I spent most of xmas asleep which is just how it should be. When I finally staggered to consciousness, I breezed over to secret agent Fred's to help hang art in his newly painted hallway.
I spent most of xmas asleep which is just how it should be. When I finally staggered to consciousness, I breezed over to secret agent Fred's to help hang art in his newly painted hallway.
I was walking home on the very respectable Market Street right past the very respectable corner of Sanchez when some slightly broken down homeless guy with a big dingy gray beard held up a prescription bottle full of mystery pills and shook them at me. I very politely declined because, you know, manners, and kept walking, but then I wondered "Did I just turn down drugs from Santy Claus?"
Drugs are on my mind more than usual these days. I remain off of the pain meds that were so dear to me for so many years. Not because of any high-minded opposition to opioids, but simply because once I stop taking them I found out they did nothing for my pain level.
Now that I've sucked it up and gone through withdrawal, It just seems like I'm better off without them. However, withdrawal brought with it an occasional spike of depression. When I mentioned it to my doctor, she dug around in Google for a while (bitch, I could have done that, a thought I did not mention to her. Well, maybe I mentioned it a little bit.)
She finished her conference with Dr Google and announced that what I needed was ketamine. I briefly wondered if she was inviting me to a rave, but then I settled down. Turns out ketamine is the new depression drug that all the best people are trying. It's not just for club kids who have too many opinions about house music any more.
I have a history of drugs that go back several amusing decades. I was not only slutty, but always up for a good time. One Mardi Gras, friends of a friend had something they called "mysterious white powder." I went back for seconds. How was I to know it was PCP? Maybe. Speculation later held that it might also have been pig tranquilizer. My point is, I am no stranger to chemically enhanced amusements. Still, I'm surprised when medical professionals suggest drugs I could probably get more cheaply and easily at the 16th Street BART station.
I am now supposedly scheduling my ketamine treatment through some online site which is probably not as sketchy as it sounds. Probably. We'll see.
Also since I'm not on pain meds (which didn't do anything) my back still hurts so this afternoon I went to yet another doctor and got a trigger point injection: lidocaine, some steroid, and something else. I don't know, I wasn't paying attention; I was busy thinking about how humpy the nurse shooting me up was. Anyway, it actually seems to be helping which is a good thing because the shot itself - ouchie. So merry fucking xmas, and all that.
Guys you wish you'd find under the tree:
I was so close. For the last couple of years I have celebrated making it all the way to Christmas without being subjected to any Christmas music. I know being so hostile to the mewling tunes of this joyful season makes me an easy target for people wanting to call me a misanthropic grinch. Fuck that. It's only that I am willing to say out loud what everyone else is thinking.
This year seemed to be shaping up for yet another Xmas uninfested by Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer and the like. Since I pretty much go nowhere except my bathroom and Peet's Cafe (and they have totally gotten on board the no Christmas music train) I felt safe, foolishly safe. I would just slide through what Jon, from Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle, calls the festering season without my ears being punished.
And then I had to go see my doctor. What was waiting for me there? Guess. I opened their door and was confronted with Andy Williams, Perry Como, and Nat King Cole crooning fucking carols. And not just any carols, but the insipid, saccharin version.
Ugh, this is already been a difficult year. I should have known.
Guys to soothe your holiday battered earholes:
So what's wrong now mrpeenee? I was minding my own beeswax in the kitchen Monday evening when I suddenly had to sneeze. I turned my head to keep from spraying the counter and I managed in that simple moment to pull a muscle in my back. Actually it's kind of my side and my back, over my ribs. The fact that I can injure myself so easily annoys the piss out of me, but I am simply a fragile blossom. Ironically, and I do hate cheap irony, the pulled muscle is involved in every single time I sneeze or cough, and I have spent a lot of time doing both lately, and hurts when I do so. Dammit.
In unrelated, but pretty news, San Francisco hosted some big deal financial conference, APEC or SPCA or SPICEGIRLS. I don't know something like that. They didn't ask me, they just went ahead and did it all. Typical. I think it's like the G7 conferences but for the non-G7 world. The city was abuzz with frantically washing the streets and blocking off sidewalks downtown so that people working there were just out of luck and shoveling homeless people out of sight. I'm okay with washing the sidewalks; by this late in the dry season they are pretty filthy, but I could do without the rest of the harassment.
An arts group decided to contribute to the festivities by constructing a laser that shot colored light beams up Market Street, the main street of San Francisco. I was skeptical, but interested, especially since I live on Market Street. The first night it was on, I looked at my window and didn't see anything and thought it was just a bust. The next night, though, I actually went outside (amazing, I know) and looked down the street towards downtown where the laser originated and BOOM
But I don't want to be the bigger person. I don't want to be the adult in the room. I don't want to go high when they have go...