Drunk and On Drugs Happy Funtime

I was perched on my window ledge, over looking Highway 20. I had the 10-96 sticker in my hand, the backing already peeled off. The pole with the traffic signal was about six feet away from my window. Looking now, the top of the signal is about twenty feet high. From my perch, I was looking down at the pole. I figured it to be no problem to jump out, put the sticker on the sign, and land on the roof of the bus. I mean, after drinking a liter of vodka and most of a case of beer, I was feeling like Jackie Fucking Chan. I just had to wait for the bus. The bus stop is right in front of my building, it stops on the quarter of every hour. You've heard of the English pastime of train spotting? Well I bus spot. The bus stops right in front of my building. The bus stops on the quarter of every hour (meaning quarter after the hour, and quarter of the hour). My computer desk is right by the window, so I can't help but to bus-spot.

I'd already tagged most of the block with 10-96 stickers. Some of them, I have no memory or idea how I got them where they are. Like the one on the speed limit sign. That one is up there. But this fucking traffic signal, I see it whenever I look out of the window. It's annoyed me for some time that I haven't been able to tag it. I tried one night, leaning out of window after affixing a sticker to the end of my mop handle with a small piece of duct tape, the backing of the sticker removed, but I couldn't get the sticker to stay on the signal. Maybe the duct tape was stickier than the actual sticker adhesive, maybe I was too drunk. Either way, I couldn't make it happen.

This time, I was determined. I glanced inside at the clock on my wall. It was ten after. Just a few more minutes. I figured if I got the sticker up, people would come over and when they looked out my window, they would ask, "How in the world did you get that sticker on the back of that traffic signal?" and I would just say nothing, feeling cool. That, and my obvious obsessive compulsive desire to tag the entire block with 10-96 stickers. Not to mention I had been pretty depressed lately, my life is a mess and I didn't really care what happened to me. I guess somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I also thought it would be a punk-as-fuck last-great-act if I didn't make it.

"What if the bus doesn't stop?"

"What if I jump too soon and get hit by the bus?"

The bus approached. I heard the air brakes start to slow the bus down. That was a good sign. As soon as the nose of the bus was in front of me, I jumped. It was at that point I realized that I should have wore a pair of shoes. I slipped on the concrete ledge, slick from spray paint over-spray, which was there from an art project I had been working on a few days prior. Instead of going OUT and down in a nice arc, I went straight DOWN. I never even got near the traffic signal pole. I bounced off of the trash receptacle on my left side and slammed into the side of the bus. The look on the faces of the passengers was priceless. I felt one of my ribs crack when I hit the trash can. I landed on the sidewalk with a resounding THUD that I'm sure even Jackie Chan felt, where ever the fuck he was at that precise moment.

I laid there, totally expecting people to rush off of the bus to see if I was okay. To my astonishment, the bus PULLED OFF. I writhed on the sidewalk, holding my side. I found myself crying, not from the physical pain, but from the other kind, the mental pain. Of being sick, of being alone, at the futileness of my ways.

A homeless guy walked by, pushing his make-shift cart full of cans. I screamed "FUCK YOOOUUUUUUU" at him and got up and onto my feet. I saw my 10-96 sticker laying in the street and I stepped out to get it. A car sounded it's horn and I heard the screeching of tires on the pavement. I retrieved the sticker and slapped it on the homeless guy's cart. "LIFE IS A BLINK, MOTHERFUCKER, " I yelled, and ran up the stairs into my building.

I ran into Wendy's apartment, tears streaming down my face. "THAT'S IT, WENDY! TAKE ME IN! I'VE FUCKING HAD IT! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!"

I don't mind digging myself holes, but after awhile, when I can no longer see daylight, I start to get nervous and tend to freak out. Digging holes for myself and climbing out reminds me that I am alive, that I am still human yet part machine. (Yeah, I probably listened to too much Rollins growing up, so what?) I've gone from middle class to living on the streets and back and forth so many times that I can't tell the difference anymore between a bowl of Ramen or a plate of gourmet Pesto.

At this point I went into black-out mode. A liter of cheap vodka, some good weed and 17 beers will do that sometimes. I guess Chris called Rock and Roll John, who grabbed Sarah's car and came over. In the meantime, I smashed a couple of mirrors in my apartment, yelled at my cats and threw a Van Halen record at Wendy's head. John showed up and we all rode over to St. Mary's hospital. I sort of remember the Cat scan. They had to physically restrain me to a body board. They shot me up with some B-1 and Ativan. The tests and x-rays came back: no physical injury aside from a hairline fracture on a rib. And my blood alcohol level was .493. A new personal record.

They chaptered me. Chapter 51-

I am a law enforcement officer and have cause to believe:
The subject is mentally ill, drug dependent, or devolopmentally disabled.
The subject evidences behavior which constitues a substantial probability of physical harm to self or others, as set forth in 51.15 of Wisconsin statues.

My belief is based on specific and recent dangerous acts, attempts, threats or omissions by the subject as observed by me or reliably reported to me as stated below:

Dangerous behavior-
When: 11-3-08
Where: SMMC (St Mary's Medical Center)
Describe Behavior: "On 11-3-08 I responded to SMMC. Upon arrival I spoke with Kenneth. Kenneth stated that he jumped out of a 2nd srory window in attempt to kill himself. Kenneth then uttered the words, "suicide, I want to kill myself." upon this admission, I believe Kenneth should be booked for pysch treatment under chapter 51." (sic)

-Officer J Koepnick 1334


Which I believe to be total bullshit. I mean, if I had really wanted to kill myself, I would have gotten really bloody and gory about it, or at least tried to overdose on some good drugs. But then again, I was still in the midst of a blackout.


The next thing I remember is them wheeling me into a private room at St. Mary's. St. Luke's, where the mental ward is, didn't want me yet, in fear of me detoxing too hard and dying. The nurse I was assigned to was actually pretty cool. She asked me, "You aren't going to give me any shit are you? I am on a double shift and do NOT have any patience for you acting like an asshole. If you behave, I'll give you some ice cream."

I laughed and said I'd rather have a Budweiser. She looked at me like I was going to act like an asshole, with a furled brow and stern look so I quickly added, "No, no, I'll be cool......"

She says, "Okay then. I'm going to give you four milligrams(!) of Ativan and whenever you start feeling shakey let me know and I'll give you another four." She injected the shit into my IV and I instantly felt better. I complained about the location of my IV (right in the crook of my elbow, again!) and she berated the ER nurses for their choice of location of the IV. ("Stupid bitches"). Beacuse of her Rock and Roll Nurse attitude, I decided right then not to cause any trouble. She relocated the IV to my forearm. She ordered me ice cream (it's important to keep the blood-sugar up when hardcore-detoxing) and even asked me whether I wanted Chocolate or Vanilla. She was the coolest nurse ever. She asked, "Wow, she must have been a really nice piece off ass, huh?" I laughed and told her I was a virgin.

As I was on suicide watch, they had to have someone in the room with me at all times. Most of the time (that I was awake anyways) it was this funny old black dude, Charles. We discovered a shared love of Bukowski and told each other bad white/black pussy jokes. I told him that he was in charge of the TV as long as he watched old westerns and/or Clint Eastwood movies. He tried to put a Jackie Chan movie on and I told him to change it.

Since I was behaving so well for a suicidal alcoholic nut job, the nurse even slipped me some Percosets, which is a big no-no for a detoxing alcoholic lying in St. Marys under chapter 51. My rib hurt a lot.

I floated in and out of consciousness for the next three days. They pumped so much Ativan into me I'm sure the manufacturer's stock went up a few points. I finally got to the point where I was well enough to get sent over to St. Luke's mental ward.

Good Morning Vietnam?

Vietnam? WTF? I'm sitting in room 523 at McClaren Hospital. I had my left hip replaced yesterday. Oh, nevermind, I'm just looking at trees on Mott Golf Course an can see a few local hoodrats sauntering up Sunset Drive, the strange reddish glow from the streetlights remind of the light flairs they used in the big battle scene that was at the end of the movie "Platoon..."


Weird dreams indeed from Ketamine, Morphone, Dilaudid and the other opiate-


You know that guy for Geico who's all like "Does using Geico to save money as smart as having an ex-Drill Seargant? for a therapist?" Well, He and the Drill Seargant were tag-teaming Flo from the Progressive commercials hardcore-style in the bathroom of a coffee shop/ desert tourist store that was built to resemble a Tee-Pee, while the gecco from Geico was kocking boots with the Aflac duck a few miles away, in the middle of the section of US-10 from the "Fear And Loathing" movie until Iggy Pop and Henry Rollins ran them over while Henry was receiting his piece "Hey Henriettta," and right where he gets to the part about "Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road? BECAUSE I SHOT HIM!" Iggy cranked the throttle down (they were riding on a Vincent Black Shadow (Henry was riding bitch, and Iggy of course was shirtless)) and they flattened the duck and the gecco went flying and got impaled on a cactus. Iggy deftly yelled back at Henry, "Chickens? FUCK CHICKENS! We can't stop here, this is DUCK COUNTRY!"


Iggy and Henry continued to drive on and stopped at the diner for coffee and the dream turned into the scene from "Coffee and Cigarettes" but with the addition of Henry Rollins. Henry was at the jukebox and laughing at both Tom Waits and Iggy because their songs weren't on the juke box, but "TV Party" was and instead of shouting out the names of TV shows during the bridges, the names of the insurance companies were barked out. Iggy got upset and excused himself to the restroom where he found William S. Burroughs and Jim Carrol were chopping up and fixing the gecco and asked him if he wanted a hit and Iggy told them that that shit had killed Sid Vicious, as he rolled up his sleeve (he was suddenly wearimg a shirt somehow). The drill seargant came out of the stall in which he was banging the Geico insurance guy with a gun an stated that NO ONE WAS TO KNOW that he was queer, and shot them all; the bathroom was the bathroom that they shot Henry Rollins in on "The Sons Of Anarchy."

The Drill Seargent walked out into the dining room, set his gun (a 9mm Glock) on the table in front of Tom and grabbed Henry, threw him against the wall and asked him how tall he was, that he didn't know that they could stack shit that high.

This dream has A+++++ feedback, would watch again......

So it's been awhile since I've graced you all with a new blog. There are a lot of reasons behind that. I could go into them all, but to have to consider them all and then write about them would be akin to tying an anchor around my neck at this point, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like my head is actually above water.

One reason is that I've been spending most of my "Gheyspace Time" over on Facebook. I finally caved in and started an account, with my real name. Found my high school class and joined their group. I hooked back up with many people I haven't talked to in twenty years. And then I found my college crew. And others. It's strange, I assumed I would never talk any of these people ever again, a lot of them were no more than a faded memory. It's great to see so many people doing well, it makes me wonder what's become of the ones that I haven't reconnected with. I take it all with a grain of salt, though, as several of these people wouldn't have given me the time of day back then. Older and wiser, I am, as are they.

I was very happy, though, to find my best friend from high school. I had abandoned our friendship a few years back, for selfish reasons. It made me so happy to find that she is doing well and is happy and even has a few kids.

----

I've also been doing a lot of soul searching regarding this retirement-thing. When you do something for twenty-some-odd years, when your heart and soul were in it, it's hard to decide to walk away, even when it appears to be the logical choice. When my gear got ripped off, though, it was easy to say "Fuck it, I'm DONE." Two years ago, an incident like that would have made me come back and try twice as hard. Now, though, it just made it easier to sell everything else off. It's all gone- The amps, the mics, the pedals, the PA, all of it. The only thing left is my bass and my magic distortion pedal. Even all of the recording gear is gone.

----

I've also been very busy working on the book. I could have been done by now, but I have been working my ass off on it. I am ensuring that it will be the very best thing I can possibly produce. For fun, to cool off from the 'work' aspect of writing, I have been composing short stories to go into my memoirs. Sort of a Fear-And-Loathing approach with those. The book should be ready for press by late summer, by time I get done with yelling at my editor and the proof-readers to CHANGE MY FUCKING COPY BACK TO THE WAY I WROTE IT.


-----

Then there is this sickness in me, and the poison they give me to fight it. I am sitting in the waiting room.

----


I take it day by day. I even have no idea what state I'll be living in two weeks from now.

Selah.

Space Junk

Space crash called "catastrophic," lots of debris

By VLADIMIR ISACHENKOV

story source (AP)

MOSCOW (AP) — The crash of two satellites has generated an estimated tens of thousands of pieces of space junk that could circle Earth and threaten other satellites for the next 10,000 years, space experts said Friday.

One expert called the collision "a catastrophic event" that he hoped would force President Barack Obama's administration to address the long-ignored issue of debris in space.

Russian Mission Control chief Vladimir Solovyov said Tuesday's smashup of a derelict Russian military satellite and a working U.S. Iridium commercial satellite occurred in the busiest part of near-Earth space — some 500 miles (800 kilometers) above Earth.

"800 kilometers is a very popular orbit which is used by Earth-tracking and communications satellites," Solovyov told reporters Friday. "The clouds of debris pose a serious danger to them."

Solovyov said debris from the collision could stay in orbit for up to 10,000 years and even tiny fragments threaten spacecraft because both travel at such a high orbiting speed.

James Oberg, an experienced aerospace engineer who worked on NASA's space shuttle program and is now a space consultant, described the crash over northern Siberia as "catastrophic event." NASA said it was the first-ever high-speed impact between two intact spacecraft — with the Iridium craft weighing 1,235 pounds (560 kilograms) and the Russian craft nearly a ton.

"At physical contact at orbital speeds, a hypersonic shock wave bursts outwards through the structures," Oberg said in e-mailed comments. "It literally shreds the material into confetti and detonates any fuels."

Most fragments are concentrated near the collision course, but Maj.-Gen. Alexander Yakushin, chief of staff of the Russian military's Space Forces, said some debris was thrown into other orbits, ranging from 300 to 800 miles (500-1,300 kilometers) above Earth.

David Wright at the Union of Concerned Scientists' Global Security said the collision had possibly generated tens of thousands of particles larger than 1 centimeter (half an inch), any of which could significantly damage or even destroy a satellite.

Wright, in a posting on the group's Web site, said the two large debris clouds from Tuesday's crash will spread over time, forming a shell around Earth. He likened the debris to "a shotgun blast that threatens other satellites in the region."

Meanwhile, there's no global air traffic control system that tracks the position of all satellites.

The U.S. military tracks some 17,000 pieces of space debris larger than 2 to 4 inches (5 to 10 centimeters), along with some 900 active satellites. But its main job is protecting the international space station and other manned spacecraft, and it lacks the resources to warn all satellite operators of every possible close call.

"With the amount of spacecraft and debris in orbit, the probability of collisions is going up more rapidly," said John Higginbotham, chief executive of Integral Systems Inc., a Lanham, Maryland-based company that runs ground support systems for satellites.

Oberg said the limited accuracy of tracking data and computer calculations makes it impossible to predict collisions, only their probability. He said most satellites also have little fuel to escape what most likely would be a false alarm.

"The collision offers a literally heaven-sent opportunity for the Obama administration to take forceful, visible and long-overdue measures to address a long-ignored issue of 'space debris,'" Oberg said.

In January 2007, China destroyed one of its own defunct satellites with a ballistic missile at an altitude close to that of Tuesday's collision, creating thousands of pieces of debris which threatened other spacecraft.

Both NASA and Russia's Roscosmos agencies said there was little risk to the international space station, which orbits 230 miles (370 kilometers) above Earth, far below the collision point. An unmanned Russian cargo ship docked smoothly Friday at the station, delivering water, food, fuel, oxygen and other supplies as well as a new Russian space suit for space walks.

American astronauts Michael Fincke and Sandra Magnus are aboard the station along with Russian Yuri Lonchakov. The crew size will be doubled to six members later this year.

AP Technology Writer Peter Svensson in New York and AP Science Writer Seth Borenstein in Washington contributed to this report.

I was perched on my window ledge, over looking Highway 20. I had the 10-96 sticker in my hand, the backing already peeled off. The pole with the traffic signal was about six feet away from my window. Looking now, the top of the signal is about twenty feet high. From my perch, I was looking down at the pole. I figured it to be no problem to jump out, put the sticker on the sign, and land on the roof of the bus. I mean, after drinking a liter of vodka and most of a case of beer, I was feeling like Jackie Fucking Chan. I just had to wait for the bus. The bus stop is right in front of my building, it stops on the quarter of every hour. You've heard of the English pastime of train spotting? Well I bus spot. The bus stops right in front of my building. The bus stops on the quarter of every hour (meaning quarter after the hour, and quarter of the hour). My computer desk is right by the window, so I can't help but to bus-spot.

I'd already tagged most of the block with 10-96 stickers. Some of them, I have no memory or idea how I got them where they are. Like the one on the speed limit sign. That one is up there. But this fucking traffic signal, I see it whenever I look out of the window. It's annoyed me for some time that I haven't been able to tag it. I tried one night, leaning out of window after affixing a sticker to the end of my mop handle with a small piece of duct tape, the backing of the sticker removed, but I couldn't get the sticker to stay on the signal. Maybe the duct tape was stickier than the actual sticker adhesive, maybe I was too drunk. Either way, I couldn't make it happen.

This time, I was determined. I glanced inside at the clock on my wall. It was ten after. Just a few more minutes. I figured if I got the sticker up, people would come over and when they looked out my window, they would ask, "How in the world did you get that sticker on the back of that traffic signal?" and I would just say nothing, feeling cool. That, and my obvious obsessive compulsive desire to tag the entire block with 10-96 stickers. Not to mention I had been pretty depressed lately, my life is a mess and I didn't really care what happened to me. I guess somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I also thought it would be a punk-as-fuck last-great-act if I didn't make it.

"What if the bus doesn't stop?"

"What if I jump too soon and get hit by the bus?"

The bus approached. I heard the air brakes start to slow the bus down. That was a good sign. As soon as the nose of the bus was in front of me, I leapt. It was at that point I realized that I should have wore a pair of shoes. I slipped on the concrete ledge, slick from spray paint over-spray, which was there from an art project I had been working on a few days prior. Instead of going OUT and down in a nice arc, I went straight DOWN. I never even got near the traffic signal pole. I bounced off of the trash receptacle on my left side and slammed into the side of the bus. The look on the faces of the passengers was priceless. I felt one of my ribs crack when I hit the trash can. I landed on the sidewalk with a resounding THUD that I'm sure even Jackie Chan felt, where ever the fuck he was at that precise moment.

I laid there, totally expecting people to rush off of the bus to see if I was okay. To my astonishment, the bus PULLED OFF. I writhed on the sidewalk, holding my side. I found myself crying, not from the physical pain, but from the other kind, the mental pain. Of being sick, of being alone, at the futileness of my ways.

A homeless guy walked by, pushing his make-shift cart full of cans. I screamed "FUCK YOOOUUUUUUU" at him and got up and onto my feet. I saw my 10-96 sticker laying in the street and I stepped out to get it. A car sounded it's horn and I heard the screeching of tires on the pavement. I retrieved the sticker and slapped it on the homeless guy's cart. "LIFE IS A BLINK, MOTHERFUCKER, " I yelled, and ran up the stairs into my building.

I ran into Wendy's apartment, tears streaming down my face. "THAT'S IT, WENDY! TAKE ME IN! I'VE FUCKING HAD IT! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!"

I don't mind digging myself holes, but after awhile, when I can no longer see daylight, I start to get nervous and tend to freak out. Digging holes for myself and climbing out reminds me that I am alive, that I am still human yet part machine. (Yeah, I probably listened to too much Rollins growing up, so what?) I've gone from middle class to living on the streets and back and forth so many times that I can't tell the difference anymore between a bowl of Ramen or a plate of gourmet Pesto.

At this point I went into black-out mode. A liter of cheap vodka and 17 beers will do that sometimes. I guess Chris called Rock and Roll John, who grabbed Sarah's car and came over. In the meantime, I smashed a couple of mirrors in my apartment, yelled at my cats and threw a Van Halen record at Wendy's head. John showed up and we all rode over to St. Mary's hospital. I sort of remember the Cat scan. They had to physically restrain me to a body board. They shot me up with some B-1 and Ativan. The tests and x-rays came back: no physical injury aside from a hairline fracture on a rib. And my blood alcohol level was .493. A new presonal record.

They chaptered me. Chapter 51-

I am a law enforcement officer and have cause to believe:
The subject is mentally ill, drug dependent, or devolopmentally disabled.
The subject evidences behavior which constitues a substantial probability of physical harm to self or others, as set forth in 51.15 of Wisconsin statues.

My belief is based on specific and recent dangerous acts, attempts, threats or omissions by the subject as observed by me or reliably reported to me as stated below:

Dangerous behavior-
When: 11-3-08
Where: SMMC (St Mary's Medical Center)
Describe Behavior: "On 11-3-08 I responded to SMMC. Upon arrival I spoke with Kenneth. Kenneth stated that he jumped out of a 2nd srory window in attempt to kill himself. Kenneth then uttered the words, "suicide, I want to kill myself." upon this admission, I believe Kenneth should be booked for pysch treatment under chapter 51." (sic)

-Officer J Koepnick 1334


Which I believe to be total bullshit. I mean, if I had really wanted to kill myself, I would have gotten really bloody and gory about it, or at least tried to overdose on some good drugs. But then again, I was still in the midst of a blackout.


The next thing I remember is them wheeling me into a private room at St. Mary's. St. Lukes, where the mental ward is, didn't want me yet, in fear of me detoxing too hard and dying. The nurse I was assigned to was actually pretty cool. She asked me, "You aren't going to give me any shit are you? I am on a double shift and do NOT have any patience for you acting like an asshole. If you behave, I'll give you some ice cream."

I laughed and said I'd rather have a Budweiser. She looked at me like I was going to act like an asshole, with a furled brow and stern look so I quickly added, "No, no, I'll be cool......"

She says, "Okay then. I'm going to give you four milligrams(!) of Ativan and whenever you start feeling shakey let me know and I'll give you another four." She injected the shit into my IV and I instantly felt better. I complained about the location of my IV (right in the crook of my elbow, again!) and she berated the ER nurses for their choice of location of the IV. ("Stupid bitches"). Beacuse of her Rock and Roll Nurse attitude, I decided right then not to cause any trouble. She relocated the IV to my forearm. She ordered me ice cream (it's important to keep the blood-sugar up when hardcore-detoxing) and even asked me whether I wanted Chocolate or Vanilla. She was the coolest nurse ever. She asked, "Wow, she must have been a really nice piece off ass, huh?" I laughed and told her I was a virgin.

As I was on suicide watch, they had to have someone in the room with me at all times. Most of the time (that I was awake anyways) it was this funny old black dude, Charles. We discovered a shared love of Bukowski and told each other bad white/black pussy jokes. I told him that he was in charge of the TV as long as he watched old westerns and/or Clint Eastwood movies. He tried to put a Jackie Chan movie on and I told him to change it.

Since I was behaving so well for a suicidal alcoholic nut job, the nurse even slipped me some Percosets, which is a big no-no for a detoxing alcoholic lying in St. Marys under chapter 51. My rib hurt a lot.

I floated in and out of consciosness for the next three days. They pumped so much Ativan into me I'm sure the manufacturer's stock went up a few points. I finally got to the point where I was well enough to get sent over to St. Luke's mental ward.

Selah.

I almost lost my elbow

So Thursday night I noticed this red line running from my bad elbow up my arm into my armpit. Not a good thing. I got up Friday and went into the ER.

As soon as the doctor saw my elbow, he called the Orthopedic surgeon and told him to HURRY UP AND GET DOWN THERE. Not a good sign.

Suddenly I had two doctors, the Orthopedic surgeon and several nurses fussing over me. The surgeon produced a HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE and proceeded to jab it into the elbow joint which almost got him punched the fuck out. The joint was dry, but he looked at me and told me that I wasn't going anywhere for at least a few days. He said I would be lucky if I didn't require an artificial elbow. Not a good sign.

They smelled beer on me, so they made me blow a breathalizer. I had been drinking eight hours prior, but somehow managed to blow a 0.00.

They bagged me and transported me up to the fourth floor, the surgery floor. After the insertion of that HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE, my elbow was hurting quite a bit. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how would you rate your pain?" (A question I have been asked about every two hours for the past fifty-six hours). They gave me a couple of Vicodin, which I swallowed with great doubt in my mind.

They started me on some hardcore anti-biotics via my IV. I should mention that the ER nurse put the IV right in the crook of my right arm, so that it hurt like hell to bend my arm at all. So then I couldn't use either arm. Fucking great.

After a few hours of lying there, helpless, the doctor okayed some Percosets, and said if they didn't do the trick, that if the pain was that bad, that he was taking me into surgery immediately, because that would mean that there were other issues other than the infection. Thankfully, they did the trick. So I stayed stoned the whole time, two Percosets every four hours until I was discharged.

The surgeon came in every few hours and jabbed the HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE into my elbow joint to see if any fluid was accumilating from the previous invasive entry of the HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE. Finally, Friday night he said enough, and wanted to see how my elbow healed from the inflammation of having a HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE jabbed into it several times.

They had my elbow in traction and elevated the whole time I was in, so I maybe got like three hours of sleep total the whole weekend. Bag after bag of anti-biotics. Friday night, everytime I fell asleep, I would bend my right arm, pinching off the IV tube in my vein, thus setting the alarm on the IV machine off, and a nurse would come in and would tell me to straighten my arm out and reset the machine.

After bitching and yelling at one nurse, I finally got them to put another IV in on the back of my hand, which was way more tolerable. None of the nurses knew what to make of me. I seemed impervious to the pain, but whenever they asked me to rate my pain on the 1-10 scale, I always answered "six" and kept close track of every four hours, when I knew I could get a couple more Percoset. That and they found my tattoos fascinating. And the lab techs were in awe at my unflinching attitude to getting blood drawn, even when they couldn't find a vein. It was just that HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE that I had the problem with.

The surgeon came in Saturday, took one quick glance at my elbow and told me that I had to stay at the very least another day. He said that if the infection didn't start clearing up, he would have to open up my elbow and clean it out with a scalpel. Not cool.

So I just layed there and watched cable TV the whole time, stoned on Percosets. The food wasn't too bad, though it was hard to eat with one hand (even harder before they relocated my IV, I just didn't eat). The nurses were pretty nice, they would get me whatever I asked for (water, Pepsi, Percosets, Nicotine patches, crackers).

Since I was in traction, I had to piss into a jug (at least they didn't give a catheter) and then they would have to empty it out. That was sort of weird, a few of the nurses were young and cute and the idea of them having to dump my piss out kind of gave me a dominatrix complex).

I watched a bunch of movies on cable TV. Napolean Dynamite was actually pretty funny. I watched a few Clint Eastwood movies, and The Road Warrior. When I watched the Road Warrior at three o'clock Saturday morning, the nurse came in and said I had to turn it down, which I found funny, but then again I was stoned on Percosets.

Wendy and Chris and Sarah came and visisted me on Friday afternoon, and Whalen and Crystal and the kids came and visited me on Saturday. They brought me a balloon that they wrote on that said "Sorry to hear about your Genital Herpes" which the nurses found quite amusing. Thanks, guys.

I started getting pretty depressed Saturday night, because my girl didn't come visit me and I knew she was out partying. "So just how many guys did you fuck while I was lying in the hospital?"

Today I got up, and was bummed out because my pain level was the same as Friday night and I figured that was going to mean surgery. The surgeon had said that as the infection went away, if I still had a lot of pain, then it was likely that there were other issues and that he would have to open my elbow up and see what was going on in there.

He came this morning, took one look at it and told me another day of the hardcore antibiotics. At least he didn't probe me with that HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE. Then he looked at it again, grabbed the sides of it and squeezed and asked me if that had hurt. Amazingly, it did not. He told me that he was releasing me today and putting me on oral antibiotics and Vicodin. Sweet.


So I Whalen and Crystal picked me up at noon and brought me home, after I complained enough to get one last dose of Percosets an hour before I was supposed to. My elbow is really really tender and sore, and I still can't extend my arm all of the way out, but the redness is all gone and it doesn't constantly throb in pain. As long as I don't bump it on anything, I am all good. They gave me my sling and ice pack to bring home, but I don't have any ice, and the sling is sort of funky so I am eschewing not to use them right now.

I have a script for my meds, but have no money to fill them, so I don't know what I'll do about that.

I have to go back Thursday for a follow-up, and if my shit ain't healing, back in I go to have surgery.

I am in a surreal state right now, after being stoned all weekend, in the same bed, and from all of the hardcore antibiotics. And no cigarrettes. They gave me the patch, but as much as I smoke, they should have given me three at once.

I am broke today, which sucks. I could use my meds, some smokes and a shower. (I stank like a fucking bum when I went in, and sweating all weekend in the same bed from alchohol withdraw and pain pills didn't help).

Now I get to go see what kind of mess my girl has her head in. At the very least, grab my backpack from her house and try and procure some tobacco and maybe some cash for my meds before that last dose of Percoset wears off.

I'll just have to take it easy this week, let my shit heal and see what the surgeon says on Thursday. Fun stuff.

How was your weekend?

The Glimmer Twins

After drinking since Friday morning with no sleep, on Saturday morning Pete the Poacher and I decided it would be funny to pick up this couch that Rock and Roll John was sleeping on and toss him off of it, again. So we did and John bounced off of the corner of the coffee table and landed face down. A pool of blood formed quickly. I thought we had fucking killed him. We rolled him over and there was a large gash above his eye. He was pretty wasted so he just kind of laid there and moaned, which was a good sign. I compressed the wound and we got him back up on the couch. After some discussion and general freaking out, Pete went and found some super glue and we glued the gash shut. It would have taken at least four stitches to close it. We almost glued his eyelid shut. Later on, I butterflyed it. I'm good at DIY injury treatment. John slept the rest of the day. I kept waking him up and checking on him every forty-five minutes or so, in the event of a concussion. He woke up that night, where we proceeded to a hobo party down the street by the tracks. We had a good time unitl I decided to try and kick a piece of wood in half for the fire. I didn't think to consider it a bad idea, considering the fact that I was wearing Converse and that I had already broken my foot in two places a few years ago. As soon as my foot contacted the wood I knew I was in trouble. The pain was unbearable. I instantly had a meltdown. Now they call us The Glimmer Twins.