Monday, August 27, 2012

ROW 80 DAY 46 – SUNDAY/MONDAY, AUGUST 27 2012 CHECK IN - STORM WARNING


Tropical Storm Isaac as seen from Key West, Florida

The fact that I’m writing this on Monday and you’re reading it sometime after, tells us that this wasn’t written on Sunday, August 26, in the year of our Lord 2012. Thank you, Dr. Watson. It wasn’t that I blew it off, or didn’t have anything to say, although I was in a state of mental muddle. Usually when I triangulate on a subject, it’s pretty clear; lightning in a bottle. Bolt out of the blue; a spark and my brain takes off, up and down many alleys. In and out of the labyrinth.

Am I the only one who has this visual image of a brain, trailing its little cortex tail, on a pair of squeaky, little tricycle wheels, zipping up and down endless, immense DOD aisles, chumming around for trivia, ideas, inspirations, all while humming “March to the Scaffold,” by Hector Berlioz? Yeah, me neither.

Well, my little bean was busy or not busy doing other stuff on Sunday. First, we needed to kind of spruce up the house a bit. I was going to cook some ribs and make potato salad and corn on the cob last week, but no. I had a visit from the Nuclear Flu instead. That left by itself without medical intervention, and I’m tickled by that. I usually end up in the ER at the very least. Once, I got a dandy case of pleurisy, 2 broken ribs from coughing and pneumonia while flu-ridden. It took me 3 months to recover. The fact that I lived very near to the University of Michigan hospital didn’t hurt a bit.

Anyway, I’ve been feeling better; getting over the flu, but the whole Bipolar-PD thing has just run right off the rails. I have this huge cat fight going on in my head and body. It’s bizarre. It hurts, then it doesn’t. I can feel everything intensely, and then I can’t. My visual disturbances (this is different than my blindness) are on my left side, where they’re normally on my right. This is the best part. Being bipolar? I just want to go, go, go. I don’t care where, let’s just go somewhere.

As if. Let’s recap. Legally blind? (or "Legally Bland." I just thought of that; patent pending. I want business cards, or a web site with that as my logo) Check; I use a cane, (canne de Combat, anyone?) Balance, walking problems. Not so much anymore. Sensory problems. Check. Problems with motor control. Yes. Mental problems. YES! Impulse control/decision making problems? You betcha. The two things that still work well are my speed and strength. This is not a recipe for happy when mixed up with either the RNC or some of the fruit loops that will be protesting. I once got in trouble in Ann Arbor for throwing rocks at the KKK. I could end up biting some Romney/Ryan/Akin lover.

Okay, now we are talking! This sounds like my idea of a good time. I really am my mother’s daughter. Once, when asked what her party affiliation was she said “If I’m in a good mood, I’m an anarchist. Piss me off, and I throw bombs.” I can relate. So, let’s take a bus and ride downtown to the RNC. That will calm me right down! Not happening. My happy ass would find the inside of a jail cell at Orient Road in 2 minutes. I’d sit there and holler about my Americans with Disabilities Acts being violated. I’d be sitting there with all the deaf people. I’d make gestures at them, although I know not one word of ASL. An aside, JC is fluent in ASL. I could have him teach my bad words before I get arrested. After an exchange of gestures, meaningless on my part, small items would begin to fly. 

A riot would break out at the Jail. Yippee. First, the deaf peeps, ‘bangers, tat girls, led by me, begin making noise by rubbing our tin cups up and down the jail bar cells. All the big bads are for me, ‘cause the sheriff’s deputy*, not at all the what-we-have-here-is-a-failure-to-communicate type of sheriff’s deputy*, but more the polyester-pants-one-size-too-small-wadded-up-his-bunghole type has deprived me of whackamole and the big bads are bissed, er, pissed. So me, being the opportunistic and heedless sort that I am, start whining about how I need my "binkie." Any excuse for fuckery will do at the Jail and I am always ready for that; it starts with tin mugs and rapidly moves to barricades made from table and chairs thrown. The Red Side v. the Blue Side numbers are fluid. Hostages come and go, combatants change sides and sheriff’s deputies* are trying to get all of us hooligans to calm down.

Usually the sheriff’s deputies* don’t give a good Goddamned if the prisoners brain each other because it means less paperwork for them. And, boy are they tired. Instead of just the usual gang of idiots, there’s a whole bunch of out-of-town idiots that are locked up in the cell next door. They are wearing suits and ties. At least the boy ones are, although some of them may be girls. Androgyny is no stranger to that crowd. It’s some of the GOP. They are looking rather askance at the goings-on with the bangers, deafies, and whores, and who’s that evil-looking bitch in dark glasses, and what is she screeching hellishly in Urdu? Some of the suited types are a bit worse for the wear. Ties askew; broken glasses. One guy looks like a Picasso print; a starred lens on the left side. The right is at a 45° angle to his nose.

Gah! At this point, my postis going nowhere. I think I’m going to take author DaveBarry’s sage, but extremely lazy, literary advice and end this gracefully: “And suddenly, they were all run over by a truck!”

There! It’s all fixed now.

*I know several members of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Deputies and Tampa Police Department. These are some of the finest men and women I have ever met and they know how I feel about them. This is all in fun. They know I’m silly.


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