In Which the Good Doctor Takes a Peek

 

Ruh roh

Well thank God that's over. 

Last month I changed medical practices and got a new doctor. To celebrate our tender, fresh relationship, he went on a spree of ordering tests for me.  It all seemed rather one-sided to me; I didn't make him trot off to some waiting room for yet another intrusive procedure. But you know what a good sport I am, so I just went along with all his foolishness. A hearing test, a bone density test, a cardiac stress test, it seems like there is no end to them. He seemed sort of disappointed that I get regular eye exams so he couldn't order one for me. 

Naturally, since I am an old man, one of the screenings was for a colonoscopy, everyone's favorite medical procedure. I've had two of these before and since they had turned up no problems, I was willing to skate along without another one, but the new doctor insisted. In fact it seemed sort of like some kind of fetish, but I refuse to yuck someone's yum, and so this week saw me prepping for my close up yesterday.

I'm not going to linger on the prep details. You have to fast, you have to drink a gallon of this nasty glop, and you have to poop your brains out. It all went from a dribble to a squirt to some kind of natural disaster, but let us draw a veil of silence over any more specifics. More than anything, I was struck by how complicated the directions were this time. I don't remember being so confused about how all the rules and schedules worked before. As I said, you poop your brains out, so all the detailed timeline I had to work with just seemed like overkill.  Poop will out.

But eventually all things pass, right? I overcame the fasting, the pooping, the confusion, and suddenly there I was on a gurney in the procedure room with my skinny old man ass bare to the world and the anesthesiologist getting ready to pump the good stuff in. I made some remark about the very odd music they were playing, like some kind of Temu EDM and that's the last thing I remember. That's the thing about colonoscopies, they always come with a free session of amnesia.  The next thing I knew I was riding in my friend Aaron's car, a brief fragment of memory which was immediately followed by another blank spot.  After that, I suddenly found myself eating pizza at my computer.  How I ordered and paid for the delivery is beyond me; I only hope I was wearing pants when I went down to the lobby to get it. 

I have no idea what they found up in my Grotto of the Unknown, the doctor is supposed to let me know later this week. What I do know is that I am never going through another one because I plan on going to my grave without ever letting someone take a peek inside my butthole again. Never.

Medically necessitated naked guys: 

That is not what I looked like.

I crashed after the pizza and slept for almost 24 hours. 

But the pizza was delicious.

Everybody say hello to Carlos.

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 Indulge in Bloodsports

I realize a lot of my posts lately focus on my struggles with the American medical industry, but when you reach my incredibly advanced age, medicine is about the most interesting thing you have going on.  I used to be an expert on sex clubs in San Francisco and now I have opinions about doctors' waiting rooms all over town.

Anyway.

My latest medical misadventure started when my regular doctor told me my blood work showed that I had too many red blood cells.  Does that seem like a problem?  It sounded like some kind of superpower to me.  Actually, initially I thought she was saying I had anemia, which is sort of too few red blood cells and which led to a very confusing chat.  Eventually she was able to cut through my mental static and explain that too many red blood cells makes your blood too thick which can lead to strokes.  Oops.  So, not a superpower, is what I'm hearing you say. 

Of course this finding led to me being handed off to yet another doctor, because that's what my life is these days.  As I wandered into the hematologist's office, I thought "this place looks really familiar" but there are plenty of offices in that building and I assumed the bland decoration simply must be common there.  It wasn't until I sat down for my conference with the good doctor, that I suddenly realized I was back in the same office where Rman was treated for the cancer that killed him.  It turns out the hematologist is also an oncologist and was Rman's doctor.  I mentioned to him that he had broken the bad news to us at that very table.  He was sympathetic, but seemed to want to talk more about my blood.  Fucking vampire.

The condition has a fancy name, polycythemia, because it's a fancy condition and I am a fancy boy for having it.  The fancy condition led to a gala round of tests and blood work and an ultrasound slideshow.  Of course that entailed even more waiting rooms which all could have benefited from my homosexual good decorating skills.  I circled back to the doctor/vampire and he dropped a whole bunch of medical words (which he might have been making up for all I know) and then concluded that he didn't know what was causing the problem. Oh, I am so glad we got that out of the way. The treatment was to remove some of the too thick blood, which had the sound of a quaint 18th century bloodletting.  I was concerned leeches might be involved. 

I had my first blood session last week and it was really easy.  The very chill chicks who drained me initially said it would take about a half hour.  Pooh.  I was through in literally less than 5 minutes.  Turns out I am just that good at bleeding.  I then got to watch them dump the equipment and a bag of my blood into the medical waste bin.  That's okay, it's not like I was using that anyway. 

The only other advice I got about dealing with the polycythemia was to drink more water and thus help thin out my blood, but I think "drink more water" is just one of those standard bromides that doctors trot out regularly.  My pee is always very pale and clear so I am convinced I'm not particularly dehydrated.  Nevertheless, I have been guzzling water like a camel getting ready for a caravan.  Speaking of pee, about 3/4 of my waking hours are now spent in the bathroom, pissing away. Should I cut myself when shaving, I'm sure I will leak water like the Titanic. 

Also, I suffer from kitties taking up all the room in the bed. 

Dickheads.  I am surrounded by dickheads.

Dickheads (and butts) I wish I was surrounded by:

I'm sure your neighbors appreciate the view.

I'll just hang out here.  Thanks.

I forget this guy's name, but then, he has forgotten how to put his panties on.

Some superior buttchops, but also feets for all you feet freaks out there.

We are going long on asses this week, because that's what I have to work with.

I am not 100 percent sure this guy is not AI, but I am convinced he is too cute to ignore.  Complaints that he is not nude should be addressed to someone who gives a fuck.

In this week's edition of Baroque Butt.

In Which We Take a Little Trip

 

You know, for a respectable old widow, I certainly talk about recreational drugs a lot.  I swear it is not my fault, the medical establishment simply thrust them upon me.  What can I do?

Perhaps you remember a couple of weeks ago, I was dealing with episodes of depression brought on by my withdrawal from opioids.  Dr Google assured me that was normal, but that they could go on for quite a while.  I talked to my physical doctor and she recommended ketamine.  Multiple jokes about raves ensued, but I went along with it.  The depressive episodes had been very unpleasant and I was willing to roll with whatever chemical might kick their little butts.

I was skeptical because I am skeptical of everything, but my chiropractor is all for The Wonders of Ketamine and recommended the website he uses.  And if you can't trust some guy who cracks your neck regularly, who are you going to trust?  So I signed up on the website, downloaded their app (because of course there was an app,) and got ready for my k hole.  

But before I could do that, I had to 

• Speak with a clinician for my intake, 
• Choose a Guide (The list had all their qualifications, but of course I picked mine based on his picture like I was scrolling through fucking Grindr)
• Select music for my trippin' session from their playlist (I am not making this up)
• Specify your intention.  You cannot go into this with the idea that you'll just see what comes up.  Oh no, you have to have a purpose, an objective and you have to write it down where the clinician and guide can look at it and make sure that you are intentional enough.  Trying to explain that you are not a very intentional person will not get you anywhere.
• Deal with numerous surveys, checklists, reminders about the surveys and checklists, and just random impertinent questions.  They seemed to worry about my suicidal ideation a lot.  A.  LOT.  I have no suicidal ideation, but all these surveys apparently didn't want to take my word for it.
• And plenty of other hoops to jump through.  The whole thing reminded me of an overly complicated party game where the rules need to be explained in detail, repeatedly.

Anyway, I finally settled down to take the first dose, but first I had to arrange for my Peer Treatment Monitor, which is a fancy way of saying a responsible adult who could make sure I didn't wander out of the house wearing my underwear on my head.  Since I don't know any responsible adults, I roped Super Agent Fred into the role.  The irony of that idea was not lost on either of us.

I knocked back the dose (encased in two large-ish tablets I had to hold in my cheeks to dissolve like a goddam chipmunk,) laid down in my room with the curtains drawn and the ethereal ersatz Brian Eno music quietly playing and waited to see what might come up.

HOLY MOTHERFUCKING MOTHER OF CORN COBS.  I got really high.

In my youth, my wayward youth, I had quite a bit of amusing experience with LSD, but that had not prepared me for how absolutely, blitzingly high I got with this. Plus acid takes a while to kick in, whereas the ketamine obliterated me within moments.

I saw god. Literally.  They didn't have much to say, but they seemed nice.  I left my body and soared through Someplace Else.  I understood the entire cosmos.  Look, you're just going to have to take my word for it. Trying to describe this is like trying to describe an orgasm; words are just insufficient.  

I loved it.  It was never scary or overwhelming but at the same time it was very profound.  I went from considering death and dying, the grief I still have about R Man's death, about surviving AIDS to wondering why my feet are always cold.  I covered a lot of ground.

The whole thing only lasted a couple of hours, but they were quite a couple of hours.  Afterwards, the company insists, pretty firmly, that you journal your experience.  I hate people using the word "journal" as a verb.  But I'm a good sport so here is my journal much of which I wrote whilst trippin':

• No wonder people like this so much
• The physical aspect of this is much more profound than I expected
• At one point I needed to get up and pee but my legs didn't work
• It allowed the Gary who is in charge to take a break
• I have slipped the mortal bounds and am one with the cosmos
• Part of me wanted it to last longer (come back, come back, come back) but part of me was glad when it was over
• It was very nonlinear, first I was here and then I was there

Yeah that's the kind of state I experienced.  Even after the session timed out, I felt like I was a second behind what I was doing.  Every gesture or sentence seem to come from somewhere out of my control.  It made me wonder, who is running this show?

Anyway I've done one more since then and enjoyed it and have four more to go.  Has it helped?  I'm not sure honestly.  The episodes of depression I was experiencing that were the reason of this whole circus have been random and so I don't know if they are done or if I just haven't had another one lately.

Naked guys:

Chase Stobbe and his lavish nipples.

Anonymous buttchops.

Blonde hotness David Ciachek

Cory Evans is very pretty.

Always glad to see Zac Beech and his charming rump.

I wish I was friends with Henry Kvil.

I appreciate photos that include the subject's name, cause I can only remember so many naked guys.

I am pretty sure I have featured this guy recently, but you really can't see too much of an ass like that.

Anonymous ginger beef.

In Which We Offer Season's Bleatings

 

I found my Christmas card

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:

The aptly named Joey Swole.

Some guy with a dick.  That's all I got.

Zac Beech wishes happy burfday to baby jesus, sorry about that whole crucifixion thingy.  No hard feelings, huh?

Matt Vose and his extra large fatty.

Scott Carter, looking cuter than ever with his new beard.

DON'T DRINK OUT OF THE FUCKING CARTON.  Uncouth lout.

Speaking of apt names, here we see Matt Luscious, aka Creamy Gorilla.

Garic Soldatov, always welcome here at mrpeenee, Inc.

Another anonymous piece of beef, but who would say no?

Chase Stobbe and his notable nipples.

Another very nice big fatty, courtesy of Frank Dominguez.

One of those Kristen Bjorn tramps.