car and to the hospital. I tried to sing and make myself feel better, but it didn't really work.
I'm now in the emergency room in front of the velvet rope, the guy that runs the desk, if you tell him your chest hurts or that you have "tingling in left hand", or smell burnt toast, you get in the VIP. The sorry sucker named Daryl that kept introducing himself to everyone and who only wanted a sandwich would have to wait for Neurotic Boy to get out. I got an EKG within six minutes in which a lady put sticky things all over my chest and legs and then hooked up a squid with a computer attached to it to my body. Here is an exchange between she and I. She examines my really hairy chest, her, "These things are going to hurt when I pull them off." Me, "Yeah, I was never really into the shaving my chest thing." Her, "Me, neither." huh? I'm still shaking like Ted Kennedy when she pokes me with the needle to get blood, but after the EKG, it was smooth sailing. "Nothing is wrong with your heart." Phewww. Me, "Alright let's do that cat scan."
The CAT scan machine is set up in a room that needs a waterfall and the "The Blue Danube" playing all the time. The machine looked like I would be put into it and shot out the other side into some foreign land (ala Stargate). So I laid on the table, the techincian boomed me up to about three feet off the ground, he straightened my head out and told me not to move. I closed my eyes and in the silent room, a small, low hum began. I saw the red light pass by my eyes and was very grateful I didn't open them at that point because my curiosity was at it's highest. The noise gradually got louder, and I began to imagine the machine taking my brain apart and putting it back together in all the right places. I was so still and at peace that at one point I thought I was dead, I moved a finger and swallowed to confirm that I wasn't. I focused on the sound and the machine and I got lost. I had no idea how high off the ground I was or what the contraption was doing. I didn't want this to end. I also tried not to think of anything while it was scanning my brain because what if that showed up on the scan, what would that mean? And I think they should invent a faster scanner because at that point my brain was off, completely off, all I could think about was how to take the technology of the CAT scan machine and make a thrill ride you could put in your living room because at some points it felt like I was going at least ten miles an hour floating over a stream.
After the CAT scan was done, I got my papers, was told I may have slept on the arm funny, or that I had Carpel Tunnell, and was told I could go. I walked to my car, not realizing that if you go to the emergency room and drive yourself, you get free valet service, so I parked in a normal deck that you have to pay for, at....the....hospital. I pull up at the ticket booth and I tell the lady that I was in hte ER, she doesn't believe me, and says I owe her four dollars. "Cash or check,"she asks. "Neither," I say. "Here's an envelope you can use to mail the money to us." She hands me the envelope, and I throw it in the backseat. If I had only known about the valet. And why does my throat always feel swollen? And
As I got to the rental house I had a strange, tingling sensation in my left hand, not in my arm, in my hand. I told the other guys there what was going on. Before I go on I will add that two years ago I thought I had diabetes because my circulation in my hands were bad. I looked up my symptoms on the internet, the best place for any and all medical advice, and that's what they said, or that I would have to have my fingers cut off. Anyway, the day after that discovery I watched three Ingmar Bergman films in a row (these are good films if you want to just eat ice cream and walk around the room). Except that I didn't get through the third film. At the climax I began tasting metal in my mouth and I couldn't breath, so like any red blooded American I jumped in a cold shower, didn't really help because I thought I was dying. It went on for a good solid two minutes of heavy breathing, life evaluating, shower water drinking, will writing panic. I was okay, but the next day I went ot the doctor and he gave me Lexapro (an awful drug) and told me I suffered from depression and General Anxiety Disorder. Now, that you see what thinking of dying or diseases does to me, let's get back to July 26th, 2007.
"Is your speech slurring at all?" Ramon asked me. In my brain, "It could be. Is it? I don't think so, yeah, it probably is." Out of my mouth, "You tell me. I don't think it is." Ramon, "Do you you exercise?" Brain, "I should do better. I don't ever really exercise." My mouth, "Yeah, I play tennis, a little." Brain, "Two weeks ago, today. We are gaining weight by the minute, Ramon."
As the exchange with Ramon goes on I can feel my brain begin to turn on me. Brain, "It's time to hyperventilate, Hugh, it's time to make a fool of yourself, Hugh." I excuse myself from the room, go outside, do some stretches, anything to make the ants stop running over my hands. They don't stop, they get worse, so I go back in the building and sit down at one of the computers. Google this for fun one day, type in "Tingling in left hand" and see what comes up. One of the first pages that I click on a lady says, "If my hand is tingling and I smell burnt toast, does that mean I'm having a stroke?" Brain, "Was that a whiff of Sunbeam you just smelled, Hugh?" Me, "I think it was. Was it?" Now my brain and body go into the whole keep it under control, GET OUT OF HERE! phase of what could be a terribly embarassing moment for all of us, and so I went to the hospital.
In the car on the way to the hospital, I called my wife, because I think if her husband is going to die in a hot car in traffic she should know where he is going, and where the body could possibly be found (Collier Rd. in front of the Mcdonald's). And she told me to stop at the grocery store or the pharmacy and check my blood pressure. Brain, "That's a great idea. That will make you feel a lot better." So, I went in to the pharmacy, sat down at the machine, stuck my arm in and waited for a machine to tell me I'm alright. There is a STOP button on those machines that they tell you to push if you feel faint, I was sure I was going to faint so I kept a finger over the button and just hoped that when I fainted or died that I didn't soil the underoos and ruin everyones day at Eckerd's. This is when things went south, I looked at the numbers on the screen and their corresponding numbers on Above Average, Too High, Perfect, and my blood pressure was in the range of Bobby Knight playing the Blue Devils in the Sahara. Off the charts. I just knew that my heart was going to explode and shoot all over the greeting cards or onto the front stoop of Stooge's bar & Grill. So I bolted, went straight to the car and to the hospital. I tried to sing and make myself feel better, but it didn't really work.
I'm now in the emergency room in front of the velvet rope, the guy that runs the desk, if you tell him your chest hurts or that you have "tingling in left hand", or smell burnt toast, you get in the VIP. The sorry sucker named Daryl that kept introducing himself to everyone and who only wanted a sandwich would have to wait for Neurotic Boy to get out. I got an EKG within six minutes in which a lady put sticky things all over my chest and legs and then hooked up a squid with a computer attached to it to my body. Here is an exchange between she and I. She examines my really hairy chest, her, "These things are going to hurt when I pull them off." Me, "Yeah, I was never really into the shaving my chest thing." Her, "Me, neither." huh? I'm still shaking like Ted Kennedy when she pokes me with the needle to get blood, but after the EKG, it was smooth sailing. "Nothing is wrong with your heart." Phewww. Me, "Alright let's do that cat scan."
The CAT scan machine is set up in a room that needs a waterfall and the "The Blue Danube" playing all the time. The machine looked like I would be put into it and shot out the other side into some foreign land (ala Stargate). So I laid on the table, the techincian boomed me up to about three feet off the ground, he straightened my head out and told me not to move. I closed my eyes and in the silent room, a small, low hum began. I saw the red light pass by my eyes and was very grateful I didn't open them at that point because my curiosity was at it's highest. The noise gradually got louder, and I began to imagine the machine taking my brain apart and putting it back together in all the right places. I was so still and at peace that at one point I thought I was dead, I moved a finger and swallowed to confirm that I wasn't. I focused on the sound and the machine and I got lost. I had no idea how high off the ground I was or what the contraption was doing. I didn't want this to end. I also tried not to think of anything while it was scanning my brain because what if that showed up on the scan, what would that mean? And I think they should invent a faster scanner because at that point my brain was off, completely off, all I could think about was how to take the technology of the CAT scan machine and make a thrill ride you could put in your living room because at some points it felt like I was going at least ten miles an hour floating over a stream.
After the CAT scan was done, I got my papers, was told I may have slept on the arm funny, or that I had Carpel Tunnell, and was told I could go. I walked to my car, not realizing that if you go to the emergency room and drive yourself, you get free valet service, so I parked in a normal deck that you have to pay for, at....the....hospital. I pull up at the ticket booth and I tell the lady that I was in hte ER, she doesn't believe me, and says I owe her four dollars. "Cash or check,"she asks. "Neither," I say. "Here's an envelope you can use to mail the money to us." She hands me the envelope, and I throw it in the backseat. If I had only known about the valet. And why does my throat always feel swollen? And
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)