#ROW80 2ND QTR POST – RUMINATIONS ON EDITING, A WILD TRIP TO THE FAMILY DOLLAR STORE, BOXING MANIA, AND COMPUTER VIRUSES FROM HELL

Being the lazy thing that I've become, I find it easier to just mash everything into a giant, 40-page post, to test the patience of my readership, heh. Just kidding. I got caught up in a clinical research study, now that my health is good enough to allow such a thing and my doctor is not the sort to have kittens over any participation. “Go forth and teach” is her motto and this will be fun, if any of these things can be said to be “fun”. It's for COPD and mine has improved on the one drug they are testing; adding a second, sort of as a “bumper” so I have a new batch of doctors to drive crazy. All those years spent working in a teaching hospital may not have made me a doctor, but it sure as hell didn't make me a better patient, in any regard. The doctors I have now have survived the cut; the rest lay bleeding by some proverbial clinical roadside, licking their wounds and vowing to choose their words more carefully, the next time they run into someone who sports an I. Q. over 75.

 

The atmosphere in the teaching hospital I worked in tended to be much like the one portrayed in the show "Scrubs" but with many, many more people, and many, many more personality disorders, including my own. Still, it was a fun place to work, or spend some time, pretending to work, while I asked endless questions of the teaching doctors, who were all too happy to answer. The term "docere" is Latin for "doctor" and means "to teach". An apt expression, indeed.

This may look like  a prison, but it is the old University of Michigan Teaching Hospital where I pretended to work for several years. The thing was built piece-meal, and when you went in the front entrance and through the little gerbil-tube (because, Michigan) you entered on the 4th floor of the main hospital. Down on the 2nd floor and around the back, were the morgue and the rooms where the 1st-year students learned the fine art of dissection, by one section of Medical Records; Archives. I worked on the 4th floor, next to the E.R. and Head Trauma Units, in the current Medical Records Unit. I saw some hair-raising stuff in my days there, but I've never been bothered by blood and guts, What gives me the heebie-jeebies is cleaning out the fridge.

So, I missed last week's #IWSG check in, for the umpteenth time; pasting it on my forehead doesn't work; I don't look in the mirror that much. Telling JC to remind me is fine, but then he forgets, or he tells Alex, who forgets to tell him, to tell me and so it goes. I also missed #ROW80, due to the aforementioned Clinical Trial, but now that that is up and running, there's no excuse. Have I mentioned how much I really, really hate editing? Should Skip Bombardier have a mad crush on the heroine? Should she be completely oblivious? Should the kid-alien-musical prodigy be loveable or a true pain in the ass, like prodigies can be? Or just a regular kid? And, shouldn't they all have loveable pets? Like cats? Or should I throw some hedgehogs in there just to mix it up, and because they're the "happenin' thing" now in the U. S.? I'm not really trying to build a world, just a few locations that feel lived in. In some cases it works, in others, not at all. But, I keep plugging away. Of course the best, most lived in, most real scenes are the ones that take place within the musical world, both on stage, and off, and in the computer world, because I know those worlds. So, best to stay away from say, bullfighting, no? As my Ma would say, “Quitcher bitchin' and get to work!” Good idea!

So, this past Saturday was one of those "special" Saturdays that get celebrated in their "special" way here on Nebraska Avenue, 33602, or 33605. Why is it special? Because, it's the first Saturday after “payday” for the folks who rely on Social Security. I'm one of them, but I paid my bills and rent and all of that, bought some food and then remembered I had to go to the Family Dollar Store, not 2 blocks from me. Now, lots o' folks around here act like it's the weekend every damned day, but Saturday after “payday” is especially wild and crazy. When I lived at the homeless shelter, we could look forward to one or four good fist-fights and a stabbing. I always enjoyed the knife-fights; scheduled and non-scheduled. There's so much more at stake. So, having lived in this environment pretty much sharpens up your senses for, if not danger, at least a good hissy fit, and this is what I thought was about to happen on Saturday evening, as I stood in line to pay for my cat food and some diet soda for JC, who is getting better, but isn't ready to go skipping down to the corner, just yet.

The thing that makes me sad about this is that we worked hard to get this store put in, in this area. In less than six months, the miasma of apathy has set in; there are not enough clerks to keep the shelves stocked and tidy; merchandise is scattered all over and bags of chips and candy are ripped open and half-eaten. This store cannot keep enough clerks working because of the area it's in, and the one "District Manager" didn't know what she was doing, so the problem remained unfixed. Unlike most of the stores, the carts are not "locked" to the premises, so they're already all over the neighborhood, serving as some bag-lady's or bag-man's cart to keep her/his crap in. What will make it really untenable is if one of the clerks is hurt or killed on the job; there's no job worth that and they already take enough abuse as it is. This is the "recovery" our stupid Governor talks about; we don't have 700,000 jobs that have been created in Florida. We have 700,000 new wage-slaves. 

As I'm trying to put my stuff up on the check out counter, this guy, in dirty bermuda shorts, a crummy-looking striped shirt, unshaven, 3 teeth in front and smelling like a distillery, is trying to give the clerk who is waiting on me, a bag with. . . something in it. I can't tell, but the guy is already pissing me off; he's rude and obnoxious. The clerk tells him to hang on, while she gets the Manager, a young black fellow named James. She calls him and he says he'll be right there. Drunk guy swings her bag carousel around, and she asks him to politely not do that, as it messes up her setup. James arrives just as he does it a second time, and takes the guy aside.

I'm trying to pay for my stuff and keep one “eye” on this dude, in the sense of being hyper-aware of him. The clerk and James are the only two people working this store and this guy outweighs both of them. Just because I have a cane and limited vision, does not mean I will not step in if necessary. Six weeks ago, I stood off two muggers at the same time; when they realized I would fight and fight hard, they backed off and left; I wasn't worth the two bucks or whatever. Never, never be an easy mark. Always stare 'em down; even if you can't see 'em. I also have that “rep”, y'know? The crazy one, that makes people wonder just how far I will go in a situation. Word is, I'll go far enough to ruin your day, if not your week, month and year. So, anyway, the conversation between James and the drunk becomes heated. I had paid for my stuff and put it in my backpack.

Another black guy stepped in, but James told him to back off, and sure enough, the drunk guy then started hollering about “black on white” crime. I pulled out my phone and called 911 and reported “drunk and disorderly” at the Family Dollar, blah blah. The clerk still had customers and there was another drunk lady in the store; not of and by itself a problem, but she's egging her drunk boyfriend(?) on. The drunk guy grabbed the bag out of James' hand and takes off out of the store, with James hot after him. I left the store, in time to see the drunk charge at James, in the parking lot and take the bag back (it could have been Tootsie Rolls for all I know), so James chased him down again, and grabbed the bag. 

This time the guy ran at James and tried to hit him and I ran at him, yelling “Leave him alone! I've called the police!” He called me a whore, which, Big Whoop; if you're a woman walking on Nebraska, chances are good you're a lady of the evening, or at least will be called one. I had my stick up and ready to hit him if he struck first, but he backed off from me and went after James again. It became this weird, hellish 3-way tag, as I hit redial and told the TPD dispatch that their “drunk and disorderly” had just become an attempted robbery and attempted assault. James and I darted back and forth to keep this guy from hitting either of us, and he finally lost his adrenaline burst or his nerve and left the area. What a way to have to earn your living!

James and I made sure we were both okay and I went on my way. Drunk dude went off up another street; I'm sure he got himself into some trouble before the night was over. After I left there, I had to go another store close by to buy milk. It was Saturday night alright. Some other, happy drunk said, “Hey, miss, two dollars to be your seeing-eye thingy! Hell, you're so purty, I'll walk ya for free!” I just laughed and said, “I got it, but thanks for the kind offer!” This neighborhood is like no other. I know everyone who lives around me and we watch out for one another. Probably one-third of us on my street were in the homeless shelter, so there's a real bond there. It's a fraternity like no other.

So, after I got home and ate, we found some boxing to look at. I love me some goddamned boxing! Love, love, love, love it! JC is just as crazy over it. We happened to pick up a couple of matches that aired on ShoTime a while back, but we hadn't seen them. Just for grins, I took notes, instead of trying to Tweet, because it wasn't live and frankly, when I Tweet live matches, all the igmos crawl out of the woodwork and they infuriate me. So, these here are my notes:

courtesy: Notifight.com

This was the best picture I could find of the two; Perez on the right is "soft" looking; his muscles are not as clearly defined as Sosa's, nor is his overall condition as sharp. Where you can see Sosa's clearly defined abs, you cannot on Perez. I may be over-reaching here, but Perez also does not look confident about his up-coming match.

The first fight was in the Welterweight division, Sosa v. Perez and I can't remember their first names, nor did I write them down. These two have actually fought one another as amateurs. Color me shocked! Perez looked really soft, as if he hadn't trained. It was his first professional fight, but still, I did not see one meaningful punch thrown in the entire bout. I've never witnessed so much butt-clinching either, by Perez (or any other fighter, I honestly didn't know that was a defensive move) and it was pissing Sosa off by the end of the bout. The thing I didn't understand about that fight, was the fact that the judges actually gave some of the rounds to Perez, leading me to wonder what fight they were watching, or maybe I was listening to one fight and seeing another, but I doubt it, since they kept yapping about Perez and Sosa, and those were the names on the fighters' trunks. Awful fight.

courtesy: pound4pound.com

McJoe is a terrific counter-puncher and here we see him beat Quihano to the punch. McJoe had been working the body pretty much through the whole match which slowed Quihano down some; a must when you're fighting in a division based more on speed, than on power! A fun fight to watch, even if Dabo's trunks ended up sideways on his ass; at least I didn't have to watch 8 rounds of butt-hugging!

The next fight was in the flyweight division and it has been ages since I saw flyweights fight. The most important thing to remember about them is that everything is sped up; it's like watching two gnats or two hummingbirds throw tiny fists at one another for a few rounds. Eventually, you get used to the rhythm, but not having seen them fight for awhile, it was a bit of a shock to remember how truly fast these guys are. Another thing, there aren't a lot of knockouts in the flyweight division; they typically go the distance because they aren't known for their power so much as their speed. There are exceptions to every rule, however, and boxing LOVES, LOVES, LOVES to break those kinds of rules.

courtesy: pound4pound.com

Here, Arroyo catches Quihano with his guard down. Many boxing matches are a lesson in watching boxers practice patience, as they look for that one split-second chance to get to through their opponent's defenses. It can make for some really boring boxing, and becomes more of a chess match. Of course, everyone is hoping that the two combatants will engage in all-out war, but it doesn't always work out that way. I'd wager it takes patience, fortitude, stamina and hella smarts to become a decent boxing fan.

This fight featured David Quihano v. McJoe Arroyo; Quihano has had seven knockouts, which surprised me; this was supposed to be a kind of come-back fight for him, but the only really noteworthy thing I got of this entire fight was his trunks being on kind of sideways, so that his knick-name “DABO” was somewhere to the left of his ass-crack, or was it the right? I don't remember. I guess this is why I won't be replacing Bert Sugar anytime soon as a great boxing writer, although it is fun to write about it in this capacity. I did have to remind JC to watch the fighter's feet. Quihano was becoming flat-footed and losing energy; I knew he was tiring, long before JC did. But JC can always tell the closer bouts than I can. Anyway, Arroyo won the fight, and Quihano will have to try again.

courtesy: bbc.co.uk

Prince Naseem on an honest-to-God flying carpet, making his "ring walk" prior to his bout with Marco Antonio Barrera, Certified Public Accountant, and oh, yeah, boxer.

After the fights, I regaled JC with the story of Marco Antonio Barrerra's and Prince Naseem Hamed's fight and how hilarious the Prince was, coming into the ring on a flying carpet, all pimped out and shit. Marco Antonio Barrerra is a CPA in his day job in Mexico City and acted like one on his ring walks, as well. No high-falutin' shenanigans for him. I just remember the look on Marco Antonio's face when the Prince drifted by on his flying carpet; it was a “I can't believe this shit; and I'm in BOXING for fuck's sake!” look, and then he went on to tear the Prince apart in a fight that went to the scorecards. As a contrast and comparison of just plain hard work and non-stupid entrances, versus one of the hammiest and self-aggrandizing displays of all time, that showed us nothing, this one was a doozy. It is also a metaphor for the entire sport itself and why boxing has so endeared itself to me. 

courtesy: eastsideboxing.com

This is as fancy as it ever got with Barrera. Retired now, and probably still running the family accounting business in Mexico City. Although he's got his game face on here, he's of a sunny disposition and "just a guy". But, not really; he's a boxer.

I've been fixing computers around the neighborhood for some of my pals, and I was going to tell you about the tesch.b virus and f5f5dc.com exploit, but that got so complex, it will wait for my next post. I will just say this; if you are running Windows, Adobe Reader (any flavor) and have JAVA you are at risk, and this time, the host server is in St. Petersburg, Russia, and the virus causes your browser to inquire for open sessions repeatedly. You end up with svchost.dll32 files coming out of your ass and your computer will be unusable, because it will be so slow. It's a horrible exploit, but I'll run ya through the fix next time!

#ROW80 CHECK IN - THE TRUE HELL OF MEDICARE AND SUPPLEMENTAL INSURANCE IN THE UNITED STATES

WARNING: SEVERELY SALTY LANGUAGE AHEAD

I know I have been mostly absent from this round of #ROW80. JC has had heart chronic trouble, now leaning into the acute and I suspect that the Medical-Industrial Complex in this here United States does not give one good Goddamn about that fact. The man is 67 years old and is not in the best of health. What he HAS done is owned a business and paid taxes for 40 years and he is entitled to Medicare and a Supplemental Insurance plan that cares for him and will not put every fucking roadblock in our paths when it comes to getting him treated.

In December, he was admitted to Tampa General Hospital for pneumonia. It was scary for me; it always is. He's gone and I'm by myself and it's just weird. When he's home, he's a rather quiet, and benign presence, watching TV, or sitting on our front porch, or spending time with Alex. He overeats, at times, but who doesn't? He's diabetic and I get on him when he eats too many treats, but the man deserves some pleasures in life. We spend time talking and laughing and take walks when he's up to it. The point is, he's a human being and he deserves to be treated as such, with all the dignity and compassion one would treat a person, no matter what the age or condition of his health.

When he was in TGH for pneumonia, we were both sick with something that was not the flu; I kicked it, which was odd, because I had COPD, which I manage diligently, but I am 58 and in good shape. I quit smoking at age 54; I was sick with congestive heart failure, and malnutrition and could not walk. After another blood transfusion of 6 pints, in 2010 (I had one in 2004) and being told I would not walk again (I was either going to walk, or take myself out, and when someone tells me i am NOT going to do something, I prove them wrong) I re-learned how to walk and walk quite well. I manage my COPD very well too, and thus was able to kick this lung infection on my own, but JC's lungs are weak because of his heart.

By the time I got him into the hospital, which took two days of Alex and I pleading and nagging, his kidneys were starting to fail, which told me that he was starting to die. It is so frightening to hear that, but it was so hard to get him to go; men can be so stubborn. He was there about 2 days; they ran intravenous antibiotics and sent him home with a 10-day supply of a sulfa-based drug. He was supposed to have a follow-up x-ray for the pneumonia, but the supplemental insurance company denied that. We plowed on.

JC, a wonderful, funny, caring human being; not to be tossed aside like garbage and certainly worth more than 511.00 a month! When did we start putting a dollar value on lives?

JC seemed to be getting a little better, but was complaining about nausea and stomach pains. He mentioned this to his Primacy Care Physician (PCP) who kept changing his stomach medicine and his blood pressure medicine, which was making him feel sick. He was going through nausea and dizziness, but with all the medicine the doctors have prescribed for him, it's hard to tell what is a real symptom and what is being brought on by the medication. I have a PCP whose overall goal (and mine) is to lessen the number and dosages of medicines I am on, and I haven't felt better in decades. I should mention at this juncture, that JC and I both have the same supplemental insurance company.

Anyway, on February 24th, JC had an appointment with a Gastroenterologist, who after taking his vitals, said, "I'm not going to run any endoscopies on you until you get a clearance from you PCP. I don't think you're heart is up for this." When JC called me to tell me this, I naturally hit the roof, and told him, "You need to go to the ER, RIGHT NOW!" Of course, he didn't and he came on home. I enlisted Alex's help and we got him into the hospital the following day. The cardiologists ran some tests and found that he needed a catheterization, which they can run through the wrist now. However, the blockage and a previous stent were so calcified, that they were unable to bust their way through, so we were left the medicinal option, to start, before attempting a bypass. 

All well and good, up to this point and I understand these things; I worked in a Teaching Hospital for several years. It may be more apt to say, "I asked a lot of questions in a Teaching Hospital for several years," because while I was supposed to be working, I was actually busy learning, because all of that shit's fascinating, and those doctors (from the Latin docere, "to teach, instruct, or point out.") were eager to answer my questions, even if I wasn't a Medical Student! I learned a lot, and not just about the body and the body's systems, but about various treatments of diseases and conditions and what avenues are taken before the surgeons step in. But, I digress.

The medicinal option, since the stent one didn't work, includes a  protocol of channel blocker medicines and a blood-pressure medication and one medication that we have moved heaven and earth to get approved for JC, and have been blocked every step of the way. Since he has been home from the hospital, I have spoken to Medicare, his supplemental insurance plan innumerable times. I have talked to the hospital, innumerable times. When I went there for my own infected eye, I talked to them. We are unable to get this one drug. I have done research on it, and it is VITAL to his treatment and preventing a much, much more expensive and dangerous, heart bypass. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THE HEALTH CARE SYSTEM IN THIS COUNTRY????

The facts are these: Here are the 3 drugs he is currently taking to treat the blockage in his heart:

Plavix,  used to inhibit blood clots in coronary artery disease. 

Imdur, used to prevent angina pectoris cause by coronary artery disease.
 

Amlodipine is a long-acting calcium channel-blocker used to lower blood pressure and to treat anginal chest pain. Like other channel-blockers, it does so by relaxing arterial smooth muscles, which decreases total peripheral resistance and therefore reduces blood pressure.[1]

The last drug that we are completely unable to make any headway with through any agency, be it insurance, doctor, hospital, or Medicare, has a website that OFFERS financial assistance for payment for the drug. 

Ranexa, or Ranolazine

The drug is to be used in CONJUNCTION with his amlodipine and offers the best chance of breaking open the current blockage in his heart, with the EXCEPTION of a heart bypass and is a fuck-ton bunch of money less expensive than a heart bypass! Let me repeat that, a FUCK-TON! Although the drug is a whopping 511.00 a month for 60 500mg pills, that is far, far cheaper than the cost of a one, two, three, four, or five-bypass surgery of the heart!

What in the name of Blue Jesus are the Insurance Companies thinking? Apparently, not much at all, because these are the same Goddamned wizards who told me, AFTER a "Pharmaceutical consultation" that I was taking topamax for seizures, when I distinctly told them I took it for bipolar. I DO NOT have seizures, although now may be a good time to start. Un-fucking-believable! 

They have not only denied JC's appeal for his Ranexa, they have sent along a not-so-helpful "What To Do" letter. Take a look at the following:

Even with my less than artful assistance, you should be able to tell that the supplemental insurance company has provided the 3rd party name of the Arbitrator, the street address, P. O. Box, but no City, State nor Zip Code. I suppose I could do a reverse-search and am quite skilled at doing so, as I am in the business of practicing the dark art of finding things and people who wish to remain hidden, but really, Insurance-Company-Medical-Industrial-Pharmaceutical Complex? Do I have to do your fucking job for you? Or should I just go ahead and launch a cyber-attack on you and fuck up your systems? That is also within the realm of the possible. I am capable of many things and my patience is being pushed to the limit. 

You all, on the other hand, seem to be practicing the fine art of obfuscation, pass-the-hot potato, it's-not-my-job, I'll-get-back-to-you-in-a-day, oh-it's-the-heart, of course! it's important! and then NEVER being heard from again. Alex and I, JC and I, and I, myself have spent countless hours on the phone, running to TGH trying to get the ONE Goddamned drug Ranexa (that works with the other 3 drugs COMBINED) approved so that JC can see a cardiologist in ANOTHER county, because? Because, our Supplemental-fucking-Insurance DOESN'T have a cardiologist in our Network in THIS fucking county! Unreal! This is goddamned Florida, where the median age is 187!

I am on the young age of the scale here in Florida and yet, our supplemental insurance plan doesn't have one measly cardiologist in Hillsborough County! JC has to go to Hernando County to see a Cardiologist on the Fourth of April, who will tell him "Sorry, I can't do anything for you, because you're not taking Renaxa!" How fucked up is this?

I cannot tell you how freaking, goddamned livid I am over this! It was bad enough when I had to wait two years for Medicare to kick in, AFTER I was declared fully disabled, and Florida Medicaid is next to useless, because, I had to incur 960.00 in medical bills EVERY month, before Medicaid would pay a dime. I was only getting 1160.00 a month; what was I supposed to live on? 

I am NOT going to game an already broken system, so I suffered with Parkinsonism, and COPD, doing the best I could with a very shrewd PCP and a great psychiatrist. I had assholes for neurologists who did more to get me Baker-Acted (yeah, you, A. C. Gipson) then they helped and when I found one that helped, I hung on to her like gold. Dr. Deborah Burke is the primary reason, I am able to do everything I could prior to my overt e.t. onset. That system is already fucked up beyond repair, so why make it worse?

When I got my Medicare, I faced a different set of challenges, because I am NOT 65, but they are workable and my goal has been to get healthy and stay there, primarily for myself, but because this system is so goddamned horrible! JC should lack for nothing and the fact that he worked for over forty years and paid his taxes should mean something! When people get old and sick, it's not time to throw them out into the garbage. I feel like yelling "Attention Must Be Paid!" This is unconscionable and people should notice this and care, because it's not just JC.

It's not just JC, or me. It will happen to anyone who gets caught up in this system. I was not always homeless. I had a home and a husband. I left the husband to preserve my health. With the paltry divorce settlement, I tried to buy another house; it was a rent-to-own and the owners went bankrupt. I lost 30k and spent two years trying to save the house. The bank took it. I worked from a house I rented, as I could no longer drive. I ended up homeless, sick and in a shelter, after 2 months hospitalization. I received my SSDI after a record 5 months, which is practically unheard of. 

The point I am trying to make is this; this is not a rarity. This is not unusual. This can happen to anybody. Everyone is abled at some point in their lives; for some, the dis- part just comes a bit quicker. What is so wrong about this is the non-action and the corruption within the system. I am appalled at what we have experienced with this. JC has recently gotten hearing aids at 3,000.00 a pop. No fuss, no muss. These are not necessary to maintain his life; his quality of life, yes. I will grant you that, but being deaf will not kill him, since he's not out killing bison for the family dinner. 

Lack of heart medicine will kill him, or you, or your father, or mother, or me. This is ridiculous. To have to go through this kind of run-around for ANY drug is stupid. But I think I may have found a way to shorten the red-tape. While running around and looking for the symptoms and treatments of chronic angina, I ran across this site and called these people at Ranexa.com. I spoke with David and explained what we all had gone through to me again. Since we had already done it, we're at the part, where we just fill out the forms, the doctor signs and faxes them back to the Pharmaceutical company.

Believe it or not, you do have to go through ALL of the Appeals and Denials, up to the final part, where you write the appeal to the address (non-address?) above. He assured me that if I get the forms filled out and signed by JC's primary and faxed to him, they will pick up the cost of the drug, and JC will have an out-of-pocket cost of 5.00 per month. Which I will do, stat. As encouraging and so much better as it made me feel (I was in tears) it was also disheartening because my own doctor, in another network, has been doing this for me for over 2 years. I will get this done for JC and get him transferred over to my network; it should be noted that over this whole ordeal, his primary doctor just up and left him, with no word that she was leaving. 

IF you ever have a situation come up like this, I urge you to go firstly, to the drug manufacturer's website and see if they do not have a coupon. In some cases, you can print out a coupon to be used with prescription, until a required authorization is given. If anyone has any questions, or thinks I can be of any guidance, don't hesitate to contact me. I've learned a little bit swinging around on these ropes! Good luck! 

UPDATE:  JC's PCP approved his medication, Ranexa on 3/27/2014, a full month after his discharge from TGH. This should never have been an issue to begin with, because my PCP, Dr. Satya Kurakula, routinely signs off on my pre-authorizations for my COPD medications, as does my psychiatrist. This indicates to me that, of course, his PCP does not care, so after JC sees his cardiologist, who is in Hernando County on the 4th of April, we will be entertaining the idea of transferring him to a new PCP, preferably to my PCP! For everyone who responded on Facebook, I thank you for your kind wishes, love and support. JC stood by me when I had to wait for two years for my Medicare to kick in and for my diagnosis for parkinsonism and during my "celebration" of Mental Awareness Month in March of 2012, which was, um. . . rather interesting! But then, that is what unconditional love is. . . I'm just glad it worked out and I didn't have to go and take any doctors hostage, or have the screaming-meemies and have poor JC have to call the TPD and Fire Rescue. He's got enough on his plate right now.

#ROW80 WEDNESDAY CHECK IN – LIVE! BLOGGING FROM MY HEAD

The title says it all. In a desperate attempt to come up with some kind of topic, and since my WIP is pretty much lying doggo at the bottom of a lake, for the time being, until I can get past some of whatever the hell is going on in my life, I'm taking the lazy way out.

Yup, just record all the random shit that pops into my head, as so many bloggers do from Fashion Week, the Super Bowl, the Curiosity landing on Mars, and my favorite, the GOP convention. The convention graced us with its presence here in Tampa, last summer, and had the gall and hypocrisy to troll up and down in their stretch limos on Nebraska Avenue, looking for not constituents, but the hos and the crack, while trumpeting and fum-fawing about “family values” and all of their other platform-type argle-bargle. Those limos looked like a Hollywood Premiere, or maybe Prom Night; same diff. It was also typical of the GOP to blame the lack of enthusiasm and the ultimate loss of Mitt Romney to Tropical Storm Debbie. Then, they blamed the Republican Governor Chris Christie of New Jersey for not showing up at some rally or another, because he stayed at home to help his state after Hurricane Sandy. Sheesh.

We need to do away with these bastards on the grounds of sheer hideousness, never mind their space-ship politics, although they have some seriously warped ideas about everything and no rational arguments.

I sat here in my little room and “pretended” to live-blog, but not nearly as well, nor as hysterically funny as Chuck Wendig's #fakedebate, which was a true howl. But, the best thing I got out of that whole craziness with the GOP cluttering up Tampa, was connecting with Jason Linkins who writes political analysis for Huffington Post. Turns out he was in town, in Ybor City, enjoying a pizza and tweeted about it. I saw it and tweeted back. He ACTUALLY responded! I've been a fan of his writing and analysis for a long time. He's funny, and oh, so bright and can make really dense issues clear. Rock on, Jason!


Trying to figure out our own HARTline bus schedule was a nightmare. Plus, there were so many trucks with bullhorns hollering “VOTE FOR ROMNEY,” it reminded me of the old-timey campaigning on the hustings, when LBJ would race around Texas and drum up votes. These guys just competed with the boom boxes, making everything unintelligible and louder. But, I digress.


Blogging In My Head


11:30 pm: Uninstall and re-install HP software for the 85th time. While doing so, stumble across all the shit Uninstall left behind. Boot into Safe Mode and zap all the HP shit. Whilst doing so, discover that all the PATH statements still have that goddamned JAVA . Delete from strings and save. Reboot and pray. Yay! It worked; still have the touch!

Startin' to hate these guys, too. Perfect install, eleventy-billion times. This white elephant scans, but won't save, so I save it as a screen-shot and it's great. And don't talk to me about the Martians at Customer Support.

12:00 am: Scan “Mel Bay's Ukelele Chord Book. Gag gift, trying to find Asleep At The Wheel “Ida Red.”

Mel Bay has a book for every single instrument ever made; zithers, balalaikas and probably krumhorns and bagpipes. Here's a joke. Q: Why do bagpipers walk when they play? A: To get away from the sound. My dad's rolling around in his urn in the 8th Air Force Cemetery, right now.

12:30 am: Still looking for that stupid song, the gag won't work without the song. $%$^(#


12:32 am: Starting to feel crappy. Test sugar.. HOLY SCREAMING SHIT!!! 335 WTF???


12:33 am: Make a sandwich; eat sandwich. Why in the hell are those birds cheeping on Hulu+ oh, it's the Cheep-Cheep commercial. Some shit about insurance? Who knows. At least it's not those fucking bears.


12:40 am: JC pops up. Blink, blink. He fumbles for his shoes. “You okay?” I ask. “Yea, gotta pee.” I say, “my sugar was 335!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAARRRRRGGGHHHH!! But I ate a sandwich” JC, not being quite awake, says, “That's nice.” He trundles off to pee.


2:00 am: Binge-watching the 4th season of the “Good Wife” on Hulu+ I feel like a bat, up all night and then sleep until 3 or 4 pm. Ick. I always think of my stand partner “Somnambula.” This was when I was a touring musician and spent 9 or 10 months of the year on the road. When I first met “Somnambula,” we were playing in an orchestra that was like the “101 Strings,” or the “Cascading Strings,” or as we called it, the “Castrating Strings.”


We played all that schlocky kind of music, light opera, operetta, or crap like the “Yellow Rose of Texas” where we had a 100-voice choir that shouted it's way through these masterpieces. Anyway, we were playing some idiot waltz, and damned if “Somnambula” didn't just fall asleep in the middle of an oom-pah-pah measure (violas were the pah-pahs; if anyone EVER practiced this crap, they needed to go back to remedial viola school. One of my roommates, another violist, told me about a violist on another tour who DID practice that shit. She and I were like OOOOOH NOOOOO!) Beethoven you practice. You sight-read this crap.


Anyway, “Somnambula's” switch went to “off” and stayed there for about 16 measures. I could see him out of the corner of my eye and he looked like a still life. Then, his switch went to “on,” and damned if he didn't come right in where he was supposed to. I got used to it. Every viola player I have ever known has had a screw loose somewhere, including me. “Somnambula” would be all bright-eyes and wide awake at 4 am, but during the day? Forget it. Once, he didn't make the bus call, and the bus captain went back into the hotel to look for him. My dear, belated friend Spencer said “He's probably hanging by his toes in a closet somewhere.” I still laugh.


4:10 am: I have a “practice studio” kind of set up in the back of the apartment. My preference would be in the living room, but JC has his computer and TV there. This will work, I can open the back door and watch the birds and possums and raccoons. Not so much tedium awaits, it's building stamina and running patterns. Ugh.


4:22 am: Pick out JC's clothes for tomorrow (today, really) and set out copies of his medical release, so he can go back to school. Living a riveting life, but I like to do things for him.


4:25 am: Pondering on how to mess with the NSA some more. New trick. You have to have 2 cell phones, but one has to be a throwaway prepaid. Call that one, leaving it open and hide it somewhere: dumpster, trash can, close or far in your city. Talk on your phone, using lots of cryptic numbers, and phrases. Parts of adverts and catalogues are perfect for this. Do this enough times, someone will show up at your door. Let them know you've been receiving coded messages on your dental fillings. It really helps if you have a couple of your windows covered over with tin foil, as I do, because of the heat factor, but this will work just as well.


5:02 am: When did advertisers decide that “idiot music” was the norm? Da-de-da-de-da-de clapclap Da-de-da-de-da-de clapclap (repeat 87 times in the key of Happy) It sucks so bad; it's worse than Mozart. Well, maybe not. Even I can write better music than that and I stink on ice. “A Prius for Everyone,” is the flamingest worst. It sounds like music composed by a bastardized Atari and a Mattel Jack-in-the-Box.




5:03 am – 3:00 pm Sleep and badly. Sugar still a pain in the ass. Fasting sugar is 158. WTF? Still, I have a dr appointment scheduled and blood work to be done. Getting old isn't for weenuses.


3:00 pm to 6:00 pm: Hunt for stupid reference in one of the “Asleep at the Wheel” tunes on YouTube, where during a vamp, 2 of the fabulous guitarists throw around this deathless badinage; Guitar player 1: “Look, Mel Bay has a book on Learning to play the Guitar in 3 days!” Guitar player 2: “Let's buy it!” All gleefully said, as they hammer through some of the finest Texas Swing and I can't find this GODDAMNED SONG. I have Mel's Uke book and even his Balalaika book, but I'll be damned if I can find this stupid song! Without the book, my very carefully scanned and arty(!?) cover will have no meaning, kinda like my life, right now. Just kidding.


7:00 pm – 9:00 pm: Oh boy, chili dogs and “World's Dumbest ________ .” This show is guaranteed to run forever, because there is no shortage of stupid in this world. And even when you can see the outcome from 2000 miles away, they go right ahead and do it anyway. Some commit serial stupidities; 3 or 4 times. Unreal.


9:00 pm – 11:00pm: Trying to kill the Boss in “Death of Chivalry” quest. Here comes the fail-boat, toot-toot! After I die for the 3rd time, I say “the hell with it,” and decide to watch season 4 of “The Good Wife,” on Hulu + for awhile.


09/19/2013


2:00 am: Off to bed; JC is going to have surgery on his wrist tomorrow and I am going with him. I know he's scared; he has a low threshold to pain and it is worrying him. So, I'm going to keep him company and distracted, because I do love him so.

P. S. I finally got the dr. authorization for my Cymbalta, today. 7 weeks. Unreal.

#ROW80 1ST QTR WEDNESDAY CHECK IN - POST 22 – WE ARE NOT ALWAYS AS ADVERTISED

Goals, schmoals once again. My goals are this: Type one damn word without extra letters or some kinda goddamned type. Let’s not have a killing rage at idiots. Non-tangible, but right now, that’ll do! Oh yeah, and not sleeping 45 hours a day would work too; not one blue-eyed thing is getting done. Surprised I pooped this out, to quote Andi-Roo, courtesy of the world4realz.com.

I have had a good run, mood-wise lately. I’ve refrained from street-brawls and was never one to start a bitch-kitty of a fight. I generally let fights come to me. No less than the Military Strategist Von Clausewitz and Bruce Lee advise that strategy. That almost changed yesterday and the target was someone who did not help her cause.

I Wonder if he takes Medicare...

Two days ago, I received a call from my primary health clinic, telling him I could get my full spectrum of tests there at 11:30. I asked them 3 times, if I could come to their clinic, rather than busing all over the city. This is really hell for someone who has PD or non-pd and is legally blind to boot. The trip involves transfers and the weather has been cold, damp and nasty. My PD symptoms are still not good and I am still on edge. I am fine with my usual buddies, but not strangers (not that I ever am.)

This is a tip of the ice berg as to how I REALLY felt; bitches called ME. Next time leave me the fuck alone, or find your ass before calling, m'kay.

So, upon receiving this call from the Clinic, with my newly acquired Medicare, I asked these assholes on the phone, 3 times, if I would be able to come to them, rather then going to Quest. I was assured that I would. I set my alarm, thereby cutting off my much-needed sleep for my PD or non-Pd, and got up hella early and made it to the Clinic in plenty of time. Lo and  behold, if I wasn’t told that I would have to go to Quest anyway, because my Clinic does NOT accept my supplemental health insurance, yet these Bozos are my primary care physicians. I still have to set up my mammo and bone density on the same day at the hospital, not a biggie; they have the orders.

I am pissed beyond belief. I did fire grapeshot across the bow and reminded the front office that they called ME. I am postponing my doc’s appointment, because, bitch am I. The stupid girl helpfully pointed out the 2 different last names and said it would be a problem, in  an attempt to... make my day better? I rather unhelpfully and in a fairly hostile manner pointed out that “I knew all that and didn’t want to go there, and if she read further, she would see identical SSN#s. I am a hyphenate, but as I choose to use “Wallace” and Medicare chooses to use “Nunnally” there have been no problems. Then, I said, “Been there, and stop, please stop. You are one sentence from a swift beheading." She shut her piehole. NEVER try to patronize me, or tell me something I so patently know.

My mood helps not one whit. Calls are in process. I am not your average “person in the system.” I am not without resources. I am unfailingly kind. I have 3 rules that are sacrosanct. 1) Don't ever let me catch you hurting someone in any way, who is defenseless. You will get hurt. 2) DO NOT ever, tell me one thing and do a switcheroo upon my arrival. You had better have your shit together, and you had better be prepared to tell me the truth. It’s always dangerous for me out in the world. I don’t appreciate that treatment and other then seeing someone bullied, this is the most likely scenario to see someone who will have to go to the Laughing Academy in restraints, and carnage in my wake. And please, Dear God, don’t talk down to me and tell me shit I know. I’m smarter than you. There’s shit you don’t know, but I do. Rule 3 is stupid, but even at my advanced age it happens. Do not attempt to approach me and try to "pick me up." I will humiliate you, and do it loudly. I would never do that to you and just because I am a woman, this does not give you the right to act like a man in heat. I have a rapier with and you are easy prey. Trust me. Leave me the hell alone.

http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Spot

Unfortunately, I possess overtones of both. Throw in a little Spock; my parents had no idea what they created.

I can’t replace my ID now, because my certified birth certificate is in Michigan. My Florida DL is expired. My parents were not born here. There is a chance I will be deported. I know all this. As long as I exist as Wallace-Nunnally, or Wallace or Nunnally, I will be left alone. Enuf said. Tomorrow, I go to Quest Diagnostics, and all-day trip, with my voter’s registration card (it is too funny) some kind of bill with my name on it, as my "ID" and voilá! Blood work done. That will do. I have other chores to do as well. Would that my tremors in my center being would cease, that my heart rate would go down. The latest manifestation is typing the same letter many times, and staggering. This is just great for blind people.

Some great-geat-great- ancestor or 'nother. My dad used to bore me about him with our story. I've got a bunch or our stuff, replete with rust 'n' plaid. But do I wanna live in Glasgow? Plus, I didn't know old Sir William looked like Mel Gibson.

Terrific here in this neighborhood. On a cheap drunk? On Nebraska, 33602 and 33605. Who'da thunk it?

#ROW80 WEDNESDAY CHECK IN – FRIENDSHIP

Wha? I been looking all over for this file?

I am such a squirrel. I found some posts tucked away in a WINDOWS system folder. For those playing along at home, I don’t use any of my system folders normally. And so forth. Anyway, during some of my derangement, I must have thought that was a swell place to hide things or something, so I found some pretty hilarious posts there. I’m actually rather peeved that I had not put them where they should have been all along. Who knows what treasures will be found, hmm?

Anyway, I am glad I found these posts; they will be part of a book I hope to publish as an e-book later this year, as I have enough material to do so, but today I wanted to reflect on something that has a rather broad meaning and really, I don’t think we can ever say enough about it. I’m talking about ‘friendship.’

When we make a friend, or establish a friend, or a friendship, we do so at so many different levels and I believe that there are times in all of our lives, when our definition of the word ‘friend’ may change, it may broaden, and take on a deeper meaning, as we grow and experience new things, meet new people and learn more. Conversely, as we discern and gain a broader understanding of situations, we also are able to put ourselves in other peoples’ places and see things through their eyes.

There, there... I sorry you haz no fur...

We see that they are us! I have friends from all over the world. I once had a woman who played viola and sat next to me in the symphony. She was from Kiev and her name was Rita. She spoke not a word of English, well, a ‘Yes’ and my Russian was ‘Nyet’ for a while; we drew strange hieroglyphs in our music margins and laughed a lot.

 We're playing backwards... A hee hee! I know!

But, I visited this page on Facebook, called Muslims for America a while back, I was feeling bad. The Muslims in the United States don’t have the best of publicity. I’m sorry, but this is not true, nor is it fair. Muslims and the Islamic community are great people. Like anybody else, we are talking about the Glittering Generalities. When everybody gets all worked up about it, it’s just plain wrong. I don’t like what the IRA do; plain and simple. I have lived in Dearborn, Michigan, within their rank and file and I know that the families are families. The people are kind, gracious and generous. Steve and his wife, Shira had a deli on Michigan Avenue and Oakwood. Awesome food and wonderful people.

I’ve met some of the people from the FB page and they have been very nice. Ya Rab in particular is just a sweetheart. She is very educated and is Egyptian. She’s answered my gazillion questions and asked me so many as well. The others I’ve met are as curious as she is; today she made me laugh with a video of a very poorly sung but superbly engineered song! I’m ashamed to say her written language is incomprehensible, although beautiful. Ya is a delightful woman and a wonderful friend; a friend for life. She made this for me and I think it is so beautiful and she spent so much time on it. It is my name. In Arabic; I want to share it with you; I am proud of this. It is priceless. From my heart, Sahla, thank you. Inshallah.

ROW 80 WEDNESDAY CHECK IN - "NOT-PD" AWARENESS MONTH

Sometimes, we have to listen to our hearts

Okay, so here we are, day 7 of NaNoWriMo and Day "I Forget" of #ROW80. I have just discovered that today is the 7^th day of “Parkinson’s Awareness” month, which I knew nothing about. Because?

I’ve been having one hell of a writer’s block for NaNoWriMo. I know what I need to say, but it’s so goddamned painful, I can’t get there from here.

I’ve also been busy talking to national desks about All Things Political, here in Florida. Said ‘desks’ will remain unnamed for the time being; it seems someone has paid attention to my rantin’ and reasonin’ and I am going to be talking about it post-event, whatever said ‘event’ may be. Jeeze, now I sound like I have a tin foil hat and am channeling aliens on my fillings. Rest assured, I am not. It has to do with a petition I horked up like a hairball and some First Amendment gobbledy-gook trampling I whined about.

But, mainly, where we are is? I am having problems and maybe this is just my inner cry-baby, AGAIN! Like, when is it not? I hurt, I have pain. Yeah, we all do. I feel stupid and shitty and lower than low even talking about this. I’ve had and am having, really the most fabulous life, in spite of my start in life and is spite of the shit I brought down on my own head. I really can’t complain. So now, here I am, whining. Doesn’t it just drive you mad?

So, let me try and put it in non-whine terms. There’s lots of ow. Odd ow; sharp and bizarre, like a thousand and one little imps with pointy implements all over my body and in my organs. All of them, including eyes, ears, ear canals, brains, throat, gums, anyplace that has nerve endings. ANY place. I cannot emphasize that enough. Go wild with your imagination. And not just pains. Different sensations, too. Cold, hot, electricity. Everything, except? Nothing. There are times I’m NOT aware of some of the sensations, if I’m directed distracted (another thing I do; word substitution) by something else, or misdirected. Along with all of this is just plain numbness or tingling. If I injure myself, as I did when I burnt my hand on the grill, another part of my hand hurt, not the burnt part. Confused, much? So, I’m describing physical sensations, not whining here.

Lumped in with the physical, but a cross-over to the mental, are sensory inputs. My hearing is completely fucked up. I have always had absolute pitch and I trained my pitch memory in school. 35 years making a living in music has provided an ear that is more a pain in the ass than a gift. The worst thing in the world is listening to music that is out of tune; even a little bit. The basses in the open here are sharp and the tempo at the beginning is a bit fast (a minor quibble) and beside the point. I can’t understand certain things said or written.

Either words sound muffled and rushed; indistinct and slurred, or they have no meaning when I read them and I must read them again, sometimes several times to make sense of them. Sometimes I must ask people to repeat themselves, to the point where I’m embarrassed, or feel brain-damaged when they repeat ever… so… slow… ly. Gah!

So, ears, skin, they no work like they did. Check. Howz about time? Aah, yes, the old sense of time. Wait. Wait, wait. Sense of time is not a physical sense. So, sense of touch, check. Sense of hearing, oh yes. Did I mention the jungle that is constant in my head? The hooting and hollering? Check. Reminds me of the time I worked the swing shift at IBM. There were only about 20 of us at the time and we were scattered around this huge room in a cube farm.

One dead Friday night, around 11 o’clockish, someone hooted. Someone else, way on the other side of the room “awk-awk,” “eek-eek’ed” in return. Pretty soon, it sounded like a Tarzan movie set. I was, as I always seemed to be in these things, the one responsible engineer, on a call, trying to explain, to the caller why it sounded as if we were in the midst of a Jack Hanna extravaganza. I never muted these calls. Whoever had to listen to my calls for Quality Assurance deserved it. Anyway, I have all of that without the break-fix. Just the sound effects. They come and go.

All of this writin’ and rememberin’ is my way of sayin’ I’m tired. I’m tired and I’m sick and I cannot concentrate with the flair and fervor that I used to display. What took me 45 minutes to do, is now taking me 2 days and endless re-writes and backing ups and editings. I hate it. I have lost my lightning-in-a-bottle pizzazz when writing. Maybe, I never had it and I’m only fooling myself. I think not; I know myself pretty well. But, I’m beginning to hate writing and that is scaring me. So, for now, I will write as it “strikes” me. I will still follow and cheer on and participate in every other way. Admittedly, it hasn’t been much of late. But it’s because of “this,” whatever “this” is. I will still play around in SDBN (Now With Added Moms,) too. I love this, I just don’t want to start hating it and I want to do quality, not quantity.

I have recently come a bit farther in the whole “family saga and what do I think” thing, and as wonderful as I think my mother was, I think she wasn’t in many ways, if you get my drift. That’s my bale to tote and I’ll deal with it. I am not feeling bipolar-y in the psychotic break sense, just depressed. I’ll get over it. Depression is nothing new for me. I’ve dealt with it since I was 16. As long as I don’t stay up for a month and try to drink the Dawn dish soap, I’m good. I think sometimes, we need these little setbacks.

JC is 65 and we just got through what could have been a major health problem. He’s diabetic and he had an infection that ran “hot.” Within 24 hours, his right leg from just above his knee, down to his ankle was  swollen and infected. We initially thought it was due to our new Perm-a-Kitty scratching him; but no. She was the hero. He had and infection from the colonoscopy he had done at the local Medical School last June. They were a bit “rough.” WTF?!?!? Probably bumped something. When kitty kneaded his knee, extant infection, spread like wildfire. Of course, get the medical community to admit that. I have promised this man, that after all of his crappy, horrible life, he will end it in light and laughter, or I will make him wish he were dead, so I need to keep that promise. He’s doing ever so much better, but of course, I have to think up ways to keep him amused. I love him beyond reason. He’s a wonder

The other thing? I need to get a handle on this “PD or not-PD,” so to that end, I am going to be hangin’ with my PD buddies, and trying to support some of the stuff that’s going on. There are studies and I think if I push hard enough, through folks like Jim Adams and his wife, Penny Adams. They are founders of  P.A.N.D.A,, a new group that helps people with PD and other movement disorders. Israel Robledo, YumaBev, Parkinson’s Humor, Parkinson’s National Awareness Month and countless other groups and studies. Maybe one of these groups will listen to me. God knows I would love to participate in one of these Motor Disorder studies, preferably with a psychological, musical slant. 

I’d be a veritable Petri dish of interesting finds. I’m just tired of fighting ever-increasing symptoms and trying to keep abreast with everyone else, with all that's going on. It may not seem much, but let's face it. I'm getting old and I'm frayed around the edges, and probably in the middle, too, if we're honest. My sugar gets out of control and I have seizures now. Those are new. I won't get Medicare until March of next year. Just got the paperwork and entered the last 4 numbers of my SSN for my DOB. I believe in saving time. I'm a dumbass. Shit, now I have to interact with an actual person.

So, look at it this way; this isn’t goodbye, this is see ya… less. I hate indecisiveness. Asperger Syndrome, along with some type of stupid Spock bullshit; ain’t no cure for me.

P.S. I've just been informed by Penny Adams that this is Alzheimers/Dementia and Diabetes Awareness month; my bad. Still ain't no cure. I'm sure I have one of the 3.