In article <firstname.lastname@example.org> email@example.com:
>On Mon, 05 Jan 1998 02:28:33 GMT, firstname.lastname@example.org (Terry Austin)wrote:
>>Ain't it fun? Hint: I'm always right.
Perspective, Sarge. In spite of my best efforts, people find me boring.
I figger they're the same kind of folks who wouldn't attend a publichanging, and I give their stupid opinion the weight it deserves.
Unrelated Shit: I've seen yer future, Stevie, and it looks bright.
Since I started school, I've run into a new watering hole. It's inhabitedby a whole buncha old, nasty mofos, average age about 60. The ol' ladyhas to be at work by 8, while classes don't start until 8:30. The firstcoupla days, I hung out in front of the building, waiting for the instructors.Since both of the instructors, and all of the other students, are fittedwith nice, warm snatches, they're predictably late every day, so I thought,after the second day, that I had to find an alternative to waiting outin the fuckin' cold and rain.
I stopped into a bar, but it don't advertise itself as a bar. It callsitself a 'social club,' and a couple of days after getting drenched andso fuckin' cold that I'd have to dig my testicles out of my abdomen witha spoon, I walked down a few doors and into their establishment. The reasonthey call it a social club is derived from the fact that everybody knowseverybody on a first name basis. They weren't too keen about my presencethe first few days, but I minded my business and kept my mouth shut, ifyou can imagine that!
After a coupla days of coming in at 8am, sipping my coffee (or a brandycoffee on Mondays) the guy who opens up on mornings started gabbing withme, and telling me his stories of being a detention officer in Stockton,a town that ain't full of heavyweights as a city like Los Angeles, butwith their share of punks and thugs, much like anywhere else.
He told me this hilarious story of the time he had to apprehend oneof the neighborhood toughs, while doing a tour with one of the sherriff'sdeputies. He was wrestling the suspect down, and in the course of tryingto cuff the dipshit, said dipshit bit down on one of his thumbs. His immediatereaction was, of course, to punch the prick in the side of the head. Suspectbit down harder, and ol' John punched him again. Suspect bit down harder,and every time John hit 'im, his jaws would clench down harder on his thumb.
"So, what was I supposed to do? I quit punchin' him, and he quit bitin'me!"
We all had a laugh over this obviously true story that only a know-howcop could give credibility to. He passed me a second coffee with a gnarledhand that wasn't cripplled by arthritis, but bent in the way that can onlybe obtained by punching stoops in the hard parts of their head.
We were all laughing into our cups, when Walter came in. Now, I knowWalter from the downtown bars, and he's as big and dumb as a man can come.(tmCroce) He'd fallen behind on his bar tab, and the owner asked John to collectit from Walter. John said that the owner said he wanted his money, butif Walt didn't have it, then John could pants him in front of the bar.Of course, the bar owner never said such a thing, but John was using hisskills as a former officer of the law, and the psychology that you useon perps to get them to bend to your wishes.
Walter sez: "Fuck you. You're an old man." ObNote: John is 72, but builtlike the fireplug that he is. Walt is in his 30s, 6'2" and 240, but hobbledby a bad leg he cultivated in a motorcycle accident, before he got hislicense yanked.
John sez: "Don't kid yourself. I've handcuffed many a man over the years,and some was bigger than you. I'd bet I could have yer pants off in lessthan 3 minutes."
The rest of us knew what John was doing, and were doing our best notto break out laughing.
Walter: "You're too old to do that shit anymore." But, there was a definitesense that Walter was wavering in his positive attitude.
John sez: "I'll bet you. If you can keep me from pulling your pantsoff for 3 minutes, I'll pay the money you owe to Joe."
Walter is, of course, quite flustered by now, and starts walking outof the door, and John yells into his back, "Hey, Walter, you didn't payfor your drink!" W replies that he didn't have a drink, and storms outthe door, to the friendly laughter of all assembled. He'll be back, ashe's a regular, but he has my gratitude for supplying me with the bestlaugh I'm likely to have today.
There's a homeless woman who comes in some mornings, name of Mary. She'snot one of those shopping cart-pushing bitches, but chooses to keep herlife a little more simple than you or I. She always is lucid, and she alwayshas the price of a cuppa Joe, and never mooches, though she isn't averseto accepting a shot of brandy, should someone take it upon them- selvesto buy it for her, which I have done a couple of times. When she leaves,you'd expect the assembled folks would say derisive shit about her, butthey never do, and it ain't practiced class, cuz class ain't somethingyou can fake, and it ain't something you can learn.
You have to be born with it, and these are gentlemen, in spite of theirdiverse backgrounds and views, are well endowed with it. I'm proud to knowthem.
If you can't spot the Peeves and !Peeves, you have my sympathy.
In article <email@example.com> firstname.lastname@example.org (HowardE. Motteler) writes:
>Howard E. Motteler
Nice to see you, Howard. Please, please grace us with that wunnerfulflame that Yarvin laid on ya about what a little white fuck you are.
You may ask why I'd make such a request, but I got a reality check whenI took an inventory check of my boifbay presents last week. I got the usualbatch of socks and shit, but I got a CD from the ol' lady that broughtit all home to me.
'Member Boz Scaggs? He did a series of feelgood light blues tunes inthe late '70s, but what he'll always be remembered for in my eyes is acut named 'Loan Me A Dime,' back in 1969. My ol' lady bought me an anthologyof his stuff back from those days fer me birthday, and it's a piece o'work. I used to listen to that cut with my good ol' partner Paul, a ragtaglittle Mexican dude that I clung to when I first came out to Californicate,in the process of sucking down Seconals and tequila. You'd have loved him,whoever you are, cuz he had the good looks of Tom Selleck combined withthe attitude of John Wayne. He was the epitome of peever.
I got that CD, and popped in 'Loan Me a Dime,' and just cried and cried.I doubt that Gin knew what memories she stirred up.
Now, don't get me wrong. It wasn't the gut-wrenching sobs you put outwhen your mom or wife dies. It was the gentle flow of tears that drip outof the corner of your eyes, when you think of an old friend, or maybe anuncle. They were tears of sorrow, but they didn't hurt much.
They're just an unavoidable part of life.
Peeve: I've exceeded my quota of solid brothers, and I hope I don'trun out.
Paul and I used to do stuff together. Don't ask what, but suffice itto say that it was stuff you wouldn't ordinarily plan. We used to listento that particular cut, swacked out on pharmeceuticals because they wereavailable. I remember several conversations with Paul that had a centralfocus on how he'd like to meet Mr. Scaggs, and tell him how much he appreciatedwhat Boz said musically. In a drug-induced stupor, I remember saying thatI'd relay Paul's message to Boz.
It'll never happen, though. Paul died back in '77, a victim of a gunshotwound in a drug deal gone bad. If I had three wishes, I'd use one of themto fulfill Paul's wish.
I'd use another to have him back in my sight.
And Boz don't return my calls, but like most folks, he doesn't carebecause he doesn't have to.
I love ya, bro.
In article <email@example.com> firstname.lastname@example.org (JustAnother Skeptic) writes:
>Huhyeah! I suspect the reason you have a keyboard is becauseyou're
>so full of shit that your flabby asshole can't keep up with the
>output. You're a hell of a writer though -- you oughta spendmore
>time over on misc.writing. Good NG, but they could use a littleprod
>now and again....
You suspect wrong, but that's Otay. I don't even have an ass. It's likea fambly curse, and some asshole ancestor did something to piss off theguy who hands out the supplies, making it impossible to have anything resemblinga butt to be possessed by any member of my family.
Thanks for the compliment on my writing, but I've never thought I wasthat good at it, comparing my spew to some of the rawther average folkswho still are good enough to make a living at it. I don't resent theirability to turn trash into cash, and I wish there was a way to sell misdirected,vitriolic garbage to the general public.
For the record, I ain't flabby, either. Truth be told, though, the incessantpull of gravity has pulled some wrinkles out of this ol' war horse. It'llstart yankin' on you, too, eventually. I hope you pass into that stagemore gracefully than I did.
Take care, dummy. Nice talking to you.
> email@example.com (Articulate Mandible) wrote:
> Now *there* is a peeve. The wife's pussy almost invariably gets
> underfoot when I'm cooking.
There are probably some abdominal exercises that will at least lessenthe problem. Fuckin' her must be like throwing a hot dog into a hallway.
"I'm off to Robyn's."
"For the weekend. It's Leilea's birthday. Wanna go?"
Peeve: Dental surgery last Thursday, leaving me with little party energy.Plus, a kidney that feels like a hot rock when I lie on my right side.The doc sez I need a fucking kidney transplant, but I'm a bit reluctantto have it done at the VA Hospital, since I've heard so many negative thingsabout it. But, you gotta do what you gotta do.
Peeve: Dental surgery next Thursday, to finish the job.
Peeve: Extensive tests next Saturday.
So, what the fuck. I turn on the TV, and they were showing 'Rocky.'I always watch that movie when it comes on. It's one of the most touchingthings I've ever seen. Ya know why?
Well, I'm gonna tell you.
The clumsy way that Stallone gets together with Shire is just beautiful.It's a story about real people, people that haven't had their dreams shattered,because they never really had any. It's about two basically uneducatedfolks who found one another, and have a romance that you only read aboutin novels. The transformation of Talia Shire from frumpy, Marian the Librarianplain into the beautiful woman she really is is moving.
The fight scenes were good, also.
I cried at the end, as I always do. Then, I sucked down the rest ofthe leftover stirfry, washed it down with two glasses of Chablis, and rolledup a big fat joint. The night was over.
And, how was your weekend?
"I told the priest, 'Don't count on any Second Coming
God got his ass kicked the first time he came down here slumming.
He had the balls to live, the gall to die and then forgive us
Though I don't wonder why, I wonder what he thought it would get us."
A rather morbid song, written about a friend who died of AIDS. It'ssuch an ugly thing to watch someone go through, but her giant heart gaveout tonight. I'm glad she's dead, cuz she ain't been alive for a couplayears. It's mighty fucking annoying that the punks and sluts who claimedto be her friend did so little for her in the last year or so, but there'sreal friends and fringe friends.
If I had one wish, I'd prolly waste it on holding her hand as she exhaledher final breath.
I miss you, Tawny, and I'll never get to tell you that. I guess it don'tmatter much today, but I'd have been there if I'd known.
I love you.
In article <firstname.lastname@example.org> email@example.com (E M Richards)writes:
>As for hanging onto names, I think a lot of men dink with
>their names, too. I knew a guy who started off as Richard
>Scott and got tired of being called "Dick", "Dickie", "Richie",
>and so on. He became "Scott" or "Scotty".
My mother gets a big boost out of calling me 'Vincent.' I hate thatfuckin' name to the core of my being. She knows it, but does it anyway.Whatcha supposed to do, beat up your mom?
Family's fucked that way, cuz they assume they can tag yer ass withany nickname they want, and it's valid. I had an uncle named Francis. Evenas a youngster, I figured he was uncomfortable. He was a good man, stuckwith an effeminate name. Since he died when I was 8ish or so, I didn'tget a chance to tell him that he should be referred to as Frank, or John.(or anything but Sue) *tm, Johnny Cash*
I remember one Xmas, when he brought all the presents over, he signedthe cards on the outside of the boxes, 'From: Uncle Frank.' Evverbuddygot a kick out of that, 'cept Francis. I guess he wanted to change hisimage, and it was something that had bothered him for a long time. I guessI can't blame him, cuz Francis will get you into a lot more of those schoolyardfights than Vincent will.
Well, almost anyway. I guess there were no free beds.
Breezed into town yesterday, and stopped at Long's to get some stampsand shit, and I hear somebody yelling my name. I turn to see Nick the Spic,smiling broadly and motioning me over. "I thought you was dead."
"Something like that," I sez.
"What's that mean?" he asked.
So, I told him a little story, goes like this...
On April 7, I was sick. Real sick. I was puking up literally quartsof blood and shitting what appeared to be asphalt. That was Tuesday, andthe last time I posted here. I said, "If I don't feel better by Saturday,I'm going to the doctor." That seemed a valid plan, until I vomitted anear half gallon of blood and watery mucous all over my bathroom. Ginnysez," You're going to the emergency room." Cool, I figured, they'll giveme some Immodium-like substance and I won't barf no more. Au contraire.They took one look at me and rushed me into the examining room and didsome good ole probing and prodding, finding my liver had swollen threeto four times its normal size. One nurse said, "I can't find his spleen!"By now, I was starting to shake uncontrollably, as the first signs of alcoholicwithdrawal were beginning to set in. The nurse put me on an IV of Valiumand saline solution, a shot of Vitamin K into my bicep that hurt like hell,and pumped me up with some badly needed nutrients that the internal bleedinghad sucked dry.
At this point, they determined I had lost 40-50% of my blood. A large,Sumo wrestler of a nurse decided I needed a tube up my nose. I wasn't enthusiastic,and every time she started poking it up there, I'd try to block her arm.She said, calmly, "Sir, if you don't stop interfering, I'll be forced tohave you strapped to the armrest." I said, "You DON"T want to be aroundwhen they untie me." 'Bout this time, a couple of burly male nurses grabbedmy arm, she got the tube in position, said, "This may cause a little discomfort,"and made that prick disappear up my nose until I felt it squirming andprobing, until it was in my stomach, where it would remain for the nextthree days. The tube filled the left nostril snugly, so I voided a goodpint of rich, red blood out of my other nostril, fortunately on to a towelsomeone had the foresight to spread over my chest. They fully expectedthat result, but apparently neglected to mention it to the cute li'l volunteernurse, who visibly paled. I had to smile, in spite of myself, but I suspectit came out looking like a grimace.
Then, they started pumping me full of fluids. 15 units of whole blood,6 of fresh frozen plasma. Vitamins and minerals. Antibiotics after thesecond day to get rid of the pneumonia I contracted from puking into mytracheal canal. Lasix, to stimulate urination, because I was retainingwater like a motherfucker. More Valium. But, no food and no water. I wasallowed to chew on ice. The doctor decided that he wanted to go into myduodenum in order to cauterize the ulcer that was the source of all thebleeding. This entailed shoving another tube down my esophagus, and withthe help of a miniature camera, find the exact source of the bleeding.I, of course, was anesthetized, but the doctor explained the procedureas he collected my signature on a document relieving him of the responsibilityif he were to snuff me during the procedure. When I awoke, I asked himhow it went, and he less than pleased me by informing me that he'd haveto do it again. The bleeding was nearly impossible to staunch, as my plateletcount was so low, 58000 per deciliter. So, they repeated this procedure,adding the process of suctioning blood out of the way and zapping it withextreme heat, virtually burning the ulcer shut. This time, I awoke longenough to find out they were successful the second time, and was elatedto find myself sans-nose tube. The drawback was that I was hooked up tocountless wires. I fell asleep almost immediately, or so I thought. Infact, I'd gone into a seizure and nearly died. The trauma was a bit heavyfor my undernourished, swollen body.
The next morning, I was wakened by a cute, busty black nurse, who said,"We just about lost you last night, baby, but you're going to be fine now."I croaked out a weak "Thanks," and immediately started figuring how I wasgonna get the two things I needed most, food and nicotine, neither of whichI'd had in over 72 hours. I was wired up like a satellite, prohibiting even rolling over on my side, so I gave up on the cigarette and concentratedon some solid nutrition. I was treated to a kingly feast of a small squareof Jello and two very small glasses of water. For dessert, I wasgiven the news that I could have something else that night if I could holddown what I'd already been given, which turned out to be what looked likepremasticated chicken with a spoonful of broth, and another glass of water.I was stiff all over from laying in the same position for nearly four fulldays, but the feeling of solid food partially compensated for it, at leastbefore I expelled it with a burst of diarrhea caused by the antibioticsfor the now mild pneumonia. Suzy, the Japanese doctor, shoved her fingerup my asshole and determined that I was no longer bleeding internally,and pronounced me fit enough to try some more substantial sustenence thefollowing morning, my sixth day in captivity. This came in the form ofa runny scrambled egg, and half of an English muffin w/margarine.
By the eighth day, I was off the oxygen and most of the tubes, allowingme to get out of bed and move around a bit. I wheeled the IV cart quietlyinto the elevator, down to the first floor, and out into the rain to smokewhat tasted like the best cigarette I'd ever had in my life. I returnedto the ward to find out I was the focus of a frantic search, and "Justwhere have you been off to, anyway?" At this point, I pleaded for my freedom,and received it the next day, when it was determined that if I was strongenough to wander around the hospital, I could be strong enough tosend home. I was given oral medications, vitamins and Valium to keep thesick off. I was told to stick to a bland diet for a couple of weeks, anddrink lots of clear liquids. "Vodka's a clear liquid," I sez. Nobody laughed.
After a few days at home, the tranqulizers ran out, but the shakes didn't.I was drinking wine, in order to keep myself from going through the DTs,not knowing that certain chemicals in the grape contributed to the destructionof my red blood platelets, and low platelet count causes blood not to clotproperly. This manifested itself in nosebleeds, dizzy spells and vertigo.It was about this time that my old lady decided that I was having a totalmental and physical breakdown, which I inevitably do every three yearsor so. She talked me into going into the Detox program at the VeteransAdministration hospital.
The VA has a campus up in Menlo Park, dedicated almost entirely to drugand alcohol rehabilitation, and the rest are the disoriented and confused,those suffering from PTSD, or post traumatic stress syndrome. It's expectedto lock its gates during the year 2000, as the patients are almost allrepeaters, folks who use the system, stay a year or so, get fattened upenouggh to go out and pursue their drug and alcohol habits, then returnto redo the cycle 3 months later. The VA sez, "Pah. Piss on you, Jack!It's cheaper, and in the opinions of some close to the field, more efficientto treat people on an outpatient basis. So, go find another way to supportyourself."
I met some guys there that would admit, unabashedly, that they had beenthrough the program anywhere form 4 to 10 times, with one guy who was onhis thirteenth trip through. "My lucky one, I guess," he sez. Somehow,I doubt it. So do the doctors.
I arrived at Detox on April 27th. It was cold and dreary, the way itwould remain until the first week of June, as the last remnants of El Ninodicked up the weather, and had summer following winter, while cancellingspring altogether. I got there at lunchtime, so the doctor couldn't seeme until after we had gotten back from the chow hall. I don't rememberwhat the main course was for that meal. I do remember, however, that theyserved peas, and all the guys were laughing at my expense while I triedto jiggle those little fucks into my mouth using a fork. Frustrated, Ithrew down the fork and decided to wait for supper, praying to some unknownentity that peas weren't served with every meal.
Upon my return, the doctor was in. I was rainsoaked and shiverring,and, added to my alcoholic death dance, made me one pitiful looking littlecocksucker. He gave me 40 mg of Valium, and in an hour I was calmed downenough to allow them to draw blood from me. He got the lab report back,and, thinking there was some sort of mistake, ordered another, more detailedreport. When he got that, he called me into the office, shaking his head.He told me that I had an inflamation of the liver. No shit, Dick Tracy!He also put me on a regimen of badly needed supplements and told me toeat as much as my system would allow for the next few days. No prob, Doc.I gained 10 pounds in the 12 days I was in Detox. That put me at a pudgyand shaky 175 pounds, and I could barely squeeze into my jeans. Evendeveloped a set of little tits to go over my paunchy belly. My skin wasa yellowish tint, and my eyes looked like someone had pissed in them. Iwas given 10 to 15 milligrams of Valium every 3 hours, and ordered to bedrest,only to get up at meal times. I couldn't answer the bell at chowtime, though,so the rest of the inmates would go to chow, and bring me back a styrofoamtray of vittles, which I'd eat cold.
My fourth day at Detox, some fucker flipped his gourd. He wanted hismeds, saying it was seven o'clock, and "Where are my FUCKIN' MEDS?!" Oneof the nurses tried to calm him down, meds were at 9 o'clock. This guythought it was 7am, and it was actually 7pm. He shoved the nurse to thefloor, a little Filipino chick. I jumped up off of the couch, but my reflexeswere slowed by the meds and the month of inactivity and lack of exercise.He was into a fit of rage, and blindly slung me to the floor, inflictinga nasty bump about the size of a robin's egg on my left eyebrow. I shookmy head and attempted to scramble to my feet, but I needn't have bothered.He was running on pure adrenaline, and his awareness of me disappearedas soon as he flung me to the floor. So, I copped a sneak on him, and hithim square in the ear with the heel of the palm of my hand, which stunnedhim enough for me to shoulderblock him to the floor. I managed to get hisarms pinned, and yelled to one of the other patients to "Get Darryl." Hewas spaced, and was watching the whole show dumbfounded, until I said,"NOW!" That broke his trance, and he went after the burly nurse, who cameout with a syringe. He popped the needle into the arm of the offender,who went limp within a few seconds. Musta been some good shit. The guyrelaxed, but I thought he might be playing possum, and held tight. He wasn't,he was softly snoring within a minute.
An hour later, I was in the ward office, and the big nurse and an evenbigger security guard were asking me why I had assaulted a patient in afederal facility, and did I understand the severity of the situation?Seldom at a loss for words, I was dumbfounded, and said I'd deal with itwhen my case manager came in the next morning. When the time came, I managedto keep my thoughts in order enough to explain my side of it without blowingmy temper. They advised me to think about the gravity of the situation,and next time to let the nurses handle those types. I asked them how theywould feel when they found one of their 110 pound Flip nurses strangledwhen they came in for work some morning, but I didn't wait for an answer,and weaved my way back up into my bedroom, leaving them to scribblenotes in their little books.
After 12 days in Detox, I was ready to go home, but my case managertalked me into going into one of the extended programs for 45 days.I wasn't sure if I wanted to, so I called Gin, and she said she thoughtit might be a good idea. Y'see, in Detox, you just lay around and takepills, get thoroughly tested and prodded, fatten up and hit the groundrunnin', usually to the nearest liquor store. Not in a program, though.These are for skill building and psychiatric evaluation. The populationis mostly hardcore, age range of 30 to the mid sixties, all hustlers witha more than passing knowledge of the criminal justice system, and somewho were deeply disturbed. The counsellors are all graduates, making ithard to play them. There's a list of rules, most of which serve no purposeother than being impossible to follow. Failure to comply with any rulegets you written up, as I found out on my second day. I was doing the deskwatch. Watches are 24/7, in four hour increments, and this was the firstwatch I was standing with no assistance. I went to take a leak, and whenI came back, a guy who was known to go out of his way to write people upgave me a violation for watch abandonment, "a very serious thing," as heput it. I said I was just taking a leak. He claimed I was to pull someoneaside to watch the desk until I returned from the head. He askedme how I'd feel if there were a fire, I wasn't there to report it, andsomeone died in the fire. I asked him how he'd feel if I snapped off oneof his stick-thin arms and shoved it up his ass, or something tothat effect. This brought a counselor out, because his office was withinearshot of the conversation. I was written up, and my punishment was tostand an extra watch. Stick arm got a kick out of this, and I made a mentalnote to ride his ass at every given opportunity.
The next day, I was doing my punitive watch. I was filling out the watchstation paperwork, and a drop of blood fell on the page I was working on.I got that cleaned up, and I'll be fucked if another one didn't land, almostdirectly on the same spot. I cleaned that up too, and put the paperworkaway. There was no one to relieve me, because the rest of the inmates werein a group meeting. So, I just sat there. The head counselor came by totake a leak and a break from the therapy session, and saw me sitting there,with a puddle of blood in front of me.
"Do you know your nose is bleeding?"
"Why don't you go clean up?"
"Got written up for that yesterday."
"B-But, you're Bleeeeding..."
"There was no one to relieve me. The rules state that..."
So, I go in the bathroom, and wash and rinse the blood from my beard,and blew my nose until the bleeding had subsided. Took about a half hour,and when I came out, the counsellor had provided a replacement watch, and"the Doc wants to see you." That's when they turned the shrinks loose onme.
I have a philosophy about psychiatrists. Their job is to make you talk,and to do so without asking any questions. They have their tricks; I havemine. When one asks a question, the best thing to say is nothing, so that'swhat I said. A lot.
He: Why didn't you take care of your nosebleed?
Me: Got in trouble for that yesterday.
He: Don't you like it here?
He: Do you think you made a mistake coming here?
He: (writing in ever present book) Patient non-responsive.
That's when I burst out laughing.
He asked me what was so funny, and I said it was what he had written.He said, "So, you can talk, after all?" I reply, "Yup. You just don't askthe right questions." He scribbled furiously. I smiled a lot.
"I'm going to give you a prescription for Nefazodone. It's a antidepressant."
"I'm not depressed, Doc."
"Sure, you are. Your behavior speaks volumes, even when you're tryingnot to be cooperative. One in the morning, one an hour after supper. I'llbe checking in with you next week."
That's why I don't like shrinks. They diagnose the illness in a waythat they understand. If it's out of their realm, they stick it in a packagethey can recognize, and fuck the consequences. I took 'em for about a week,and they gave me a headache and made it near impossible to sleep. The nextweek, they tried a new medication, which I objected to, since the lastone had had such an adverse reaction. I didn't argue that I wasn't depressed,though, because after a week of little sleep, constant headache, and theprospect that this new medication might be even worse, I was getting prettygoddamned morose. The new batch made me like a zombie, and I took themfor three days, before I walked into his office uninvited and threwthe pills on his desk, while I calmly explained that I didn't want to takethis or any other antidepressants during the rest of my stay. The lookI had on must have convinced him I was pretty fuckin' serious, and he said,"Of course, if a patient can get by without the use of medication, we areall for it." I bit down on my lower lip, which stopped me from puttingmy face an inch away from his, and demanding to know why he had put meon this shit, if that were the case. But, I held my temper and waited untilthe meds had gone from my system before I would speak to another doctoror staff member.
Two days after I had quit taking them, I had a surprise visitor, noneother than our own Geoff Miller. I was still pretty addled, and must havebeen pretty incoherent. "You're a hard person to find," he said. I didn'tknow I was being looked for, as I didn't tell anyone where I was going,except Ginny, who came faithfully every week with a carton of smokes anda crisp Jackson to buy toiletries and snacks with. I figgered she had toldhim where I was, but she didn't. I was still too hazed out to think aboutit. I'll ask him next time I see him.
After a time, my brain unfogged, and I initiated an exercise program,and I melted about 18 pounds off my bloated frame, doing pushups untilmy shoulders screamed in pain, walking huge circles around the compound,running up and down stairs. Anything to use up the excess energyI had stored up. The shame of it was that there was a bunch of exerciseequipment laying around unused, due to the fear that someone would overdoit, and throw themselves into a siezure from trying to do too much at once,then suing the hospital.
My interest in reading came back, and I devoured everything that washalfway interesting in the small library. I read a book about alcoholismand nutrition, and wrote a report on it that the doctor asked meto write up on his office computer, so he could use it as part of the curriculumfor the program in the future. I forgave him for our previous lack of communication,and gladly complied.
And for the last six days, I did nothing, except wait for my dischargedate.
"That's some heavy shit," said Nick the Spic. "Need a drink?"
I said, "Thanks, Nicky. Not today, though."
Not for awhile.
In article <firstname.lastname@example.org> hpat@remove_this.eskimo.comwrites:
>It's fair to expect an adolescent approach to sex from a star-struck,
>barely post-adolescent intern who, evidently, fell for a variationon
>the age-old line that he'd divorce Hillary after January, 2000 andrun
>off with her (how stupid do you have to be to believe that a well-
>established philanderer actually has any interest in you at *all*
>other than as a spunkbucket? Cripes, the quality of internsthey get
Let's not forget about interns who don't even wash their fuckin' clothesafter getting splashed with Presidential spooge.
Even the sluts I used to date started the date clean.
In article <geoffmF19MG6.GA4@netcom.com> email@example.com (GeoffMiller) writes:
>Kneel & nurse, you sawed-off reprobate.
So good, it had to be revisited.
>Prosperity does that to a person. If I'd continued
>the way I was, emotionally speaking, I'd have an
>address in San Quentin today.
I would have sent you cigarette and Vaseline money, you ungrateful bastard.
In article <geoffmF20nAq.G50@netcom.com> firstname.lastname@example.org (GeoffMiller) writes:
>"I don't give a shit about your petty
>personal problems, you inconsiderate cocksucker!" I bellowed in
>return, seeing that I'd hooked a live one and really starting to
>get into the game. You don't encounter targets of opportunity
>like this specimen every day.
What's this "you" mean, kemo-sabe?
I see 'em everyday. When I was in Detox, they'd let us go on field trips,the only rule being that you had at least one of yer fellow students withyou. I went out with a guy with PTSD, and a Chicano jailbird with a "Fuckyou" attitude like mine.
Some cart-pushing cocksucker came rushing at us with an empty cart,saying he was gonna run us over if we didn't give him enough for a 'cupof coffee.' The Mexican was ready to go into war mode immediately. I hadto grab the PTSD dude around the waist, and slowly calm him down, as heagitated easily, and no one could get through to him except me. That'sthe only reason they let him go on pass, because I was going with him.Perhaps the smartest thing that staff had done during my stay.
I said, after Mr. Nutbar had passed, that I see them fuckers every dayin my home town of SannaCrooz, and just ignore him.
Still grasping Blank, the PTSD dude, the Spic kid asked me why I let things go. I asked, "Would you have rather have the three of us beathis ass, get kicked out of the program and do time in the local criminalcorral? 'Sides, it dint come out to nothin' anyway."
"You hard to figure. At the base, you're the class clown. Now, you wannaact like you know everything about life. Which are you? You just runninga game on the rest of us?"
'I'm a dude, just like you. I've just learned that reacting to emotionsgets you into trouble. You think you're bad? You might be, but you don'tgotta prove it everytime you hit the asphalt. That's what got you here,Blank."
"Fuck you, puta."
We walked the last two miles, none of us saying anything to the other.
Pardon the 'Blanks.' I can't reveal the names of these people, bothas a rule of the program, and the small amount of class I possess.
>"That's because God wants you to die!", I yelled as I got into my car.
>Then I drove home and had a beer.
!Peeve: A story with a happy ending.