In Which We Are Treed

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In Which We Take a Look-See

When I was a young boy, my grandmother had cataract surgery and I remember it as both dramatic and traumatic.  She was in the hospital for several days, bed bound and not allowed to move her head at all.  The whole thing had a very lasting effect on my memory.  Since then, I know they have made tremendous advances in the procedure, but when I was scheduled for mine, I still somehow held on to the idea that it was going to be at least somewhat serious.  Pooh.  I had it yesterday and as I told my niece, I have had manicures that were more problematic. 

So how did it actually go?  Beats me.  I showed up, they took my vitals, put me on a gurney and wheeled me into the operating room.  Once they had plugged me into the anesthesia, I noticed they were playing sort of soft rock background music, which seemed odd for surgery and I started to ask about it and to request a different tune, maybe some 80s classic like Joy Division, but that's the end of my memory of going under the laser knife.  The next thing I knew, I was walking out of the center being escorted by my friend Drumstick. 

And that was the that, no pain, not even discomfort. After I'd been home a while, I walked down to Peet's cafe for a celebratory brownie and then spent the rest of the afternoon snoozing.  The most notable effect on my vision has been the contrast between the eye that was worked on and the one that I'll get corrected next week.  The corrected eye sees everything in much brighter, clearer colors, with a slight violet tinge and the other eye sees the world in a dingier yellowish hue.  

The only real problem is that the difference between my shabby old eyeball and my fancy new one is so extreme that they cannot work together.  The optometrist at the surgery center gave me a new pair of glasses with my old prescription in one lens and a new one for my corrected side, which sounded like it would be an excellent temporary solution, but the difference is just too far off.  Each eye can see, but neither wants to cooperate with the other.  I have dealt with this by simply closing one eye or the other most of the time.  That's not bad, but it results in my depth perception being totally wiped out.  Stepping down off of a curb turns into an act of faith and navigating the four shallow steps in my lobby is nothing short of a thrill ride. 

I don't care.  I am delighted with getting that stupid cataract scraped out and this time next week I will be all up to speed.  Until then, I have the eye patch I bought specifically for this and which transforms me into a rakish pirate.  I intend to work that motherfucking look for all it's worth and demand that everyone address me as Pegleg Peenee. 

Aargh.

Boys who are simply an eyeful:

You could put an eye out like that.

Asstastic

Everybody should tell me how very brave and strong I am being, because editing this post has not been easy.  I only hope these pictures are actually the naked boys I hope they are and not knitting patterns.

Although some of them are easier to tell than others.  A buttchop like this is hard to miss.

Pegleg peenee says "Prepared to be boarded and surrender your booty.

Balance is so important.

Everything counts in large amounts.

In Which We Are Patient

 Look I know I talk a lot about my health concerns here, but I'm an old man and I don't have a lot of other exciting topics to explore.  Especially lately, I have been going through an absolute spree of doctor appointments.  I am single-handedly keeping the American medical community profitable.  

This festival of medicine started off with my consultation for my upcoming cataract surgeries.  And keeping with my new tradition of being handed off from doctor to doctor like a goddamn secret Santa present, they sent me to my regular doctor for a clearance that promised that I wasn't going to die in the middle of getting my cataracts scraped off. 

Speaking of being handed off, turns out my regular doctor's practice has been bought by yet another medical group.  This happens every couple of years, some corporation buys the old corporation and I get an email announcing I have to register for a new "patient portal".  I want to point out every time I have filled in all the information the portal demands, I still have to complete the same questions on a form the next time I go in.   Consequently, the last couple of times this has come up I just ignore the whole ridiculous mess knowing that by the time they catch on that I have refused, some other entity will buy them and the point will be moot. 

Once I luddited my way past their information gatekeeping, the physician assistant announced they  needed an EKG.  I'm always up for a good time, so I didn't protest.  Of course, nothing is simple, so the EKG showed that I have a slightly enlarged heart which, naturally, called for me to be referred to yet another specialist, a cardiologist.  I would like to point out this EKG had nothing to do with my eyeballs which were supposedly the reason I was there in the first place.  The PA airily assured me I was cleared for the surgery, but said I needed to get right on that cardiology thrill ride. So that's coming up in September.  Also I need a tetanus shot, because of course. 

That was yesterday, today's doctor appointment was my hematologist to talk about that silly old too much red blood cell stuff.  He looked at a bunch of numbers and asked me if getting a pint of blood drawn every month was helping. Why was he asking me?  Shouldn't he know that?  I said I couldn't tell any difference so he pretty much answered "Oh well. That's that. Nothing else else I can do" and shuffled me out the door.  What?  

I think so much of this medical frenzy is simply that the tests they run on me are actually too efficient.  The EKG senses a tiny blip and suddenly I'm scheduling a stress test with a heart doctor.  My blood work shows that I am barely over some threshold for my red blood cells and I am trotted off to the hematologist.  And every conference includes the phrase "it's probably no big deal, but . . . "  I think we should all be focusing more on the "no big deal" part of the equation.  

And so now here I am, blind, burdened with too many blood cells, and a big beautiful heart.  All the tests and treatments and procedures all come back to one insight: I'm old.  Well, I could have told you that.  In conclusion, as all these doctors inevitably wind up telling me, "let's keep an eye on that."

Here's what I really want to keep an eye on, 

Butt

Peek a boo

Such shapeliness must not be contained.

Why so glum, chum?

Buttchops of the World.

You know he giggles when he pulls his pants down.

This guy works under the nom de smut of Con Wh0re.  Whatever you say sweetie.

In Which We Take a Look

 

Last fall, my eye doctor announced I was developing cataracts.  I wasn't surprised particularly, I'm an old man and these things happened to old men, also they run in my family.  The cataract surgeon had a look-see and told me to wait for a while. My reply?  "Okie dokie."  But the thing about "for a while" is eventually the while part runs out. Thus this afternoon found me back at the surgeon with my pupils dilated to the size of a couple of Death Stars scheduling my cataract surgery.  Hot damn.

There was quite a few things I hadn't considered in the matter of getting my eyes chopped up.  I had vaguely assumed things would just go back to pretty much the shitty level my eyes were at before the cataracts developed, but of course that's too simple.  For one thing I am extremely nearsighted, for another, like most people as I got old, my eyes ability to adjust for reading or other close up focus crapped out so I was unable to see either far away or up close.  Great.  The surgery would correct not only the cataracts, but the myopia and the near focus as well.  Or rather, it will correct EITHER the myopia OR the near focus.  I had to pick one or the other. I'm pretty sure I went with continuing to wear glasses for distance, but not needing any correction when I'm fumbling my way through a menu. Since I have been wearing glasses for the last 60 years, the very idea of doing without was so inconceivable, I was flummoxed with the concept.  I wanted to explain that I just need to be able to clearly see pictures of naked men, but the medical profession never seems to get with the program when it comes to porn.

Anyway, now I'm home, completely blinded by the dilation, huddled in my bedroom with the curtains drawn and the cats rampaging in the next room.  I mentioned to Diane von Austinburg I'm worried that after the surgeries, I will finally have to see all the cat puke stains on my fancy rugs and I am not sure I am strong enough for that.

Speaking of naked men,

Because I am posting this while my eyes are so dialated they are mostly decorative, I will not have much to say about this week's boys.

I cannot see what I am putting up here very well, but I can make out that hog.

If some of these turn out to be kitties, I am not to blame.

I think I need some seeing-eye pussy.

I'm thinking Braille for butt.

In Which We Celebrate

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In Which We Confront a Dilemma

 It has always been so very easy to distract me.  I am distractible.  I could be in the middle of an intense discussion, but if something shiny flashes by, I am lost.  R Man, god love him, dealt with these blips in my concentration by simply ignoring whatever side quest I had drifted off on and directed me back to the actual point.

A concrete example of this charming quirk of mine came up yesterday as I was unloading the groceries I had ordered.  All the ingredients for the hummus I was planning on cranking out were there, but then I found that I had absent-mindedly also ordered a separate small tub of pre-made hummus.  So now here is the dilemma we face, the pre-made will only last so long before it goes bad, whereas the ingredients for my homemade are shelf stable for quite a while.  On the other hand, my homemade version is just better. Sorry, I don't make the rules.  Also didn't I order some bread?  Where's the fucking bread?  Safeway, do better. 

UPDATE: so I went with the pre-made, because, again, I don't want to waste it, plus it was sitting there ready to go.  Duh.  It was very tasty, but man, the garlic to chickpea ratio was really skewed towards the garlic end of the spectrum.  Anybody downwind from me for the next couple of days is going to regret it.  I smell like a Greek commuting hour in the middle of the summer.  Yeesh.

Speaking of chowing down on the shrubbery, Diane von Austinburg shares with us that her doctor has encouraged her to increase her fiber intake.  Diane is a vegetarian and already consumes more fiber then the average goat.  As told her, she would have to start swallowing gravel like a chicken to have any more fiber inside her.  I think doctors just have a pat set of recommendations they push on everyone, sort of reflexively.  Eat more fiber, drink more water, exercise more, get better sleep.  You can show up with a broken leg, and somewhere in your interaction with the medical community someone will tell you at least one of those. 

I, for one, am happy to ignore all of them.  I have never worried about a single one of those points and yet I am here as a cranky old man in perfectly okay health.  Most of my adult life involved excessive sex, generous amounts of recreational drugs, and the most indolent lifestyle that wasn't actually comatose.  I have actually always drunk a lot of water, but I think that's because growing up on the Gulf Coast meant I sweated so much it was just a reflex.  

I look at cats as a role model in this. They have the world at their paws.  In the most sullen, aloof manner possible, they get all their needs met and yet still somehow manage to seem annoyed. Cats have got the world figured out.

• They sleep more than they are awake 
• They eat whenever they want to 
• They have an army of queer men at their beck and call 

I could easily see myself as a cat, except I don't want to lick my own butthole.  Aside from that, I would totally be down with the feline lifestyle.  I would start pooping in a box tomorrow, but I don't have anybody to scoop it out.  On the other hand, I live in San Francisco where finding some sex freak who would be into that could not be that difficult.  Let me check on that and I'll get back to you. 

Speaking of pussy: 

I am a sucker for pretty hair.  I am also a sucker for sucking nice fat hogs.

Bootylicious.

I know from experience that I am willing to overlook serial killer eyes when they come with a cock that appealing.

Staring blankly into the depths of refrigerator hoping for inspiration: haven't we all been there?

Few things are as a nostalgic for me as a ratty apartment with lots of records and a cute boy.

In Which We Bake

 

For a while, I was baking something pretty much every week.  My motto was "If you you want to eat fresh cake, then you have to bake fresh cake."  And you know what?  I got to be good at it.  But I got distracted by all that Super Agent Fred dying stuff so I've only baked a couple of times this year. 

I decided it was time to get back up on that pastry horse and so tonight I thought I would make the easiest baked good that exists: a Seven Layer Bar.  It's sort of a cross between a candy bar and a cookie.  It is so easy, it's how they teach little baby girl scouts the elements of baking.  You just measure the ingredients, mash them in a pan, and shove it in the oven.  Pretty much the most difficult step is crumbling up graham crackers to make a crust, and if that is beyond your skill set, maybe baking is not for you.  Maybe you should just go back to the sheltered workshop. 

The layers are, in chronological order, graham cracker crumbs, melted butter, chopped nuts, chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, condensed milk, and shredded coconut. Here's the deal though, I do not like chopped nuts in cookies and I don't like shredded coconut in anything, period.  So I replaced the chop nuts with peanut butter and Nutella.  I kicked the shredded coconut to the curb.

My baking experience has taught me that trying to incorporate Nutella into any recipe is just asking for heartache.  Unless you decide to bake with super glue, I don't think any other ingredient is as sticky and messy.  Plus, despite my tendency towards OCD, I am not a terribly tidy baker.  I am resigned to making a mess and then cleaning it up.  You can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs and mrpeenee slings eggs all over the kitchen. 

Speaking of sticky goo, I also had to deal with condensed milk, which is pretty damn gluey in its own right.  Between the two I am lucky I wasn't permanently stuck to the counter.  As it was, I had to wash my hands a half dozen times during what was supposed to be a simple little project.  But now it's in the oven, it smells fabulous, and the cats have reappeared from wherever they were hiding while I was loosing madness in the kitchen.  

Seven layer boys: 

I think all cars should come with something like this in the trunk.

It's all about that pretty hair for me.

Hit the road.

It's bathing suit season.  Perhaps you've noticed?

Skinny boys with big dicks: it's a thing.

Yep.