Author: Wayne Michael Reich

This is a semi-fictional exercise at the moment, that I’m hoping to turn into something more solid one day. Something different to chew on, as I work on the new blog batch.
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CHAPTER ONE, BECAUSE IT HAS TO START SOMEWHERE:
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“As things stand now, I am going to be a writer. I’m not sure that I’m going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says ‘you are nothing’, I will be a writer.”- Hunter S Thompson

Every good book, at least all the ones I’ve always admired anyway, have without exception, started off with a succinct introduction, a really good joke, or both. I for one, having never seen a truly persuasive reason as to ditching the use of a winning stratagem, will with any luck, merge the two into one concisely hilarious statement:

Hi there, I am a writer.

Now, the end goal of that fairly sardonic introspection is to hope that when I’m beyond the pale of all that is doubtful, I’ll have a finished book, adorned with a beautifully bespoke cover graphic, and that resplendent smell of vanilla flowers and almonds known as Biblichor, which to this day, still makes me more contented than a small child that’s hopped-up on sugar, armed with an illicit Sharpie, and has no parental oversight within their view. For the majority of people who haven’t been blessed (or cursed) with the duality-tinged gift that is writing, assumptions that as a trade it fails to meet the standard of what true work is, or that it’s nothing more than stringing words together as a lark, is just flat out wrong, if not naive.

Writing IS work. It demands dedication. Prominence. Blood. Sweat. Tears. And in my singular case, the unusually large consumption of Ding Dongs, which we’ll return to at some later point. For those who have no idea what a publishable pile of words must attain in order to be designated as such, here are the benchmarks:

– a short story: 1000 to 7500 words.
– a novelette: 7500 to 20,000words.
– a novella: 30 to 50,000 words.
– a novel: 55 to 300,00 words.*

*[A related aside: if you do indeed intend to aspire to craft a novel that makes War and Peace which clocks in at 587, 287 words, come off akin to skimming an index card, such as “author” Nigel Tomm’s ongoing 23 volume opus known as The Blah Story does, some words of caution are to be expressed.

A deservedly well-maligned tome that belabors it’s non-point with an agonizing 3,277,227 words, which translates into 7312 pages, it’s one you’re probably going to be shopping around for a bit, considering a sheet of paper weighs .01 ounces, indicating your manuscript would weigh an average of 36.56 pounds.

That’s in American weight versus European, which as we all know, seems heavier and far more intellectual than it really is. Best of luck mailing that to Hatchette.]

At this point, my skin is only in for 474 words, so as you may have surmised, I have a bit to go before I can righteously demand that Nigel buys me a drink for inscribing something worth reading. But as stated, I am a writer, and perhaps I should get back to that, before I set any future inebriation in stone. Primary introductions having been made, albeit with an attempt at levity, I shall now give you my, as they used to say back in the day, Christian name- which always make me laugh darkly, since regardless if one uses the Biblical or the applied definition from Webster’s, I’m no Christian.

However, either does apply to my best friend Percival Alexander Breathnach, who will make an appearance further along the line in my narrative, if only to serve as this tale’s rarely seen and somewhat metaphorical Dante. To wit, my name is Jannik Niklas Schriftsteller, which if I were to translate it’s fully ascribed meaning directly, it would present as: “God is gracious, victory of the people, author.” Fate plays cruel tricks on the brethren it manipulates, so I was doomed from the start, for as I may have possibly mentioned, I am a writer. This lofty and at times, imprecise depiction of the burden that was placed upon me at first by others, was begrudgingly taken to heart after the criticism, and the polite compliments being disseminated within the concentric circles of friends started leaking out, and asserted themselves directly to the public, evermore the pity.

But who am I exactly? Easy enough answer. I’m the end result of immigrant parents, one German, the other Sicilian, who for some strange and as yet unknown reason where the Universe is concerned, decided not to listen to the grand Cosmos in all of it’s Wisdom, and bred a trio of children with whom they could equally and with a varying degree of success, turn their own individual projected disappointments and failures into cavernous psychological scars. To this day, I still cannot eat soup, but the blame for that squarely rests on my Mother alone, and it’s also a very long story, which someday I may share outside the confines of my current support group. 

In preceding incarnations, I’ve been a comedian, a waiter, a poorly trained telemarketer, a hotel front desk clerk, a cartoonist, a betrayed fiancé, a muralist, a fine artist, an art framer, and now, a writer who at this present moment in time, has had his skill-set ranged as being anywhere from “mildly competent” to “damn good”, which when given pause, balances out the too much pressure, followed by a spectacular flame-out scenario for being the best, or the contrary, bringing shame unto the family name and all that for being the worst.

This, despite my in-name-only Father’s assertions that’s what I’ve been doing my entire life. On a slightly more carnival-esque note, I also happen to be a severely brittle diabetic, who’s missing one toe, and I can craft some serious Psyanka when the need arises.

Granted, these details aren’t enough to earn me a stabilized niche in a traveling side-show, but it definitely sets me apart at the family get-togethers. And as a courtesy for the sadly uninitiated, Pysanka is a stunningly beautiful custom from Ukraine, wherein Easter eggs are decorated with traditional Ukrainian folk designs by means of a wax-resist method, which if you’re truly interested, will lend itself to a fairly pleasant, if not an ethereally serene evening of Googling. Overall, my life isn’t all that interesting, but I have had a few moments here and there, that have raised it at times, a few degrees above my standard average, and it’s that untapped reservoir of note that I will be drawing most of my observations from. Lucky you.

But as noted earlier, all good stories start with a succinct introduction, a really good joke, or both. I’m pretty sure that my birth could easily qualify for that consideration, given how my life has turned out. I was born in Port Charles, New York at the beginning of 1969, a year that introduced the Pontiac Firebird and the 747 Jumbo Jet, would see Americans land on the Moon, and witnessed 350 thousand fans gather at Woodstock. In addition, the Concorde had it’s first public test flight, and PBS was established, much to the chagrin of Republicans today, due to the fact that an educated populace is truly dangerous to a government that prefers it’s citizens ignorant, docile, and quiet.

However… it was also when the the Beatles’ played their last public performance, found Senator Edward Kennedy’s driving skills to be somewhat lacking, and capped itself off with the Manson Family murdering eight people. In essence, a mixed bag of signals, if I were to make the keenest of observations. I’ve often theorized that the Universe has gone to Hell in a hand-basket since David Bowie, and Lemmy Kilmeister died, but I believe the beginning of the end truly started when Paul Mc Cartney and John Lennon thought their respective wives needed to be in the band. And while all indicators lean towards the late Linda and the current Yoko being really nice people in general, their efforts at singing have always reminded me of a cabal of tone-deaf Scotsmen playing bagpipes made out of screeching chickens.

Related to that observation is a side tale of sorts- I once had to let go of my well-loved LP of Double Fantasy by John and Yoko, and decided to save a few bucks by hitting up my favorite gently-used music store to acquire it’s replacement. This in itself wasn’t that hard, as they had multiple copies, as at that time, vinyl was being slowly phased out by CD’s, but all of the albums had one curious attribute, that being the John Lennon disc was truly and completely racked- multiple scratches, nicks, and obvious man-handling were evident on the majority of the ones I was looking at. And Yoko’s? Well…

Smooth as glass. Never played. Possibly never even taken out of it’s sleeve, by all fair scrutiny. If there was a modern equivalency, I’d opine that it might be the first album since Metallica’s “St. Anger”  to be downloaded off the Web and then almost as quickly, returned back to it. Given that knowledge, Geffen Records could have just made one master copy for John to give to Yoko as an anniversary gift, and then pressed the other album to be nothing but reissues of his greatest hits. If the record company had only the foresight to do this, that album would’ve charted Dark Side of the Moon numbers by now, guaranteed

Speaking of failing to see forthcoming future harm…

As far as my childhood goes, I grew up within a relatively middle-class neighborhood on Long Island, with an older sister and a younger brother, surrounded by lush forests and a peach farm whose workers brandished shotguns loaded with rock salt as a means of discouragement towards the illicit poaching wave that happened every year during harvest time. Overall, my early childhood was rather non-descript, as my mother stayed at home, and my dad founded an empire based on lawn sprinkler installations. You literally can feel the pathos and dynamic tension in the air, as this riveting back-story brings it’s presence to the forefront.

The hamlet I spent my early youth in was almost a Norman Rockwell caricature, with friendly to a fault neighbors, community barbeques, baseball games, and a Catholic parish headed up by a seemingly always slightly tipsy priest. But it’s also the kind of place that if one has a terminal disease they should move to, as every day there will feel like a damn eternity- idyllic, no?

Granted, it was your fairly stereotypical suburban neighborhood, with a cookie-cutter conformity and master planned monotony, but we did have a few unique square pegs that kept it interesting, such as the Mennonite family known as the Frosts whose patriarch was renowned for his talent of fabricating near-perfect replica birdhouses of the dwellings in my neighborhood, right down to the shingles on their roofs and the etched glass panels of their front doors. If I was a sparrow, I know damn well where I would have bunked, if given the choice. The other fascinating thing about the Frost clan was the fact that despite their parents being truly exceptionally odd-looking, all of their children, nine in total, were gorgeous. Four boys, five girls, and all of them could have been cover models for Vogue, without breaking a sweat.

Even as a young lad of seven, I wholly understood that having any of the Frost girls as a babysitter was an experience not to be missed, if not to brag about, and while the phrase “get me some of that” may not have been known to me due to my tender age, it was definitely something that I would have applied to the situation if I had only the skill-set and presence to do so. Look at it from this POV- Catherine Bach is coming over to cater to your every whim for a few hours, and if she finds herself under obligation elsewhere, she’ll send over one of her equally stunning sisters to fill the void. And this situation was made all the more interesting, for as I declared earlier, their parents were truly strange-looking. Not sideshow strange, nor any form of “Dear God, what is that?” eccentricity, they just didn’t appear to be actually human in the traditional sense.

Picture a gregarious yet over-stretched Abe Lincoln fabricated entirely from animated Slim Jims married to an adorably petite woodland creature straight out of the Pennsylvania Shire, and you’ve pretty much nailed the reality of what was. The matriarch was truly recognized far and wide for her amazingly green thumbs, and her community garden was the envy of many in my faux village, as was their penchant for being decently laid-back neighbors, the kind that will not only loan you their lawn mower, but also come and help you rake and bag up afterwards. But nature tends to abhor a vacuum, and requires a balance of sorts, and that was provided in sharp contrast by their somewhat rabidly feral neighbors, a rough-hewn gaggle of Scottish malcontents known as the McCraigs.

Armed with nothing more than viciously short tempers, whiskey induced attitudes, and a standoffishness that would make Joan Crawford blush, they engaged in throwing shade of a caliber that had not been seen since William Wallace gleefully informed the English that they not only could go shove their crumpets sideways, they could do it without the aid of butter. This is not to say that they couldn’t be civilly social like rational people, it is just to note that it wasn’t their inherent go-to as a standard.  

FINI (For now) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.” – John Waters

Hello Blogiteers!

It is a lovely day here in Silver City, New Mexico. The sun isn’t shining, the wind is blowing harder than Jenny Mc Carthy at a gathering of nonagenarian anti-vaxxers, and the water falling from the sky can’t decide whether it wants to be sleety rain or hail- to which I say let it be both, because goddamnit, this is America and you can do (and be) whatever you want. Speaking of which, one of the best ways to achieve this is through the use of books, or as I like to think of them, compendiums of pure awesomeness. As the more astute of you may have surmised, I LOVE books. And I’m not describing a generalized overall appreciation of the collected written word, I’m describing a personal situation akin to the Collyer Brothers*, but with books.
*[Homer Lusk Collyer and Langley Wakeman Collyer, AKA the Collyer brothers, were two American brothers who became infamous for their bizarre natures and compulsive hoarding. Go read up on it- it’s disturbingly fascinating. In fact there are several books you could read about it, ironically enough.]

When Ashley and I moved here, I had 54 boxes of books that had to go as well, much to the unfettered sheer delight of our somewhat ham-fisted moving monkeys. In fact, I heard several comments regarding their weight and how they were getting a gratuitous workout, and seemingly armed with an almost Nostradamus like power of foresight, the crew noted how they already had a place in mind where these boxes could be shoved. On a related side note, I never was informed where that place was, but I got the feeling they wanted me directly involved. Damn. I do like being one of the cool kids.

Puzzlingly, when I unpacked all of my varied tomes, I couldn’t get this literature-based game of Tetris to go back the way it once was, leading to the eventual purchase of yet another needed bookcase for the Lair of Snarkitude. So at the moment, my personal library encompasses SEVEN bookshelves, the biggest of which houses all of my art reference books, covering the gamut from the fastidious craft of duck decoys to graffiti, a singular passion of mine.

When and if I die, this will be the one grouping of my possessions that my artist friends will go full Lord of the Flies over. The rest of my collection is pretty much comprised of sci-fi, true crime both case studies and stories, autobiographies, horror, some specialized fiction, and a random assortment of how-to and “did you know?” type books.

Somewhat eclectic, but it works for me. And I might add, for anyone who visits and who likes to read, no matter what you’re into, I’m pretty sure Ashley and I have got it covered, hands down. Not to mention, the bathroom reading at our house is superb, if I do say so myself, and I do. However, the city we live within proximity of, that being Silver City, is an exceedingly small town- the population is less than 10k, and the biggest retailer that exists is a Super Wal-Mart, which truly blackens my liberal soul every time I’m forced to shop there. To give you some perspective, online shopping is such an integrally huge thing here, that Jeff Bezos providing another outlet for retail could be looked upon as the equivalent of Goliath taking on his own clone, albeit a slightly more arrogant version. As you might imagine, this dearth of in-town commerce tends to limit the diversity of what goods and services exist within the confines of my newest home, so monthly shopping trips to the “big city” of Las Cruces one and a half hours away have become somewhat of a highly convenient excuse to go take a road-trip.

Don’t get me wrong, Artbitch V2.0 does like the pace here, and not having to deal with the PAS and it’s lack of insight anymore is in retrospect, almost a godsend. Seriously. The last time I was this relaxed, was when I was under anesthesia, and that’s even with the fact that I eventually had to pick up the tab for that. Helping add bulk to that sense of overall warm fuzziness is the fact that there’s at least one kick-ass used book store here, by the name of Silver City Book Shop, and it’s exactly how a used bookshop should present itself- comfy chairs, natural light, overstuffed shelves, that tang of old-books wafting through the air, [also known as “Biblichor“] and an owner who knows books and their authors much in the same way that I know the highs and lows of Ding-Dong and Peeps addiction.

In addition to this already charming stack of literary magnificence, said owner, a delightful, if not exceedingly colorful, Scottish expat by the name of Michael Lacey, is also an excellent resource regarding the lore of Silver City, and of the varied social sub-strata that I hope to be finding myself excavating through over the course of the coming year, and let me tell you kids, you can’t pay enough for info like that. You can however, buy some goodwill by purchasing a few books now and then, all while enjoying the occasional cup of Tea, which I’ve always believed is what truly separates us from the narrow-minded rabble of mouth-breathing Red Hat knuckle-draggers who view books and intellectual expansion with the same disdain that Superman reserves for Kryptonite Underoos.

Hands down, this may be one of my favorite bookshops I’ve ever been in, as Michael is not only well versed in his understanding of authors across the published spectrum, but the way he interacts with his clientele as he informs them of choices they’ve never considered is an act of performance art that can only be described as inspirational. I’ve often said that books are life, but Michael lives that maxim as if it were a religion, and the ripple effect of his personal philosophy impacts upon everyone who thirsts for knowledge.

In short, if you come here on holiday, check out his place, and tell all your friends.

Speaking of the written and eventually compiled word, I’ve finally managed to get off my wounded backside and put out some tentative feelers to several publications out here, and I’ve gotten *some positive feedback in regards to having my previous work checked out for review- I’m keeping my fingers crossed and my mouth shut, since I don’t want to jinx anything, but I will say this- I definitely have decided that I no longer want to work for cretins, such as the mentally deficient and morbidly obese bitch I once had to suffer as my supervisor, or within any arrogant fiefdom that was the norm before I had the misfortune of working for the barely sentient New Age cow I just described.  And it’s pretty much a given that due to both injuries and my declining health that I can no longer work the type of physical job that I once did.
*[I’ve gotten two serious offers from two heavy readership hitters out here to “pitch” some stories- I’m keeping my fingers crossed.]

Oh well. C’est la vie. New glass of Metamucil sweeps clean and all that.

So with a new home base and reworked attitude, comes new possibilities, or so I hope- the writing and art scene settings out here are definitely hard-set to “hustle”, and if there’s one skill-set I do possess, it’s the ability to self-market and chat-up strangers. Or as my GF likes to call it, “making friends with a brick”. What is weird that even though I’ve been here since the tail end of August 2018, I have yet to make any actual friends out here- granted, three months of my new residency was spent recovering from unforeseen and somewhat traumatic amputation surgery, which forced me to be housebound, but it’s quite out of character for me to be so hermitic, given the past 20 years+ of my artsy and somewhat gadabout lifestyle.

In fact, the only people I talk to out here with any regularity are Michael, and Jed, the day manager at my favorite writing burrow, that being the *Little Toad Creek Brewery & Distillery, which by the way, has the best damn bacon-green-chile-hamburger I’ve ever had in my life, that being the “LTC Burger“. I’m not sure what’s more amusing to me, the fact that this is the quietist my life has ever been, or that I’ve quickly morphed into the cliché of a writer who works out of a bar, and has his “own” table and standing food and drink order. To be clear, I’m not being anti-social or anything, it’s just that due to my health issues, I just sense that I’m currently punching above my weight class right now, and as such, don’t think it’s the best idea to jump into a new set of rapids wearing only arm floaties versus the safety of a well-crafted Admantium kayak backed up with not only lasers, but my personal army of wet-suited Ninja ferrets.
*[https://littletoadcreek.com/]

Although let’s face it, I could rock these like Danzig if I wanted to.

When it comes right down to the brass tacks, my main concern is really all about the first impression I’m going to make upon what will hopefully be my future colleagues and allies within this new creative crucible. But despite my somewhat Machiavellian overtures towards introducing myself scene-wise, I have been making some limited forays out into this brave new territory, armed only with devastating charm, rugged good looks, and a truckload of business cards. So, it’s just like when I was single, except I don’t have to buy anyone dinner, and I’m not going to wind up at the strip club afterwards, throwing my last bit of surplus cash at a dancer named Dakota, who despite all of her assurances, won’t call me back three days later.

But as usual, perhaps I’ve said too much. Now, while the scene here is obviously way smaller than the one I just closed the door on, it’s also seemingly way more entrenched within the community fabric than the one represented by the PAS. While Phoenix seems disturbingly intent on happily cutting it’s own throat using the twin combo of gentrification and soulless vanilla-esque decorator art geared towards a centralized demographic of blandness, the Arts in this city (and NM in general) have a propensity to lean towards taking risks not only in direction and aesthetics, but saturation as well. There’s literally art everywhere here, and the talent pool ranges from gifted amateurs to mercenary capitalists like myself, a class which at the very least should provide some solemn grist for my future screeds, if nothing else.

However, as different as this new place is, the hustle remains the same- you can’t keep the high ground if you’re not out protecting it, and if your day to day routine doesn’t involve dancing on the razor’s edge while juggling flaming kittens, you’re casually taking up way too much space to begin with. And if there’s one thing I’ve always enjoyed, it’s grabbing those sheer moments of catastrophe and turning them into marketable opportunities, or as I’ve always called it- Tuesday. It still remains to be seen whether I’m going to still get up and jump back into the art-production side of things again, in the manner of my early to mid-thirties, but the likelihood is there, and the impulse to crank out some new work and experiment with some unique techniques keeps getting stronger as time roars on. Aided of course, by the fact that my new abode comes equipped with a separated workshop where i can finally not have to worry about making an artsy mess.

Speaking of art, which I’m fondly obsessed with doing, I recently made a happy discovery here in my new stronghold of snarkiness, that being a gallery that goes by the name of Light Art Space, run by Artist Karen Hymer. [ https://lightartspace.com/ ] But before I wax poetic, lets get some background on the creative force behind it first.

From the website: “Light Art Space is owned and operated by Karen Hymer, a visual artist and teacher from Tucson, Arizona.  Karen earned her BFA from The School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston and Tufts University, Medford and her MA and MFA in Fine Art Photography from the University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. She actively exhibits her work both nationally and internationally. Her work is in several public collections, including the Center for Creative Photography and the Polaroid International Collection.  Dark Spring Press released the first book of her work in May, 2018. 

Karen’s experience and technical interests are wide-ranging.  Although “trained” as a photographer and educator, her approach to image making explores the blending of photosensitive materials, digital media, printmaking and encaustics. In addition to working as a fine art photographer, she taught photography for over 25 years at Pima Community College in Tucson and currently offers workshops and private sessions in Photopolymer Gravure printing and alternative photographic processes.”

As one might hope to expect, this austerely minimalist space reflects the educational and creative pedigree of Hymer’s solid curatorial eye. Given my normal cynicism in regards to how I view most galleries as being marketed and run, I cannot begin to tell you how much I love taking in the shows here- it’s truly energizing for the ol’ art-batteries, and serves as a steadily inspirational incubator as to how an art-centric business should be offered up to the local community, as it develops the long-term relationships that will prove to be so vital to it’s sustained success. Whether the work being displayed is photography, mixed media, or sculpture, the shows I’ve attended have all been rock-solid, which is a refreshing change from some of the artsy abattoirs I endured during my time in Phoenix.

So, if the storybook Gods are feeling particularly generous, I’ll hopefully be writing about all of this professionally yet again. I’ve sent out the requested “pitches” in regards to getting back on board the journalism jalopy, so now it’s just a sit and wait game whereas my published life is concerned. And the best part is that this particular city just bleeds stories, art-related or not. The writing grist here is incredible, if not readily available, and has me thinking about other literary avenues that I could explore. Not to mention that I may also be in a unique niche, as one of the magazines I’ve contacted informed me that they don’t get to cover this side of the state as much as they’d like to, since they really don’t have someone who’s in place to do so.

At last, it seems that my proclivity for burrowing in like a wood-tick may finally pay off for once, if all goes to hopeful plan. Crossing my fingers and remaining toes that my roll of the dice comes up with a lucky seven in regards to this, because if it doesn’t, I seriously have no idea what I’ll be doing career wise, as I’m fairly certain that “arrogant snark” is not actually a real job I could get paid handsomely for, even though I should. So with a bit of luck, all the outreach I’ve been doing will pay off steadily, because I already know it won’t be handsomely. Print media as a rule, seems to be in decline, as more people seemingly prefer the information they consume to be spoon-fed to them, via targeted algorithms that only serves to reinforce their personal biases and newly fomented opinions.  But as long as it lasts, I’m more than willing to ride this bomb ala Slim Pickens style, to whatever glorious end awaits.

Other than the monotony of the job searching, everything else is humming alone relatively well- my new studio space and workshop are almost set-up, and my bad health is slowly being corralled by a battalion of new doctors determined to see me in better straits. So, despite the incredibly hellish travail of moving and my medical morass, this place finally feels ike home, even if nobody here knows who and what I am… yet. However, all the indicators thus far point to my stress levels here being almost non-existent in regards to what I was experiencing back in PHX. Sure, my foot still looks like it was utilized as a chew-toy by a rabid zombie Chihuahua, but I’m gradually learning to deal with it, in a fashion, somewhat. And while I’m reasonably stable without my cane on the flat side of the land, I definitely still need it when it comes to uneven ground or steps, of which there are aplenty in Silver City.

In time, I purportedly won’t need it as much or at all, but for now, I’m not so sure. It plays a huge role in my current stability when I’m traipsing through my newly adopted city, and let’s face it- it’s black on black motif has been meshing quite well with my stereotypical Angel of Death wardrobe, so that’s a plus. But if all goes to plan, I will find out in the next week* or so if I have to continue to wear the clunky med-shoe I’ve been putting up with for the last several months, or if I can get back into my motorcycle boots. Because you have no idea how hard it is to look bad ass when you are wearing the foam equivalent of a Lego block on your foot, let me tell you. But as far as things go, I really can’t complain- sure, waiting to hear back from the magazines I’ve pitched to is in itself, a mild form of slow torture, but if it all pays off in the end, then I guess it’s worth it.
*[Update; my doctor said I could, so back to my Hell-stompers!!!]

A small side note, if I may: As I noted earlier, I do the majority of my writing in this bar/brewery in Downtown Silver City, NM called The Little Toad Creek bar & Brewery, which as a rule, happens to be a rather nice and mellow place. Today however, I currently have some dumbf**k sitting three feet from me who’s advocating FOR drunk driving, dismissing the act of people being charged for it as “bullshit.” This presents a question for the crowd, that being if I take my cane and shove it up his idiotic ass sideways, is that a hate crime or a mercy killing?

Sorry. Just needed to blow off some steam before I break out the ol’ *Brazen Bull and several bags of Kingsford briquettes, and slow-roast myself a proudly drunken jackass from Ohio, so let’s get back to the narrative, shall we?

*[The Sicilian bull which is better known as the brazen bull, was allegedly a torture and execution device designed in Greece. The bull was said to be hollow, made of bronze, and designed with a door on one side to allow the placement of condemned prisoners, who were locked inside the device, prior to a fire being set underneath it, thereby heating the metal until the person inside was excruciatingly roasted to death. There are several opinions as to whether the Brazen Bull ever really existed, dismissing the stories to gossip and propaganda, but I really wish I had one now.]

In more exciting news, I still find myself currently tussling with a slew of Trump-twatbots via my Twitter and IG feeds, as they miserably fail to defend or advance the agenda of their Klansberry Cocktail, which has led to a whole new vanguard being unwillingly drafted into my ongoing postcard project which I discussed in a previous blog. Trust me, there’s nothing more satisfying than metaphorically punching holes through these inbred losers, and it never gets dull, let me tell you. Personally, I don’t consider it a productive week unless I get at least two serious death threats, a wide smattering of “libtard” slurs, and an acidic assessment that I must surely be gay because I believe in equality for all.

Amusingly, that last one hardly dings in this day and age, especially when you consider it’s obviously based on nothing more than their sheer jealousy of my fantastic ghetto booty, which let’s face it, could stop rush hour traffic in Los Angeles. And as to the numerous physical threats I receive, the only way the majority of these deep-fried larded idiots could ever actually pose a physical threat is if they accidentally tripped and landed on me, so it’s not like I give any credence past the occasional minimum thought. If the majority of these petroleum-pissing dinosaur incels fight as well as they “debate”, not only will I be safe as houses, but I’ll also have enough comedic material to tweet until my Ding Dong addiction finally does me in.  

Speaking of being done in, I have a ton of doctors I’ll be seeing over the next three months out here in relation to my past and ongoing health issues, despite having yet another one of my extended episodes of white-coat fatigue syndrome. I now have a surgical consultant, a dietician, a general practitioner, a podiatrist, an endocrinologist, and a nephrologist, so all I need now to have my very own medical-themed Funko POP collector set, is to acquire a cardiologist and a pulmonologist, ASAP. And if I can somehow score myself one of those awesome limited-edition immunologists mint in the box, I’ll really have something to brag about in my diabetic support group, let me tell you. At this point however, I’m just really tired of being poked, weighed, inspected, and processed as if I were a piece of snarkily sentient fruit. Especially when none of it seems to be having any culpable effect as to how I feel, or putting the weight (35 lbs+) back on that I’ve lost thus far. Don’t misunderstand, as overall, I’m very happy to be gimping along such as it is above ground, but there are days where the consistency of being and feeling sick and tired all the time drains my batteries something fierce.

I can handle the concept of getting older, it’s the reality of becoming quickly decrepit that’s actually getting on my nerves, almost to the point of obsession. Granted, neuropathic pain, balance issues, and unexplained fatigue and weight loss are not the best topics to spark up a conversation with, but just imagine that you’re the person who’s afflicted with the symptoms to begin with. If you think you’re bored with my referencing them persistently, just envision how fatigued I am living with them 24/7- no breaks, no mercy, no chance of reprieve… EVER. Gah. Sorry. I really need to learn how to bitch less about my medical stuff, as it is what it is, and that would definitely fall under the charitable description of “annoying”, lol.

But as with all things, there are always positives- it’s just that the truly bad sometimes outweighs the good, no matter how much I try to maintain a brave face. When it comes right to the heart of the matter, it will forever be a day-to-day battle to maintain and keep the high ground, and to make sure not to lose any of it to my internal monster. and on that particularly uneven note, I think it’s time for a break.

And when we come back…

I give up the reins and let someone else do my art framing, endeavor to find out if I’m still hirable whereas my writing career is concerned, and see if I still have the chops to create kickass art with hands that are as useless as JPGs would be to Helen Keller.

“If you want to really hurt you parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possible can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” – Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country

 

 

“Weakness is what brings ignorance, cheapness, racism, homophobia, desperation, cruelty, brutality, all these things that will keep a society chained to the ground, one foot nailed to the floor.” – Henry Rollins

Hello Blogiteers!

Twas a sad past week for yours truly, as I spent all of it in Jail. Not the exemplary don’t-pick-up-the-soap kind of jail we’ve all seen on Netflix, nor the one I was weakly threatened to be thrown into by the Arizona Attorney General’s office by it’s unethical cabal of cubicle monkeys- no, I found myself imprisoned in the most petty of all penitentiaries, that being the horrid horcrux of hypocrisy that calls itself Twitter.

You know what it is, the place where conservatives are always complaining about being shadow-banned, and having their free speech violated, but seemingly ignore the fact that Lahren, Trump, Hannity, Owens, and Ingrahm post violations of the terms 24/7 and have yet to be placed on time out?

How did I get there, for those of you unfamiliar with my penchant for holding the moronic to task? Well, it seems that while bots and fake accounts can freely and openly post missives of racism, misogyny, unhinged death threats, (of which I’ve had several) as well as willful ignorance, conspiracy theories, xenophobia, and the like, you’re generally shadow-banned or “jailed” if you respond with intellectual and gleeful savagery to said abusive statements, which I so obviously did.

Given the gift of a prognosticators hindsight, perhaps my accurately calling out a cravenly misogynistic and wholly racist neo-Nazi incel was perhaps not the best course of action for a mature adult to undertake, but I still stand behind my doing so 100%. Sadly, Twitter apparently doesn’t mind one iota if their platform is manipulated to disseminate alt-right philosophy and uninformed acidity, as proven by the fact that they have no issue with our wholly owned by Russia, serial lying, and wretched Embarrassment-in-Chief miserably posting multiple violations of their conduct policy, but I digress.

See, I happen to take great pride in using my gift of snarkiness towards the vanquishing of the most pitifully pathetic of truly ignorant evil, if only for the greater good, but I also understand there’s bound to be some severe consequences that stem directly from my POV. I also don’t care if there is, which some people find somewhat odd, considering how many times I’ve been doxxed and threatened. Simple analysis: I don’t like bullies of any sort, and I have nothing in my personal whine cellar for these Neanderthals past serving up a coldly savage sense of acidic scorn where their individual idiocy is concerned.

And I sure as Hell am not going to be intimidated by any mouth-breathers who idolize a man who doesn’t even know how to correctly close an umbrella.

As I’ve said before, both publically and online, I don’t care if you think differently, as long as you’re actually thinking to begin with, which is where that whole crowbar separation of civilized debate comes into play. If at any point that you find yourself online, you can without much exploration, find levels of focused stupidity so mind-bogglingly dense, you’d almost think that you were dealing with barely sentient slabs of osmium*, sporting a confederate flag tattoo, along with one of those China-made MAGA hats.
[This metallic element BTW, packs 22 grams into 1 cubic centimeter, or more than 100 grams into a teaspoonful. Definitely the workout to lift a sugar spoon of this stuff, let me tell you.]

And to be fair, both sides of the political coin are guilty of this, myself included, albeit to a severely limited degree. After all, it is seemingly quite impossible to engage in civilized debate when your opponent consistently leaves the realms of both logic and reality in order to avoid facing the truth that their so-called argument is based on no more than ether and lies.

To quote English-born American political activist Thomas Paine: “To argue with a man who has renounced the use and authority of reason, and whose philosophy consists in holding humanity in contempt, is like administering medicine to the dead, or endeavoring to convert an atheist by scripture.’

In my opinion, your average alt-righter, stereotypically armed only with a slimy miasma of homophobic, xenophobic, racist, misogynistic, and utterly paranoid incel fantasies, is the biggest danger that the United States currently faces. No need to worry about who’s outside the house when the serial killer is not only inside, but has decided to bring all the members of his Klan, the spelling of which is most decidedly accurate in relation to this analogy. Sadly, due to both my business, creative and social justice interests, I find myself spending way too much time online, and this has regrettably lead to my fomenting a rather cynical world-view of my fellow primates at times.

Keep in mind that I’m a true adherent whereas the positives of the Web are concerned, but I’m also not going to ignore the depravity that comes cloaked within it’s darkest recesses, either. Underpinning the infrastructure of the pixilated juggernaut otherwise known as social media, is the joyless truth that all the interconnectivity it offers comes with one hell of a door cover- that being all the people who used to scream on street corners and brood at your local dive bar, now have access to finding others of their ilk, who are as equally dredged from the same hate-mutated genetic cesspool they spawned from.

I’ve had my life seriously threatened, been doxxed repeatedly, have had no less than three separate and disturbingly focused cyber stalkers, along with one ultimately cravenly, yet

in-my-face antagonist, all because I tend to use these things called “facts” when I am forced to engage with these, the lowest of the muttonheads. However, as I stated earlier, it’s really almost damn near laughable for anyone to think they can intimidate me on any level, thanks to the verity of my waking up every morning with a monster inside me who is throwing out every trick it can to aid in hastening my eventual demise. So when you get right down to brass tacks, I don’t really sweat the trivial to be quite frank, especially when the so-called “threat” to my safety hails from a fatuous group of people who believe that not only is Pizzagate a real thing, but that our Mango Mussolini is a real president.

That’s the beauty of Diabetes- it really does help set the bar for personal standards in regards to one’s bravery, if I do say so myself.

Speaking of individual bravery, that also seems to be a quality that most Americans seem to be lacking as of late, especially in regards to stepping up as it were, in order to maintain and protect what used to be in sentiment at least, a civil society. It would be awfully hypocritical of me to try and defend how I’ve stereotypically approached those I have found to be appalling in both their word and deed, as the level of fiery acidity I’ve been known to allot is sometimes akin to Smaug* after suffering the indignity of having a scrabble of thoughtless Shire-rats leave footprints all over his hoard of just-polished gold.
*[Smaug is a dragon in J. R. R. Tolkien’s 1937 novel The Hobbit. He is a powerful and fearsome dragon, according to his publicist, but we all know how those people are paid to embellish, so take that with a grain and a half of salt. In addition, I’m also pretty sure he’s a lot older than it says on his headshot, just sayin’.]

Now some people might claim that the current attitude that is ostensibly steering our society towards the abyss is nothing more than a symptom of what is feebly passing for moral leadership in this country, and that is a valid point, if not a truly worrying concern for our future, in regards to our standing and legacy. Granted, while the utopian vision of a unified America once depicted by Norman Rockwell has never been even remotely correct, I honestly still cannot recall any time in my life where so much unbridled and biased venom was disseminated in such a swath of vast measure, and I say this as someone who was once described as having a switchblade for a tongue.

Even on my best day with all of my Ninja ferrets lined up, the label of acidic curmudgeon would not only be appropriate, it might even be considered an act of selfless, if not downright charitable diplomacy, depending on how much access one has within my circle of influence. As a rule of thumb, I’m not a fan of people, but I do dig Humanity as a general construct- it’s a cool idea overall, even given the inanity of turning the running of the universe over to a bunch of squabbling monkeys who despite having all of the worlds information at their phalanges, still refer to a bronze-age collection of orally transcribed fairytales to guide their arrogantly self-righteous decisions regarding science and morality.

The writer Voltaire once quipped that “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him”, and I do believe that he may have been on to something with that thought of sheer wit, as the residents of the human zoo prove time and time again that they will fight tooth and nail to believe that data regarding global warming, institutionalized privilege, and the ongoing cancer of rampant misogyny is counterfeit, but concurrently, have willingly accepted a mishmash of angels, magical thinking, FOX propaganda, and the Deep State as a pinnacle of rectitude.

The woeful refrain of “this is not the country I grew up in” has been bandied about quite a bit recently, but sadly, it’s notably imprecise, even when one factors in the influence of the intellectually negated red hat cult that currently slithers among us. Our contemporary miasma of racism, misplaced jingoism, misogyny, and outright xenophobia targeted specifically at certain minority groups and non Christ-based religions are not symptoms of an unforeseen disease- they’re simply the most recent metamorphosis of a far older and equally virulent strain fermented by those who derive power and/or profit from the manipulation of willful ignorance and the fueling of a 24/7 cycle of stoked irrational fears borne by a biased and algorithm-driven dissemination media system.

In the plainest form of the Queens English that I can present, we’re getting played, and the saddest part is we plainly did it to ourselves- I’ll explain. We got way too comfortable having a president who not only could speak in full sentences, but who was also aware of what the responsibility of the office is, unlike the Mango Mussolini who’s larded ass is now taking up space in the highest seat of power within our land. We viewed his ignorant mass with trivial disdain and mockery, and we are all now paying for the combined decisions of his ill-bred base, and our dismissal of what they could do as a unified front.

In spades, no less.

The narrative we follow has been crassly tailored by agenda-driven media overlords to reflect our views, and our views alone, no matter what evidence or data is introduced into the equation. To be clear, I’m not referring to crackpot theories, or unfounded conspiracy tales- I’m noting the crowbar separation between actual debate versus talking at someone for no other motivation than to hear your own “voice”.

Over the last decade or so, I’ve built quite the reputation as a savagely focused snark, and to be quite honest, I enjoy the fuck out of it. If one were to glance at my Instagram feed*, they would note that not only are there multiple postings about my art and literary endeavors, I’m also quite unabashedly open about my concept of social justice- this in the form of screenshots that I’ve pulled from my interactions on Twitter** with the nescient hordes of Trumplethinskins that roam it’s wastelands, vainly searching for an America that never existed, and never will.
*[https://www.instagram.com/wayne_michael_reich_art/]
**[https://twitter.com/DarkreichAZ?lang=en]

And to be fair, making a Trumpflake look ridiculous is parallel to shooting fish in a barrel with an M1 Abrams tank. It’s so easy that anyone who’s ever read a book could do it, and without even breaking a sweat, I might add. Heck… I know three year olds who can structure a better counter-argument than most of these slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging, intellectually deceitful troglodytes, even if you remove the factor that overall, they tend to be far more mature than the majority of this corpulent ilk.

I once received a very nice e-mail from a “fan” based in Sweden, (and who went on at some length) to let me know that while he liked my artistic deeds overall, he pretty much followed my page solely for the sheer ruthlessness that I set free upon those who possess the arrogance to tell me what a true American supposedly is- you know, the crowd that talks glowingly about their right to free speech, but then screeches at you to leave the country if you dare use the same in opposition?

These are also the same idiots who as minimum-wage monkeys, think that rich people create jobs, that money trickles down to the masses, and that financially raping the poor for war is ok, but supporting truly vital infrastructure and healthcare is somehow the worst kind of socialism- a word that the majority of them repeat, yet fail to grasp it’s meaning, no matter how many times it’s explained to them using hand puppets.

But wait, you utter- isn’t my complaining about the lack of civility while using the most discourteous terms to describe a sectioned sampling of my fellow Americans somewhat hypocritical? Well… yes from a certain POV, but I’m oddly ok wearing that hair shirt at the moment, and I’ll explain why. If I happen to be engaged with someone who’s rational and armed to the teeth with a counter defense based solely on facts, I tend to be gregarious as heck. But the odds are generally two-to-one that won’t be the case when I happen to be debating online.

In person, people tend to be exceedingly more measured with their ad hominem attacks versus when they’re given free rein within a forum where remaining anonymous and being protected by the shadows of the Internet is key to their over-inflated sense of faux bravado.

In other words, like most (if not all) bullies, the feeble posturing of these pitifully alt-right Trumpflakes reminds us consistently that no matter the context of what they say, most of their ideological spine still hails from their bogus contention that their opinions are in reality, the purest of American values which are to be lauded, versus being despised for what they justly represent- that being the distillation of the most vile of human character flaws.

Anyone who willingly empowers or gives support to the concepts of systematic racism, misogyny, xenophobia, and rabidly unfounded jingoism all at the expense of facts and their inherent humanity, should not be afforded the same basic courtesies one would typically extend to a human being with a functioning aptitude in regards to their ability for critical thinking, just saying.

One of the major cornerstones in maintaining a civil and polite society is the concept of holding others to their personal responsibility for actions both positive and negative- a theory that predates the socialization of tribes into postmodern cities. To be fair, it’s a nice thought, but it’s also one that’s been pretty much tossed out the window since the Internet originated. Today’s modern lack of awareness can debatably be chalked up to an equal amalgamation of willful ignorance and intellectual laziness, capped with an overinflated sense of self-righteousness that without the proper protocols in place, can take what is normally as benign as milk and mutate it into pure toxicity.

And when one takes into account the deceitful agenda of troll farms and their free-roaming bots, attempting to clear up the murkiness that hinders the clarity of communication only gets that much harder to achieve.

So what’s the solution? Well, while we cannot (and should not) regulate free speech, we can (and should) draw some definitive lines in the metaphorical sand to both lessen the acidic vileness of our electronic discourse, and to reign in the faceless poltroons that skulk it’s outlands. And as usual, I may have an idea or two as to what those might be. Not to worry, you don’t have to thank me- your fawning admiration and inconsistent sexting is payment enough.

First, if there’s one consistent annoyance I’ve always had in regards to the world wide web, it’s the glaringly obvious fact that the anonymity of social media has made it far too easy to be disrespectful and threatening to strangers, while avoiding the sorely needed consequence of getting punched in the face for it.

I’m half-joking of course, since violence is never THE answer, but it’s still on the list of solutions, nonetheless. As famed artist Jack Kirby (the creator of Captain America) once stated in an interview*: “The only real politics I knew was that if a guy liked Hitler, I’d beat the stuffing out of him and that would be it.”
*[http://www.tcj.com/jack-kirby-interview/5/]

Speaking from my POV, I have zero issues with anyone who for a myriad of valid reasons, may decide to punch out an avowed Nazi devotee, no matter how morally grey it might be to those who prefer a more peaceful path, but I think as far as ethical transgressions go, it ranks very low on my scale of personal no-no’s. Besides, we need to make these alt-right jackasses pay for their ruination of khakis and tiki-torches, and beating them flat is as good a place as any to start.

And to clarify, I won’t belittle anyone due to their possibly having a differing opinion than mine, I only engage in focused disparagement when that opinion is based on nothing more than willful ignorance and paranoid fear-mongering. To wit, your average inbred Trumpflake. As noted earlier, I don’t care if you think differently, I care if you’re thinking in the first place, and the art of critical overview is clearly out of the average Trumpeters reach.

To illustrate my point, a difference of opinion is “I prefer tea over coffee”, versus “the Jews will not replace us”, by way of example. Glad I could clear that up. So the first step I see that should be undertaken to form a more sedate internet experience is to get rid of the shadowy shelter that being anonymous affords.

I’ve always advocated that if you truly believe in something, you should stand behind it publically, and if you can’t, the odds are probably that you already know that what you’re failing to guard is either indefensible or wholly abominable to the greater majority of your fellow humans. [See: “Trump’s character”, “Trump’s policies”, “Trump’s statements”, etc.]

I have never used or hidden behind, a fake name or a fake account, and I for one, don’t give a rat’s ass if you like what I say or not. But then again, I’m not pushing a rabidly loathsome agenda, either. That does make things significantly easier in the long run, and being called a liberal when I already self-identify as such is hardly the exposure I fear. In my opinion, “calling” someone out for something they already take unwarranted pride in can bite you in the keister sometimes.

But there is a silver lining to this overview, that being the fact that to a person, your average Trumpflake cannot handle being mocked, not even a little bit. You can point out the numerous flaws in their self-styled “thinking”, and even straight out state that they’re much more comfortable inside their sister than they are in their flag-print lounge pants, but if you so much as dare to laugh at them, the resulting implosion is like watching a lard bomb go off at a NASCAR fried food on a stick stand. And they definitely don’t appreciate being labeled as racist.

Call them misogynistic? No problem. Uneducated? They’ll happily agree. Flat out note that they allegedly have raw-dog BDSM sex with underage ducklings? Not only will they willingly admit to it, they’ll proudly show you the glossy full color 8 x10’s and accompanying HD video of them engaged in the act.

These people live for the moments where they can be horrible, much in the manner of how a five year old looks forward to Christmas morning. But as grunge icons NIRVANA once proclaimed: “Laugh hard at the absurdly evil”, because once you do, you strip all of it’s power away, and that’s key in how one needs to deal with these people.

Mel Brooks was once asked why he put Nazi’s in almost every one of his movies and he responded by noting that Nazi’s were, and I’m paraphrasing here, “funny”- his point being that you can’t be hurt by those you find beneath contempt, especially when you’re too busy laughing in their face.

By far, the best way to neuter these deplorables is to no longer allow them the undeserved privilege of being able to hide within a fetid cave of cowardice using the cloak of virtual anonymity as a loathsome dermis. If they truly believe in the vitriolic acidity they spew, than they should be equally ok with everyone they know seeing it presented under their real name. If I can do it, so can they, but they don’t and won’t. And we all know why, don’t we? It’s because they know their purported beliefs are either reprehensible, asinine, or corrupt to the point of being utterly incompatible with the values and valid concerns of the majority, to which they do not belong, and never will.

It never ceases to amaze me how fast these steely warriors of the keyboard turn into spineless pools of flan once they’re brought out kicking and screaming into the light of public scrutiny. When it comes right down to the tanned orange worshiping hacks, these hurlers of the snowflake slur are the biggest candy-asses of all. I’ve taken a great amount of guff from these cravens, but I’ve also given as well as I’ve gotten, and it hasn’t been boring yet, if I do say myself, and I do.

In any average week, I manage to get scores of fake profiles and bots removed from the various social media platforms, and with my ongoing Anti-Trump letters project*, aimed solely at the cultists of the mango Mussolini, my personal consensus of being truly self-entertaining seems to be holding water. At best guess, I’ve sent out at least 300+ of these personalized missives highlighting his and the GOP’s hypocrisy / idiocy, and as it goes on, I’m enjoying myself more and more.
*[Seriously. This is such a fun thing to do. The spark-joy is immense.]

Ideally, the structure of this somewhat silent protest all comes back to one central thought I’d love to see materialize in person- the knowledge of realizing that after going out to your mailbox that you’re no longer hidden from the eye of a Karmic society. I’d assume it must be chilling to say the very least, and that it might make one give serious pause to their approach concerning civil discourse, knowing they’ve been fully exposed like a Hermit Crab to the midday sun- in theory, of course.

However, I’m also perfectly fine with the fallout and backlash these cravens suffer due to their being unmasked- nobody is an “accidental” anything on the internet, especially where the most vile of human character is concerned, and we all know it, so spare me the whole apology/non-apology sentiment and move on.

As we’ve seen from past examples, the greater part of those affected by having their vitriolic facade laid bare tend to claim either the dubious mantle of being the true victim of their own actions, or of being misunderstood, rather than exuding genuine remorse or a sense of understanding as to why they’re being taken to task in the first place. I have zero sympathy for anyone who threatens, harasses, or slurs their fellow human being from under the internet’s bed, and then gets tagged on social media for it. Poor babies.

You literally asked for the attention, and now that you’ve got it, you want to complain?

I for one, have always been flummoxed by the dizzying leap of logic concerning the “I’m not a _____ , I just say and support _____ things, even though I’m so not that.“, defense. If you’re actually underpinning abominable actions with your support, I don’t care if you’re Mother Theresa on your off hours- you’re still an appalling person, no matter how you try (and fail) to spin it. And therein lies one of the main hurdles in regards to the issue with these Cult of the Red Hat members- how will we as a society reintegrate people who have no interest interacting with a reality that isn’t a paranoiac version of the Matrix?

The simple truth is that after years of unchecked and crazed fear-stoking by the sleazy offal that passes for the right-wing media in this country, most of this over-armed ilk is only one MRE and a camo t-shirt away from going into their bunker and plotting all-out civil war, and all they’re waiting on is any thing they can claim as a justified signal to go ahead and set it off. Let’s face it, when you’re dealing with a nationwide community that believes 100% that Hilary Clinton is running a sex slave ring out of a pizza restaurant, but not in Global Warming, it’s not as if you have a lot of intellectual clay to work with in the first place, if you catch my drift.

Gah. But do you know who should be dealing with these slack-brained sheep? The social sites themselves. For all their blustery posturing, I’ve yet to see the grand and sweeping changes these fraudulent collectors of data claim they’re currently enacting. I do see that the most vile characteristics of mankind are disseminated all over these conduits for cravens, but I’ve yet to see any so-called celebrity banned or held accountable for any of the bile they spew, that we as ordinary citizens get hammered for, so you conservajerks can pretty much stuff your hollow claims of the “Liberal Media” being anything more than your wretched need for a digital boogeyman.

If we peons all have to follow the rules, so should the Trumps and Lahrens of the world, but we all know that’s never going to happen, because their deliberate controversies keep the ad revenue up, and that’s what these corporations truly care about- keeping their coffers filled, and their stockholders financially fat, screw whatever the consequential fallout may be, as they turn a blind eye to the problem. Russia influenced our election? Old news. The Alt-Right is inciting violence against minorities by means of faux content? What do you expect us to do, hold them wholly accountable? Anonymous rape cultists attack women online 24/7? Maybe they could try smiling more when they receive those unsolicited dick pics, am I right?

I for one, have always thought there must be a better way to untangling this, the most of uncivil Gordian Knots, so let me toss out a few ideas past my previous notion of stripping away the cowardly cloak of anonymity:

1) The ratings on the Wall.

Like most of the entertainment that we find ourselves exposed to, maybe it’s time for a rating system that ranks websites/posted content based solely on accuracy and an ability to hold up under fact-checking. This I feel, would definitely neuter most of the racism, misogyny, alt-facts and Islamaphobia with a rusty chainsaw, as it should be. I’m not entirely sure what the symbol highlighting the false content could be represented by, but I am confident that Trump’s red hat icon would be a supremely apt choice. Granted, I don’t know at this point if it’s even remotely possible to regulate the cancer of faux info that’s wretchedly intertwined itself with our lack of civility, but I would sure as hell appreciate seeing an effort made to do so.

If my local news can run a concurrent stream of fact-checked information, so could these monoliths, if they so desired, but they’re not going to do what they ethically should, unless they’re forced to, and that opens up an even bigger Pandora’s box, no matter how you look at it. How would one go about the minutiae of consistently enforcing the “truth” on the Web, and who would get to set the parameters for what constitutes the Truth in the first place? More importantly, what would the penalties be, and how many could you accrue before having the severest one applied?

2) Got Bots?

This ties in with my earlier assertion of eradicating the safety of hiding in the shadows- if you’re bold enough to post something abominable on the web, then you should be brave enough to stand behind it 100%, with no exceptions. The fact that many won’t only proves that the majority of these cravenly trolls already know their POV will be mocked or outright dissected. But concurrently, there exists an issue almost as annoying and troubling, that being the proliferation of fake accounts and “bots”.

A bot (aka: socialbot or socbot) is an autonomous agent foisted upon social media which is tasked with influencing the opinions of the people it interacts with. Operating as the pixilated version of flying monkeys, and usually under some form of human control, they express certain ideas, such as supporting a campaign for instance, by presenting as an advocate/fan and attempts to gather others under their false flag with deceit. These bots exploit the mistaken belief that behind every social media profile there’s an actual human, and utilize that flawed idea to further whatever cause they’re sadly programmed to disseminate.

Easy to spot, due to limited posts vs follower base, profiles marked with a private status, and an inability to handle the minutiae of a direct conversation, they throttle debate and the clarity of free speech by muddying the waters, and sadly, it’s been darn effective. If the social platforms really want to provide a truly clear path to discourse, then their priorities need to incorporate the eradication of this scourge by salting the earth from which it spawns.

3) Box the Doxx.

As I noted earlier, there exists a morass of metaphorical land mines one must wander through when attempting to freely express one’s opinion on the web- these range from mild rebukes to displays of outright aggressive behavior that borders on the sociopathic, if not the terrifying. The pinnacle of this presentation solidified as the repulsively successful vehicle of Doxxing. But what is that, exactly? Doxxing is the vile web-based practice of researching and then distributing, private or identifiable information about an individual or organization, in a somewhat personally psychotic attempt at disrupting or causing harm to a person’s reputation and sense of personal safety.

The methods employed to acquire this information typically involve searching publicly available databases and social media websites, such as Facebook and the like. In essence, it’s pixilated anonymous terrorism, perpetuated by the most contemptible of our society who walk around freely masquerading as fellow humans. This menacing correspondence runs the gamut, covering everything from threats of sexual assault to grievous bodily harm, and this needs to be addressed seriously, and with great haste.

As noted earlier, the somewhat aggravating experience of having been harassed by no less than three pathetically gutless cyber-stalkers, along with the standard compliment of online trolls, prompts me to attest that it can be an experience in unchecked paranoia.

As I stated earlier as well, I already have an interior monster that’s dedicated to the cause of ending my time on this planet, I don’t give much, if any credence when threats are thrown in my general direction, because in the end, they’re pretty much the masturbatory fantasies of impotent cravens, and nobody has the time or energy for that. Sadly, most local law enforcement agencies are way behind the 8-ball when it comes to taking these oft-valid threats seriously.

When I was living in Phoenix, the first officer I talked to in regards to the numerous death threats I was receiving had all the interest (and physical appearance) of a barely sentient slab of pork towards doing anything of note- in essence, he was a complete and total lummox, even going so far as to say the following: “This is no more than two guys meeting behind the gym, and I’m pretty sure what this person is doing isn’t even illegal.”

He then went to lecture me that if this individual showed up at my home and attacked either my GF or myself, I could be charged with assault because I had stated earlier that I would kick his ass if he did. No joke. And we’re asked to support our local police? The only thing I’d support is if that particular officer went and got gastric-band surgery, because his ass was wider than my kitchen. Fortunately, the AZ state police were way more legally educated and interested towards helping me, and the case remains open.

Eventually, we’ll find this loser, and let the chips fall where they may, that being primarily down his cowardly throat. Now a few of you might point out the detail that in regards to my “postcard project”  I utilize some of the same techniques that these slugs do, so shouldn’t I be within the same category? For that, I’d issue a strong “Oh Hell no”- I for one, don’t make the private information of the recipients of my mailed missives public, and I don’t threaten them either. If anything, it’s a very private way of hopefully changing a specific mental facet for some of these otherwise rational people, and I’ll stand behind this conviction of mine 100%.

So, in closing the lid of this particular box, I’ll just opine that nationwide and consistent legislation should be set so that this type of cravenly online harassment constitutes a felony that comes with some severely draconian penalties, whether they be imprisonment, fines, restitution to the affected, or the loss of access to the web for a limited time. Want to spew threats? Then get ready to face the consequences of such.

Gah. I don’t know about you, but I could use a break. And some tacos. Lots of tacos.

And when I come back, I’ll delve into the two topics I originally wanted to talk about- my slow integration into Silver City’s local art scene, and my dawning realization that books are seemingly my personal form of heroin, and how I may have just found the perfect dealer of literature within my adopted city.

Cue Lou Reed’s “Waiting on the Man”.

“Civility, politeness, it’s like a cement in a society: binds it together. And when we lose it, then I think we all feel lesser and slightly dirty because of it.” – Jeremy Irons

 

 

 

 

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree.”- Steven, from the AZ Atty. General’s Office, as he shirked (in my POV) the responsibility he is tasked to carry forth. By the way, he said this four times in lieu of answering the simple question I asked.

“I’m not giving legal counsel.”- Rebekah, (Steven’s boss) when asked to clarify his contradictory non-answer while simultaneously threatening me with legal action..

Hello Blogiteers!

Today’s screed is all about honesty, integrity, and doing the right thing for the right reasons, and not just when it’s the obviously and only thing to do. I’ll also highlight the new definition of what “public service” entails, courtesy of a by the script desk-drone who literally and metaphorically, serves as the epoxy and amber analog that greases the wheels of progress. As an added bonus, I’ll be discussing beforehand my first official Halloween as a New Mexico suburbanite, and wrap it all up by gleefully capping off a previous dissecting of my former supervisor, (who fired me for being diabetic) in regards to her fabrication of character slurs as a means towards deflecting the discrimination complaint I filed in regards to the same, and my interactions with the hopeless agents tasked to investigate it.

There’s also the tangent arc of celebrating our first Xmas in New Mexico as well, but that’s maybe a topic for the next blog methinks, due to the sheer volume of writers grist. And as usual, all of this will be presented as I stand here, spewing the milk of human kindness that I’m so well-regarded for.

But first… the ol’ abode finally looks like an actual house, now that I’m somewhat mobile and able to hang some of the massive stockpile of art we arrived here with. Seriously. I thought we wouldn’t have enough art, due to our now being in a three bedroom house and all, but as it turns out, we have way more art than walls, and in concurrence, a garage full of artsy stuff, all of which I need to catalogue and then hopefully organize. I don’t know about you, but I love projects of the endless, and this seems as it will be one, given all I have to do. As far as my health goes, I’m still walking with a cane, but in time, I hopefully won’t be, I’ll just have to grit my teeth, and wait and see, no matter how snazzy it makes my overall ensemble look.

Moving on, we now come to the aforementioned past Halloween details, all the way from the beautiful vista that comprises the very heart of my Lair of Snarkitude, this located just outside the magnificent panorama that is Silver City, New Mexico. To start,  Ashley and I had 143 trick or treaters at our domicile, the largest grouping we’ve ever happily jazzed up on chocolate and sugar. This was due to our former residence being on the third floor of a way past it’s glory days apartment complex, and since there were very few kids in our particular section of the quad, and for the ones that bravely endeavored to go out and up, it was only the truest of the die-hards that ever took on the challenge of the vertical ascent. And keep in mind, we like to give out the “big” candy… in fistfuls no less, the kind most kids dream about.

So there we were, up to our necks in Batmans, princesses, ninjas, Transformers, a few adorable witches, some sardonic cowboys, and most disturbingly in numbers too large to chart, the Grim Reaper, aka the vision of Death. It seems even the youngest of children were inadvertently projecting the most cynical of auras this now passed year, and I really can’t blame them, given the current socio-political climate, which seems to be an all-out homage to 1930’s Berlin where the Sturmabteilung* of old has been replaced with the abhorrent Cult of the Red Hat, who much in the same manner, would happily throw their perceived “enemies” into an oven if their Mango Mussolini demanded it of them. I truly believe that some form of attempted civil war is coming if Cadet Bone Spurs gets his way, and I think it will be a true test of what America wishes to represent to the world entire, and where it’s citizens are willing to draw a line in the sand in regards to Trump’s inherent (and evident) fascism.
*[The Sturmabteilung, literally Storm Detachment, was the Nazi Party’s original group of paramilitary thugs. They played a noteworthy role in Hitler’s taking control of power in the 1920s and 1930s. Their key purposes were to provide protection for Nazi gatherings, and to disturb the activities of opposing parties. They were also referred to at times as the “Brownshirts” (aka: Braunhemden)]

Sorry. I didn’t mean to bum everybody out with the harsh realities and the crisis of American conviction that we find ourselves currently facing, it was just an off the cuff observation that I needed to get off my chest before I started strangling wayward ferrets

or as a secondary plan, the people behind those Magic Bullet infomercials. Getting back to the spooky cuteness, there we were, up to our overly-candied necks in sugar-crazed children, their laid-back yet attentive, parents, and to a T, all of them were freezing their candy-corns off, since the temperature outside our warm and inviting home was hovering somewhere around the low 40’s.

And to top that off, our neighborhood gets dark as pitch- the minute the sun dips below the horizon, it’s as if the art-worlds largest tube of Vantablack* gets squeezed all over Grant County, I kid you not. You might think you know what the Realm of Morpheus is, but you’ve never seen it like it is out here- vampires would adore it, depressed poets would pen love-sonnets on the subject of it, and the truest of Goths would kidnap the relevant** members of  The Cure, and set up shop here ASAP.
*[Vantablack® is a super-black coating that at this time, holds the world record as the darkest man-made substance. It absorbs virtually all incident light- if truth be told, It reflects so little light that it is often described as the safest black hole we’ll ever observe. In fact, it is so black that when applied to 3-D objects, it becomes almost impossible to distinguish any surface features, thereby effectively rendering those objects to appear as two-dimensional to the human eye- science is cool, is it not?

**[The following members are safe from the fear of being kidnapped: Michael Dempsey, Gary X, and Mark Ceccagno. It’s not that they’re bad musicians, they’re just not important enough to break out the name-brand eyeliner, black nail-polish, clove cigarettes, and the good chair with attached handcuffs for.]

After a few hours of ruining children’s appetites for days, we packed up the sweets, hit the sack, and upon rising the next morning I started the process of dealing with a previous issue that had semi-smooshed my good mood some time back on two separate levels- the first being that the AZ. Attorney Generals Office Civil Rights Division (AZAGCRD for short) who while claiming to use all of it’s self-professed wisdom, still puzzlingly denied my valid and disturbingly obvious discrimination claim against my former employer via what could only be charitably described as a form letter larded in sarcasm and saccharine, and the second, that in it’s doing so, it forced me to endure the supreme displeasure of having to interact with their (in my POV) vastly inept, if not wholly odious representative, a truly bloviating bureaucrat who thickly traipses his way through life under the inappropriate name of Steven.

Why is it inappropriate? Well, the name Steven is derived from the Greek name Stephanos, which means “crown”, or to be more precise- “that which surrounds”. The first Christian martyr Saint Stephen, whose death by stoning helped popularize the name, definitely suffered enough to the point he shouldn’t have to hear daily from Jesus how the standing of his good name has been besmirched by this person carrying it, if I were inclined to issue an assessment. The only thing this Steven has ever managed to surround in my humble opinion, is one’s communal sense of optimism with the overriding stench of truly bureaucratic incompetence.

Normally, when I’m faced with a person whom I feel has their ethical and common-sense DNA sadly missing a vital link or two within it’s code, I try not to go full Nazgûl* on them, but in this monotonous drones case, I’m more than happy to make the rare exception for no other reason than the fact he represents exactly what’s wrong with the so-called publicly-funded service sector these days- empty promises, half-assed work, and a stunning dearth of personal responsibility.
*[The Nazgûl are known also as Ring-wraiths, Black Riders, Dark Riders, or more concisely, as the Nine- fictional characters who are first mentioned in J.R.R Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. As the story goes, they were nine men who had been seduced by the power of the fallen spirit known as Sauron, inadvertently acquiring their hellish immortality as wraiths- servants bound to the power of the One Ring, and utterly under the command of Sauron.]

So what else adds to my personal-opinion-based detriment of character that this suspected amalgamation comprised of hubris and pudding skin possesses? Well…

I’ve stridently noted before both in life and in my screeds, that I utterly despise cowards. Cravens. Yellow-bellies. Chickens. Cats both Scaredy and Fraidy. Those who are faint of heart. The spineless. The lilly-livered. The just plain poltroon. Especially those who for whatever reason, cannot do anything except mouth platitudes off of a prepared script. In other words, the Vogons* of the world.
*[ The Vogons are a fictional alien race from the planet Vogsphere- characters from the most excellent book The Hitchhikers Guide to the Universe, written by the late Douglas Adams. They are partially responsible for the destruction of the Earth, in order to assist an intergalactic highway construction project for a hyperspace express route. Vogons are defined as slug-like, and vaguely humanoid, but are far bulkier than your average human.

Described as “one of the most unpleasant races in the galaxy, not actually evil, but bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous”, and having “as much sex appeal as a road accident” they are also known for being the authors of “the third worst poetry in the universe”. They are employed primarily as the galactic government’s bureaucrats, which in all honesty, shouldn’t really be a shock to anyone who’s ever had to deal with anyone of this ilk and caste.]

I for one, cannot tolerate the stereotypically slavish sock-puppets of the bureaucratic Malebolge* that comprises what passes for state agencies in AZ. which are supposedly there to help it’s most undefended and poorly under-represented citizens against those who would take advantage of them, whether that form takes shape as fate, corporations or lone individuals who abuse their authority.
*[This is the 8th circle referenced in Dante’s Inferno, whose purpose is to hold those who’ve committed the abominable sin of Fraud. It is called Malebolge because it is divided into ten “bolge” [ditches] which are further separated into the following order of sinners: seducers and flatterers, simonists,[sellers of religious offices] diviners, astrologers, and magicians, barrators, [swindlers] hypocrites, thieves, fraudulent counselors, sowers of discord and schism, and finally, falsifiers of metals, persons, coins and words… so it’s just like our modern-day Congress, but way more colorful.]

Now, you might be wondering why I seemingly possess a touch more scorn for this particular descendent of a family tree that allegedly has no branches, versus the truly dishonorable and lying sack of supposed unethical protoplasmic lard that is my former supervisor, but I’m pretty sure I can justify, if not rationalize, my opinion of the moment.

When I filed my legitimate claim of discrimination against my former employer, that being on the day of my illegal firing, I was informed the process could take anywhere from six months to a year, because, and I quote, the  “investigation” would be “extensive” and “in-depth”. If you’re a normal person, you might take this at face value to imply that your concerns would be addressed thoroughly and professionally, backed by the full authority of an agency created specifically to protect your rights as an employee and more importantly, as a person who’s been unjustly treated. To that, all I can say is this- when you show your undiluted faith in the government to do the right thing by and for you, I just want to feed you cookies, read you a bedtime story, and pat you on the head as I tuck you into your race-car bed with it’s pink unicorn bed-sheets, because you are one freakingly adorable rugrat.

It’s that kind of optimism and child-like wonder that assures there will always be a market in America for adult-size footed pajamas, cherry-flavored vitamin water, and “yummy” Taco Bell, God willing and all that. In my personal experience, what happens when this agency supposedly gets to moving it’s indolent bulk forward, is that you get to sit on your hands and wait, as a person who’s sole responsibility is to examine the validity of cases wastes your time and the state’s tax revenue as they earn their paycheck by deception, not dedication.

Allegedly, of course. Now, given the law of statistics, I’m sure there has to be at least one person who works there at present and truly deserves their pay and perks, just not the ones I’ve been dealing with. The overworked and underappreciated receptionists for example, who have to play the unfortunate referee as they hand you off to the various malcontents whose singular purpose is to feign sympathy as they shirk accountability and pass the buck. In addition, I had the truly unique pleasure of being lectured by Steven about how his having served in the Air Force somehow made him a much better American than myself, a person he claimed “did the work from a distance“, whatever the frak that means.

To be honest, I wasn’t aware that his possibly not having any options open to him after high school was something he should and could brag about, but far be it from me to shatter his fragile egotism regarding serving in the singular branch of the military whose role is to be a taxicab for the real soldiers doing the hard lifting that they on their best day, cannot. To bolster this outlook, I offer the following from a close family associate who was “in-country” for three tours during the Vietnam war, and said this to me when I was but a small child: “You go into the Air Farce (misspelling intended) when you’re too much of a p***y to be a Marine, and not nearly gay enough to join the Navy.”

Now, I don’t know if that acidic (and definitely homophobic) sentiment is entirely correct, but I do feel I’d have far more to fear from a soldier who actually saw and was directly involved in ground force combat, rather then a cos-player who rode a desk, and fought the so-called fight from behind his whimsically mediocre stack of Post-it notes. To reference another friend who did join the Air Force several years ago: “the basic training here is like ten times easier than when I was in my High School ROTC.”

But then again, should I really be impressed by a guy who’s two M.A. degrees were issued by a college rated 15’th best for veterans, 23’rd best in the Midwest, and 56’th for best value, as ranked* by US News and World Report? Both of these by the way, were in the oversaturated field of Management, which is like saying you got a diploma in breathing oxygen- it’s not really that impressive as far as degrees go, and if you doubt that, go ask any barista what they majored in, and the odds are pretty good it was that.
*[https://www.usnews.com/best-colleges/webster-university-2521]

In fact, one might generate far more respect and goodwill by getting into Mc Donald’s Hamburger University, which as of 2015, had over 300,000 future managers graduate, and in an odd side note, according to a previously issued Bloomberg report, Hamburger University was purportedly harder* to get into than the much better-known and idolized Oxford and Harvard.
*[https://www.braingainmag.com/here-s-everything-you-need-to-know-about-hamburger-university.htm]

But then again, in order to do that type of job, one has to be good with people to begin with, and if my personal experience interacting with Steven has shown me anything, he’s a people person much in the same way I can still wear a five-toed sock on my left foot- we can both believe what we want till the cows come home, but when directly challenged, we’re both going to come up way short of our respective opinion.

See, the reality of my cynical worldview is that I don’t expect much from my fellow human, past the basics of being hopefully decent to their related by biology brethren. And when it comes to those working for any form of government, my standards drop to whether or not they’re borderline sentient. In which case Steven does easily qualify, but in my opinion, just barely. This guy definitely strikes my singular POV as someone who if he does own any books, most likely uses them as beer coasters, and if he doesn’t, my extended gut feeling is that they’re the types of books that involve either pop-ups or lots of colorful pictures… allegedly, of course.

But let’s be fair, I could be wrong. The odds are at least 50/50 anyway, and it’s not like governmental jobs have allowance for any personal creativity, empathy or human decency to begin with, so maybe I’m being a tad bit harsh. Unkind. Perhaps somewhat callous, Even possibly unsympathetic at best. All of these are a distinct option, especially when one factors in the detail that they dismissed my case to begin with, all while not really clarifying why they did so. Along those lines, one might be able to reasonably opine that my take on the situation is just the end product of sour grapes, and nothing more.

But as an applicable side note, does my being diabetic even merit the so-called protection of the law? Well… except for a few key points of discussion such as the mitigating measures of medication use when determining whether an individual is a qualifying person with a disability, a person may have diabetes completely under control through medicine and lifestyle changes, and still have a qualifying disability. That means that for the purpose of defining said disability, the laws look at how the person would be if they stopped treating diabetes in any way, as such, diabetes IS covered under the American Disabilities Act, a provision of the law which I filed my complaint under.

Granted, I don’t consider myself (even with all of my health issues) as even remotely disabled, I tend to refer to the situation on my part as being “physically limited” in what I can and can’t do. Is it annoying and at times, wholly soul crushing? You betcha. But life never has and never will, play fair, and you need to attempt a win with the cards you’ve been unfortunately dealt, no matter what. That’s just how it is, and you have to make peace with it, like it or not. So in order to do that for this case, I’m going to argue my point and I’ll just let my account filter far and wide as it will.

But first… the obligatory back-story. Now, if this were a film, this would be the part where there’s a dissolve, (possibly with a subtitle) to let you know where all of us have wound up regarding the aspects of time, place, and past history, so I’ll just post a version of it here, courtesy of that most excellent film, Wayne’s World:
[https://gifer.com/en/3WXx]

The whole hot-mess started way back in 2017, near the end of the year, as where I worked underwent a rather abrupt change, both in personnel and management style. Sadly, due to my age, health, and most importantly, my salary expectations, I was no longer considered a valuable asset within the industry to which I had given nearly 25 years of my life and skillsets.  So, I was unfortunately strong-armed by Life into having to be a warehouse worker, a job that was both unsatisfying, unchallenging, and underpaid, but it was what it was. As I stated in the nicest terms above, Life is a mother-f***ing bitch sometimes, and even worse- sometimes one comes into your almost bucolic workplace fully girded, ready to prove that maxim as if they’re expecting to win all the prizes for doing so.

At first, my new supervisor came across as somewhat sweet, even with her internal Damocles sword of self-doubt that was fairly and evidently displayed from day one in regards to how she ran our day to day operation. To be fair, there was a good chunk of days where we ran like a fine Swiss watch protected by Saint Joseph* himself, but on a majority of the days, it was akin to trying to swim through molasses with concrete blocks tied around your feet, as you try in vain to settle down a headstrong three year old who’s having a full-on meltdown, as they grab all the candy out of the racks next to the cash register at WalMart.
*[Saint Joseph BTW, is the overextended patron saint of workers.]

And believe it or not, I’m actually being diplomatic here, so you can just imagine how much more room there is to be had if I decided I didn’t want to be. When I originally started working for this family-owned frame molding distributor that established itself back in 1954, I did so with a very heavy heart- being aged out of an industry you’ve loved since you started in it f***ing hurts, and miserably, there were exceedingly few viable options open to me at that point, based solely on the parameters of my age and health.

As I said earlier, Life is a mother-f***ing bitch, and when she’s pissed off, y’all gonna suffer, no matter what you try to stave off her advances. But in all honesty, there were some positives- the Universe does ascribe to the concept of equilibrium for the sake of it all as we well know, and it manifested itself in the aspect of my immediate supervisor and my only other co-worker at the time. I’m not going to name them unless I can do it via aliases, since I still respect the hell out of them, and they deserve at the very least not to be spattered with my saturnly venomous acidity. I do try to pull my punches when the wrong people unfortunately find themselves in my line of sight, so therefore, I really do have nothing bad whatsoever to say about either of them. 

Seriously- “Garry” and “Fernando” are great people, and they both deserved better from this company than what they’ve received, hands down. One of the immediate salves concerning my unfortunate employment at this company was the fact that we were a dedicated and cohesive team- we kicked ass, took names, and promptly forgot them- you know, like you do. And the overall dynamic was great. Never in my working life have I ever enjoyed the company of my co-workers like I did with these guys, and I truly miss that, if I have to be brutally honest. However, after “Garry” left for the wilds of Florida, due to some unethical (in my POV) shenanigans that derived from our out-of-state home office, that balance shifted for the worse, with the addition of two fresh faces- the previously referenced replacement supervisor who I’ll name “Tonya” due to legal concerns, and a dense slab of inanity I’m more than comfortable labeling as “Dick”.

And yes, “Dick” IS a truly appropriate name, of which I’ll defend it’s use further along in our story. When “Tonya” and “Dick” came on board, I did expect somewhat of a sea-change, but I didn’t foresee what would eventually happen in regards to my work schedule, my responsibilities, and most importantly, my sense of self-worth. At the time, long before these two would go on to darken my metaphorical doorstep, I had already seen my hours cut way beyond the normal parameters of what constitutes a standard part-time schedule, the excuse being that we “didn’t have enough work”, and yet… “Dick” was given a full 40 hour work-week laboring at most of my previous responsibilities.

More on that in a bit.

Now at that point, I was still grinding along with the shoulder injury I had suffered while in the employ of the company, but as of then, had not yet filed the definitive workmans comp claim in regards to it, as I immediately did after my termination. Why, you ask? Well, I needed the job, and I still maintain that my employer was (previous to the arrival of “Tonya” and “Dick”) trying to get rid of me by attrition. And quite frankly, I wasn’t going to give them any additional ammunition necessary to fire me. Arizona is sadly after all, a right-to-work state, and I’m sure if the head office had been made aware of my limitations, a dire tidbit of knowledge I sense my ex-supervisor “Garry” neglected to inform them of on purpose, they would have fired me on the spot, and of that, I have no doubts whatsoever.

Keep in mind, that working with said injury only aggravated it more, but I had no choice. as there was literally nowhere I could go, and I had been SERIOUSLY looking for a new job since the first week I started there. But from the start of her tenure, besides being in way over her head, “Tonya” also took a highly inappropriate interest in my ongoing health issues past what one might consider to be the normal boundaries concerning the boss/worker relationship.

As regular readers of this blog know, I really don’t have too many filters or fences in relation to the details I’m willing to share using the infrastructure of the Internet- I’m pretty much an open book, no matter what you may or may not, want to know. I’ve shared rather intimate minutiae of my chronic health issues, regaled my readers with the tale of posing nude for a fellow artist, complete with pictures no less, and in what I have been told was the purest distillation of the phrase “TMI”, described what’s it like to have a catheter fitted, complete with all the bells and whistles*. But even given that, I actually do have a few hard and fast rules.
*[I did have the joy of one of my surgical nurses telling me later that was the first time she had ever laughed at reading a description of the process, so I took that as a win.]

First, if you’re not one of my trusted friends and/or inner circle, you don’t get to talk to me as if you are, and that’s pretty much a policy of zero-tolerance, which is not open for debate… ever. Second, while I may be willing to share such details, it’s definitely never been presented as a blank check or two-way mirror for someone (who is a doctor in much the same way that Dr. Pepper is) to give me a consignment of unwanted, unnecessary, and self-righteous “advice”- if I didn’t directly ask you for your opinion stranger, it’s best you keep your yap shut, if you’d not like to make your dentist independently wealthy.

Just saying.

But since we’re on the topic of unwanted advice, let’s talk about the persons I worked with in regards to the issue of their individual health, shall we? After all, since I was fired for mine, I feel it’s only fair to return the favor of over-focused intrusive meddling. What can I say? I’m a big believer in the art of giving. Let’s start with “Dick”, who had been in a horrific car accident some years earlier, and by my observation, was being held together primarily by Monster energy drinks, hyperactivity, and several types of pain medication.

Not to diminish what he amazingly survived, but it’s collective recentness was a detriment in relation to the work environment. as was his innate arrogance, general idiocy, and toxic machismo, which was constantly butting heads daily with both myself and our direct supervisor, in relation to following orders and company protocol. As proof, I’d like to point out that the ratio of damaged and mislabeled goods along with customer returns shot up after he and my supervisor were employed, but I’m sure that’s just a supreme coincidence.

According to my former employer, “Dick” was hired specifically to build additional storage bins in our warehouse, which he sort of did, but upon his hiring, he was given a much wider range of additional duties, as mine were gradually reduced. As I noted earlier, the consistent excuse being that we “didn’t have enough work”, and yet, “Dick” somehow always seemed to be assigned to a 40 hour week. Weird, that. Granted, he wasn’t capable of entering the collected shipping data we and our customers required because it’s hard to use a computer when you don’t possess opposable thumbs, but I digress. And nothing else by the way makes you want to work alongside your co-worker on a commercial saw, then their bragging about engaging in hard drinking before 9 a.m., let me tell you.

Prior to the management shift, I was essentially an assistant manager, in all but name only, and was tasked with product shipping and tracking, material inventory, overseeing the receiving of deliveries, opening/closing the warehouse, and filing the crucial end of day paperwork. However, by the end of my tenure, my daily obligations had been brusquely abridged to sweeping the floor and occasionally doing the most basic data entry that the walking meat slab could not be trusted to do. I was also the lone official

key-holder, but after “Tonya” arrived, that responsibility was, without any form of rational explanation, taken away from me and never returned. Keep in mind, the entire time I was under employ there, I never once received any official rebuke, write-up, or period of suspension- EVER.

And as an aside, now might be a good time to mention that “Dick” on the other hand, seemed to think that screwing up was a daily challenge, along with consistently mansplaining things to our mutual supervisor- that is, when he wasn’t engaging in screaming hissy-fits with the local homeless population that intermittently lived rough in the causeway behind our building. Truly, nothing represents your company better than one of your employees threatening a dispossessed person who’s trying to just get some sleep, with a severe beat-down because they dared to attempt doing so in “your” alley, doesn’t it?

Definitely a paragon of Christian values he is not, to quote Yoda.

To add an extra layer of icing to this Hieronymous Bosch cupcake, there was also the time he both called and then texted me, asking if I could set him up with some of my painkiller medication, because you know, that’s the sort of thing I’d do for a co-worker I don’t like, respect or fear. First off, I’m not in the habit of being the corner man, and second, the pain control meds I do take aren’t opiates- they’re strictly for nerve pain, and are pretty much useless in regards to the pain issues “Dick” faced. What a great work environment to come to three days a week, am I right? I mean, it’s quite bad enough working a low-brain, dead-end job where everyday on the drive there, you have to to pump yourself up in order to face the hellhole you flippantly refer to as your workplace, but when it has to be done in the proximity of an ignorant, hyped-up, arrogant hamster, it becomes ten times worse.

This, after having a dynamic that actually worked for the better part of over a year before he and the new supervisor arrived. Oh well… c’est la vie.

But now, let’s address the staggering self-righteousness of my former supervisor, who in my opinion, is nothing more than a fettleibiger lügnerin* at best, and that’s me being really kind. Basically, having someone with multiple health issues daring to make unwanted and intrusive comments regarding my health as she has done, was both unprofessional and hypocritical, but that never seemed to cause her any mental pause as to doing it in the first place. In order for you to understand what I just declared, I will lay out the specifics for you, in order to clarify just why I despise this verräterischer feige** so much.
*[Go ahead and Google these. They’re not only German, they’re accurate.
**Seriously, German is such a great language for describing peoples flaws.]

I’ve already covered my assertion that not only was she a terrible boss, but a virulent serial liar as well in an earlier blog, so I won’t rehash it in full here, but as an added and final note as to her lack of character, I would like to reiterate that in her official statement to the AZAGCRD, she talks about her not caring one bit about my diabetes, whilst she constantly obsesses about my diabetes throughout it, and then after being questioned, almost immediately quits my former employer- a detail the so-called investigator somehow missed, despite her Jello-sharp instinct for ferreting out the obvious truth.
(That’s heavy sarcasm for those of you in the back. Glad to help.)

The issue of whether I’m still going to seek outside legal satisfaction against my former supervisor remains hanging in the air, mainly due to the fact that the only thing she truly owns is her arrogance and the vast amounts of lard situated around her equatorially large ass, and God knows I already comprise enough of the first, and in reference to the second, I’m not really interested in acquiring anything that’s been deep-fried that excessively. She may not have a pot to piss in, but I’m pretty sure what she does have, she’d sure not like to lose, so we’ll see how it goes.

It’s already exhausting enough that I have to deal daily with the annoyance of having to explain the intimate technicalities of my disease to both friends and total strangers alike, but no one should have to put up with that ignorant s**t at work, especially from the person who has supreme authority over you. My former supervisor, already saddled with an extreme sense of being in over her head to begin with, was (at the time) also morbidly obese, and came to work daily wearing a knee brace, compression gloves, and talked at length about the salves she required for her bad back, so naturally, she was the obvious go-to for asking how I should tackle my various health issues.

Not to mention her penchant for eternally composing (on company time) a never sent e-mail to the company’s owner, basically telling her to go f**k themselves twelve ways to Sunday. That’s definitely an ethical way to justify earning your paycheck, no matter which way you look at it. And as an employee, it definitely boosts morale to have your superior constantly ragging on the top boss as if they dumped you at the Prom. Shockingly, I don’t need to be told by what is essentially a total stranger, to “eat better” or that I “should be at home working on my diabetes” nor am I open to any suggestions that Ashley (my GF) doesn’t know how to take care of me, an implication that if “Tonya” had been a dude, would have been definitely capped off with the shoving of my size 10&1/2 work-boots straight up that mass of extensive cellulite she refers to as her ass.

It’s one thing to comment on my health when I asked directly for your opinion, it’s quite another to start editorializing about it at length when it’s unwarranted or not heralded. And this level of intrusiveness had only been escalating from the day she arrived, until my illegal firing a few months later. Speaking (or writing) of such… there’s many a paragraph I could (and someday may) write about how AZAGCRD fumbled the ball in regards to my discrimination complaint, but for now, I’m only going to address a few fine points within the confines of my discussion of it- the first being the disturbing concern of Steven telling me directly: “we’re not here to serve the public“, and then going on to inform me that there was no way for the general public to find out the number (or if any) complaints had been filed against a specific company.

When firmly pressed regarding this contradiction of charter, Steven seemed almost offended that the thought of ordinary citizens having the right to access this vital information was even indirectly suggested. The nerve of the populace, wanting to be informed and all- how dare they even think that. The next thing you know, they’ll be asking for the right to be treated with respect, and we all know where that’ll lead…they’ll be asking Steven and his incompetent ilk to investigate their complaints objectiv… oh, wait, THAT’S WHAT THEY’RE SUPPOSED TO DO… or so I’ve been misinformed.

But here’s where an additional slab of WTF gets added to this already steaming mound of bureaucratic baked hot icicles, and it’s a doozy, even by the standards or lack thereof that most governmental agencies barely operate under. There does exist an extensive official transcript regarding the claim I’ve made, and my ex-supervisors retort, which was compiled by the AZAGCRD as a means of recording this data seemingly for no other reason then to claim it was done so, since the public cannot access it anyway.

Why is this waste of pixels labeled as a slab of WTF, you query? Well, I originally wanted to order one as a backup for my extensive pre-writing notes, and to have a solid reference of my ex-supervisors farcical allegations, slurs, and sheer fabrications she comprised out of ether and pure cowardice. You know… like someone who’s interest in accuracy might do in order to defend their virtual position. So I went ahead and asked Steven to send me the particulars of the necessary formalities, which involved signing off on some red tape, and paying a twelve dollar fee, because somehow, this wholly taxpayer supported public entity is getting hit in the shorts by it’s enormous digital duping costs.

Who knew that comprising a CD document was such a costly detriment to the cause of social justice? Now, while my initial dealings with Steven were strained, they were about to get much worse, because when the envelope arrived with all of the paperwork I had to sign before receiving said transcript, I noticed there was a non-disclosure document that had to be signed before anything would be released to me. So why did I have an issue with this, exactly?

Well…

Here’s the definition: “A legally binding contract (also known as an NDA or confidentiality agreement) in which a person or business promises to treat specific information as a trade secret and not disclose it to others without proper authorization. Nondisclosure agreements are often used when a business discloses a trade secret to another person or business for such purposes as development, marketing, evaluation, or securing financial backing. A nondisclosure agreement will not protect trade secrets if the trade secret owner has not taken reasonable steps to keep the information secret.”

Here’s my issue with these bullshit CYA notes in relation to their use within government investigations: you can’t claim your charter is to protect the public, then aggressively attempt to stop the public seeking out the relevant info it requires to make the best informed decision, so there was no way on this f**ked-up realm of the *Aesir that I was ever going to sign it, short of a serious threat requiring me to eat a combination plate consisting of undercooked **haggis, and ***thousand-year-old-eggs, all covered with a dressing of  rancid ****natto- as if anyone could spy the difference to begin with.
[*The Aesir are the principal gods of the pantheon. They include many of the major figures, Odin, Frigg, Thor, etc.

**A Scottish dish consisting of a sheep’s or calf’s “guts”mixed with suet, oatmeal, and seasoning and boiled in a bag, traditionally one made from the animal’s stomach. ***TYOE are a Chinese preserved food product and so-called delicacy made by preserving the eggs of fowl covered in a mixture of ash, clay, lime, salt and the hulls of rice. The process can require several weeks to several months, depending on the method used to create these abominations.

****This is a traditional Japanese breakfast item, made from fermented soybeans and served with soy sauce, karashi mustard, and Japanese bunching onion. The phrase “an acquired taste” definitely comes to mind, given the factors of its overpowering stench, strong flavor, and absolutely revolting sticky and slimy texture.]

Getting back to point, I’m never willingly going to assist any cabal that keeps crucial information out of the reach of those who need to access it. No way. No how. Especially when that information directly involves me, and I’m the one who originally initiated it in the first place. The only reason this bulls**t is swept under the rug, is to maintain the status quo by protecting those who are in a position of power. This opinion of mine was further reinforced when Steven told me rather tersely if not arrogantly, that the AZAGCRD wasn’t there to serve the public.

Let’s think about this for a minute. A taxpayer supported agency created to protect and serve the public (specifically it’s working class) doesn’t actually have to discharge the duties of it’s charter, according to one of it’s representatives.

I’ll also note that at no time during the filing or subsequently dubious  “investigation”, of my claim was I ever informed this information was privileged, nor did I sign any form of legal documentation knowingly giving my inherent rights away, so the very thought of Steven threatening me with a Class 1 misdemeanor if I dared write about my case, regardless of whether or not I used the official transcription, incensed me beyond belief.

His pitiable rationalization for this attempt to violate my 1st amendment rights was to claim that this “protected” me from a lawsuit from my former employer and supervisor, a declaration I most assuredly laughed away as neither could possibly be that stupid, given what they both would lose in the end. Not too surprisingly, given his inabilities to answer directly how a state law/policy could override my rights that are granted and protected under the Constitution of these United States, the conversation quickly devolved into a morass of insults (him) and vulgarities (me) after it became fairly obvious I was dealing with a contradictory and progressively buffoonish twit-waffle.

But since I was trying to get a clear answer regarding this censorship and getting nowhere, I climbed further up the ladder of inanity to reach his immediate supervisor Rebekah, who in my humble opinion, has the potential to be the next Simone Biles*, if dodging valid questions were ever to become an Olympic event.
*[Simone Arianne Bile is an American gymnast. She was the 2016 Olympic individual all-  vault and floor gold medalist, and balance-beam bronze medalist.]

My personal synopsis aside, according to her publicly posted resume, she has practical experience in the following aspects of the legal profession: Manslaughter, International Extradition, Identity Theft, Homicide, Hit and Run, Grand Jury Practice, Fraud, Forgery, Felonies, Forensic DNA, Federal Criminal Law, Embezzlement, Electronic Surveillance, Extortion, Expungements, Criminal Prosecution, Criminal Investigation, Criminal Fraud, Drivers License Suspension, Domestic Violence, DUI/DWI, Driving While Intoxicated, Criminal Conspiracy, Assault and Battery, Automobile Fraud, Burglary, Bribery, Traffic Violations, Theft, Shoplifting, Stalking, White Collar Crime, Weapons Charges, Victims Rights, Misdemeanors, Parole and Probation, Murder, Money Laundering, Search and Seizure, Sex Crimes, Sexual Assault, Wiretapping, White Collar Fraud, Wire Fraud, Womens Rights, Sex Discrimination, Prisoners Rights Class Actions, Prisoners Rights, Public Interest Law, Race Discrimination, Discrimination, Disabled Rights, Gay and Lesbian Rights, Handicapped Rights, LGBTQIA Rights, Personal Rights, International Human Rights, Human Rights, Civil Liberties, Disability Discrimination, Disabled Access, Civil Rights Defense, Civil Rights Section 1983, and finally, Reproductive Rights.

Whew. That’s quite the public cry for attention, so certainly in theory at least, she’s more than qualified on pixels at least, to answer the question I had repeatedly asked of Steven: how does a state law/policy override my constitutionally protected right to freedom of speech and expression?

This by the way, seems like a relatively easy point to either explain or defend for a reasonably intelligent mammal gifted with a law degree, but I’ve noticed as of late that most of my fellow humans are as self-aware as Louis CK at a #metoo rally, and just about as tactful. First, she promptly brushed off my concerns about how my case was handled, my complaints regarding Steven, and when it came to the main issue, that of my being threatened with legal action if I so much as thought to write about all of this, she for whatever private or psychological reason literally could not (or would not) counter my query with a definitive response.

Imagine that. A lawyer who comes across as shady, if not shifty… will wonders never cease. But then again, given the Play-Dough production facilities that pass for law schools in this country, I shouldn’t have expected anything less than someone who’s manipulation of the lexicon would be akin to Neo’s moves during the rooftop fight sequence in the Matrix. Obfuscation as a martial art, as it were.

But as noted, most law schools are in it for the profit, not the outgoing quality, and the school she graduated from was ranked by U.S. News & World Report in 2019 as coming in 4th for legal writing programs, 19th for clinical law programs, 27th among part-time law school programs, and placing 128th overall among law schools in the United States. Keep in mind, there’s only 237 law schools in the US, so draw your own conclusions as to the value and solidarity of her education, as I surely did after incredulously listening to her say absolutely nothing of note after almost 20 minutes.

The most gloriously frustrating aspect however, was her unswerving repetition of how she “wasn’t giving legal counsel”, while threatening me with violating my civil rights, as she presented herself as a defender of those very same principles.

Come up with your own snarky observations, boys and girls- Lord knows I have, and if she and Steven are the prime examples of what is recruited for top-notch talent at the ol’ AZAGCRD, I can only imagine what a dyspeptic hummingbird clusterf**k their HR department must be on their best day.

But if I do have one truly dogged trait, it’s that when I smell metaphorical blood in the water, I get even more focused and determined to see things through to the end- especially if you attempt to strong-arm or intimidate me from doing so, and we all saw how well that turned out for the Phoenix New Times, didn’t we?

Applying that one might say, obsessive skill-set of mine, I jumped over Rebekah’s overly swollen ego and went to her supervisor, who in no time whatsoever, revealed herself to be yet another bureaucratic poltroon who couldn’t/wouldn’t answer what by now, had become a question I could dictate in my sleep. So, after telling the entire story (again) she responds by saying she doesn’t have an answer- which to be quite honest, was the only truthful rejoin I have yet to receive from these legal lollygaggers.

Trying to err somewhat on the side of diplomacy, I tell her to get her agency’s collective heads together and inform me of a definitive by the following day which just happens to be Friday, and this comes and goes without any form of retort. The following Monday also bears no answer, and the two messages that I respectively leave on Wednesday and Thursday go unreturned as well. On that Friday, I contact the Tucson office seeing if hopefully someone there can provide any clarity to my weeks long inquiry, and at the time got nowhere, or so I thought.

The following Tuesday (!) an individual calling herself “Kim” and claiming to be from the Phoenix criminal division office contacts me for seemingly the sole purpose of snottily demanding that I “stop calling” (with an implied “or else”) as “no one will ever answer your question”. When I press as to why this is so, she testily states that “we’re done”, and swiftly hangs up after I ask her why a building full of lawyers is so ineptly unable to handle a legal question that relates directly to what they claim to do. I’d suggest incompetence, but that’s only because my eyes and ears work the way that they should.

And these second-handers wonder why people have zero respect for public servants… truly, it’s a mystery to boggle the modern mind for ages, is it not? This petty (if not downright juvenile) behavior does raise the perfectly valid question though, that being: what are these allegedly unprincipled jackasses collecting a paycheck for? Is there some form of government charity where we as taxpayers all agreed to collectively subsidize the adult lifestyle of children who ate far too many lead paint chips as if they were Pringles? In addition, this ham-fisted attempt at subtle intimidation steered by what amounted to a singularly impotent lower associate was as pathetic as it was obvious.

With no due respect, if you’re going to try and foist a bluff directly upon my gambit, at least use a person who presents as ably authoritative to do it. Sending this colorless worker-bee to challenge me without the shelter of name, rank, title, or any form of measurable gravitas to speak of, is akin to sending Jill Masters to go take on Goldfinger, and we all saw how that worked out for her resume, didn’t we? Because I’m pretty sure she didn’t get a reference, considering how much she cost him in gold body paint, if not replacement queen-size high-thread count sheets.

So at this moment, I have no answers to the following: is their intractable stance based on a law or a policy? Why do they believe that if any state provisos do exist, that they nullify my Constitutional rights? And what exactly, makes them think they can refuse to answer the concerns of taxpayers who underwrite their agency, and then feebly attempt to use other agencies as a means to silencing those who might publically dare to hold them accountable?

Well, if the merest of my research into the laws of AZ are any indicator, my voice and opinions cannot be stifled past the point of rationality. While the broadness of what can be considered allowable free speech is open to legal interpretation, the confines of it’s protection really is not.

For instance, if my use of free speech led to civil unrest, physical damages, defamation, and the like, it could be easily argued that it fell far outside the realm of what might be allowable, and the not unforeseen consequences I’d face could be dire. For instance, at any moment on Twitter one can see both the up and down of what is sadly and truly considered the discourse of our age, and it’s stunning in it’s equity of the glorious and the wretched, a mélange of intellect and ignorance, as it were.

But the majority of these uncivil exchanges still fall under the protection of the 1st Amendment, whether you agree with it’s content or not. I cannot threaten you with harm, but I can call you out, and therein lies the crowbar separation.

So why is it so hard, if not downright impossible for the AZAGCRD to answer this question of legalities directly, when it literally falls under their purview? If such a law exists, then why can’t they directly name the statute? My response to that, is to throw out the following thoughts, and let the chips fall where they may, even if their final resting place just happens to be down some pompously craven throats.

The first idea I’m gonna instigate is that no such policy exists, and if it does- it’s strictly in place to intimidate or block anyone who dares to question their alleged incompetence and unprofessional behavior.

This opinion I feel, is backed up strictly by the fact that a no-name, no-power subordinate tried (and failed pathetically) to threaten me for exercising my inherent rights. Their subtle as a Kardashian at an NBA mixer to stifling dissention in my opinion, is nothing more than a slithery, if not unethical, scheme to block the public from discovering information they should have no restrictions against accessing- after all, Steven did tell me that “we don’t work for the public”, so this revelation may be just an unfortunate Freudian slip of the tongue on his part, in regards as to why they don’t want anyone knowing the fact that there is no resource open to the general public that they could utilize strictly for defending themselves from discriminatory and illegal practices.

But remember, this is how they claim that they’re “protecting” the public… by keeping relevant information from them, and then threatening anyone who calls them out for it, by the alleged abuse of their limited authority. Methinks that this collective of cowardly antagonizers needs to be held up to the light, and that right quick, no matter how much they posture and jeer.

So to that end, not only I will be filing a detailed complaint with the ACLU in Phoenix, I’ll also be spending some seriously focused time discovering and then contacting, every significantly appropriate advocacy group that I can think of in regards to this issue.

So AZAGCRD refuses to justify their threat? That’s fine. I’ve been previously stone-walled by this type of charlatan cabal disguised as a public service agency before, as it is their collective stock in trade, but I also get this delightful feeling of imminent schadenfreude that they’re going to be answering a slew of truly uncomfortable questions in the time yet to come, and the majority of them will be asked by someone who they will have to answer to… whether they like it or not.

And when we come back… I continue on with my seemingly endless quest to wear two identical shoes, dip my remaining toes into my local writing and art scene, and discuss how even in a charmingly small town, I still have a huge book-buying problem.

“Lying is the greatest of all sins”- Alfred Nobel

“In any bureaucracy, there’s a natural tendency to let the system become an excuse for inaction.”- Chris Fussell

 

 

           

 

“Does an apple a day keep the doctor away? Only if you aim it well enough.” – Anonymous

“After you find out all the things that can go wrong, your life becomes less about living and more about waiting.” – Chuck Palahniuk

Hello Blogiteers!

So here I am, catching my breath outside the door of my local bone and joint clinic, having arrived on time for my appointment to get a consult from my surgeon, the one and only Dr. Cerreon regarding how I’m healing, whether or not my stitches can come out, and most important to me at this moment, the supreme decision of if I can ditch the walking frame, and get one of those dorky walking boot things, so I can actually move forward and start getting my life back in order, and also to a lesser degree, finishing the job of unpacking the rest of our moving boxes.

However by myself, I finally did manage to assemble Ashley’s solid steel 32 piece DVD rack, and then organized and filed her collection this week, so officially- I am truly one motherf’kng badass Gimp* by all marketable rights.
*[An insulting idiom for someone that is disabled or has a medical difficulty that results in physical impairment.]

Don’t look at me that way- I still have priorities to tackle, despite my unable to tackle anything foot, and I’m on the verge of losing my mind due to staring at all the blank walls in our house, which is a result of my being too laid up to start hanging the mountain of art we still have in the garage. And don’t even get me started on the numerous boxes of books, as I’ll most likely enlist you to help me file all of them. You can’t throw a Creative into a Navajo White box ala Schrödinger, and realistically expect to find them alive when you return to open it up. Most likely, you’ll find a suicide note and a completely realized and somewhat sardonic, Picasso-esque piece of art on the interior, written and painted from the very same vein they opened up thirty seconds after you left the room and turned out the lights.

What can I say? We do tend to have a certain flair for the dramatic.

But enough babbling on my part, it’s time to find out the verdict, so here we go to discover wha… HEY LADY? Can you not see I’m using a walker here!?! Yeah… thanks… geez, somebody turns ninety and all of a sudden, they think they own the planet. Sometimes people using crutches can be so rude, you know? So, 15 minutes later after doing serious damage to my Sprint data plan, thanks to the fact that there are NO freaking magazines in the waiting room, I hobble my semi-disabled butt into a stereotypically small exam room, and after some small talk, I get the judgment, and it’s…

GOOD!!!!

The ball is hit out of the park, and lands squarely atop the noggin of a tiki-torch carrying white supremacist chanting inanities… so in other words, no real damage, and an act of community service gets accomplished all in one shot. My healing seems to be quite on track, my stitches get taken out, and as a bonus, I’m getting some snazzy new footwear in my favorite color- that being black, and even my surgeon, the normally serious Dr Cerreon, states that “we’re currently winning”, so the afternoon overall, comes across as pretty damn good. I still have to use a cane, which sort of sucks, but now the issue of stability seems diminished, and seriously, look at this walking shoe and cane combo…

Totally pimp, are they not? Sure, the cane lacks personal pizzazz, hence the reason why there’s no picture of it, but the shoe? It’s as if a flip-flop, an Addidas sport shoe, and a roll of Velcro set up an illicit threeway, and then spirited the unforeseen child away at birth. You know… much in the manner of Jesus.

And with the practicality of the cane as a bonus, it’s just like our hypothetical Lord and Savior showed up, and started working miracles. For instance, I can now use both feet, albeit with great care, as I still can’t expose my left foot to the full weight of my body, and I’m going to have to remind myself not to overdo it for the next few weeks, as this new phase of healing works itself out. This by the way, is going to be extremely difficult for me, as I’m chomping at the bit to both get out of the house, and to unpack the rest of our stuff, so I can equally stop tripping and obsessing over it.

But enough about my medical stuff, let’s talk politics for a flash, because I haven’t made anyone mad in a while, and at the moment, I’ve also been giving serious contemplation to the idea that the next time I see a member of the red-hat brigade, I’m going to swipe that redesigned Klan hood off their head, light it up with my trusty Zippo, and jam it down their hatefully ignorant throats as if were a Flaming Moe*.
*[The Flaming Moe is a drink first made infamous in the long-running animated series The Simpsons, and according to people who have too much time on their hands who study these things for some reason, the original drink recipe consists of an insalubrious amalgamation of crème de menthe, peppermint schnapps, tequila, and a dash of children’s grape-flavored cough syrup. Just remember- the secret ingredient is Love.]

Specifically, I’m calling attention to the sham-show that is both the current incarnation of the GOP and it’s so-called set of “values”. To be clear, I’m not bagging on the moderate (read: sane) Rebubs out there, I’m talking about the ones who maddeningly, still support the Mango Mussolini despite his lies, payoffs, corruption, adultery, misogyny, and dare I say it, a lack of intellect so stunning it makes Kanye West look like the esteemed scholar Dr. Cornell West on his best day. A man whose entire purpose seems to be to turn this country and it’s people into hateful and xenophobic nimrods, while pissing on everything that defines the values of what we hold dear as actual patriots. Like most people, I’m suffering from a severe form of mental exhaustion overload due to the unvarying barrage of ignorance, corruption, misogyny, victim-shaming, massive narcissism, and tone-deafness that emanates from this so-called administration everyday, without fail.

Actually, I take that back, as the state of “fail” seems to be the one true hallmark of this sleaze-fest masquerading as a presidency. I’m not sure what Trump’s problems in regards to his overall mental state are, but I’m also pretty certain they’re extraordinarily hard to pronounce. Whether it’s lining his pockets at our expense, sympathizing with the white supremacist movement, or using Twit-ler to attack everyone ranging from black people only, [weird that] to sexual abuse victims, it’s fairly obvious our Hell-spawned, man-boy, slobbering incarnation of a President is at best, a narcissistic and racist buffoon, who at worst, happens to also be a wannabe dictator fetishist, albeit one possessing the nuclear launch codes.

I don’t know about you, but I for one, feel so much better now that the most destructive force of nature ever evilly developed, is in the hands of the ass-clown who fired Gary Busey on TV, but cowardly thus far, lets others do it for him at the White House, as he feigns ignorance about it, like the punk-ass bitch he has always been. And it’s probably also a good time to mention that he once stated that he truly believed reality TV was, and I qoute: “for the bottom-feeders of society”, so now you know where he got his base ofanti-intellectual, misogynistic, racist, tin-foil wrapped, Confederate, Nazi flag, tiki-torch waving, orange-c**k-gobblers, who in their spare time, espouse conspiracies such as Pizzagate, Hillary’s a serial killer, and Obama is running a shadow government out of his house, to name just a few of their charmingly loathsome qualities.

To quote English-American writer and pamphleteer Thomas Paine: “To argue with a man who has renounced the use and authority of reason, and whose philosophy consists in holding humanity in contempt, is like administering medicine to the dead, or endeavoring to convert an atheist by scripture. Enjoy, sir, your insensibility of feeling and reflecting. It is the prerogative of animals.”

And trust me, you cannot debate with these Harpies of Hypocrisy, especially if you use civility, facts, and in general, reality overall as a construct from which to start from. No matter what facts are presented to them, they’ll just shriek their preprogrammed Manchurinisms such as “fake news!”, or decry that your evidence/civil demonstrations of common sense were wholly underwritten by Soros, [a classic] photoshopped, [even though that’s their niche] or “taken out of context” even when you have video that proves otherwise.

My IG feed* is littered with the burnt-out husks of these simpletons of society, since I have acquired a salacious taste for their limited in size souls, and they just cannot resist flying towards my metaphorical bug-zapper light, even as they view the Vlad Dracul inspired corpse field that’s obviously visible around them.
*[ https://www.instagram.com/wayne_michael_reich_art/]

Unfortunately, the majority of us on the right side of History seemingly think we need to extend an olive branch of sorts to these modern-day Neanderthals, even as they are currently pushing without prudence for the inclusion of an alleged sexual deviant to the highest court in the land, a view I vehemently disagree with on every level. These odious slugs have not earned our charity, our respect, or even the lowest tenets of our basic Humanity, whereas I’m concerned, and I highly doubt that POV will change anytime soon, given the current political climate, which hasn’t been helped by completely tone-deaf and completely asinine statements from Cadet Bone Spurs such as  “It’s a scary time for young men in America; you can be guilty of something you may not be guilty of.”

Classic projection at best, definitive admission of personal guilt at worst, and as always, a repulsive display of affinity for true male privilege, replete with an additional measure of misogyny thrown in as a personal throwaway joke. The man may not be able to punch above his weight, but he without doubt, does know how to do it below the belt. At this point, he’s tarnished our national image so much, that it currently resembles an encrusted sculpture from Damien Hirst’s artistic flop, Treasures from the Wreck of The Unbelievable*.
*[ https://hyperallergic.com/391158/damien-hirst-treasures-from-the-wreck-of-the-unbelievable-venice-punta-della-dogana-palazzo-grassi/ ]

Due to his disturbing penchant for being an entrenched narcissist, he’s not only managed to make America look weak and morally rudderless in the eyes of the world, he’s also infected his sordid mélange of racism, misogyny, willful ignorance, and indifference upon the body politic as noted earlier. Never in my lifetime as a political animal, can I recall someone so personally vile sitting on the American throne of influence, while concurrently having no idea what to do or how to present oneself to the international community.

By way of example, George Bush Jr wasn’t ever going to be considered Einstein by any standard of measuring I regard highly, but at least I never thought he was going to attempt a full-on military campaign as a means of deflection against Agrabah*, like 41% of his followers once advocated**.
*[Agrabah is a fictional city from the Disney film Aladdin, which goes to show you that there’s not only a desperate need to seriously underwrite public education in this country, but free access to birth control as well.
** https://www.snopes.com/news/2015/12/18/agrabah-aladdin-republican-poll/]

As I’ve often noted publicly, the members of the Chinese-made Red Hat Brigade tend to be the human embodiment of a cheap bumper sticker- all faux intellectualism, but ultimately, presenting as flat, ignorant, and harder to remove from society than the wrapping on a compact disc. And yes, I did state “remove”, and I stand by it 100%. Possibly 135%, since they’re into inanities and alternate facts, and I want to come off as tolerant of the defective DNA that defines them. For the record, I have absolutely zero issue with anyone who thinks differently than me, based on the minor protocol that they are actually thinking to begin with.

Facts count. Science is real. Reality is concrete. And no, I don’t care what you read on the Web, or saw on FOX, especially when it’s praised by commentary from overly bleached fembots who uniformly, look like they were pressed out of a Barbie mold by the men of FOX who apparently, just stepped out of 1955.

And in regards to this sub-group of knuckle-dragging troglodytes who think those same said women should be okay with the occasional ass-slap or unwanted comment at work about their appearance every now and then, they’re pretty much interchangeable with our current incarnation of Congress- a group of taxing teat suckers who while rife with sexual predators of their own, felt the need to allow their so-called leader to apologize publicly to an “alleged” rapist for the minor inconvenience of being held accountable for the past transgression that brutally honest people refer to not as “boys will be boys”, but by it’s true name, that being rape.

They deliberately chose to mock and outright ignore the trauma and testimony of sexual survivors, albeit with an air of sheer cowardice as their underpinning. Most like Bob Corker and Mitch Mc Connell, did it self-righteously if not proudly, while the eternally slimy Jeff Flake performed an embarrassingly ham-fisted act of failed piety for the sake of the cameras alone. And the shaming, threatening, and blaming of said victims was truly reprehensible beyond all shadow of any doubts… especially for people who claim to represent us and our supposed American values.

To a man, and more disturbingly, some women- the eager trading of ones soul, integrity, and inherent compassion for nothing more than a few ethereal magic beans of limited power, borders on the actionably treasonous, if not the inhuman. Immigrant children ripped from families and put up for adoption, a morally corrupt administration headed up by the lowliest of jabbering grifters, a dismantling of the programs designed for our greater good for no other reason than pettiness and greed, along with a wave of unconstrained racism not seen in this country since the days of the Freedom March.

And these constructs of human pudding skin and hubris have the gall to say they stand for us? What a beautiful and shining vision that was, but is no longer, America. Hopefully come November, a sea-change occurs which begins the process of flushing out the carcinogen that is currently masquerading as leadership within this country, and than we can all stop wondering aloud just when this jackass Oompa-Loompa is going to kill us all with his spiteful idiocy and vanity, if for other reason than to overcompensate for his alleged shroom-dick.

Gag. Sorry, just needed to get that off my chest. I can vote, and continue on with my performance-art project of mailing anti-Trump postcards to the most die-hard of his supporters, but sometimes you have to vocalize your rage in lieu of debating whether the jail time would be worth it. Sigh… on to happier things.

That btw, being the publishing of a new media interview of yours tr by VoyagePhoenix.com, and here’s the link, if you feel so inclined to read it:
http://voyagephoenix.com/interview/check-wayne-michael-reich-s-artwork/

With any luck, I won’t come off as dense, but time will tell, as it always does, but I still like my overall odds here. As for the day to day of what’s been going on, the further I move away from the PAS and it’s intrinsic drama, the better my energy is. Not being directly involved anymore with what had become an exceedingly toxic soup, has allowed me the rare opening to experience an epiphany of sorts- that being how great it feels to be free of it. As noted clearly in a previous screed, while I still plan to promote and support a select group of artists and galleries within the scene from my new Lair of Snarkitude, the rest of the PAS can go fend itself.

I’ve spent almost ten years writing, critiquing, and suggesting how this two night a month mediocrity could improve it’s standing within and beyond it’s self-imposed borders, and quite honestly, I’m done with being the flag-bearer for people who deign to tell me from the shadows that they agree with what I’ve said, and yet still refuse to take public action of any sort to forcibly change the track of this mismanaged debacle erroneously veiled as a financially viable art scene. Speaking of which, having this forced downtime has allowed me to take an outsider’s perch regarding the vibe of the local art river, balanced out with a fair amount of anonymity that I’m relatively unaccustomed to- which is sort of nice, if I was so inclined toward being rather candid.

No need to scare the straights right out of the gate, you know… although I’m sure I’ll get around to it eventually. Or maybe not, depending on how my initial immersion goes. It truly will be a dice toss, no matter which way it spins. But despite the cautiously optimistic news from my surgeon, this has been a depressing cycle, nonetheless- my 20 year old Euromastyx pet lizard Geiger died unexpectedly this week, and my discrimination complaint was dropped without explanation by the AZ Attorney General’s office as well, which just goes to firmly attest the truism that lightning doesn’t hit nearly enough of the right people at the right time.

If there ever were a need for a Vogon analog, these bureaucratic boneheads would definitely fit the costume, if not the bill. I would offer up some other insults in typical vein, but that seems rather pointless when you’re dealing with people who think that ignoring the obvious should be their go-to niche. Despite my past addressing of this issue which regarded my limited take on the supervisor who illegally fired me, I still feel the need to call attention to the particulars that these pencil-pushing pinheads glossed over, and I’ll most likely tackle that at some length in a future screed.

Oh lucky you.

So for now, I’ll just quote actor (and awesome Dr. Strange) Benedict Cumberbatch as a means to close off this topic for the time being: “There’s so much in the 21st century that is stymied by bureaucracy and mediocrity and committee.”

Truly, a perfect assessment when it comes to this inefficient, ineffectual, and as one might be sorely tempted to opine if given the pause- exceedingly dishonorable agency. I’m not really sure what their employees “do”,  but seeking the Truth is allegedly not a component of it. Unethically cashing a paycheck while loafing however, does seem more probable in MHO, given both the puzzling outcome and the seeming lack of actual investigation in regards to my case, but as I said, I may address this later, depending on my mood, the pool of pure writing inspiration, and whether or not I feel the need to remove someone’s essence via their eye sockets…you know, like you do.

Woof. This seems like an opportune time to take a break, don’t you think?

And when I come back… I see how much art a former art hanger can hang while being completely off-balance, discover what it’s like to truly celebrate Halloween for the first time as an entrenched suburbanite, and wonder if substituting in a custom walking stick as a calculated addition to my overall look would be considered a positive, or as completely narcissistic.

“That is why, no matter how desperate the predicament is, I am always very much in earnest about clutching my cane, straightening my derby hat and fixing my tie, even though I have just landed on my head.” -Charlie Chaplin

 

 

 

“If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.”- Isaac Asimov

“My doctor told me that jogging could add years to my life. I think he was right. I feel ten years older already.”- Milton Berle

Hello Blogiteers!

What a short strange trip it’s been regarding my settling in to our new life here just outside Silver City, New Mexico, and what a cache it’s generated in regards to my writing- I don’t think I’ve torn this particular size of hole in my writers block for quite some time now, and it feels great, just great. Granted, what “inspired” it was a horrific experience to be sure, but hey- the muse strikes when she strikes, and you’ve just gotta roll with the punches as they come, I guess.

On a more domestic note, we finally have all the living room furniture sited relatively where we want it, so the minor tweaking to be done here and there means that eventually all the books and art currently stored out in our one-car garage will come inside the residence and find their for-right-now homes, now that we know where those homes will be. Thank God, our kindly rent by the hour handyman was willing to give us a hand, or all of this would’ve had to wait until I was able to stand up and walk like a normal person, which could still be several weeks from now.

Somehow, I’ve managed to not let all of the aggravation of being incapable to fully unpack and finish what needs to be done, get to me. How, if truth be told, I’m not entirely sure. Oh wait, I do know- this town has three medical “green” dispensaries, and the product pricing is fairly competitive. All non-kidding aside, there is something about New Mexico that definitely causes one to cool out like a penguin on a glacier, and while I’m really not sure what it is, I don’t seem to be fighting this current circumstance with my usual fervor, as for some unhindered reason, my psyche isn’t really tugging at me to do so, which is a uniquely fresh occurrence for me to ruminate on whenever time here gets slow.

There’s definitely an established pace here, and it’s literally whatever speed you feel like, as long as that velocity is set squarely at chill. I never thought I’d say this, but minus all the personal medical drama, I’m really enjoying being able to breathe and even theoretically relax, for what seems like the first time in years.

No art scene drama (as of yet) no second-handers* up in my grill, (as of yet) no mewling Artlink sycophants (because they thankfully don’t exist here) and you have no idea how bloody refreshing it’s been not having to write about Phoenix’s faux arts advocacy group Artlink, it’s cravenly leader, [the very epitome of a second-hander, in my opinion] and all of it’s bullspit. Heck, I’ve even started waving hello at perfect strangers here, because that’s what us disturbingly friendly locals do.
*[A second-hander (taken from Ayn Rand’s writings and philosophy) is a person who is primarily concerned with being esteemed and valued by others, at the expense of forming his/her own independent worldview. A person who derives their decisions from the worldview of others; with the sole metric of merit based off of how others will recieve and accept their decision not based on merit or truth but on popular perception.

They’re also notorious for taking the solidly virtuous ideas of others, and cocking them up, primarily due to a toxic blend of personal arrogance and Ego, which describes Artlinks’ procedural abilities and some of it’s board members [IMHO] to a “T”, as the cliché goes.]

As someone who’s somewhat notorious for having what was once benevolently described as “a mouth full of razor blades”, it’s definitely extraordinary to find myself surrounded by what on the surface, appears to be genuinely decent people, which so far has kept my bladed-tongue to some extent, fully sheathed. I’m sure given the law of averages, that eventually I’ll run into someone here that will set me off, and if you’ve read the first part of my New Mexico saga, that sort of already happened, albeit on a minor scale, but so far, when I’ve run into a true jerk, they’re either a tourist on vacation, or just briefly passing through this hamlet on their way to somewhere else. And while I seem to be easily coexisting with the vibe of this place, I’m still holding onto that inherent and magnificently cynical snarkiness of mine that we’ve all grown to… well, let’s just say “love” and move on shall we, if for nothing more than the sake of the narrative.

Given the fact that I’ve seen subtle little changes in regards to my outward attitude, I’ve taken it upon myself to make sure every morning that somebody hasn’t swapped me out for a Stepford-brand Android as I’ve slept, by going through a standard check list:

Do I still think Annabella Lwin, Debbie Harry, Siouxsie Sioux, Milla Jovovich, and that one blonde girl from the old Pore Strips commercial are smoking hot? Check.  Do I still know in my heart that Ding Dongs are the far superior snack cake? Check. Do I still believe that Highlander is a near perfect movie and it’s sequel is an abomination unto the lord that should be sealed away forever inside one of those salt caves where they store nuclear waste? Check.

Do I still taste the glaring variation between a Mexican Coke and it’s far uglier American stepsister, Pepsi? Check. Do I ever see a time in my life when I’ll walk by a Star Wars toy display, and not grab a lightsaber to do imaginary battle in the aisle as my GF pretends not to know me?

Hell, no, but also, Check.

I’m happy to report thus far, I still get overly annoyed at how long my tea-water takes to boil at this altitude (6K feet above sea level.), am vexed by the fact the sugar is in an area where it’s hard for me to get to, and I get sincerely cross over experiencing that while Almond Milk poured over Frosted Cheerios is the bomb, the Cheerios always stick to the sides of the bowl when I’m trying to get the last of them out. In fact, I spent almost ten minutes cursing out the news feed on my Twitter this morning, a considerable amount of time griping about the dogs barking next door, and wrapped it all up with a treatise on why putting artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes on formerly unsullied Pizza is akin to a constitutional crisis.

I find myself routinely annoyed by the trivial and unimportant, so yeah… still me.

And since I am still me, I am required to do “still me” things, such as going to see my surgeon in regards to how well my post-surgery wound is doing. Unfortunately, since I’m still using the walker, it’s a little bit more complicated than just getting in my car, and popping on over to the ol’ out-clinic [http://southwestboneandjoint.com/] for a stereotypically brief chat with reference to some supplementary medical advice.

As I described in a previous blog: “Every time I go to hoist myself, it feels as if I’m dead-lifting a city bus- American Chicago, not Red London double-decker, that is. Just for those of you who like to keep track of such trivial things. Considering my normal weight fluctuates between 185 to 205 pounds, part of me wonders if I need to stop fretting over my diabetic-related weight loss, and embrace it for a change, because if lifting my severely underweight ass hurts my arms and shoulders this much, I can only imagine what that extra thirty-eight pounds would feel like.”

But before this inescapable workout day from Hell can even begin to manifest itself, like those three self-righteous ghosts of Christmas, there are some truly vital things that need to be addressed as preceding events.
 
First, there’s the issue of getting myself dressed, a process that starts with cautiously sliding off my colorful lounge-pants, then sliding on my jeans even more guardedly over my bandage-wrapped foot, then attempting to put on a shirt, warily minding the pain and mobility issues involved there, and finishing off by attempting to use my nerve-damaged hands to zip said jeans, and button up. My jeans, that is, since some days can present a minor sum challenge, depending on how much my hands want to contribute to the cause that day, and also because I tend to wear graphic tee shirts, and not their more formal buttoned cousins.

So after wading through that fashionistas fjord, I deck myself out with my customary regalia of assorted rings, (8 in total) a single bracelet, and a watch and necklace that suits my mood for that day, I then have to put on a single sneaker, because of the one foot being bandaged up like Jocelyn Perisset Wildenstein* on a Tuesday, grab my walker, hobble down the mercifully short main hallway of my house, pickup my keys, and head for the front door.
*[Jocelyn Perisset Wildenstein is a Swiss-born American socialite best known for her extensive (and somewhat disturbing, IMHO) cosmetic surgery. Her nicknames run the gamut, from the obvious: “Catwoman”, to the somewhat of a stretch: “The Lion Queen”, and to the downright rude: “The Bride Of Wildenstein” a moniker given to her by various “news” outlets. After her divorce from her billionaire husband, she once calculated her yearly telephone bill at $60,000 and food and wine costs at $547,000, which is not too surprising, given the cost of “British Banquet”.

“British Banquet”, is a so-called luxury cat food for the “insanely rich”- that being the cat’s bad decision making owners that is, not the cat. It contains Arenkha caviar, line-caught Scottish salmon, hand-caught Norfolk lobster, and locally-sourced Devon crab. Each gourmet pack also includes organic asparagus, quinoa, and saffron for that “extra touch of luxury and refinement”.

 This ridiculously costly future feces pile contains no preservatives, additives or artificial colors, and is also GM-free, because that’s really important to an animal that coughs up hairballs, and eats it’s own acid-chowder, am I right? It is not only fit for humans to eat, but tastes “absolutely wonderful”, claims it’s manufacturer Green Pantry. A month’s supply costs nearly £750, ($982.50 noting current pound to dollars conversion of 9/2018) which equals a morally obscene  £9,000 per year, ($11,790.00) £12.50 ($16.50) per serving, or about £1.25 ($1.75) per mouthful.

First point of contention- no way in Hades is an animal that licks itself, ever going to eat better than me, ever. And second? If I do become ridiculously wealthy, and I go to buy this, please just shoot me in my fkng face. I’ll totally understand.]

Arriving at said egress point, I face three challenges, the first being getting it open, (easy) the second is trying to get outside without tripping over the sill, which is way harder than you might think as there’s a step down that due to the angle, throws my balance off, and third, is managing to grab the door that’s now behind me in order to lock it.

Having never taken gymnastics in my youth, due to the fact that I’m not a small Russian pryzhki devushka*, nor considered flexible by any means measurable, I’m not entirely sure if my feral gyrations would qualify for competition, but I’m pretty convinced at this point, I could seriously challenge Simone Biles in the Balance Beam portion of the program. And while I might not take home the Gold, Silver’s definitely going to be my bitch.
*[Pryzhki devushka means “jumping girl” in Russian. You’re welcome ]

So at this point, if I’ve managed to successfully accomplish all three tasks without crippling or outright killing myself, it still leaves the issue of getting to my car, which requires slight maneuvering down a somewhat uneven (for me) and steep driveway. And if it’s this fun for my bad foot in good weather, I can only imagine how truly delightful it will be if Winter decides to show up for the party early. And Winter would do this, because sometimes it just takes joy in being a complete and total dick.

Now, let’s surmise that I’ve managed to safely get to my car, somehow gotten past the awkwardness of opening the heavy car door, firmly planted my underweight keister in the driver’s seat, deftly folded up my pimptastic chromed ride, and with Tetris skills on loan from Alexey Leonidovich Pajitnov* himself, managed to wedge it in the passenger side floor area, and then close the door. Out of the proverbial woods, right?
*[Alexey Leonidovich Pajitnov is the Russian video game designer and computer engineer who developed Tetris while working for the (wait for the mouthful) Dorodnitsyn Computing Center, a subsidiary of the Soviet Academy of Sciences, which not surprisingly, was a government-founded R&D center. He only started to see royalties fom his work when in 1996, he co-founded The Tetris Company with business partner Hank Rogers.]

Well, not exactly. As I’ve noted previously, I can’t bear any direct weight on my wounded foot at all- I can pivot and put a modest amount of load on my heel, but it’s awkward and generally makes me feel even more off balance, which has led to some very close-calls in regards to my almost falling down. [As if I could fall up?] In order for me to drive, I had to provide some serious padding for my left foot, even though my current car’s an automatic, which is fortuitous, as my last one was a stick-shift, albeit it one that had a sick paint job.

Upside of this car? I never lost it in a parking lot, it was pretty good on gas, cheap to fix, and on those exceedingly rare occasions when I’d get pulled over by the cops, the look on their slack-jawed thug faces at seeing a middle-aged, blond, blue-eyed, suburban white boy with a hardcore love for graffiti behind the wheel was priceless.

Thank the stars I have two lawyers on speed dial. But getting back to my compact, totally sexy Honda- at the moment for me to be able to drive while striving to keep my foot unharmed, there’s effectively close to three inches of folded towels to keep it safe from any bumps or pressure as I drive. I can’t even imagine how my old car would have worked out with this injury, and I get the feeling that my local Uber driver and I would have gotten to know each other really well over these last few weeks.

Because I really need to make some friends here, and that just might be the best way to do it. After all, who doesn’t want to hear about how somebody else solved the problem of storing their dead clowns when faced with limited crawlspace?

Speaking of clowns whom I hope meet their demise via the inappropriate utilization of a plugged in toaster, a wet floor, and a bathtub, we’re going to take a small off-course tangent for a few paragraphs. If you’re a regular reader, you may recall me writing about my firing/dismissal in February of this year by a supervisor who doesn’t (and didn’t) understand that you can’t fire somebody for having a chronic illness. If at this point, you’re not a regular reader, and you have no idea what I’m blathering about, here’s the cut & paste to help you catch up with the rest of the loyal Artbitch legion, and then afterwards, make sure to bookmark this site so you can stay hip to my jive: https://waynemichaelreich.com/2018/04/

Up to speed? Awesome. This is why I tell you to come to the meetings.

And the best part? We have cookies and cake. Seriously, I’m a baking badass, and willing to trade recipes. In fact, here’s the one for my almost world-famous poundcake- it’s a great base recipe, open to variation, and a crowd pleaser to boot. Plus, it has the added benefit of not being healthy at all. I like to serve it with fresh strawberries, but that’s just the way I roll. If you’ve got any good ones to share, email me at darkreich@yahoo.com, with the words “Yo Artbitch: recipe here” in the subheading. Thanks!

Here it is:

INGREDIENTS:
3 cups all-purpose flour (NOT SELF RISING)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups sugar
1 cup butter or margarine, softened
1 teaspoon vanilla or almond extract
*[A nice shake-up: sub out vanilla with same amount of lemon extract. Fold 1 tablespoon grated lemon zest and 1/4 cup poppy seeds into batter].
5 large eggs
3/4 cup milk or evaporated milk

PROCESS:
Heat oven to 350°F. Grease bottom, side and tube of 10×4-inch angel food cake pan (tube pan), 12-cup fluted tube cake pan or two 9×5-inch loaf pans with shortening; lightly flour.

In a medium bowl, mix the flour, baking powder and salt, then set aside. In a large bowl, beat the sugar, butter, vanilla and eggs with electric mixer on low 30 seconds, while remembering to scrape the bowl regularly. Beat on high 5 minutes, scraping the bowl intermittently. Beat the flour mixture into the sugar mixture, adding the milk every few seconds (20 or so) on low speed, beating until smooth after each addition.

Pour into your prepared pan(s).

Bake angel food or fluted tube cake pan 70 to 80 minutes, loaf pans 50 to 60 minutes, or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. After removing from oven, cool for a minimum 20 minutes- after this has passed remove from pan(s) to a wire cake rack if you’re lucky enough to have one. Cool completely, or until such time where it’s totally safe where you can then cram a slice into your mouth. Enjoy!

Getting back on track, as you read in the link I gave you, I allege I was wrongfully dismissed for daring to be a diabetic, and like any good American citizen, filed a complaint with the appropriate agency. In this case, that would be through the Arizona Civil Rights Division, located within the Attorney General’s office. I also filed a grievance regarding workplace conditions with OSHA*, and finally filed my workmans compensation claim** for the injury I had suffered the previous year. What can I say? I’m a big devotee of doing things in threes.
*[Never heard back, so no longer my monkey to worry about. **Seems to be going along smoothly.]

Anywho, The people at the EOCC couldn’t have been nicer or more professional, and took my case under wing, and let me know the process of investigating the case could take six months up to one year, which I kind of expected. As the saying goes, the wheels of Justice turn slowly, but grind fine. So last week, I finally got the call I’ve been waiting for, that being the one from the investigator who’s in charge of settling the case one way or another. Nice lady, right to the point, and no discernable sign of a sense of humor, although to be fair, that might not be allowed to be shown during work hours.

So, my complaint gets summarized back to me, as I’m asked if there’s anything additional I want to/could add, and then the counter response from my former employer is then read with full detail back to me (in sections) so that I can offer either further clarification or dispute what’s being said via a sharply worded retort, which tends to be my way. 

Now, before I get into my description of what transpired, I found it interesting that the owner of the company which is based in Michigan, was never given a copy of my complaint, nor was she ever questioned about it past having to fill out one questionnaire concerning my rate of pay, my length of employment, and a few other blasé boilerplate queries which all in all, were about what you’d expect.

At the present, I never anticipated my former supervisor to be straightforward about her actions, her words, or her gargantuan unprofessionalism that I detailed in my past blog, but I also never expected fabrication that would make espionage writer John le Carre weep, and this blog writer almost turn green with envy… almost.

What I mean to say is… I pride myself on possessing a good imagination, and like to believe that at the very worst, I’m mildly competent at the art of telling an entertaining tale, but my old supervisor should quit where she’s currently slumming, and earnestly seek employment in the Epix writers room for Berlin Station*, because her talents are being wasted on whatever equally s**tty menial labor job her lack of an actual skill-set has got her most likely doing now.
*[Berlin Station is an American drama television series that airs on the Epix network.The story follows Daniel Miller played by my GF’s not so secret crush if I were dead, the amazingly and sadly unattractive Richard Armitage, who has just arrived at the CIA foreign station in Berlin. Guided by veteran Hector DeJean, played by the considerably better-looking Rhys Ifans, Daniel learns to run with the rough-and-tumble world of the field agent.]

Words that were never spoken, scenes that never happened, actions that were never undertaken, and to top it all off, no rational explanation for how I went from being in essence, the asst. manager with full keyholder responsibilities to being the (in her words) goldbricking guy sitting and doing absolutely nothing all day in the back. Shame I used to post consistently on my IG account what I was doing at work, shame my previous supervisor said he’d go to bat for me, and even more annoying still, that prior to her arrival, product returns concerning our warehouse were almost non-existent, and my initials for shipping clearances were on 95% of the invoice slips, and oh yeah- the drivers who delivered our raw material could easily testify to my involvement at work as well.

Darn. Reality is pesky for liars, isn’t it?

All envy aside, I thoroughly enjoyed her depiction of me as a physically threatening presence while I was concurrently suffering at that time from the ravaging effects of undiagnosed diabetic gastroparesis*, which made me nauseous, light-headed, and caused me to drop close to 35 pounds, along with a shoulder injury which had severely limited my mobility. Oh yes, nothing so scary as a human scarecrow who can’t raise his arms above his head or walk upright, as his clothes are close to falling off of him.
*[Gastroparesis, is a disorder of the digestive tract that causes food to remain in the stomach for a period of time that is longer than average. This occurs because the nerves that move food through the digestive tract are damaged, so muscles don’t work properly. As a result, food sits in the stomach undigested. Symptoms include, but are not limited to, nausea, vomiting of undigested food, weight loss, bloating, loss of appetite, blood glucose levels that are hard (see: impossible) to stabilize, stomach spasms, and acid reflux.]

I don’t know about you given the information above, but I’d be scared s**tless, let me tell you. Especially if I was a morbidly obese person who at the very least, weighed three times as much as the person “I was concerned about” at that point. Adding to this asinine absurdity was her overly detailed complaints of my diabetic issues in order to assert she didn’t fire me for being diabetic. Let’s all let that sink in for a moment or two…

She consistently throughout her counter response, complains about my diabetes to prove she didn’t care about my diabetes… does anyone else hear the theme song from the Benny Hill show playing in their head? It also came to light that my former supervisor had no directly expressed hiring or firing authority, a detail which was (allegedly) stated clearly, and that I was “supposed to know”. Unless I’m an as of yet undiscovered mind reader, I’m not entirely sure how I was supposed to be in possession of that information since no one ever told me this, but it was in the counter response nonetheless, mainly as a subtle way for them to claim I just walked out, which is full-on bulls**t.

To be brutally honest, I really have no idea which way this will go at this point, as it’s for all intents and purposes, a literal he said/she said case, and of course, the investigator didn’t give anything away, but I’d like to think that my genuinely derisive laughter at most of the comments she was stating for the record did give her a clue (or a hundred) as to whom was telling the unvarnished truth.

Regardless of how the dust settles here, at least it’s on record, so if the company pulls this crap again, at least it shows there’s a previous track record of abuse, and that’s all that matters. However, there is an addendum that I do find oddly satisfying: it seems that not too long after my departure, my former supervisor gave her two weeks notice, and left for greener pastures, because that’s what disreputable lying cows do, and I’m certain it had nothing to do with her alleged fear of being held accountable by the EOCC, or most likely, her top boss- you know, the one who has no idea what I’ve stated in regards to my official complaint?

From everything I’ve seen in the close to thirty years I’ve been involved with businesses, if there’s one thing top brass loves, it’s being kept in the dark. That’s sarcasm btw, for those of you in the back. What is even more interesting however, is that her counter response contained some comments about my character which may be actionable, and if they are, even at the merest… God help you lady, because I will legally hollow you out like an Easter chocolate rabbit.

Count on it.

Sorry. Just had to get that off my chest, as I really don’t have the spiritual room or the physical stamina to deal with it’s weight right now. Speaking of weight, I’m trying really hard to put all of it that I’ve lost back on, and the best way to do that out here where it’s cattle country, is to devour some of that cattle, the way God intended, and sadly, also the main reason why Kamadhenu* never invites God to his parties anymore.
*[Kamadhenu, the miraculous “cow of plenty” and the “mother of cows” in certain versions of the Hindu mythology, is believed to represent the generic sacred cow, regarded as the source of all prosperity.]

One of the delights of living where I’m currently at, is the fact that meat here, like the value of life in Froopyland*, is cheap. I’ve been giving serious thought that maybe instead of having an almond milk/protein powder/peanut butter/yogurt smoothie in the morning to help put on those missing pounds, I should just throw two t-bones and a chuck roast in the ol’ blender along with a few baked potatoes and some dollops of butter, and blend them till I get the manly as Earnest Hemingway protein fix that I crave.
*[The Adventures of Rick & Morty’s Froopyland is an artificially generated world created by Rick Sanchez from a collapsed quantum tesseract some time in the 1980s for his only daughter, Beth Smith, when she was a little girl. Rick outright admits that his reason for creating Froopyland was to protect the whole neighborhood from Beth, who clearly showed strong psychotic tendencies as a child (though he immediately makes it clear that he didn’t so out of the non-existent goodness of his heart, but just so he wouldn’t have to clean up any of Beth’s messes).]

Wait a minute… what’s that? Oh. Okay. I’ve just been informed by my GF Ashley that not only will this not happen anytime soon, if ever, she’s now asking where the gallon of vanilla ice cream and three pounds of ground beef went… just be cool, and keep your mouth shut.

Since that brilliantly thwarted plan of mine won’t apparently be fulfilled within my lifetime, I have no choice but to seek meaty satisfaction outside my house, and if you live near Silver City, that so far in my humblest of opinions, means you either hit the Little Toad Creek Brewery & Distillery, or the local burger joint known as Blake’s. Both serve really good burgers, and I’d rather eat local than corporate any day.

Pros:
The Toad has great service, terrific atmosphere, and is a pretty good-sized space with lots of seating, really good french fries, and is a nice place to bring your friends who are from out of town. Also, almost everybody who waits tables here is really good-looking. Not sure why, but I’m not complaining. Blake’s also has kick-ass french fries, as well as ample seating, lots of parking, a cool sign, and… um, bathrooms, plus both are really easy to find, even if you’re not a local. Obviously the Toad has bathrooms too, but Blake’s is about to get hammered in the “cons” department, so I gave them a charity throw, to be nice.

Cons:
The Toad is also a bar, which means it gets a little rowdy on the weekends. That’s it. If you like live music, then it really isn’t a “con” by any means, so being that I don’t, I’m willing to concede it’s a wash.

Blake’s on the other hand… terrible customer service the few times I’ve gone- not sure if the staff is really sleepy or honorary members of the Undead, the building it’s in looks somewhat run-down, tired, and is in need of some sort of face-lift, and while the burgers are truly good, half the time the staff forgets requested and paid for items that are supposed to be on said burgers, such as bacon, which should obviously be against the law.

This is the kind of place I would take that one friend who knows all my dirt and never mentions it- I definitely wouldn’t take the future in-laws here, just by way of example. Think of it as a dive bar for burgers, remember to double-check your order, and all will be well.

And with that, we finally arrive, if you remember how we started, at the clinic to consult with my surgeon about how my foot is doing… but I’m 5,217 words in, my shoulders are killing me, and i still have to get this walker out of my car, get it unfolded, and then shuffle my somewhat disabled butt up to the front door, so I think we’ll pause here until the next  thrilling installment, and then take it from there.

And when we come back…

My doctor tells me if I’ll ever play the violin again, I try to organize my studio, and Ashley and I welcome our first of hopefully many stay-over slumber party guests.

“Take care of your body. It’s the only place you have to live.”-Jim Rohn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Well then, get your s**t together, get it all together and put it in a back pack, all your s**t, so it’s together. And if you gotta take it some where, take it somewhere, you know, take it to the s**t store and sell it, or put it in the s**t museum. I don’t care what you do, you just gotta get it together. Get your  s**t together.” – Morty Smith, a Tao (sort of) from “Rick & Morty”                                                                             
“Forget the past – the future will give you plenty to worry about.” George Allen, Sr.

Hello Blogiteers!

How’s your day going? Mine has been both incredibly boring and frustrating, due to the fact that the all of my days are blending into each other, and also because there’s outwardly so much to be done in regards to my house, the studio, and my future job prospects, and I can’t do any aspect of it because of this goddamn, useless, jack-upped, schwanzlutscher* foot.
*[Yes, this is a German word. No, you really don’t want the translation, as it would make your mother cry and lose all respect for you. Don’t even Google it. And I’m giving you this advice because my Mom and I have never had a good warm relationship, and I think it’s pretty cool that your Mom loves you unconditionally. That part must be really nice.]
 
For me, there’s nothing more vexing than seeing a particularly worrisome issue, and then not being allowed (or being able) to just go and fix it. I like to think of myself as a problem solver, when I’m not creating new ones, and granted, I’ve suffered some injuries in my lifetime, but never anything like this toe amputation, or as it’s more commonly referred to among the truly hip and way too cool for med school kids, a Ray resection.*
*[A Ray resection for localized necrosis, infection, and osteomyelitis is an accepted procedure allowing removal of the diseased toe and metatarsal. The traditional approach involves a rather lengthy incision and dissection that can compromise the vascular supply to the remaining forefoot. Oh, great goody gum-drops.]

In my case, my surgeon was providentially able to save a great deal of my metatarsal*, which if all goes well and my Ding Dongs don’t melt, means I might have a pretty good chance of walking without a cane** or some other such human-propping device.
*[The metatarsal bones, also referred to as the metatarsus, are a group of five long bones in the foot, located between the tarsal bones of the hind- and mid-foot and the phalanges of the toes. ** I still may get one though, because my GF Ashley thinks that if I could get  one that proclaims my snarkitude, I could rock it as part of my image pretty damn hard.

I’ve got my eye on this one from DC Collectibles, if any of you would like to start a Go Fund Me page…
This one btw, would also be more than acceptable too, just putting it out there…]

But regardless of whether I have to walk with or without a cane, at least I’ll be walking, which is more than I’m able to do right now. Having to be remarkably conscious of my limitations is a torturous countdown until such time I can ultimately begin to put weight on my damaged foot, and ditch the walker I’m currently bound to via a Deadite* curse.
*[A “Deadite” is a life-force, person, animal or plant possessed by a Kandarian Demon.They are described as evil demonic Zombie Hybrids, and are the main antagonists of the Evil Dead Movie Franchise.] 

And given that hoped-for destination is anywhere from an additional six to eight weeks away, it’s possibly the most maddening thing I’ve ever had to deal with, outside debating who the top three best James Bonds are, which of course, are laid out as such: Connery, Craig, and my big ol’ man-crush number two, Brosnan. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Roger Moore, God rest his soul, but he played Bond for laughs, and that’s not the kind of Bond I tend to dig. And as a side tangent, if you even think about uttering the name Timothy Dalton in my presence, I will stuff you inside George Lazenby, force you to watch the directors cut of Never Say Never Again in Kaixana*, and top it off by physically acting out scenes from Moonraker… naked.
*[This language, officially one of the world’s rarest, was once spoken in a very small reigion of South America, by a core group of 200 people- sadly, there is now only one remaining orator of this unique tongue.]

Sorry about that. I take my Bond-ing seriously, and so should you.
Let’s get back on track, shall we?

Now, the first time when I found myself hospitalized for ketoacidosis back in 2009, I wound up sentenced to a ten day stretch, but four of those hellish days were spent in a medically induced coma, so time just sort of zipped on by, given the situation. But even if you minus the amputation of one of my lesser toes, this inadvertent staycation straight out of Samsara* is driving me up the metaphorical wall, as almost everything I have to face, whether it be minor or grand is a challenge right out of an ANW** episode.
*[Samsara is the endless cycle of death and rebirth that is the result of our ignorance of the ultimate reality of the universe. The word means “to wander across,” as in lifetimes, and samsara is the result of karma or actions taken in this life that will determine the nature of one’s rebirth and the caste one is born into. **American Ninja Warrior (sometimes abbreviated as ANW) is a televised American sports entertainment competition that is a spin-off of the Japanese series “Sasuke”. It features scores of competitors attempting to complete a series of highly-challenging obstacle courses based in various American cities, in hopes of advancing to the national finals on the Las Vegas Strip, in hopes of becoming an “American Ninja Warrior”.

I should also probably point out that despite my all-embracing knowledge of Las Vegas in regard to it’s inimitable culture and social customs, it remains in effect that getting drunk on Mad Dog 20/20, stripping off your clothes and climbing the faux Eiffel Tower located in front of the Paris Paris casino, will not be held up to the same celebratory standards as when you successfully traverse ANW’s Bridge of Blades sober, which I have always felt is somewhat of a double standard.]

You’re probably thinking at this point that I’m being either overdramatic, or possibly seeking sympathy, but you’d be wrong on both counts. I honestly never gave pause to the thought of how difficult it would be to make a sandwich for instance, when you can’t stand up. My balance has never been any good, even with my cat-like stealthiness, so my trying to do even the simplest things can  present themselves as a monumental challenge. By way of example, our house has a refrigerator that is insufferably “low”, so trying to get out the yogurt and almond milk for my daybreak protein shake requires a balancing act not performed in public since the last time Cirque du Soleil rolled through town.

Did I also mention I have chronic back problems as well? Add that into the mix, and you’ll understand why I sometimes dream about my icebox hovering like a hummingbird. I used to assume if your hands were incapacitated, you’d be royally screwed, but the more I deal with this, I’m really starting to think that assessment should be equally applied to one’s legs and feet as well. I had to put a chair in the kitchen just so I can make a cup of tea, so it’s a bitch and a half, let me tell you.

Oh f**k it- it’s a full-on bitch, that’s invited it’s friends to squat until such time as they get their collective s**t together.

One of the other impediments other than my injury of course, is the one device I use most frequently to circumvent it, that being my walker. Sure, it’s sleek, collapsible, and lightweight profile for easy in and out of my (or any) car, makes for a truly sexy-looking piece of tech, (just see below!) but shockingly, there are some disadvantages.

This BTW, is what mine looks like, but it’s rendered in the standard chrome. I’m starting to think I should have coughed up the extra dough for this way more snazzy paint finish, which is branded as “Blue Ice”. And don’t give me any grief regarding this- just because I’m injured, doesn’t mean I can’t look stylish, too. Besides, Ashley couldn’t find a walker fabricated of tiny skulls, which let’s face it, has the dual advantage of being both a conversation piece, and really more “me”, to be truthful. I do try to keep it real, y’all.

Originally, I went with crutches, but after three falls, two near-misses, and a memorable but in the future, further un-discussed encounter with a badly-placed zucchini in my kitchen, we opted for the far safer (and way more stable) walking frame from Walgreens. And overall, this four-legged-human-keeper-upper works relatively okay for helping me get around the ol’ house when I need to. While I did opt out of getting the matching basket, due to it’s long-term impracticality and the fact that it’s damn near impossible to put baseball cards between it’s way too small spokes, an old backpack substitutes nicely as my extra set of hands when I have to be outdoors.

What makes it a nightmare outside the house is the reality that since I can’t put even the merest of weight on my stitched together like Frankenstein’s monster foot, I have to lift my own mass. All 167 pounds of it, if the last weigh-in was even remotely accurate, and then “hop” whenever I have to take a step forward. Think about concurrently playing competitive hop-scotch while you’re doing arms day at the gym. Remember, I’m at present suffering from the following: diabetic-related weight loss, which has led to a lack of muscle tone, a severely strained left-side supraspinatus* from a work-related injury suffered last year, and my other shoulder unfortunately starting to go out of whack for having to compensate for the same.
*[The supraspinatus (plural supraspinati) is a relatively small muscle of the upper back that runs from the supraspinatous fossa superior portion of the scapula (shoulder blade) to the greater tubercle of the humerus. It is one of the four rotator cuff muscles and also abducts the arm at the shoulder, for those of you who may not remember me talking about this in an earlier blog].

Every time I go to hoist myself, it feels as if I’m dead-lifting a city bus- American Chicago, not Red London double-decker, that is. Just for those of you who like to keep track of such trivial things. Considering my normal weight fluctuates between 185 to 205 pounds, part of me wonders if I need to stop fretting over my diabetic-related weight loss, and embrace it for a change, because if lifting my severely underweight ass hurts my arms and shoulders this much, I can only imagine what that extra thirty-eight pounds would feel like. My best guess is that it would represent as if I strapped Warwick Davis* to my chest, and then went for a nice relaxing run.
*[Warwick Ashley Davis is an English actor, television presenter, writer, director and producer. He played the title characters in Willow and the Leprechaun film series, the Ewok Wicket in Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, and Professor Filius Flitwick and Griphook in the Harry Potter films. His filmography totals 30+ movies. Impressive, no?]

Now, when I’m in the house, this dead-lift really isn’t a problem, as I’m only traveling very short distances- bedroom to kitchen, or to my living room, bathroom, and studio, etc. But when I’m out of the house, the difficulty scale goes way off the charts. Picture having to park your car, lock it up, and traverse the parking lot of a Super-Center, hopping on one foot, and one foot alone. Then when inside, walk (such as it is) through the entire store, trying to find your item, and attempt to not get harassed by store security for putting it temporarily in your backpack, because pushing a cart or holding onto a basket is akin to juggling incontinent flaming honey-badgers when you’re rocking a walker.

Oh, and don’t forget to do all this while lifting close to 200 pounds every two-and-a-half seconds, making sure you don’t trip or overbalance, and as you mercifully leave, doing the whole parking lot experience in reverse… good luck, Chuck. You’re seriously going to need it.

But maybe I’m just being a negative Naomi, an apathetic Abraham, or maybe a morose Morgan, certainly a gloomy Gerard, arguably an unenthusiastic Ursula, perhaps even a pessimistic Peyton, when all things are considered. There does exist the very slim chance that when I’m done using this thing, my guns will not only be toned up again, but my chest as well- heck, if I keep gaining weight as I walk all over God’s rapidly-fading green planet using this thing, I may be cut like a diamond by the time this forced convalescence is done. I’d have a six pack that would make the Spartans of lore not only weep, but might even compel them to drop their free-amphoras and pick up a walker instead.

I could go from this…
to *this:
*[Disclaimer: there is in fact no way, short of making a deal with the Devil himself, that Wayne will ever look like this. Like a slightly underweight James Hetfield? Sure, not even that hard. As an artsy-Jesus archetype? A bit of a stretch, but still within grasp. Maybe as Zaphod Beeblebrox? Sure, it would be a costume for a friends Halloween party, and at those things you pretty much just get points for coming as the Betelgeusian President of the Galaxy if you get the hair and coat right, but full Jason Momoa six-pack super-cut sexy awesomeness?

Not until they invent both cloning and consciousness replacement to go along with it. For those of you who have bought a Wayne in it’s current condition, you can return him for a full refund. We won’t even ask questions. We all know you were just trying to be nice.]

So, knowing the amount of pain this mobile version of the Rack can bring into being, one can envision why I don’t get out much. It’s fairly difficult not to get depressed given my current inability to squeeze out of the rank air-space that I find myself in, that being between a rock and it’s eternally as rude partner, the hard place*, but I’m keeping my spirit up the best I can. And in regards to the Rock, it seriously needs to clean it’s area up- what, are we still living in the Illiad? Good God, you’re an expression that’s literally thousands of years old- take some personal accountability already, and kindly move out of your moms basement.
*[The origin of the idiom ‘between a rock and a hard place’ can be found in ancient Greek mythology. In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus must pass between Charybdis, a treacherous whirlpool, and Scylla, a horrid man-eating, cliff-dwelling monster. Ever since, saying one is stuck between a rock (the cliff) and a hard place (the whirlpool) has been a way to succinctly describe being in a dilemma. Everytime you read me, you all leave a little bit smarter- don’t be afraid to show it off.]

What has helped me immeasurably in staving off some of the darker moments, past the obvious dedication and unwavering love of my GF Ashley, have been my peeps, my fans, Twitter, and the Internet itself. I’ll break each down, not in order of importance, but in usage of said resource. Despite my tendency to over-share, I’m not going to go into detail about my deeper relationship aspects with Ashley, because that’s a facet that quite bluntly, I prefer to keep private. And you all thought I had no boundaries…

First up, the peeps: aka my tribe, my family, my brothers and sisters. These people are beyond doubt, my bedrock- they have my full trust, my full loyalty, and my full protection.

Whether it’s my friend Chelle posting photos of Wonder Woman daily on her IG account under the hastag of #wonderwomanforwayne to add buoyancy to my day, or my brothers from another mother Cale and Martin making toe loss jokes in order to get me to laugh, these people have been solidly in my camp, helping me get through this most difficult time. As someone who is purposefully separated from 99% of my family, my oldest sister being the lone exception, I have solid faith in the following saying I heard somewhere on the ethereal plain once, and that I’m about to roughly paraphrase: “You can’t pick your family, but you can pick your tribe, and sometimes that’s a much smarter purchase.”

Author Scott Stabile goes one better: “Find people who love you, for real, and who accept you, for real. Just as you are. They’re out there, these people. Your tribe is waiting for you. Don’t stop searching until you find them.” I’m very lucky to be able to say that I have, and if I haven’t said it before or not often enough, I love and cherish you all…

Except you, Gavin… you know why.

And no, buying me a trained chinchilla won’t help, you myopic putz.

The second demographic I’ve gotta throw some mushy squishyness to is my Instagram fan base- while small in number, (708 at last count) you guys have been fierce in response, and I really appreciate it. Between the well-wishes and stories of similar struggles, I definitely didn’t feel alone during my hospital stay in a new town, where I literally don’t know a soul, and that has helped tremendously in the keeping my spirits up department. It’s definitely a nice reminder that in this, the most highly conflicted and divisive of times, there still exists a strong amount of incredibly decent people, and that breeds hope eternal.

And last but not least, I have to give thanks to the Internet, and it’s bastard child Twitter, for keeping me both alternately entertained and horrified at both the depth and shallowness of the human condition, and it’s impact upon the world at large. If you are even somewhat familiar with my IG feed, you’ll know that I spend a good chunk of time cruising Twitter for trolls to snack upon and then mock, and rarely am I ever disappointed in that regard.

In fact, I have to laud Twitter for the victuals, nay the sheer banquet of human idiocy that it presents to the world, 24/7. From our asinine Mango Mussolini to the Deep State cultists, the ol’ Twitterstorm rarely fails to delight my inherent snarkiness. There’s nothing I enjoy more than puncturing a flawed stream of logic, and nothing on this fkd’ up Earth truly brings me as much sheer unadulterated joy as forcing Trumplethinskins, racists, misogynists, and the hopeless anti-science crowd back under their fkng rocks, bruised and chastised, as they should be. And given those parameters, Twitter provides Manna* on a level that God himself/herself could never imagine when he/she created the concept of Manna in the first place.
*[Manna, sometimes archaically spelled mana, is an edible substance which, according to the Bible and the Quran, God provided for the Israelites during their travels in the desert during the forty-year period following the Exodus and prior to the conquest of Canaan. 40 years without pizza? I’d rather be enslaved by the Pharaoh.]

Throw in that I’m pretty much confined to home as of late, and you can see why I’m enjoying this bounty so much. And along those lines, much praise must also be attributed to the badlands of the Internet, where the options for entertainment and intellectual growth are seemingly limitless- if I watch any more educational programs or tutorials on YouTube, I’m fairly confident that I can build that NCC-1701-D Constitution Class Starship in my workshop, using nothing more than a few dilithium crystals*, some plumbing parts, and a few sheets of heavily-reinforced sheet metal.
*[In the Star Trek universe, dilithium is an imaginary material, which serves as a critical controlling agent in the ships’ warp drive. According to a periodic table shown during an episode of TNG, it has the chemical branding of Dt and an atomic number of 87, which in reality belongs to francium, which due to it’s most stable isotope, francium-223, having a half-life of about 22 minutes, provides no uses outside of basic scientific research. In the real world, dilithium (Li2) is a molecule composed of two covalently bonded lithium atoms.

Science. It’s just not for picking up brainy nerd girls, although that is still an excellent use of the resource.]

I never thought I’d ever say this, but Twitter, Netflix, YouTube, and PBS online are actually helping keep me sane through this, the ever-changing maelstrom of my personal mental gymnastics, and thank Kothar-wa-Khasis* for that.
*[Kothar-wa-Khasis is an Ugaritic god whose name means “Skillful-and-Wise” or “Adroit-and-Perceptive”. Kothar is attributed to be a Smith, Craftsman, Engineer, Architect, along with being an Inventor, who creates sacred words and spells, in part, because there is an association in many cultures of metalworking deities with magic.]                                           

Granted, I have been enjoying it almost too much, and for the time being should probably cut it back a tad or possibly two. As the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once opined: “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”  What is it about Germany that it always seems to nail the inconvenient truth consistently, yet failed to grasp the overall concept of not starting World Wars? A question for another age, I guess, but the Nietzsche man was dead on with this one.

After a while the ichor associated with these pinheads of molassed philosophy starts infecting how you think, how you act, and more importantly, how you interact with others.

While I always (somewhat) joke about how being a cynic is a great position to stake out in life, as you’re either constantly being proven right, or being pleasantly surprised, I don’t really relish seeing it in my politics, or in the souls of others. I prefer the surrounding populace happy about life in general, despite the almost black Catholic streak of cynicism in mine. What can I say, except that I need something, anything to be annoyed about, just so long as I can comment snarkily about it. So you can just imagine how over the moon I am regarding my current situation, can you not? This may be the single biggest thing I’ve ever had in my life to complain about, hands and one foot down.

After all, I’ve spent close to what would be nine pages griping about it, and not just because I don’t really have anything to write about in regards to the local art scene and the potential drama within- even though I will grudgingly admit, that is a factor. With past scrawlings, my meta-grinder operated best on a steady stream of art-related narcissism, pretentiousness, and general corrupt idiocy for sure, but I’ve been looking for chances to expand past that, and maybe this particular sea-change will be a good jumping off point so as to test that faith in my current abilities to do so.

I’ve long held the personal belief that everybody’s got one first-class story in them, and maybe it’s time to start looking at those untouched resources, as a means to go past my well-established comfort zone, and once again, I tend to find inspiration towards this objective within the words of the late Kurt Vonnegut, one of my literary spirit animals:

“If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” [Excerpt taken from: A Man Without a Country]

Now, since this opinion comes from one of the great Gods of Writing, I feel compelled to follow that counsel, even if it means I make some dreadfully false starts along the way, because there’s no better teacher than extremely awkward mistakes that you make in full view and critique of the public… trust me on this*.
*[See: “Years Ago Blog on Kara Roschi”  Subheading: “Uncomfortable Public Apologies”]

And in a blatantly self-serving attempt to affix some fresh wax and Peregrine feathers to my new and optimistically redesigned Icarus rig, I turn to yet another deity of writing, that being Neil Gaiman, who states:

“Tell your story. Don’t try and tell the stories that other people can tell. Because [as a] starting writer, you always start out with other people’s voices- you’ve been reading other people for years… But, as quickly as you can, start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there will always be better writers than you, there will always be smarter writers than you … but you are the only you.”

Oddly, as I was mulling over this quote for inclusion in this particular piece of writing, I received the following email from one Robert Williamson:

“Hi Wayne,

I’m on the editorial staff of the Voyage Phoenix Magazine and I’m working on interviews with hidden gems from Phoenix and the surrounding areas. Eric Cox thought you would be a great fit for our Thought-Provokers series.

We’re excited to learn more about you and share your story with our readers. There is no cost involved, but we’ll of course need some of your time for the interview. Please let me know if you would be interested in being featured.

Thanks!
Rob”

My response? “Of course I would be interested, it is me after all. LOL.” I always say let them know who and what they’re dealing with right from the start- cuts way down on the confusion level later on in my humble experience, and generally leads to clearer dialogue as time and the project moves forward. Also, much respect towards fellow Artist Eric Cox’s recommendation of yours truly for this media interview opportunity- I’m proud to have written about Eric for PHOENIXmagazine back in September of 2016, and I’m even prouder to call him a friend.

Check out my interview with him here, at:
http://www.phoenixmag.com/arts/eric-cox.html
and go scope his fkng amazing and visionary work out at:
https://www.instagram.com/artsycoxy/

Let’s get back to the ego stroking, which is always my favorite part.
Rob’s follow-up went like this:

“Great! You can find the questions I’ve prepared for the article here:
http:/ ***************************

You’ll need one good personal photo and a few (say 4-8) other relevant images – so I’d recommend collecting those before starting the questionnaire. Timing-wise, we’d appreciate if you could have this back to us within 2 weeks.

If you have any questions, let me know.  Have a great day! 🙂

Thanks, Rob”

I did love how they gave me a two week interlude in which to answer and return questions about my favorite subject, that of course, being me. Naturally, I submitted my responses to their focused questionnaire within a day and a half, because who am I to protract the publication of such an interesting, yet clearly humility-based, read? Plus my cover photo by AZ photog Jim Hesterman [https://www.jimhesterman.com/] was perfect- it is literally one of my favorite photographs of myself ever taken, and you’ll just have to wait to see it., because if there’s one thing I do know how to do, it’s squeeze Oreo filling out of a turnip.
 
But before we get into all that, let’s answer the pertinent question riding on the back of my Elephant-sized Ego in the room: whom exactly are/is Voyage Phoenix Magazine?
[http://voyagephoenix.com/]

In essence, they’re an online magazine highlighting the diversity of Phoenix’s culture, that being it’s nightlife, it’s food scene, it’s Creatives, and the impact that all of those truly varied partitions create towards shaping Phoenix as a whole in this, it’s golden era of rapid change and redevelopment. What I found intriguing about my interview however, was the free-form approach it took- the questionnaire’s generous structure truly allowed me to break out of the normal confines such interviews typically spawn, and the fluidity of doing so made me view this experience as enjoyable, rather than as an obligatory chore.

For instance, past media junkets I’ve suffered often make me contemplate how many shapes I could fold the so-called “interviewer” into if I could legally launch my furtive passion for human origami into the public spotlight. The answer btw, is seven. Eight, if

you can manage to stop them from screaming for help.

As Creatives, we rarely get to see what we actually said expressed passionately or as accurately as we would often like- sometimes it’s the fault of an ill-prepared writer who cannot dissect the art-speak, sometimes it’s the fault of the Creative who cannot move past the comfort of a long-guarded idiom, which makes translation of their philosophy not only difficult to articulate to the writer, but in the end, incomprehensible to the reader.

Neither of those I am happy to report, applied here. The questions were simple, yet open ended, and allowed for some uncharacteristic depth, versus the standard cookie-cutter queries that forcibly create responses that are just as formulaic, and therefore, truly uninteresting. It’s one of my mantras that if you want someone interviewed, you either need to send someone who’s done their full measure of research, or more simply, just send another contemporary of equal measure to do the interview in the first place.

For instance in my world, I would have loved to see Nick Cave interview Lou Reed, or Hunter S. Thompson being questioned by Anthony Bourdain, or Kurt Vonnegut doing an essay on Ray Bradbury- can you imagine? I can, but these are the kinds of things us writers construct in our heads 24/7 to begin with. But as a Creative, being permitted to give a fully developed rejoin is as rare as a coherent public statement by Kanye West.

At the moment, I don’t have a link to the article yet, as it hasn’t been published, but as an enticement, I will include a snippet here, that being my response to a question regarding how best cities can help support Creatives and the Arts:

“Where cities can lend a helping hand is by supporting their local galleries, art-spaces, after-school and public center art programs, funding public art commissions, and by promoting all of the same. Financial incentives and tax breaks for rehabilitating and the reuse of buildings for galleries and/or affordable housing for Creatives, is also in my opinion, vitally necessary too. You can’t have an Arts scene without Creatives. It really is that simple. The fact remains that Art rewards a community and it’s citizens with beauty, insight, and inspiration. It should be recognized and supported for these realities alone.”

Hopefully, this comes across as well thought-out, measured in it’s depth, and most imperative to me, relatively intelligent. But that’s not my call, that’s up to the masses to decide at some point, and it’s out of my hands as of now. As it should be. Time will tell, I guess, but doesn’t it always? And speaking of time, (is that a nice segue or what?) I think now is the most appropriate moment to take a break until I can figure out a way to make the mundane tasks of my down-time appear riveting enough to write about.

And when we come back…I organize my sock drawer, wonder about… just kidding. I would never do that to you. However, I will discuss what my doctor really thinks about my healing progress, check out the local food scene, and hopefully have a published Q&A for you to read, that’s way more interesting than any that I have done before.

“Change can be frightening, and the temptation is often to resist it. But change almost always provides opportunities – to learn new things, to rethink tired processes, and to improve the way we work.” – Klaus Schwab

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It’s always hard to deal with injuries mentally, but I like to think about it as a new beginning. I can’t change what happened, so the focus needs to go toward healing and coming back stronger than before.” – Cari Lloyd

“I make jokes because humor is the greatest healing factor that there is.”- Dick Dale

Hello Blogiteers!

When last we met, I was finally back at home, bedridden, with a foot wrapped in bandages, and feeling completely useless and going slightly stir-crazy. But what a difference a week at home makes- granted, nothing has actually changed, but I did manage to escape the house twice, and in one of those times, I went out all by myself, just like a big boy.

And yes, I was wearing clean Luke Skywalker Underoos in case of an accident.

[Seriously, this is REAL. Visit https://underoos.com/ for more awesomeness.]

To celebrate this all too brief moment of limited freedom, I wound up buying myself a Big Mac and a large chocolate shake for lunch, in the manner that anyone adulating at full speed would. After all, I went and got my insurance upgraded to include the addition of renters insurance, which I paid in full, kept an appointment with my new female GP doctor who looks disturbingly like my ex-fiancé, and attempted to re-register as a NM voter, only to find the Democratic office closed that day. (9-11)

Of course, I only discovered this after I had gotten my walker out of the car, shuffled my somewhat disabled butt up a long and uneven brick walkway, and successfully negotiated some steps, only to discover the small handwritten note on the door glass saying they were closed out of “remembrance.”

Son-of-a-c**k-wobbling-spankwanker, that’s just frustrating.

No offense to the 9-11 dead and the horrendous tragedy, but can we please all stop pretending that 17 years out, we’re still wearing sackcloth and mourning crape? Every year, the American flags come out for a day, and then almost immediately, get stored away until the next year. The only difference between this day of tragedy and the 4th of July, is the omission of a cookout. And while I expect some of you to be mouthing a strong “F**k you” in my general direction, right about now, I’d still bet dollars to doughnuts you give zero thought to this event until the dire day of the anniversary, and forget it by the morning of the 12th.

As an addendum, I for one, am sick and tired of the media’s resolve at feeding off the grotesque imagery of that day for close to two decades. There is no need for I, or anyone else for that matter, to watch that clip of the planes hitting the towers- it is seared in our collective consciousness, and needs no refreshing. I once noted in a previous screed of several years ago that the media takes only two positions in how it reports the “news” of the day, that being either fear (look! terrorism everywhere!) or fluff (look! Kardashians everywhere!) with that in mind, I really do think it’s way past time to stop milking this monstrosity for it’s faux nationalism, and either make it an official day of solemn tribute with all the dignity that it’s due, or finally admit that we need to move on, and go forward as a country.

To add to the days aggravation, I probably should also note that I was given the wrong address for the doctor as well, which I only discovered after I had gotten my walker out of the car, shuffled my somewhat disabled butt up a long concrete walkway, successfully negotiated a flight of steps, entered the building, walked the interminable distance up to the reception desk, only to be told that the office I sought was across the street.

Fortunately, the receptionist saw the overwhelmed look on my face, as using a walker tends to be highly exhausting for me, due to the debilitating factors of my diabetic-related weight loss, the erosion of my essential muscle tone due to the same, and the workmans injury I suffered earlier last year.

I’m pretty sure if I had been born a horse, I’d be a box of glue sticks right about now.

Amazingly, they were nice enough to secure a wheelchair in order to get me back to my car, yet another reason why I really dig living here- everybody is so damn kind, and thoughtful to a degree that sometimes I’m tempted to ask if anyone here hails from Stepford, Connecticut*. Not that I’d really care, but it would come in handy at Christmas, as I’m pretty certain the majority of robots aren’t programmed to expect gifts.
*[ The Stepford Wives is a 1972 satirical thriller novel by author Ira Levin. The story concerns Joanna Eberhart, a young mother who begins to suspect that the frighteningly submissive housewives in her new idyllic neighborhood of Stepford, Connecticut may possibly be robot duplicates created by their husbands.]

So after getting myself and my dead-sexy chromed collapsible ride inside my car, I drive across the street to my new GP’s office, park in the handicapped space without guilt for the first time in my life, shuffle my somewhat arguably disabled butt up a long concrete walkway, where at the end, someone was holding the door open for me, (what a town!) make my introductions, start to fill out the anticipated paperwork, and as I do, discover this printed on my form:

Holy underpinnings of Unitarianism, is this progressive or what?

Take that, second so-called Man of God at the Gila Regional Medical Center, who I’m fairly confident, wouldn’t condescend to go here. At least I’m hoping he doesn’t, because it would be awkward if I was forced to commit an act of justifiable martyrdom inside such a clean office, using nothing but my walker and a two-year old copy of Us Magazine. On the  upside, it would settle the eternal question at least for him anyway, of whether or not his God is as narrow-minded as he is, as I’m hoping not to have that discussion for another 50 years or so, at the very minimum.

However, if he is, I’m still pretty sure that my twenties alone banked enough honorary credit with Satan to the point that he’d still offer me a job in the new arrivals department. After all, I am truly a people person, and who better than a writer and Creative to spin the wax poetic as to how and where you’ll be spending eternity? Always keep your personal options open, says I, for you never know what end-hand Fate will deal you.

Personally, I’m praying for a Royal Flush, but I’d settle in favor of a Straight, if it came right down to it. Semi-corrupted beggars can’t be virtuous choosers, if all I heard at Sunday School was even remotely accurate. So, the nurse comes in, runs through my medical history, takes my (always low) blood pressure, asks some related questions, shares a story or two, and then departs, leaving me alone to wait on my doctor for ten minutes or so- the fairly standard routine, that we all know and have come to absolutely hate.

In order to kill time, I played around with my phone, checked my e-mail, answered some fan comments on my social pages, and was once again struck cold by how even though we all literally have the world’s information at our fingertips, the number of terrifyingly unintelligent people is seemingly increasing. Flat-earth tripe. Political tripe. Anti-vaxxer tripe. Denise Richards is considered an actual actress, tripe.

And don’t even get me started on those idiots who erroneously believe that Jean-luc Picard is a better Starfleet captain than James the f*****g man Tiberius Kirk.

It’s enough for me to get my custom-made Bat’leth* off the studio wall and just start lopping off these egregious fan-boys grotesquely swollen and misshapen heads. You know… like you do? Covered in a sheen of failure flop sweat and consisting on a diet of  microwaved by your mom Hot Pockets is not the way to go through life, kids- just a tip from me to you.
*[The bat’leth, or “sword of honor” is a traditional bladed weapon. While Klingons often carry disruptors, they prefer to use bladed weapons in combat, with the two most common being the aforementioned bat’leth and the mek’leth, which is also a badass piece of tech. Seriously. Google it. Just don’t take my word for it.]

As I was in the middle of eating another conservatives marginally functioning soul on my Twitter feed, [https://twitter.com/darkreichaz] and consequently posting the resulting hilarity on my Instagram feed, [https://www.instagram.com/wayne_michael_reich_art/] my potentially new doctor walks in, and to be quite honest, it was a tad bit disquieting, as she looks a lot like my ex-fiancé whom I still warmly refer to as “Whora the Explorer”, a pet name that implies nothing but my best wishes of success sent her way. When of course in due time, she works her way back up to the “W” section of the male species, that is.

And the best part of having flushed three years of my life down the metaphorical toilet is that I’m not bitter about it at all. Fairly well-adjusted, in fact. I think that much is pretty apparent, if one were to look at it from an outsiders perspective, that is. And anyone who says different is obviously just projecting their own insecurities, which is just sad, if you ask me. Unlike my ex-fiancé however, I’m fairly certain my new doctor isn’t going to look at my male friends the same way one looks at the appetizer menu from Dennys, so that’s a plus.

The unspoken advantage being that if they did so, I might be able to negotiate a better co-pay, but I’m also fairly confident that’s a conversation that would only be framed by the use of the word “awkward”, at best.     

But overall, the visit went off without a hitch. Mainly since I was smart enough not to bring up the topic of that uncomfortable metaphorical conversation to begin with, and also because unlike my ex, we got along. A very nice lady, good sense of humor, sharp eye for detail, and dissimilar to my ex-fiancé, doesn’t blame me for stuff I didn’t do or that never happened in the first place. Nice, that.

See? I told you I was well-adjusted regarding the waste of three years of my life. I seriously have no idea why you even keep bringing it up. That’s sad. Just sad.

After that, it was time to grab some lunch, and since I’m relatively immobile, that meant hitting the ol’ drive-thru, since I could only imagine the wandering nightmare me and a walker in a restaurant would lead to, and here in Silver City, that’s a selection that tends to be limited, small town and all that. We do, to my limited knowledge, have one Wendy’s, two Sonics, one Mc Donald’s, an Arby’s, and oddly, a shuttered up Burger King and defunct KFC.

The KFC is kind of a weird casualty, given the fact it’s located squarely in the parking lot of our local Super Wal-Mart, and let’s be brutally honest- that demographic clearly loves the Colonel and his mondo chicken buckets, along with KFC’s nightmare-inducing KFC Famous Bowl*, so once brutally mocked by comedian Patton Oswalt.
*[The KFC Famous Bowl is described on the KFC website thusly: ” Creamy mashed potatoes, sweet corn and bite-sized chunks of crispy chicken are layered together then drizzled with home-style gravy and topped with a perfect blend of three shredded cheeses.” In response to KFC’s fluffy prose, his almost bowl-ending joke goes like this:

“Stop right there! Can you pile all of those items into a single bowl and just kinda make them into a wet mound of starch that I can eat with a spoon like I’m a death-row prisoner on suicide watch? I just want kind of a light brown hillock of glop. If you could put my lunch in a blender, and liquefy it, and then put it into a caulking gun and inject it right into my femoral artery, even better! But until you invent a lunch gun, I would like a failure pile in a sadness bowl!”]

The sad reality of my day was that I wasn’t in the mood for the heaviness of Sonic, the almost-healthiness of Wendy’s, or even if it had been open, the salt-encrusted depravity that comprises what passes for fried chicken at KFC. Seriously, with their five dollar two-piece drumstick and thigh combo, the chicken by itself constitutes over 90% of your daily sodium intake due to it’s monstrous amount of 2200 mg. of contained sodium. And that’s before any of the sides you can add on, such as the gravy, mashed potatoes, and those dog treats they refer to as biscuits.

For me, that strikes as if one were to ingest a container of Morton’s, but at least you could wash it down with gravy, I guess. To give you an idea what health officials suggest, here are some guidelines: the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA): recommends 2300 mg. a day, the American Heart Association (AHA): 1500 mg. a day, the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics (AND): 1500 to 2300 mg. a day, and the American Diabetes Association (ADA): 1500 to 2300 mg. a day.

But me? I was in the mood for a Big Mac and a large chocolate shake. Not healthy for sure, but how bad could it really be for me? After all, I only have one of these combos roughly every three months or so, when for whatever reason, I get the craving somewhat fierce.

And as I was craving protein, due to the surgeries, in essence, when it came to equating  KFC’s boxed salt lick combos against a jovial clowns fare which allegedly fosters possible heart disease, I’d have to be ahead to some extent, right? Well… the answer is yes, but not by much. A Big Mac has 1007mg, and a large chocolate shake, 420mg, for a combined total of 1427, or 56% of recommended daily value. But since I eat amazingly healthy at home, I rationalized the permission of what is essentially an almost tasteless burger paired with a beverage made mostly of corn syrup, as treat worthy of my efforts.

As an aside, the actual ingredients in a Mc Donald’s chocolate shake are: Milk, sugar, cream, corn syrup, natural flavor, mono and diglycerides, cellulose gum, guar gum, carrageenan, vitamin A, and palmitate. Feel free to look up the more exotic ones. It’ll do nothing but ease your mind.

But I can freely admit that the inclusion of Vitamin A* was kind of a shocker. After all, when you have a product that’s mostly made up of a corn-derived syrup whose main purpose is to soften texture, add volume, prevent the crystallization of sugar, and enhance flavor, the addition of something that’s actually good for you seems almost like a sardonic joke from the alleged food scientists slaving away in the clowns secluded victuals lab.
*[Vitamin A is a group of unsaturated nutritional organic compounds that includes retinol, retinal, retinoic acid, and several provitamin A carotenoids. Vitamin A has multiple functions: it is important for growth and development, for the maintenance of the immune system and good vision.]

Granted, while the addition of this vital nutrient does have some debatable value, I’m still pretty sure that I wouldn’t successfully win the point with my endocrinologist nor my ophthalmologist that I should be able to knock back a few of these a week. Just one of the cruel realities of life, I guess. Besides, that stuff goes straight to my hips, anyway.

Speaking of hips, that brings me to the matter of the insurance office I had to go visit next, in order to be compliant under the laws of New Mexico. Unfortunately, their parking lot was on the opposite side of the building they inhabit, and there was no allowable street parking, so I had to shuffle my somewhat disabled butt out of the loose gravel parking lot, successfully negotiate the uneven street in front of the office, walk the interminable distance up a long concrete sidewalk, and plopped my aching hips in the first chair I came across.

Inevitably, the questions arose about my injury, so I gave the cliff notes about the initial wound, detailed the surgeries, and wrapped it up with a rave review of the Gila Reigional Medical Center, as I’ve been doing for anyone who’s asked.

Regrettably, there was another customer in the office at the time who overheard my conversation, which I had deliberately kept light, as I don’t like bumming strangers out with my problems, and proceeded to state that she had recently lost her husband of 46 years, a fact she blamed squarely on same said hospital, bitterly attributing his death to multiple surgeries that (in her opinion) led to a MRSA* infection, which subsequently, may have ended his life.  
*[Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (aka: MRSA) refers to a group of gram-positive bacteria that are genetically distinct from other strains of Staphylococcus aureus. MRSA is responsible for several difficult-to-treat infections in humans.]

As you might imagine, it’s rather difficult to recover the thread of your positive narrative after someone hurls an unexpected heartbreak grenade into the center of the discussion campfire. And to my exceedingly limited credit, I didn’t even try, for what can you actually say at that point that moves the conversation forward past the offering of unforeseen condolences? Luckily, the dialogue was interrupted by my agent requiring some further personal details, so this particular discomfort resolved itself, as she left the office soon after, only to be replaced by a worker at our local open air copper mine who rather unprompted, educated me about it’s history and inner workings, which were rather more interesting than you might think.

As the settling of my insurance issues came to a close, two things were made inevitably clear: one: this is a town full of stories, and two: people are seemingly willing to share them. As someone who’s both a natural chatterbox and a dedicated writer, I feel as If I’m on some fertile ground as to the fate of my future industriousness in the endeavors of writing. I’ve been wanting to get somewhat out of the literary art-box I’ve found myself in, and from what I’ve been hearing, New Mexico is rich with possibility. Not that I’m going to stop writing about Art and it’s creators, nor the drama surrounding them mind you, but I think I also need to be open to telling other stories that I run across, and that others hopefully will deem to be interesting. Not to mention that thanks to my injury, I still haven’t been able to make the inroads yet that I still require in order to swim alongside my soon to be adopted arts community here in Silver City.

I have been giving serious thought however, to using my amputated toe as a “hook”- you know, use it as an in by maybe introducing myself via a cool-sounding related nickname, like “Nicky Nine-toes”, or maybe drop in the conversational tidbit that I can’t wear sandals anymore, due to the fact that I’m “lack-toe intolerant”. All I know is that I need to come up with a much more interesting story as to how I lost my toe than what actually happened.

Maybe I could craft a tale about rescuing orphans from a burning boat off the coast of Madagascar, letting all know that as I was pulling the last one aboard, a ferociously ravenous pygmy shark* rose up from the murky depths and nailed me, as I shielded the innocent child with my pinky toe… it’s a work in progress- I’ll keep you guys posted.
*[The pygmy shark (Euprotomicrus bispinatus), the second-smallest of all the shark species after the dwarf lanternshark, is a sleeper shark of the Dalatiidae family, and the only memeber of the genus Euprotomicrus. Their lengths are up to about 10 in for females and about 8.7 in for males. It’s this kind of information that’s going to allow you to kick ass the next time you play Trivial Pursuit.]

Arriving home, I suffered the indignity of a less than graceful egress out of my car, as I nearly tripped over my own feet, trying to hold onto my slack bag (aka: male purse), my cell phone, and a paperback book that was inadvertently left in my car during the move, all while attempting to manipulate my walker on our somewhat uneven driveway.

Mikhail Nikolayevich Baryshnikov, I am glaringly not. A drunken Jennifer Lawrence, wearing five inch stilettos and juggling disagreeable ferrets during an earthquake however, is a distinct possibility. So, I manage to shuffle my somewhat arguably disabled butt up the driveway, correct course, shuffle along our mercifully short concrete walkway, fumble with my keys and rapidly slipping sunglasses, and manage to get my shambling self inside the house… where I almost take myself out by catching a corner of one of the numerous unpacked boxes from our move with my walker.

I can see the news crawl* now: “Artbitch pulls a full Vonnegut,** story at 11.”
*[A News crawl or news ticker, is the moving line of text seen at the bottom of your screen during TV news programs. ** American writer (and my literary hero) Kurt Vonnegut died as a result of brain injuries from a fall, hence my morbid joke. In an interview shortly before his death, Vonnegut mockingly stated that he would sue the maker of the Pall Mall cigarettes he had been smoking most of his life for false advertising.:

“And do you know why? Because I’m 83 years old. The lying bastards! On the package, Brown & Williamson promised to kill me.”

When I eventually spin off this mortal coil, I want to be armed with the same sense of mordant humor when and if, I face whatever constitutes the one true God.]

But near-misses mark the inner character of a man, does it not? Fortuitously, I managed to get my right leg underneath me to break my fall, keeping a limited grip on my walker, while somehow managing to keep my left foot from making direct contact with the ground. If anyone had walked in mere milliseconds after this happened, they would have surmised I was practicing some new form of Yoga involving medical equipment, as I assumed a pose appropriate only for the male lead in a late 70’s porn movie.

Yeah… best of luck getting that picture out of your head- I’m telling you right now, when you go to sleep tonight, that image is going to pop into your skull, and stick there as if it were coated in Krazy Glue. I’m so sorry. You have no idea. As I pick myself up off the floor, two thoughts pop into my head, the first being: “well, that f*****g sucked”, and the second was; “Hey… there’s that box I was looking for!” As the saying goes, when life hands you lemons, point out to Life that you can’t make lemonade without sugar and water, so within the context of things, Life just pulled a dick move, and you sure as Hell aren’t putting up with it’s crap, no way, no how.

Another thing I’m really having trouble putting up with is the mildly enforced bedrest I have to endure due to my injury- keeping my leg elevated is a key factor to it’s healing, and it literally is for the birds. You can only watch so much TV, read so many paperbacks, or surf the internet before you start losing your virtual marbles. How vexed am I by this, you ask? Well, the other day in an online cooking forum, I “yelled” at a 76 year old Latvian woman for calmly suggesting that oatmeal raisin is a far better cookie recipe than the standard chocolate chip one . And while I do feel bad about doing so, it’s not like she was right to begin with in the first place, so I’m not even sure I can note that as a *true mental crackup. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xO7EFfdX8Rs]

What’s harder to handle however, is how my foot looks- my surgeon did an amazing job, no doubts there, and I’ve been told constantly since the ray amputation surgery that it “looks great”, but that’s from the people whose sole job it is to evaluate the healing process, not the aesthetic one. From my artists intrinsic perspective, it’s reminiscent of what I’ve always thought would happen if an undead Chihuahua ever managed to sneak up on the sandal-wearing hero in a B-grade zombie movie, and got him by the toes. Now, according to my surgeon, in time my foot will “fill out” and not look so severe, but at this moment, I can’t look at it without feeling alternating shades of revulsion, depression, and horror.

So naturally, I’m assuming you’d like to see a picture from the first time my bandages were removed right after the surgery? God, you people are gluttons for punishment, or you’re morbid- either way, this should be a real treat for you, and only you. My joy will derive from finally hitting that line when it comes to over-sharing.

WARNING: A small hint? you may not want to be reading this as you eat dinner, and you definitely will never look at an un-breaded chicken cutlet the same way ever again. Just saying.

So here goes….

When I first saw it as is, my first reaction was straight out shock- I didn’t expect it to look pretty by any means, but I also didn’t expect to see that much of my foot gone, either. And no, it wasn’t my surgeon’s fault that this came as such an eye-opener to me, he had been pretty straight-up as to what I should anticipate, I just couldn’t mentally conceptualize it, which is, let’s face it, somewhat odd for a visual artist such as myself. It might have something to do with the fact I’ve never dabbled in the more organic styles of art, or it could just be my naive optimism that makes me such a blödmann* to begin with.
*[“Dumbass” in German. See, you’re learning something new, and that’s always fun.]

By looking at it, you might think I’m in a world of pain, but shockingly, this really hasn’t hurt as much as you might think, mainly due to the extensive nerve damage I already have below my knees. I don’t really feel anything past the occasional tingle or pressure on my foot, and for the first time since I contracted this stupid disease, the loss of sensation is actually a win-win in my favor, and I’m embracing that fully. Another minus is that all of the research I’ve done regarding how long this might take to heal fully, lays the timeline out to be anywhere from one to two months, at which point I may find myself in a bell tower*, taking out the wicked and the innocent alike with carefully directed water balloons.
*[Google “Charles Whitman”. Who by the way of a spoiler, did not use water balloons.]

Heres the unseasoned dry rub- I’m a true Type A personality who really needs to start making some artistic inroads, unpack a ton of boxes, get his studio in order, seek out new writing and future employment opportunities, and in general, just wants to be out of his bed more than in it, no matter how cool and comfy my lounge-pants are. And trust me, I’ve got some seriously cool and comfy lounge pants. But the awesomeness of my Hello Kitty matching wardrobe aside, I’ve got stuff to do, and this injury didn’t take the diligence due to fill out the proper forms to officially get in my way of doing what needs to be done.

I tells ya, it’s like my body doesn’t even listen to it’s own intellect anymore. It’s as if I’m comprised mostly of unruly teenagers, all of whom think the brain “doesn’t get it” and are gonna do what they wanna do, no matter the consequences. First my pancreas fails at the age of thirty, and I find out only then that there’s no warranty coverage past the first six months of ownership, and as a means to add insult to eventual injury, my foot decides to raise Cain and attempts to set off a gangrenous gas grenade in it’s brother Abel, also known as my leg.

The sheer freaking nerve, am I right?

Kids… pretty much the “better you than me” category when referring to unwanted gifts from Life. Seriously Life, you really shouldn’t have. And I say this as someone who not only loves kids, but is truly great with them as well. That’s why I could never be an effective father- I’d be way too busy out-fitting my kids with bundles of M-80’s, matches, cans of Krylon, paint-thinner-filled water-guns, and continually printing fake ID’s, to ever dispense any sort of wisdom past my three hard-earned life lessons: One: On no account should you ever cook bacon in the nude. Two: By no means should you ever allow yourself to fall in love with anyone who pays their rent in singles. and three: Always respect someone for what’s between their ears, and not their legs.

Come to think of it, that’s actually some pretty damn good advice. Screw what I typed earlier, I’d be an awesome dad. I certainly wouldn’t be boring, that’s for sure. And there’s no better bonding experience than lying to your local police as a family. Trust me on this.

Ooof. Looks like it’s getting late, so now might be a really good place to stop. And when we come back…

I discover that when you’ve got two bum shoulders, a walker is a torture device you get to bring with you, answer some questions for an online art magazine interview, and ponder some career options.

“Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters.” – Neil Gaiman

 

“Scars are simply modern battle wounds. Sometimes the enemy happens to be inside us.” – Andrew Grey

“With all due respect to my surgeon, in a perfect world he would be out of a job.” – Russ Ramsey

Hello Blogiteers!

Today is an absolutely gorgeous day here just outside of Silver City, NM- there’s a touch of a cold front coming, a hint of petrichor in the air, and the sky is staging a breathtaking visualization of clouds so puffy, it looks as if the heavens are bleeding cotton candy- or as we like to call it out here, Wednesday. Truly, this place is breathtakingly gorgeous in it’s unblemished splendor. I seriously cannot think of a more perfect backdrop in which to find myself in regards to recovering from an unforeseen and highly traumatic surgical procedure, that being the amputation of one of my lesser toes, along with a good portion of my foot as well.

On the additional downside, I’m currently laid up on prescribed and strictly enforced bed-rest, so for someone like me who’s a full-blown Type A personality, it’s essentiallyan exercise in making sure I don’t go completely batshit stir-crazy, so thank Allah for PBS online and Netflix as a panacea towards keeping my sanity in check.

A small, yet relevant to our story side note: I don’t know who’s responsible for discovering new content for Netflix, but they scored a South Korean zombie movie called “Last Train to Busan” which is a holy-scary-motherf**k-balls flick which will literally make you wet yourself, no lie. I still haven’t finished it yet, and I’ve been purposely watching it durirng the day, with all the window-shades up- that’s how intense this thing is. I may take a cue from TV’s “Friends”, by following Joeys advice, and putting my TV in the freezer, where the horror can be contained safely.

After all, my copy of “The Shining” is already in there, and I’m sure it could use the company. Lord knows, I could use some.

See, one of the negatives about landing in a new town is that you essentially have no network to lean on, until you’ve gone and made some new friends, which is kind of hard to do when you’re doing your best impression of John and Yuko at The Queen Elizabeth in Montreal, circa 1969. It’s even more stressful when the original game plan was to be a house husband for a brief moment in time, and then run free to go seek fame, fortune, and the occasional complimentary box of Ding Dongs. But as John Lennon once soberly said: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

And boy, did Life happen with a vengeance. If it had been the game or the cereal, I probably would have come out on the other side with nothing more than the loss of two excruciatingly boring hours with my relatives and a mid-level sugar high, but it didn’t work out that way, so help me Bob.*
*[During the mid-19th century, “Bob” was used as a euphemism for “God,” as in “So help me, Bob!”. According to Google N-grams, the idiom came into substantial use towards the end of the 19th century. Isn’t learning about the lexicon fun? Of course it is, because knowing is half the battle. And hopefully the next World War will be more like a quiz show, in which case… you’ll do fine.]

It all started (perhaps) back in Phoenix roughly two months ago or so- in a moment of abject non-thinking stupidity, I stepped out onto my then concrete balcony in the middle of the afternoon, and badly burned my feet. That in and of itself was bad enough, as the concretes baseline temperature was probably bubbling around 135 degrees, but due to the severe and chronic diabetic nerve damage in my legs, I did not feel or realize the massive harm I had inadvertently self-inflicted until several hours after the fact. By that point, the bottoms of my feet looked like a truly wretched cheese pizza. You know, like the ones that Papa John’s makes? But in my case, the carnage was delivered without the arrogant racism or the exploitation of highly undercompensated workers.

It still sucked, however.

Visually, and literally, my feet were toast, and it was horrifying to look at. Cross a flattened Shar-pei with Freddy Kreuger and glue it to my soles, and you’ll get the general idea that I’m going for here. In the end, I was off my cooked feet for three days, and the burns eventually healed nicely, or so I thought. See, here’s the deal- I don’t know if what happened recently stems from this particular incident, or if it was another factor entirely, due to the fact I was so focused on our move, that I literally tuned out everything that wasn’t directly involved with it.

In hindsight, that was obviously a massive cock-up.

Roughly a week and a half after we arrived at our new home just ouside Silver City, NM, my left foot started puffing up, and despite our best efforts, we could not get the swelling to go back down. At first, I wasn’t too worried- after all, one of the side effects of the drug I take [Lyrica] to keep my nerve pain in check is localized swelling, and I have, over the years, dealt with this symptomatic annoyance/pain-in-the-ass from time to time. But when a red “bloom” started appearing over the surface of my foot, I called my Phoenix-based endocrinologist who in no uncertain terms told me to, and I quote: “get your damn ass to a hospital… NOW”

Did I mention that when I left to go to the hospital at 8:30 that night, it was both raining cats and dogs, and that I had no idea where I was going? Thank the corpse of Steve Jobs for whomever he tried to steal my Samsung’s far superior GPS from, for it directed me like a champ to the Gila River Medical Center, which is roughly 20 minutes from my house.

Disturbingly, the online reviews on this place were uniformly terrible, but after my solo experience with this facility and its fkng amazeballs staff, I’m inclined, no, I wholeheartedly hold the opinion that not only are these ‘sour grape” reviews, they’re also most likely from people who as customers in the retail sphere, have those angular haircuts and the resting bitch face that screams “I’m going to need to talk to your manager Karen, because I: didn’t get what I want / you’re not psychic / how dare you not kiss my ass fast enough”- you know, the same people constructed of hubris and human pudding-skin that go into an In-and-Out Burger, and are incensed that they have to wait six and a half minutes for their fresh food to be cooked?

This place not only has the best care I’ve ever received, but the best support staff, the best surgeon(s), and the best damn nursing team I’ve ever had the pleasure of interacting with in regards to what has been one of the most horrible and wholly terrifying situations I’ve ever found myself in, minus my near-death experience, back in 2009.

When I originally checked in, I thought to myself that at worst, I’d be hospitalized for a night at best, while I received some strong antibiotics and took in a few of those bags of saline us diabetics seem to like so much. Unfortunately, that’s not the way things worked out. I was immediately admitted, had numerous vials of blood drawn, was x-rayed, and then directly clued-in that not only was there was a massive infection in my foot, which had crossed the line into being septic, but was now filling my leg with gas gangrene* from the ongoing necrosis.
*[Gas gangrene (also known as clostridial myonecrosis and myonecrosis) is a bacterial infection that produces gas in tissues in gangrene. This deadly form of gangrene usually is caused by Clostridium perfringens bacteria Myonecrosis is a condition of necrotic damage, specific to muscle tissue.]

At this point, I was starting to think that perhaps, things had gone a bit awry, and that I probably wasn’t going to be on top of checking off any of the items on my to-do list for a while. Sure, not losing my leg or my life was important, but I had intended an entire day centered around binge-watching America’s Test Kitchen, and now thanks to this, I feared I was never going to find out how to make a properly light and tasty macaroon. Don’t give me that look… they are a bitch to make, and you know it.

As do the French, who I’m quite sure, did this to us on purpose. Some people just hold onto grudges forever, evermore the pity.

But to get back on the proverbial track, after a few more hours, the ER doctor, first name of Sharon, comes in with the full diagnosis, and lets me know that the orthopedic surgeons will talk to me first thing in the morning, which honestly, freaked me out even more than having my foot filling up with necrotic gases and flesh for some reason. It might have something to do with the fact that so far, I’ve managed to keep most of my stock parts, and as a recovering Catholic, I’ve always wondered if God issues penalties for showing up at the Gates without everything he gave you originally.

Hopefully, that’s a question that will be answered a long time from now, and if He starts getting persnickety, I’ll remind him that he’s the one who gave me diabetes in the first place, and then we’ll see how good his sense of humor is. After all, he’s responsible for both the platypus and the aardvark, so I really like my chances here.

So, with that scalpel of Damocles over my head, I eventually turn in for the night, as truly comfortable as I could be with an IV line stuck in my right arm while laying in a strange and weirdly narrow bed, thinking about my decomposing interior. Some advice for all the hospitals out there- invest in a few Purple mattresses, and save patients the trouble of having to find the “sweet spot” where one needs to nestle correctly in order to get some restful sleep. Just a thought.

On the upside, I was delighted to discover that the hospital food was unexpectedly good, [thank you, Brett!] and that the hospital had a never-ending supply of two of my favorite snacks- graham crackers and pudding, in the standard two flavors of course, that being vanilla and chocolate. I’m not sure why this is, but hospital pudding in my opinion, always tastes better than home pudding. Maybe it’s a comfort thing, maybe it’s just projection, but anytime I’ve been in the hospital, I figuratively wreck whatever stores of the gooey goodness that hospital may have. It’s literally my favorite thing to eat, and I’m pretty sure my nurses wondered what my obsession with it was. Sadly, it’s a diabetic thing, and they’ll never understand.

Moving on..

The next day, a stocky, rather refreshingly blunt speaking, and according to Ashley, “attractive” surgeon (if you like that ruggedly handsome kind of thing, that is) by the name of Dr. Roberto Carreon, comes in to talk to me, letting me know with no hyperbole what will be involved in regards to what eventually turns out to be four surgeries in ten days, or to put it another way, I spent at least four hours sleeping the light fantastic, and don’t remember a thing… at all. I can’t recall the name of the two doctors who did my anesthesia, but they dropped me as if I were a flaming rock.

And amazingly, when I woke up in post-op recovery, I was in fact, startlingly clear-headed, not nauseous, and completely tuned-in. My gut instinct tells me that I can safely bet on the option that these two could easily make a pitcher of Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters out of various items one might find in the average kitchen, and not even break a sweat while doing so. What was unforeseen and ill-fated, was that an old nemesis and I had to meet again prior to my first surgery, and unlike when I was hospitalized in 2009 for a case of rampant ketoacidosis, I was unfortunately conscious when said reunion took place.

Enter the Foley catheter swaggering into my life yet again, drunk on urine and bitterness. What exactly is a Foley catheter? Well…

“A Foley catheter is a thin, sterile tube inserted into the bladder to drain urine. Because it can be left in place in the bladder for a period of time, it is also called an indwelling catheter.”

A few minor quibbles here in regards to this portrayal? On the surface, this charmingly phrased description seems as sterile as the medical accessory itself- what it neglects to  mention is how and where it’s inserted to gain access to that reservoir of liquid gold. The last time I had one of these inflicted upon me, I wasn’t entirely lucid when it was inserted, due to mental impairment caused by exceedingly high blood sugar, but I was this time not that lucky, as I noted earlier.

I don’t think it would be overstating the point to mention that I, like most men throughout the ages, have spent a great deal of my life defending the ol’ spawn-hammer from harm, when I haven’t been bragging about what it can do and how awesome it looks while doing it, that is. Seriously. I wrote a piece about posing nude for a fellow artist once, and it was literally the talk of the town for weeks. Nobody seemed to appreciate the signed 8×10’s though, in retrospect.

Regardless, It’s exactly the first thing they teach you on the playground- that is, to protect your Everlasting Gob-dropper from all enemies, be they sucker punches, that horizontal bar on men’s bikes that was placed there by Satan, or errant foul balls. So, when in the moments preceding my surgery I was informed that I needed to vacate my bladder and wasn’t able to do so to the nurse’s satisfaction, I really didn’t think about the end game, to be quite frank.

After all, what was the worst that could possibly happen?

Note to self: in the immediate and long-term future, STOP ASKING THESE KINDS OF ASININE QUESTIONS. SERIOUSLY. JUST STOP ASKING, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND COUNTRY. After about 20 minutes trying to get my bladder to do it’s job and falling far short of the write your name in the snow line, an issue I’m going to blame on middle-age performance anxiety, a very cute, and very young, nurse walks in with the Foley kit, and plainly tells me that this is going to happen.

Ask the universe an idiotically phrased metaphorical question, and boy, will it return with an even shoddier answer, I kid you not.

This is mainly why it and I don’t go out carousing anymore. Well that, and the difficulty in securing a reliable bail bondsman. As I’m getting prepped for the procedure, she states that I should “prepare for some discomfort”, to which I make a flippant comment about it getting caught in a zipper once (true story) and there’s “no way it could be worse” than that.
[ See: “Idiotic assumptions.” Subheading: “Things morons say.” ]

Those of you who are squeamish, might want to skip ahead a bit, due to the metaphors I’m about to lay down. But before we begin, let’s look at what the dictionary has classified the definition of discomfort as. It states it to be: “an absence of comfort or ease; uneasiness, hardship, or mild pain, anything that is disturbing to or interferes with comfort.”

Now, if we use this depiction as a base, it would foreshadow that what I was about to go through at best, would be minimal, both in pain and effort, right? As I stated earlier, I need to STOP ASKING THE COSMOS THESE KINDS OF ASININE QUESTIONS. Especially where the safety and well-being of my Rogering Ramjet is concerned. First they applied an antibiotic- it stung a little, but overall the sensation was not too bad, and it rather easily falls under the banner of discomfort I was just talking about.

Hell, this part I could do all day standing on my head. Sadly however, next comes the part that the demon Guyota* himself obviously scripted out of spite, that being the insertion of a flesh-rendering tentacle from Hell.
*[In Guanche mythology, Guyota is the principal malignant deity, and is said to be represented as a black dog, accompanied by demons, also in the form of black dogs]

The only way I could accurately describe the pain of this procedure is to say it felt like someone casually took a red-hot razor-studded sewer pipe, and decided to shove it up my wookie-blood-sword sideways, as hungry ferrets wrapped in fish hooks and wearing ice skates, pole danced to Rammstein, while simultaneously swinging nail-studded baseball bats- in essence, IT F*****G HURT… A LOT.

More than watching Tom Cruise as Jack the Forest Boy in Legend. More than suffering through Denise Richards mutilating her role as a nuclear scientist named Christmas Jones in The World is Not Enough. It hurt worse than watcthing our tangerine-colored president attemptng to string a coherent sentence together, and that’s a gift that keeps on giving, sort of like Deadpool if he was afflicted with Herpes.

It was intense, to say the very least.

I’ll never experience childbirth, but I’d have to assume it would feel like this, if after the kid was born, they decided to thrust it back into the womb with a cannon, after outfitting it with golf shoes, sandpaper mittens, and Saber-tooth tiger fangs. I once wrote about going through a procedure like this before when I wasn’t lucid, but the end conclusion I came to then remains the same as now- if in the future it becomes imperative to insert one of these again to drain my bladder, either knock me the f**k out  first, or just leave me on top of a mound of Sham-Wows to slowly drain, as nature intended.

Just a simple request, ok?

So a few moments after this little side-trip through the plains of Gehenna*, the surgical team comes to get me, and within mere minutes, I was knocked out colder than a tiki torch wielding Nazi at a Black Lives Matter rally.
*[In the rabbinic literature as well as Christian and Islamic scripture, Gehenna is a destination of the wicked. This is different from the more neutral Sheol/Hades, the abode of the dead, See? You learn something new every time you read me.]

Eventually, I wake up, looked over by a delightful nurse with a really good sense of humor, and that strong sense of professionalism that I mentioned earlier. After a few enjoyable minutes of post-surgery banter like you do, Dr. Carreon comes into the recovery area, and he looks serious. Almost grim, in fact. Downright solemn. One might even say somber, if one were so inclined.

Obviously, he was there to deliver the best of news.
[See once again: “Idiotic assumptions.” Subheading: “Things morons think.” ]

He however, does not bring tidings of non-necrotic joy as hoped, but states that despite his best efforts, the operation exposed the cheerless reality that the tissue damage was far more extensive than originally predicted, and the infectivity had actually progressed into the bone in two different locations- this was not good on so many different levels, and I’ll inform you as to why. Diabetics as a rule, have a lot of varying issues to deal with when we get sick, our healing factor being the top key for most of us.

For me, my immune system has always been a double-edged sword- I generally don’t show symptoms until I’m already very unwell, and the nerve damage I suffer from can mask the severity of wounds until they become considerable tribulations, as was the case here. Essentially, I appear to have Wolverine type healing abilities, but my immune system these days seem to be as fortified as Supermans when he’s inadvertently been tricked into wearing Kryptonite Speedos.*
*[And you really should try them- they’re surprisingly comfy, the radiation keeps your nether region warm and cozy, and the best part? They glow in the dark.]

But even given all that bad news, Dr. Carreon was still holding on to his optimism about saving my pinky toe at the time. He wasn’t going to give up, and the course of antibiotics seemed to be working overtime to bring down both my fever and sweep the legs out from under my necrotic infection, so it seemed I was heading in the right direction… or so he and I hoped.

I’d like to go off tangent here for a moment, for as I noted earlier: “This place not only has the best care I’ve ever received, but the best support staff, the best surgeon(s), and the best damn nursing team I’ve ever had the pleasure of interacting with in regards to what has been one of the most horrible and wholly terrifying situations I’ve ever found myself in, minus my near-death experience, back in 2009.”

What I failed to address in regards to my glowing review was this-what separated this particular experience from my earlier medical misadventures was the humanity expressed in relation to my individual care. Not once did anyone forget, even for the briefest of moments, that there was an actual person on the other end of the diagnosis, and this definitely applies to Dr. Carreon.  
 
Right to the point, definitely straight-shooting, and always firm, I never at any time felt the need to question his skills, his perception, or his resolve. In fact, when he had to deliver the unwanted, yet necessary information that saving my toe was indeed impossible, I felt the metaphorical weight he was carrying. I would opine that’s not just the hallmark of a truly great doctor, but in the end, an even better human being.

Regrettably, the outcome of the first surgery led to my being hospitalized for a total of eleven days, which to be accurate, was not even remotely part  of the original plan. To note, twice I was informed that I might be able to go home the day after a procedure, only to have those hopes dashed against the rocks as each subsequent surgery revealed that the necrotic infection was hanging on to my toe and more disturbingly- my bone, like a spurned ex.

In order to correctly express my feelings regarding this analogy at those particular moments, I shall qoute another eminent Wayne, that being the one and only Wayne Campbell of Wayne’s World fame: “I lost you two months ago. We broke up. Are you mental? Get the net!” Grimly, I had finally reached the point where I was going through surgery number three, hoping against hope and praying that this time, I’d have truly good news to wake up to.
[ See yet again: “Idiotic assumptions.” Subheading: “Things morons pray for.” ]

Sadly, that was not the case to be. Dammit. I just knew being a recovering Catholic was going to bite me in the ass someday. Yet another side note for which I am terribly sorry- as a lapsed, but documented anyway by the nursing staff as a member of the “my holy trinity beats your singular God” club, it’s not uncommon to be visited by various clergypersons while vacationing unwillingly in the hospital. Most of the time, these interactions are fairly pleasant- somebody full of grace and goodwill comes into your room, gives you a free spiritual tune-up if so desired, and on the way out, generally puts in a good word with their main deity seeking your speedy recovery.

All things considered, not a bad return on your non-investment, if I say so myself.

And as far as life’s circumstances went, my experience was no different- I was visited in the style of Charles Dickens, by three such holy folk. The first, a very nice lady who was also a Protestant but didn’t carry the grudge against us pen-pals of the Pope, was super agreeable, very uplifting, and when the moment came to alert her deity as to my cause, laid her rap down like a mother-freaking boss. I’ve been to African-American churches in the South that while passionate as heck, didn’t rock the testifying half as hard. I’m of the mindset that this woman has God on speed-dial, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t swipe to the right when she calls.

He wouldn’t dare, methinks.

The third spiritual visitor to visit me (I’ll address number two in a moment) as I engaged in a split second of inner reflection, was a Lutheran, who was, and I say this honestly, cool as f**k. I would totally party with this guy, and that could ultimately happen, because Lutherans are what Catholics could be if they’d just lighten the hell up. My GF Ashley has commented more than once that in the bitter end, I’m really a closeted Lutheran who happens to possess better Icon statues, and she may just be right, if I were to give it serious pause.

As I said, he was cool as f**k- we talked about motorcycles, motorcycle crashes, and about his four kids, one of which was central to the discussion of both bikes and unforeseen accidents, and it was, as I said, a totally cool moment. No prayer at the end though, because Lutherans as a rule, aren’t super pushy, but he did wish me a speedy recovery, which I still appreciated. Mainly because at this point, I can’t switch teams- I have a ton of the merchandise and most of the collectibles.

I’m still missing the Judas Iscariot coin collection, but I’m pretty sure I can get that online for around 30 Shekels of Tyre, if I play my prayer cards right. And with that, we come to spiritual visitor number two…

Oh boy, do we ever.

By and large, I don’t consider myself a sincerely religious or even somewhat of a pious individual, despite one of my close friends noting that in their opinion, I was more of a Christian than I liked to let on. I’ll let that observation rest there for a moment, because anybody who knew me well in my pre-forties would witness without hesitation that I was no more a pure representative of Christian values, than I was of the Mariinsky Ballet.*
*[The Mariinsky Ballet is the resident classical ballet company of the Mariinsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Founded in the 18th century and originally known as the Imperial Russian Ballet, the Mariinsky Ballet is one of the world’s leading ballet companies.]

Granted, I wasn’t a horrible person, I didn’t do drugs, or drink, or smoke, or treat women with disrespect, but my apartment at one point did hold the moniker of “Wayne’s Home for Wayward Strippers”, so take that as you will, with as much salt as you like.  When it gets right down to it, I’m fairly agnostic, except in times of extreme duress- then I tend to fall back on my extensive collection of crucifixes and rosaries, along with an almost endless array of Hail Marys:

“Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Factor in that to this day my best friend of close to twenty years still refers to my morality meter as “Gumby” and you can see what a prior reputation can do to your current one. Does God exist? I honestly don’t know what I believe at this point in my life- I do however, loathe having any form of religious fervor directed towards me, and I react even worse when I observe people using their faith as a sword to hurt or deny others their inherent humanity. I despise hypocrisy under any appearance, and when people attempt to use the Bible as justification or rationalization for their biases or hatred, I characteristically will introduce a new and painful way of acquiring fiber into their lives, by jamming the good book down their throat.

 And here’s where we meet the number two advisor- an older gentleman, representing as he put it, an “independent” church that split from the Baptist body politic, IE: a church that interprets the Word in a way the main church doesn’t agree with. To say the interaction was awkward would be underselling it by miles. I was condescended to, informed what a true Christian was, the undertone being that Catholics barely made the cut, and when the obligatory deity beseeching was enacted, the suggestion that I needed to find my “way back to God” was slipped in at the end, because there’s nothing I enjoy more than to be lectured about my level of faith, or the lack thereof, by an arrogant, self-centered SOB who seemingly took offense at the fact I support LGBTQ rights, and think Trump is an unqualified ass.

How aggravated was I? Let’s just say that if I truly had two good feet at that moment, at least one of them would have been jammed up his ass, and the other would be kicking some humility back into him. I’m not a violent man by any means, but give me a NERF bat, and I would have made the magic happen at that particular point in time.

Gah. Nothing so vexing than someone who pimps Jesus like as if he were soap.

That annoyance having been addressed, let’s get back to the post-op meeting with my surgeon. When I woke up after this, my third surgical procedure, the news was sadly grim- Dr. Carreon looked as if his soul had been crushed, and it was exceedingly obvious that he thought he had failed me. [good news doc- you didn’t] The toe definitely had to go, and there was (pardon the bad pun) no bones about it. As you can imagine, this was not what I wanted to hear, but it also wasn’t like I hadn’t been prepped for it, to be quite honest.

So, after talking to the doc, and later on Ashley, we wind up scheduling the separation of my metaphorical Tito Jackson from the rest of the Jackson 5. The surgery went off like a fine Swiss watch, and just as before, there were no major complications in regards to the anesthesia. Mentally, I was alternating between being zen-centered to suffering minor freak-outs, but overall, I was adulting like a badass. The day after the procedure, I was finally discharged, and able to go home, where I was then and now, semi-confined to my bed for the duration of the healing process.

And since I am currently flat on my back, this seems like an excellent place to take a break, And when we come back…

I get to see what my foot looks like, contemplate what story I’ll tell as to how I did lose my toe in the future, and discover that using a walker is far more complicated than one might think. You know… riveting stuff.

“You go in through the front door of the hospital and depending on how successful your treatment is, it determines whether you leave through the front door or in a box out of the back door.” – Steven Magee