My GP is on maternity, so I’m seeing her interim replacement. There’s been a few appointments in the past 3 months: throwing out my back, blood and urine tests, an ultrasound, the results of which were discussed in a phone follow-up (which turned into an immediate in-person visit because I had a difficult time talking (a little slurring, reaching for words).
She did a quick neurological exam and noticed my hand tremors (the left is more pronounced). I’d written it off as something I’ve had for a long time (this is true).
I know I have to take good care of myself. Pancreatitis in 2011 (which I escaped big complications). Heart attack in 2021. So I made an appointment just before Christmas.
She starts a physical exam, and asks a host of questions, one of which really stood out.
Doctor: “Have you done cocaine?”
(How specific is that?)
Me: “Nope. Never.”
Doctor: “Are you sure?” (I’m not emphasizing for effect, she actually leaned into this one herself.)
I have trouble with short term memory (we all do, it’s called getting old), but I’d remember that.
The question needed to be asked. Yet I was a little put off, not because I’m so straight-laced as to be offended at the inquisition, instead recalling the one time I was at a Christmas party and two workmates went to the bathroom to snort up.
I wasn’t invited.
That was the closest I’ve come to doing cocaine. But in that moment, if asked, I would’ve tried it. (Hey, if it’s good enough for Coca-Cola…)
I am so boring. A recovering alcoholic since my early 20s (I hid it well) but now I trust myself with a beer every 4 to 6 months. I have a green thumb. That one time a dear friend flew into town, and we ingested mushrooms on a particularly grey and windy day on Ashbridge’s Bay. Didn’t feel anything.
Was nearly her sperm donor.
But that was asked well in advance of the shrooms.
No past cocaine usage. Absent other symptoms, we can also rule out Parkinson’s (Harrison Ford is acting the shit out this in Shrinking). To be certain, I’m seeing a neurologist in April.
2024 has been all kinds of fucked up, health wise. And there’s other shit that went down these past 12 months. But that’s another end-of-the-year blog post.
If I get around to it.
Right now, I’ve joined my wife as her administrative assistant, and I have new narrative ideas and a drive to sharpen the main characters’ voices in ‘A Song For Rachel‘, which will have a staged reading in late spring.
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s 3 am and the family is gathering for a post-Christmas lunch later today.
When I was a kid, I got horrible migraines. Debilitating, lock myself in a darkened room with a cold cloth on my forehead and eyes, completely soundless. I would scream in pain. Aspirin couldn’t touch it. Sometimes the only relief was throwing up. I have a memory of medical testing with needles stuck in my cranium.
In my late teens/early 20s I got hit with them again. Twice I ended up in hospital. Hooked up to IV with pain medication. Once I was stuck in the waiting room so long I had to run into the bathroom and be violently ill. By the time they called me in, the migraine had dissipated.
I had a couple towards the end of the 2000s, when I was living on Gowan. These were triggered usually in winter and I’d contracted bronchitis, and the horrid coughing would trigger what I would call ‘flash’ migraines.
And then. Nothing.
I barely even got headaches. If I felt one approaching, a couple of Tylenol would do the trick.
Flash forward to today.
I woke up an hour before my alarm, with a headache that was worsening by the minute. I’d sat up over the side of the bed, but didn’t go to retrieve a painkiller. Boy, was that a mistake.
Within 30 minutes the migraine had moved into the rear of my brain, playing Won’t Be Fooled Again, and not by any random drummer. This was the Keith Moon of migraines. I grabbed the bucket we reserved for situations such as this (where we were disposed — i.e., sitting on the toilet — and the option to puke was revoked) and spent several minutes retching. And I had nothing to give. A tiny bit of water, that was it. Have you ever experienced this? It’s brutal on the throat. And with a migraine?
Shoot me now.
I was also battling low blood sugar. I woke my wife and asked for her help. I needed orange juice and a cold cloth. I pressed the cloth against the base of my neck and took a few sips. It almost immediately came back up. (But so did my sugars, so, win?)
I went back to bed and slept. I’d already gotten five hours before this. And now I would be unconscious for another six hours.
Until I woke up with… a second migraine.
This has never happened.
Ever.
So. Rinse and repeat. Only this time the pain eased and I felt well enough to remain awake. And after about an hour I felt well enough (and a little hungry) so I made myself a pb&j sandwich.
It came back up before I even finished it.
Back to bed, I went.
I slept another 4 hours, well into the evening. But now I feel like myself, and I am enjoying my first cup of coffee and watching Hot Fuzz on Hollywood Suite (which is on free preview this month).
Well you know my name is Simon And the things I draw come true Oh the pictures take me, take me over Climb the ladder with you
It’s 3am. I should be sleeping.
But I want to play a game.
Let’s play. Simon Says.
Ready? Here we go.
Simon says…
Stand without using your cane for balance.
Whoops! That was wobbly. And you fell backwards onto the couch. But Simon said.
Let’s go again.
You don’t need that cane. You barely limp now, really it’s only for balance at this point. Go ahead, walk to the bedroom, fill the water tanks on the CPAP machines. Do it.
BUZZER
Simon didn’t say.
Because it is a bad idea. Hell, Simon would say you should use it in the shower. You nearly fell 3 times last week. Maybe Simon could instruct you to use a stool. Or install a safety rail.
Next one.
Simon thinks you should contort yourself bending over and use your cane to retrieve a fallen remote under a desk.
BUZZER
Technically, Simon didn’t say it. And your wife wisely told you not to.
But you only heard your own ego. Can’t admit you can’t do this without hurting yourself.
(You’re delusional.)
You have a popped rib, remember? Over 2 weeks now. You think it’s getting better and–
WHAM
–it reminds you whose boss.
Simon says…
Don’t do that again.
One more.
Simon says…
Stammer as you remember events that clearly didn’t happen. The lamp didn’t stay on for the last few weeks.
Simon says…
Buy groceries the household doesn’t need because you couldn’t remember that you saw them in the refrigerator when you took mental inventory earlier.
Simon says…
Don’t ask the doctor to requisition an x-ray on your shoulder which, when rotating in certain directions or reaching behind you, you feel excruciating pain. It’s only been what, 2 months?
Tonight, as I took our dog for a walk, the strangest thing happened.
As we were exiting our domicile, another resident entered.
He said.
“Hello”.
I (think I) masked my surprise and gave a meaningful reply.
Oh, this is not over.
Maisie and I walk west on our street. Not much to see, there are flower beds strewn about, encircled by rocks. We pass what we can see of the garage, then the gate to our shared exercise room with the building east of us.
Another man was approaching. I quickly assessed, because if he was also walking a dog it could become a bit tense. (While she loves walking daily with her pack, one-on-ne she is/can be very protective/reactive.)
As we crossed paths.
“Hello.”
I mean.
It really surprised me. Not just one friendly greeting — on a street shrouded with trees that are starting to shed their leaves, the little shafts of light that push through the branches — but TWO.
“Uh, hi.”
It was. It felt. Foreign. This does not happen as much as it should. So when did it end?
Did it ever begin?
“When I was a lad….”
We romanticize the past. No one wants to remember the bad shit. It will sneak into your brain and replay grainy home movie memories, and oh shit you’re on a collision course with everything you ever did wrong, because you’re just a worthless piece of shit and can’t get a full-time job because most of what he does is outsourced these days. So he outsourced himself. He does make some money but just enough to cover his monthly debts and a few runs to the market and nearby grocery chain.
Hurm.
So tell me. When did we start treating each other as equals and delight in their company. Become friends. Did Grog and Thag come to a mutual understanding over territorial hunting grounds? Did your grandparents stroll along the boulevard, he with his cap tipped to greet passersby, a nod in response. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.
It sure as hell wasn’t through most of history. People fought, for territory, on the orders of a mad king.
And certainly not until after the Civil War. Two world wars. Korea. Vietnam. Afghanistan.
It’s 2024 and police are still profiling people of colour/minorities (i.e. not white) through some cracked prism of who’s innocent and who’s neck he’s going to kneel on today?1
Tonight’s greetings set off a visual carousel of images behind my eyes. And I knew. I knew. The good ol’ days. Never. Existed.
Will that be cash, card, or debit?
Our interactions with people are transactional. “Hey Bill, can I borrow your wheelbarrow? I gotta move some dirt so the missus can start her vegetable garden.” “One pack of smokes. $14.50 please.”2 “Do you take this person as your lawfully wedded partner?”
Hundreds of years ago, marriage was strictly transactional. One father had a lot of land but he needed livestock after a plague wiped his out, and that guy who lives three days’ ride has a strapping young man (re: scrawny, Prince Charming he is not) marry his… daughter with a wonderful sense of humour and has child-bearing hips. (And, she had most of her teeth.) Twelve cows and six chickens and a rooster should be a sufficient dowry.
And Tuesday night. The motherfucking granddaddy of transactions shook the United States.
It shook the world.
The bastard got re-elected. (I’m no conspiracy theorist but there have been many instances of mail-in ballots being returned just before the election, and a clear discrepancy between voter registration and actual voter turnout. And don’t forget, Trump said he didn’t their votes. (Source: MaddowBlog, MSNBC)
That night. Democracy died in America. (Source: CNN)
Demeaning texts targeted to people of colour, that their lives were no longer their own. A popular extreme-MAGA podcaster loudly proclaiming to all women, “Your Body, My Choice. Forever!” (Source: YouTube) The protest at Kent University. (Source: Kentwired.com)
Canadians? The perpetual apologies and Tim Hortons coffee and obsession with a hockey team that hasn’t won in 67 years. (Everyone in Canada)
We’re not any better. I’ve seen/heard/been the subject of/to some ugly shit.3
But Friday’s breaking story takes the fucking cake. (Source CBC)
The masks have been removed, and more people than you thought was possible to be closeted misogynists/racists/transphobes/homophobic white men. Or as we say in Canada, the gloves are dropped. And two minutes in the penalty box for roughing ain’t gonna cut it..4
Please prove to me we’re not headed for another civil war.5
My white guilt ain’t worth shit. Maybe we could start with Reparations? ↩︎
I quit smoking in 2013, after my breakdown. I have no idea how much a pack costs these days. And don’t they come in paper bags now, the outside image so hideous you blindfold yourself as you take them out of confinement, and then place them one by one in their stainless steel cigarette holders ↩︎
Can you say you’ve never done or said anything, when you were young and pliable and your brain doesn’t mature until 25 anyway. But then you learn/realize that behaviour is fucked up shit and you hope that, when you’re dead, you don’t appear in an exact replica of Defending Your Life. (Source: YouTube. Watch the trailer. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. Albert Brooks is the shit. (Did I use that correctly?) ↩︎
Okay, I lied. Terry Pratchett showed me the comedic power of footnotes in his Discworld novels. I own a majority of them in hardcover. Fuck paperback. I am/was a huge fan since meeting him at Ad Astra in the 1990s (where I also discovered improv troupe The Chumps whose Star Trek parodies enthralled me to the point I had no choice but to take a free improv class to see if I’d like it. And that is, as they say, the beginning of a whole new chapter in my life. So I pay mad respect to the man who wrote 41 novels that blended magic with nuggets he would introduce to their world that we take for granted in ours. And you should also check out Good Omens, an apocalyptic comedy of errors he co-wrote with Neil Gaiman. Or the Long Earth series with Stephen Baxter. (Source for all: TerryPratchettBooks.com) ↩︎
I’ve been an Albert Brooks fan for decades. I started young. His appearance on Carson where he demonstrated, with pepper and a lemon how to impersonate Curley Howard from The Three Stooges. And he found boring on a telephone phone call could be erected with such bon mots as “Just because she’s early, doesn’t mean she’s pregnant. Hello.”
Naturally, I dove into his movies. I won’t waste Twitter’s constricting limit of characters by writing out every name, I will give a shout out to Defending Your Life. I laughed. I saw myself in his character.
Narratively on point from beginning to end. The misunderstanding and receiving 12 pies (and the best part is, you never get fat!), all of it.
And oh yeah, his co-star was Meryl Streep.
I wonder how I’d do, defending my life. What highlights would they show?
I don’t wanna defend shitting the bed because the Peglyte hadn’t completely cleared me out while I napped before my colonoscopy.
Or when I dropped my pants in a status battle game, and kissed Kerry Griffin, because the prompt was show “I love you” without saying it.
So, Mister Brooks, thank you. You had a hand in my comedic and story-telling evolution.
Now c’mere. I’m not wearing pants and this chapstick ain’t gonna go to waste.1
The best highlight of my life? Meeting my wife. I could defend that for infinity. But Albert, (can I call you Al?) you’re in my top five. ↩︎
Yeah, my blood’s so mad, feels like coagulatin’ I’m sittin’ here just contemplatin’ I can’t twist the truth, it knows no regulation Handful of senators don’t pass legislation And marches alone can’t bring integration When human respect is disintegratin’ This whole crazy world is just too frustratin’ And you tell me Over and over and over again, my friend How you don’t believe We’re on the eve of destruction
Barry Mcguire, Eve of Destruction Songwriter: P. F. Sloan
At a rally tonight, the Orange Cheeto said he was going to invoke the Aliens Enemies Act of 1798.
“In 1798, Congress passed the Alien and Sedition Acts with the support of the Adams Administration. The Alien Act granted the President unilateral authority to deport non-citizens who were subjects of foreign enemies. The Sedition Act attacked the core of free speech and a free press—the right to criticize the government. The atmosphere of partisan politics was particularly fraught in the 1790s—with the rise of the partisan press and the development of rival political parties. The Alien and Sedition Acts stacked the deck against the political opposition, criminalizing criticism of Federalist President John Adams, but not Vice President Thomas Jefferson—the leader of the political opposition. Thomas Jefferson and James Madison fought back, arguing in the Virginia and Kentucky Resolutions that the Acts violated the First Amendment’s protection of free speech and a free press. While the Supreme Court never ruled on the constitutionality of the Alien and Sedition Acts, Jefferson defeated Adams in the election of 1800. Once in office, President Jefferson allowed the Acts to expire and pardoned those convicted under them.”
So this would give him — if elected less than a month from now — the power to expel any landed, illegal and (I’m sure he’d add legal) immigrants with a snap of his fingers. All he’d have to do is declare their home country an enemy of the US.
If he also ran the Seditions Act in tandem, it would also him power over the free press. He could shut down any and all media that isn’t favourable to him. One very right-wing media streamer Right Side Broadcasting, who filled the vacuum left by Fox News, who sometimes fact check the president, had a “reporter” covering the rally, telling viewers that the Springfield, Ohio migrants, who are there legally, are demonic, and raping and killing men, women and children. So I guess they’re safe.
Now, the Act expired soon thereafter, and the case was never heard by the Supreme Court at the time. But Trump can sign an executive order reinstating it, and as he’s got the majority of the Supreme Court in his back pocket, the same justices who said an official act by the President automatically gives him immunity, even for the worst crimes.
You can see where this is going.
People wonder why I am ‘obsessed’ with this election.
Because it might be their last.
And we’ve got a CONservative leader, Pierre Poillievre, who wants to “take Canada back”. (Was “Make Canada Great Again” already trademarked?) He’s a milquetoast version of the Orange Cheeto.
His party are leading in opinion polls. The ruling Liberals have a minority government, and their partnership with the NDP was recently dissolved. The first chance he got, ol’ Pollievre called for a non-confidence motion, which failed. He tried again, and also failed. But the bugger is chomping at the bit for an early election while the political winds blow out of his ass.
Which means, it could just as easily happen here.
And it makes me sick to my stomach that, come November 6th, the first domino may fall.
I did. Back in high school, during a drama club rehearsal.
You know high school auditoriums (or at least the ones built pre-1960s). Very large stage, orchestra pit below in front, then auditorium seating (wooden chairs).
We were rehearsing what we called a backstage production. Instead of facing out to a large empty room, our sets were rotated 90 degrees. Audience sat on the stage. The main curtain would be lowered to assist with the intimacy.
All the Laws of Nature. That was the play. Set in… Italy, during maybe the Renaissance? We all wore black tights as part of our costumes. I’ll loop back to this later.
I’d graduated from gopher (go for a coffee order from the cast, go for burgers from Jon Anderson’s across the road (and a few other places) in grade 9. My big break came late my freshman year. Okay, I definitely don’t remember the name of this one. But the name involved a blackout. The play started in complete darkness, and when the power goes out, the lights come up. Only the actors can’t see each other, or their surroundings. They were expecting a German art appraiser (a cameo). He comes in the final minutes of the play, Stumbles through the front door and promptly falls through a trap door on the floor and the door gets slammed shut. The guy cast in the role had to quit a week out from its debut, and the director threw me in.
Oh gods, I sucked. And I
In one performance, I didn’t duck fast enough after falling through the floor, and the door slammed on my head. (That was the closest I’d fine my name surrounded by stars.)
Slight concussion. Only no one took it seriously, including me.
Fast forward one year. Now I’m a sophomore. (Yes I know we don’t use these terms in Canada. I just don’t want to write a bland grade 10. This is my blog. My rules.) And I have to wear black tights for the role. (And this was not the most ridiculous look I’d carry in high school.)
We’re on break. I pick up my yellow Sony Walkman (cassettes) in my right hand (easter egg) and throw on my headphones with the fuzzy orange foam cushions. I remember there was some impediment that blocked my path down the middle of the stage to the dressing room. I had to scoot along the edge of the stage. The yellow curtains were drawn shut so you couldn’t see the empty chairs. Or the mass of metal music stands and metal chairs assembled in the orchestra pit. (The music room was being renovated.)
And you couldn’t see exactly where the stage ended.
I’m sixteen. I’m invincible. I’m a risk taker. I walk so close to the curtains I can feel the velvet brush my shoulder.
“Oh shit.”
The Walkman, which as I mention had been in my right hand — which should have made contact first as it was in my right hand which cleared the edge of the stage — somehow landed on the stage. Whereas I. Did. Not.
Everyone came running when they heard the musical death trap score first blood.
Once clear of the accident scene, I stood up and walked it off.
Nope, no one thought, “maybe we should take this guy to the hospital to be sure he’s okay”. And it never occurred to me.
But then the bruise came. From the top of my shoulder, down my arm, on the side of my torso, hip, thigh and calf. Unimpeded. It’s not bruises. It’s Bruise.
Try to get that into tights after. And it triggered a sizeable depressive episode. I couldn’t change in front of the cast, and present my hubris. I couldn’t be in any company. So every break, I slipped off to a nook offset the dressing room we weren’t using. After a time, one of the actors found me, and laid into me about my disrespecting everyone by isolating myself. (I guess depression wasn’t discussed back then. Definitely not with me.) I showed him the Bruise. He apologized.
A month after the final performance, a bunch of us were hanging out in the drama teacher/director’s office. (The only teacher who had one, and he allowed smoking. The other option was going out the door at the back of the room, which exited to the front of the school.) He had one of those one-a-day-sayings on his desk. One had already been discarded, and I almost stepped on it.
It read:
Paul’s Law. You can’t fall off the floor.
You’d think once in a lifetime would be a million-to-one shot. But in late March, I fell forward while picking up groceries from outside our condo, and seriously fucked up my right foot.
4 MRIs (3 for the foot, and one for my lower back) and 2 x-rays later.
What I know so far.
I have degenerative disks in my lower back. On my right side. Arthritis. Thankfully nothing’s out of place. My right foot? Well for starters, there is a cyst between the joints, which are also suffering from osteoarthritis. The fracture was a false positive. And a bone spur on my plantar in my heel. Cause of the nerve pain? I (hopefully) find out on Friday.
And if you think it started back then.
Let’s go back to when I was eight, and after bugging my mother for weeks to get a skateboard because all my friends had one and I don’t wanna be left out, I set out on my maiden voyage.
Which lasted exactly one second. Because I immediately lost my balance and fell backward. My right foot (which I tried to use on the back end — and in hindsight, I should’ve gone the other way) slammed onto the asphalt driveway. I hobbled back inside and down to the rec room, where I told my mother what happened and that I couldn’t walk and maybe I needed someone to look at it. She thought I was exaggerating. Said if I was still limping on Sunday (it was Thursday, Linda Carter was spinning into Wonder Woman on the television) she would take me to Scarborough General Hospital.
The x-ray came back. I’d chipped a fragment off my heel bone. The doctor said I’d walk with a limp the rest of my life.
I defied the odds.
Until March 25, 2024.
Now I limp (to varying degree, depending on the pain) and surmised after getting the latest results (you can’t cure osteoarthritis, but you can take Tylenol for the pain. Yippee.
The “temporary” use of a cane is looking a lot like a permanent fixture. Until the day comes I’m in a wheelchair. I’ve seen my future.
Hopefully the cyst will be gone by then, and we’ll have solved the nerve pain question.
Help. I’ve fallen. And I can’t get back up.
1983. The Great Atomic Bomb Song and Dance Roadshow. It was the future. We were so fashion forward.1984. Not my worst look in high school. But I wanted to present the cast and crew of Bloodsong, a musical about a 3-girl alt-rock vampire band. We were so edgy in the ’80s.1985. This is the fashion nightmare I was talking about. A grey Michael Jackson Thriller rip-off and a perm. I was ahead of my time. Which was the 1950s, apparently.
The Bloody Doors Off 