The Former Traveling Spotlight

The tales of a "30" something gay former stand-up comic living in NYC who is searching for his soul mate or soul...which ever comes first.





Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Wanna Ride?

As a child growing up, I loved amusement parks, and specifically roller coasters. I was and still am a fanatic, but as a child I could relate everything to ride technology. I was the kid who would read every news paper advertisement regarding new ride openings, and knew of every ride in Disney World before I ever got there. And If I couldn't discuss amusement parks, I would find a way to relate the topic of conversation to amusement parks.

Recently, over the summer, I found myself doing just that. I was sitting at brunch grazing and gazing (that's eating small amounts of food while lusting after the single gay men sitting around us), when my companion and I started speculating what it would be like to date the different men around us. I described each guy as a different amusement park ride.


  • The Antique Cars
    This is the ride we all know. Safe, reliable, and entertaining...at first. But after a few minutes, you realize you are stuck with this guy until you find an exit. The speed never goes faster than 4 miles an hour, and nothing is exciting.

  • The Carousel
    This is the slut of the amusement park. Everyone, and I mean everyone in the park has had a ride at least once.

  • The Bumper Cars
    This is the kind of guy who starts moving in one direction, and as soon as you've got any momentum going (WHAM!) turns into a different direction, giving you emotional whiplash.

  • The Log Flume/ Rapids
    This guy...well you enjoy the ride while it lasts, but near the end of the ride, he soaks you emotionally, leaving you wet and miserable for an incredibly long time afterwards to remember him.

  • The Tilt a Whirl
    One time with this guy is fun. Spend too long with him and you want to puke.

  • The Roller Coaster
    This guy will take you on a major emotional thrill ride, but it just never stops. You'll be screaming and screeching, but he is always in control, and you can only hope that somewhere along the way he has an emergency brake, or at least a good harness.

  • The Observation Tower
    This is the guy you date while trying to get to know the other types of guys out there. You go out with him, but really are looking for something else.

  • The Giant Swing
    This guy looks like a promising guy, but three seconds later...that's it. It's over, and you find yourself wondering why you bothered paying the extra money for such a short ride. A complete let down.


The hard part about doing this, was that I realized I should probably categorize myself into an amusement park ride as well. For now...I'm not sure. I think I say I'm the ticket booth.

Patrick - 3:04 PM -








Monday, October 30, 2006

Throwing My Legs Over My Head

Recently, I signed up to run a new race. A 4 mile run in Central Park that starts up the east drive and back down the west (crossing the park at 102nd and 72 streets). The run itself shouldn't be that bad, but I'm not yet running at my full strength since I've got out of surgery. But that isn't my main concern. My main concern is that it's November, and I hate the cold. I live on the North East coast and I HATE THE COLD!

It's why I despise the fall. The minute the wind blows my nipples get so hard that I could etch drawings into glass (which isn't saying much since my nipples are always visible regardless of what I wear). If it weren't for the fact that Hawaii is so far away from the mainland and flights are so expensive, I'd move there. I'd rather have leathery skin from sun exposure than goose bumps on my ass, and the need to wear fifteen layers of clothing.

Running in the fall becomes problematic. What does a short, poor guy like me wear while running outside in the late fall? I still sweat like a whore in church, so it has to be moisture whisking, but still keep me warm, as my candy ass will be miserable if my teeth can't stop chattering.

Which is why I went shopping in SOHO this weekend. I was looking for some type of warm up pants. Now I've been to Target and K-mart, and in both cases, the clothing that would fit my waist was unacceptable in the length. I would need to grow 8 inches taller to wear the pants. Thus, SOHO looked like a decent place to search out athletic gear.

I entered the one store and saw a sign that said men's clothing were located upstairs. Up the stairs I went, and at the far end of the store, I found pants I might be able to wear. I grabbed a size small and looked for a changing room, and after circling the upstairs twice, the salesperson informed me that the dressing rooms were on the first floor. Thus back downstairs, where I tried on the potential purchase. They fit fine, and I made my way back up the stairs to find a coordinating jacket. That was when it happened.

Last week, my boss came into the office sick. Since then, both my coworker and I have gotten sick. Yesterday, I took cold medication to make me feel a little better. In reality, all the medication did was make me sleepy. Walking those steps a second time was exhausting, but I continued to climb them, until I reached the last step. I placed my left foot on the last step and for whatever reason, my foot slipped and I tumbled to the ground. That normally would be bad enough, but because I was still on the stairway, I proceeded to roll backwards down the stairway, head over feet,(boom, boom, boom, boom) landing at the base of the stairs, in women's lingerie. I opened my eyes to see panties hovering over my head (which in itself is more frightening than falling down the stairs). Immediately, every sales person in the place was running to my side to see if I was alive.

The first, a 16 year old girl, asked if I was all right. I just looked at her, with a beet red face and asked "are these on sale"? I didn't care if they had cost my entire month's salary, I'd have bought them. Lucky for me they only cost $15. Either that, or the salesperson just wanted to sell them to me and have me get out as quickly as possible.

Now who wants to bet that it will be warm enough during my race next month that I won't need to wear them.

Patrick - 2:55 PM -








Friday, October 27, 2006

Seven in One Blow!

I'm currently in a bad mood. And nothing improves a bad mood more than spreading it around. Thus, I did that today.

I go to the gym daily, usually to burn off steam and to keep some muscle mass, as I'm losing weight easily right now. The trainers all know me really well, since they see me daily. They also know I'm working hard to keep my weight stabilized.

Today, while in the locker room, I got onto the scale. Moving the sliding counterweights around, I peeked with one eye to see how much I really weighed. The one personal trainer saw me peeking and said, "Well?"

I looked in disbelief and exclaimed "Woo-Hoo!!!! I just gained a pound!" and jumped off the scale. As I turned around, I caught the eyes of about 7 guys in the locker room all giving me a dirty look. Obviously they disapproved of my happy moment...or at least the celebratory dance.


***evil smile***

Good!

Patrick - 3:30 PM -








Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Semantics. They can be such a complication that even adults have difficulties with it. If I go out to dinner with another man, and run into someone, you can bet I'll be asked who my "friend" is. I've even been asked if someone was a "friend" or a "friend friend". Yes, it's confusing for adults, but imagine how it is for kids.

Currently the Tuna Daughter is having issues with this. A side note...in reality, Tuna Daughter should be called tunagirl, but since her flying fish mom claimed the name, Tuna Daughter gets this one. Maybe she should be called guppy? Anyway...Tuna Daughter has asked a few times if I was Tunagirl's boyfriend. (***giggle***)

Well in a sense she is right, as I am male and we are friends, but by calling me "boyfriend" she is connotating a romantic relationship that others would perceive badly. I can just hear the military wives on base all cackling with the gossip that Tunagirl is having an affair. No...I shouldn't be called a boyfriend, and Tuna agrees, and corrected her. Once again, she explained in "child friendly" terms that some boys like other boys like her mommmy and daddy like each other. Tuna Daughter is smart and she understands, but she makes interesting connections based on explanations.

Mommy and daddy were boyfriend and girlfriend. Daddy and mommy got married and now live together, happily ever after (just like every fairy tale). Therefore daddy was mommy's "prince charming" and that's why they are together. So the next question out of Tuna Daughter's mouth is "Who is Uncle Patrick's boyfriend?"

***blank stare***

The kids are coming to visit the week of Thanksgiving. That gives me three weeks to find a boyfriend who is kid friendly. No stress.

:-)

Patrick - 1:07 PM -








Tuesday, October 24, 2006

365

365 days
1 relationship sadly ended
9 times I've ran into or seen prior relationship guy
6 extremely boring dates (hello...Goodbye...To the curb).
x sexual partners (I'm keeping secrets...Feel free to guess.)
40 job applications
2 jobs
2 different residences
1 major surgery
12 lbs
1 root canal
2 crowns
1 bottle of xannax
1 five mile race
5 theater productions
6 comedy shows I performed in (God bless Stand Up NY)
9 house guests
2 mice
3 visible and now dead cockroaches
6 rats in the subway
8 people I've wanted to kill on the trains
2 number of times I've fallen asleep and woke up past my station
2 Provincetown trips
4 visits to friends in the hospital
3 motion pictures
1 time bowling
1 Big Mac (which was awful!)
32 restaurant dinners
1 nearly stolen bottle of vodka (which was returned!)
1 police encounter
2 building maintenance calls
1 new driver's license
1 year



I moved here one year ago today. I guess this makes me officially a New Yorker.

Patrick - 3:12 PM -








Monday, October 23, 2006

Obligations

We all have obligations in life, those that we have no choice over (like dying and paying taxes), the self inflicted ones (I've got to work out more), and the guilt ridden ones (exactly when is the last time you called your mother?).

It's the guilt inflicted type that has always been my worst enemy. No, I don't feel the need to call my mother (in fact...I have no idea where she is) and calling my grandmother is currently like rubbing salt in an open wound. Instead, I self impose my own stupid requirements on myself.

I don't know where all of these rules came into being, but since it wouldn't be a good day if I couldn't bash my grandmother once, I'd say it starts from her. She's the one who taught me that I should judge myself based on how other people think of me. Have I ever mentioned that she doesn't have much of a self esteem? Good to see it runs in the family. If I'm asked to do something that I don't want to do...I'll still do it. In my head I'll begin to think "What would people think of me if I didn't do _____ in return?"

This can be really problematic in certain situations, specifically sex. Aren't their times when you are obliged to put out? A wise woman told me a phrase that I've used for the longest time.

"Just because he put his dick inside you, does not me you owe him a damn thing!"

I've used that phrase often...but I've not practiced what I've preached. I've done the deed because I've felt I've had to. Obligatory sex. He's done these things for me, so I at least owe him an hour or so. How long can it really last? Of course, it isn't easy. How exactly are you supposed to have sex with someone when you don't want to, or aren't even attracted to the person?

I know the joke, "point your ankles to Jesus and think of handbags!", but it's much more difficult than that. When you find yourself wishing you were kissing a dead fish instead kissing the person you are with, something is the matter. At what point do you say "Stop! I find your physically, emotionally, and spiritually repulsive and the thought of you and I having sex makes me vomit a little in my mouth!" It's like being a really low paid prostitute who eventually despises his customer. "You bought dinner? Aww shit...I have to sleep with you now. Make it quick."

But "just because he put his dick inside you..." or visa versa, doesn't mean you are obliged to do it again. Except I was raised to be the nice guy, always accommodating the other person. Put other people's needs above your own. "What would he think if I said no?" But when putting someone else's needs above your own sacrifices your own self esteem, it's time to stop.

At least I think so. So how do you stop?

Patrick - 4:06 PM -








Friday, October 20, 2006

One Track Mind


Many who are attempting weight loss equate their heavy burden with their emotional burdens. No love life? It's from being overweight and unattractive. Bad job? Who hires fat people? Those people (and I'm one of them sometimes) think that all your problems go away with the excess weight. So many people believe that once they reach that goal weight, their lives will be perfect.

143

I got on the scale yesterday and this was the number. I've not weighed 143 since I was in high school. Now I'm the first to admit that I'm not losing weight the healthy way, nor am I even trying to lose weight. However, eating 600-800 calories a day via liquids only, I'm at a loss to stop the loss for now. Ensure ain't cheap folks, but I've discovered some really good soup recipes.

African Peanut Soup
Indian Cucumber Soup
Pepper and Ginger Soup
Loaded Baked Potato Soup (probably just what you think it is)
S'more Surprise Soup

Ok...that last one is my own idea. 1 package of graham crackers with 4 cups of chocolate milk and two tablespoons of marshmallow fluff. Puree in a blender. Surprise...Instant soup!

And this is what my life has been reduced to. I find myself thinking about food all the time, even when my mind should be focused on other things. Ever tried masturbating when all you can think about is a hot guy eating a hamburger. Or fantasizing about a 6 man orgy that involves the guys dividing up a lasagna? If it wasn't for hot dogs, I'd fear my future sex life would be ruined.

I've even found myself browsing the bookstores, spending time in the cookbook sections. It's my new porn, and when I read a story about how to cook a salt crusted filet mignon, I start breaking out into a cold sweat and find myself salivating. Especially when it's served with mushrooms cooked in a red wine sauce.

I wonder if I could masturbate with food? Where's the cucumber?

Patrick - 3:30 PM -








Thursday, October 19, 2006

Four Letter Words

Lately, I've found myself having an affinity for four letter words. I'd like to blame it on the fact that I'm only eating about 700 calories a day, or that I normally have the vernacular of a sailor on leave, but since I went back to work this week, I've found that work stress is causing me to express my emotions in single syllable words.

Rhymes with truck:
Returning to the restaurant, I've found out that my bartending shifts were replaced by other bartenders. The restaurant has "generously" offered me a couple of server shifts (of course, the pay is less than 1/2 the hourly rate and I now have to pool my tips), meaning I won't be making as much money there. I think the appropriate phrase is "fuck"? As in "thank you for fucking me over!"

Rhymes with snap:
After finding out that I will no longer be having my supplemental income from the food and beverage industry, I went home where I found in my mailbox the renewal notice of my lease. In this notice, I found that my rent is going up $90 bucks. This means that after my day job pays my rent, I will have $110 for utilities, credit card payment, and food. Crap!

Rhymes with spit:
Over the past month, I've been having sporadic conversations with "the fisherman". But my counsel in all relationship matters (hell, she has slept with more gay men than I have) asked me a very pointed question. "Do you believe that crock of shit?" No...I don't.

Rhymes with Bell:
My other situation currently going on is much more difficult. Depending how things work out, if a decision (someone else's) isn't made soon...I'm going to raise hell. Serious, throwing things against the wall, threatening bodily harm, and possible extortion type of hell. The kind of hell that has others standing aside hiding until the first wave of attacks is over and they can possibly run for safety.

I don't know about you....but I could really use a drink right now. Too bad cranberry juice doesn't have the same effect as vodka.

Patrick - 3:13 PM -








Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Oh Baby!

People call them "bundles of joy". Ain't it cute?

A woman who has that paternal instinct pumping in her blood will squeal in delight when seeing a new rugrat. I've even heard some swear that the "baby smell" is so wonderful!

***blank stare***

The smell of puke, crap, and baby powder is good? Uh...I'll pass.

Maybe it's just me, but rarely do I get those feelings when I see a small baby. Usually when I see an infant, they look more like this,

and always when I'm about to get on a plane. Yes babies cry when tired, scared, hungry, or even when they're just pissed off that the Yankees are out of the playoffs. But the number one reason babies cry so much, has nothing to do with any of those reasons.

It's the food. Seriously, I should know. I've been eating it now for 4 weeks as my closest form of solid food. What the fuck are parents feeding their kids? Chicken mixed with sweet potatoes and apples (all pureed into one jar!)? Have you ever tasted that mixture? I would think not. So why would you give it to a person who doesn't have the ability to tell you how bad that shit tastes!

Baby food in general tastes like crap! Obviously the reason babies puke so much. Even the fruit purees have a weird after taste, and the meat...well the meat smells like canned dog food. In fact, had I known that it smelled like that in the past, I would have given it to my dog when she was alive, as the baby food is way cheaper.

For those of you who want to be parents...I suggest this. Before you feed your baby any of that food, eat a jar yourself. If you can eat it, not retch, and still smile afterwards, your baby deserves a taste.

Me personally? I've given up on the baby food, and just stuck to Ensure and pureed soups. I'd rather starve than ever tried the Turkey, Gravy, Sweet Potatoes, Green Bean mixture again.

Patrick - 2:25 PM -








Friday, October 13, 2006

Prison Break

Today being Friday the 13th is also the last day I have off for medical leave. My doctor has approved me to go back to work on Monday. So what does it feel like to work from home for three weeks? Kind of like sitting in prison.

Did you know that there are 57 wooden planks that make up the width of the floor in my apartment? There are also 18 vertical bars and 8 horizontal bars on my windows. My first floor is 21 feet long and 10 feet wide (except where my fireplace is, where the width is 9 feet.

When you are unemployed, you spend so much time in your own home that you start getting the redecorating bug. Paint the walls green? How about red? Suddenly I'm thinking both. Maybe I should finally break down and buy some furniture.

It's the bad part of being in the home for too many hours. You could easily spend yourself into debt. I've been good though...the farthest I've gone is paint chips. But now I want to change something. What color do you think the walls should be?

Patrick - 5:00 PM -








Thursday, October 12, 2006

Cumming Clean

Yesterday was coming out day and I completely forgot. It's the one day I'm supposed to stand up loud and proud and tell the world about myself. I do have a problem though. I don't know anyone who doesn't know that I'm gay. It's a little ridiculous to walk up to your neighbor and say "I'm gay" when that same neighbor saw you make out with a guy six months ago. I guess I could go up to my boss and say "I'm a big ol' mo!" But his answer would more than likely be "You going to happy hour tonight?" He knows me well.

But it was National Coming Out Day, so I should divulge something that most people don't know. That's getting more difficult. I'm a fairly open person about the more trivial things. Here goes.

*** I can't drive a stick shift. ***


It's an outdated skill, something that you never think you're going to need, until that one time when your friend has had too much to drink. This was the case back in college. One of my best drinking buddies and I went out for a night on the town, and we borrowed her boyfriend's car to get to the club. Drinks and dancing and flirting were performed until the club closed at 2:00 am. We had missed the last chance at a bus back to Boulder and my friend was not the best choice to drive us home. So she passed me the keys.

The Boulder to Denver trip is only 36 miles and most it is highway. The 6 stop lights to the highway are a whole different story. I blew my load and stalled out at least 50 times going 6 blocks. We both were suffering from whiplash by the time I finally got us onto the highway.

For the next 36 miles, it was pretty smooth sailing (except I think I left 4th gear on the highway...my bad) until we hit the stop lights of Boulder Colorado. 3 am and we are stalling and jerking all the way to the center of town, where my friend finally insisted I pull over into the parking garage. Grabbing her neck (which had to be in pain) she called for a cab to take her the rest of the way home.

Yeah...it feels good to get that off my chest.

Patrick - 1:13 PM -








Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Chicken of the Sea

Last year, as the season was ending in Provincetown, the restaurant I was working at began to close on particular days, thus I was starting to get a few days off. On one of those particular days, I went to the beach and watched a group of men fishing off of the pier. Being friendly, I struck up a conversation and asked about how one goes about catching a fish. The one fisherman put it in easy terms for me.

Put the bait on the hook, cast the line out and wait for a fish to take the bait. Reel the line in some, and then let the fish swim a bit until it forgets it has been caught. Reel the line in closer and let the fish swim again. Finally reel the fish close enough and use the net to pull it out of the water.

It was actually pretty interesting to watch, but thinking about it yesterday, I realized that dating is sometimes similar. Let it be known:

There may be plenty of fish in the sea, but I'm not a fish.

Patrick - 4:44 PM -








Monday, October 09, 2006

Makes Me Want to Scream!

One of my neighbors is a serious catch. A nice guy, who is a medical resident at Columbia. His speciality is orthopedic surgery and when he finishes, he's going to making the bucks. He's athletic and runs daily. And as I discovered when I first moved in to my place, has a very healthy sexual appetite (NYC walls are thin!).

His last girlfriend was an Asian woman who seemed really nice. She was a low key woman (and I believe a surgical resident as well) and for the most part was very quiet. The only time she would be loud was during sex, and them both working so much, well it wasn't that often. All I can say is that he definitely made her a very happy woman. That and that he likes his partners to make a little noise.

But then they broke up.

I would have thought he would have needed a longer "healing" time than he actually took, but he's begun a new relationship with a new woman. This time, she's a white woman. An undergraduate, sounds like a "soriety girl", nasal, annoying twit of a little girl. The first day I heard her come over she stated at the doorway "Oh my gawd! I totally didn't know you had an elevator!"

An hour later, I heard what was going to be the newest annoyance in my life. It started with the new girl moaning. It then progressed into what would turn out to be full fledged screaming at the top of her lungs. EEEEEYYYAAAAAAAAYYAAAAAAAAA!!!!!

I had to leave my apartment, and as I went down to the first floor, she was still easily heard. Loud enough that the first floor apartment resident opened her door and looked out into the hallway. I couldn't take it, and walked up to his door, beat on the damn thing and screamed "She's fucking faking it!"

In a perfect world, that would have ended the relationship, but this isn't the case. The noise and screaming has continued, and now it's time. I'm delcaring war. The bitch has got to go.

Besides fucking this guy myself, anybody have any suggestions as to how I can break them up? Either that, or should I put a ball gag on the door with instructions as to how to put it on her?

Patrick - 2:18 PM -








Thursday, October 05, 2006

One Hot Box

Yesterday, while taking my daily walk, I ventured into "the Land of Straight Man", otherwise known as Circuit City. I only go there when I'm bored (and believe me...over a week off of work and I'm REALLY bored!).

Every time I go into that store, it's the same thing. Straight men everywhere stare and salivate at televisions larger than my apartment, while their wives and girlfriends try to distract them away from pulling out the credit card. I walked down the aisle of televisions, each playing the same images, and scanned the prices.

$3100.00
$2900.00
$2100.00
$1900.00
$1400.00 (open box sale)
$1700.00

I just sort of stood there stunned. When the fuck did televisions get to be so expensive? Unfortunately, I stood in one place too long. At Circuit City, the people work on commission, and the salesman swooped in for the kill. Little did he know what he was about to meet.

Now is it just me, or can anybody really tell the difference between a high definition television picture and a regular picture? I asked the salesman what was really the difference, and his jaw dropped. I must have just landed on this planet, or have been stranded on a remote island. (Cleveland, Ohio...close enough).

He guided me over to an area where two televisions sat side by side. One displaying a typical analog display. "Notice how fuzzy the image is? How the colors aren't that true?" he said. He then turns on the high definition television. The way he was acting, the choirs of angels began singing the moment electricity passed into this machine. "See how crisp the image is?" he asked.

"No." I answered truthfully.

He directed me to move close to the screen (an inch or two away) and take note that on the "outdated" televisions, you could see the horizontal lines, but in the new televisions you can't see the lines.

"But who watches a television from two inches away?" I asked.
"The newer televisions put less of a strain on your eyes" he said.
"So does sitting four feet away from the television."
"But your cable television transmission will come in much more clear."

And with that, I committed the greatest of all sins. I admitted the unspeakable.
"I don't have cable television." I said.

The look he gave me said he couldn't comprehend the words coming from my mouth. I went on to explain that I only watch about one show a week (Damn you Jase for getting me hooked on Lost), which I think made this salesman's ears start to bleed.

With my last statement, he turned, and just walked away, leaving me alone. I walked out of the store and continued down Broadway, thinking about the whole thing. I like the look of the new flat televisions, as you can mount them on the wall and save prime apartment space, but that's about it. I don't get the whole straight guy fascination with the huge televisions. I continued to ponder it, walking down the street when something shiny caught my eye. A silver buckle on a black leather shoe. On sale for only $450.

I'm so gay.

Patrick - 12:19 PM -








Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Mmmmm...Soup!

Yesterday evening was my first appointment with the doctor since the surgery, which means going to the office. I entered the door and checked in, where the receptionist quickly announced that they had to take my picture. Backing me against the wall, she snapped my picture while the waiting room full of people applauded. She announced that the picture is placed onto the "Wall of Success!" This is the picture filled wall of gastric bypass patients who have lost a significant amount of weight over the year and are there for the 1 year checkup. I was just going to let it go, by the nurse in charge told her to remove my photo, since I'm not a bypass patient. The other patients stared at me like an enemy, not welcome since I didn't share their problems.

Part of my thought "Fuck em'! I got problems of my own!" But another part of me felt bad. This surgeon's practice is 99% weight loss surgery and I don't fit in. The office staff is conditioned to assume every patient is a weight loss patient, and have insisted I complete certain procedures before meeting with the surgeon (something they retract when I explain I'm not a weight loss surgery candidate). This treatment makes me almost want to claim weight loss surgery just to "fit in".

Thankfully I was taken into the back room where the doctor did an examination. He removed my drainage tube and checked my wounds, then sent me to the x-ray department to get a "quick video esophagram". Why doctor's ever say any type of test is "quick" is beyond me. Two hours later I was marched back into the office to see the doctor.

I hate Groundhog day. Mainly because I can never remember if the animal is supposed to see his shadow or not, but in the end, it always seems we are supposed to have 6 more weeks of winter. The doctor in this case saw his shadow and issued his judgment. He's not happy with the rate I'm healing, so I'm not allowed any solid foods for the next 12 weeks. 12 freaking weeks!!!! This means I won't able to eat anything besides pureed soups until Christmas day. Thanksgiving dinner is going to consist of chicken broth and a side of juice.

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Ok...That's out of my system. Anyone have a good recipe for soup?

Patrick - 3:17 PM -








Tuesday, October 03, 2006

You Smell Something?

What a difference a week makes. Over the past 10 days, my routine has been fairly the same. Wake up at 6 am, have a chicken broth for breakfast, pop a Percocet and go for my morning walk (usually the four blocks to Broadway). Over the past week, I've been increasing my walk length and speed. Sadly...I'm going to miss those hard core pain killers...as now all I have left is Vicodin...not nearly as good. See the pleasant look on my face?

This is what a pain free recovery should look like. Notice the morphine dilated pupils. It shouldn't surprise me that I don't even remember this photo being taken.

Do you smell anything right now? Yeah...Sorry about that...It would be me. I've been wearing the same bandages since the surgery. At first, I didn't think it was me, as in the hospital everything smells, but it was the nurse's aid that first keyed me in. My only immigrated from Western Africa a month before I had surgery nurse's aid. She walked into my room the day after surgery, helped me out of bed and put me into the chair before changing my bed.

She then looked at me and wrinkled her nose slightly and said "You need to bath!" After bringing in a basin of water and soap, she crumbled up my sheets from the night before into a pile on the bed and looked at me and said, "Take off your gown!" I didn't dare challenge the woman, but figured I'd wait until she left the room before I stood completely naked.

That wouldn't be the case. She stepped back and waited for me to disrobe. With curtain open, door to the hallway wide open and a perfect view of the nurses station, I had to remove my robe. I stood there, right hand cupping and somewhat covering the Doyle "breakfast special", while my left arm still had the IV needle in the arm. The woman looked me up and down and said "very nice."

***blank stare***

Very nice? Did she actually say very nice? Well I'm glad my naked, stoned out of my mind, body is pleasing to your eyes! It wasn't until later that I realized she confused the words "nice" and "good". At least I hope so. But right then I didn't have time to think about it much, because the woman began giving me a sponge bath.
I feel a little strange, as this woman (through a wash towel) touched me in areas that I don't think any woman has ever touched me before. Jeazy creazy, in her country, we'd probably be married now.

This was not was I would have expected, and although it was nice to get somewhat clean, I'm a little surprised they didn't have a male nurse's aid to do this. If it was the other way around, and it was a woman patient...hell would have frozen over before a man would have bathed her.

She left the room and I stood naked for a few minutes until she brought me a new gown. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bemused look of the roommate, who was all too aware of what I was having to go through.

When she left, he finally spoke.

"I see you met the nurse's aid. Aren't you getting morphine?" he asked.
"Yes." I answered.
"That can really constipate you. You know she gives the enemas as well."

And that was the second reason I asked for discharge the next day!

Patrick - 2:19 PM -








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