There's something...

"There's something about America. You know what it is about America? Space, and stuff."

It's Because of You (a love letter)

It's because of you I'm writing this. Before you, writing was intangible. It was a discussion, not a reality. Your directness and harsh honesty had me yelling outside the Tower of London. Russian tourist groups turned to watch. I remember yelling at you crossing the Tower Bridge. Saying things I didn't mean. It's because of you and what you said that I've written what I have since then. It's because of you that I see the future I want as a possibility now, a door no longer locked by nonsense and fear.
"Write then," you said.
It's because of you that I ended up sitting cross-legged in front of a Laotian Buddhist healer this afternoon. And that with you so far away. You're not within 5,000 miles and yet, it was because of you. And earlier today, before finding myself there, drinking blessed water in a cup with a gold chain hanging out and a golden amulet with bright blue stones, you had me just as angry. The same reasons really, your directness. The same harsh honesty from you, only this time in a tone of voice and a mere goodbye. Your effect on me disgusted me. So powerful, and from so little.
But then I found myself there in that healer's little tent and meditating. And she told me to bow to the Buddha and pray for what I most want in this world. And what did I ask for? Only the patience to get through these moments with you. And love. The love to keep the patience. And lastly the courage to follow through with the things I want to do in this life, to write, my love, and plant a garden. And just in asking for it, it was as if granted. Not by the Buddha per say, though who's to say for sure, but by the fact that that was what I asked for. Those four simple things. And in asking for them I became aware that is what I want. And the clarity of it is like having them already, because I know what I want, and I know that it's because of you and me that I'm here now. And it will be because of you that the next time I falter or hesitate or doubt, I will be met with directness, harsh honesty, and love.

Twists and Turns

My cell rattles on the kitchen counter, making the cord of the charger snake a little. I'm finishing up an email to my girlfriend, telling her that I'm feeling much better. The swelling (post brain surgery) on the right side of my face has gone down and I'm off the pain meds. I throw a period at the end of the sentence and cross into the kitchen to check the phone. It's a text message from her. I read it but I don't remember much. Maybe I smiled at something cute she wrote. Maybe she said she loved me. I don't remember that. But the last line gave me pause and within minutes I was back at the breakfast table repeating it to myself.

The weather in Zurich is lovely today.

I'm sorry, what? How did this happen? Just a few weeks ago I was living my life. Mine. Now, I'm not particularly well know as a man who "has his shit together". It's just not my style. But I was living my life, damnit. I had a messy apartment. I had a beautiful, passionate girlfriend that I lived with. I had various odd jobs. I went out drinking sometimes with friends. You might not call it orderly but it was what I was used to. It was my life.

So, the question begs to be asked. What the hell is this?

The weather in Zurich is lovely today.

My girlfriend is writing me about the weather in Zurich. Now, that must mean that my girlfriend is in Zurich, looking around at the weather. The fact that I'm receiving the text means that I am not with her. No, I am here in my mother's house in Los Angeles in hospital pajamas (cause they're damn comfortable) receiving her message.

As I ponder this curveball, I remember that I need my mother to look through her old credit card receipts to find proof of purchase of my computer. She listens to me as I ask it of her, says ok with a relaxed smile, and turns to return to the kitchen. As she makes her way back to whatever she was in the middle of, I hear her muttering to herself. "Look through credit card records." When I was young and my mother would rattle off the list of chores I was to do that day, I would repeat them outloud to myself so as not to forget. I couldn't focus well on such things. There was nintendo to be played, and somehow I thought repeating it would help me remember a simple list of simple tasks. It didn't work, but that's not the point. At some time, my mother and I had reversed roles. The thoughts crossed my mind in succession: my mother is old and muttering, my girlfriend is in Zurich, the weather is lovely there.

I looked back at the email I'd yet to send and it all flooded in, finally and totally sweeping the idea of my life well away. What the shit!!?

My brain swelling has gone down.
The weather in Zurich is lovely today.
"Go through credit card records for Joey."

If time is a pitch, it's a sinker. That is until you think it's a sinker and then it changes to a fast ball and blows by your left cheek at 96 mph. The next time you see it, it's a change up.

If it's a river, it'll flash flood. If it's a hose it'll kink.

Here's to thinking we know what's going to happen. We might as well drink to it. The truth will shock us less if we're drunk.

Thanks to Houston's

To continue with the post brain surgery theme...
After several days in the hospital and a couple at home, things are looking up. Granted, I still can't feel the entire right side of my face, but nobody can see that when they look at me now can they? As long as I don't try to to raise an inquisitive eyebrow or make any communicative facial gesture with the operating, left side of my face, no one will notice that the right side is a hanging, boneless, skinless, unseasoned chicken breast.

A dinner out with family is proposed, discussed, and considered to be at least mildly prudent. You know, so the patient can feel a bit more normal. For the first time in days, non-pajama pants are slid up legs. Buttons are followed by buttons. A shirt is delicately pulled over and down, sliding past an unfazed chicken-breast-of-a-cheek. We're going out! Someone bring the Percocet.

In order to feel somewhat normal, I would have to cover the line of staples down my head, of course. This leaves, however, few options. The undeniable truth is that white gauze and white tape tend to stand out against, well, most things, the human head being no exception. But, they are necessary and clean and so my sister artfully applies a new bandage to the side of my head, which I then attempt to cover with a classy little English checkered brown cap. Wearing clothes is normal. I'm on a roll. And so we roll out the door and to the Century City Shopping Center and the Houston's restaurant just off Santa Monica Boulevard.

We walk in and are shown to our table. The noise is amazing. TVs on in the bar. People talking. Women and men looking at each other. Ice clinking. Cooks shakin' and bakin' in the open kitchen. I'm back in the real world! The beautiful real...

"Excuse me, sir, but hats are not allowed in the dining area. I'm going to have to ask you to take that off."

I'm sorry, what? Caught completely off guard, my face reacts as it normally would. Well almost normally. My left eye opens wide in shock. Left eyebrow rises. Mouth hangs open. Right side of face sits on its haunches, cold and flabby. So much for normal.

"It's the restaurant policy that men cannot wear hats inside. I 'm just your waitress but I wanted to tell you because any minute a manager will come over and tell you the same thing."

Three of my four family members at the table say it at the same time.

"He just had brain surgery."

Then someone lets a "it's kind of holding a bandage onto his head" slip.

"Oh, OK," says the waitress. "I'll just go tell the manager about the special circumstances." But she hasn't taken four steps away from the table before restaurant-policy-pusher number two has rushed over to make us feel relaxed, at home, normal. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't wear a hat in the restaurant."

Again, from three directions, "brain surgery," "needs it for the bandage," "we just talked to the waitress about it."

"Oh, OK. I'll talk to the manager for you," she says.

She walks away. And then...wait for it...another one comes up. "Sir, we have a policy here at Houston's that gentlemen cannot wear hats in the dining area."

No joke. Three times in literally less than two minutes. My face tried to smile and its failure was complete. So much for normal.

Man meets morphine...leaves boy.

Brain surgery.
Shit's a bitch.
But it's nothing compared to the headache afterwards.
Sweet lord have mercy on my dome.
Look at the photo.
The train tracks (i.e. staples) in the photo are especially interesting given the fact that the doctors told me that they would be making a "keyhole incision". Keyhole my ass! It has thus far been likened to a machete gash along the nothing-keyhole-like-broadside-of-my-face.
Here's the post-op story.

After doing my time in the hospital and recovering well the doctors send me home. I roll out in my wheel chair with my rimmie-rims blinging in that so-cal sun feeling like about 6 dollars and 35 cents. I stop to get my vicodin in the hospital pharmacy on the way out, but that's it. The next day I wake up with a massive headache of new proportions, so I take the prescribed double shot of vicodin and try to go back to bed. It does NOT work. The pills don't touch the pain, which is now moving around and throbbing and shooting and passing over in waves and I eventually give in and say "Yes! Please take me back to that horrible place were they stuck all those horrible things into my soft body."
My father hops out of the car outside the ER yelling "brain sugery" and "gurney, gurney!" which has the desired effect. Within no time I'm in the Harbor-UCLA emergency room.
The pain was awful, the only comparable pain I can reference being a few days earlier when a well-intentioned but nonetheless inexpert female nursing student with an audience of two pulled a catheter out of my yonson. Lucky me who didn't know that once they pull the catheter out there's still a lil' balloon in there for an extra 3 seconds of excruciating discomfort. But back to the big brain.
It's pulsing and killing me on that ER bed and they put 5mg of morphine, a pain killer that hadn't been necessary when I was actually in the hospital, straight into my bloodstream. I wait a minute, and the pain subsides a little but lingers there, throbbing. Thus far, I am not too impressed with drugs. Vicodin has officially failed me and was never that strong or particularly fun in the first place, and now, morphine is like chump change. I ask for a little more and they shoot me up with another 5mg.
Now let's take a moment to discuss morphine's fame. As a young American boy, WWII movies are without a doubt the greatest source on morphine. When some young private is lying in the midst of the field bleeding to death, his buddies with invariably share a look, saying without talking, "give him the morphine, kill him, it's the right thing to do." The wounded soldier will cry out until his friends collect enough of those little army-green dosages that they then slam repeatedly into his thigh. His eyes get glassy and his breathing slows as all pain vanishes and the young PFC gets a calm, last moment of life on moist European soil.
Quite a moment for a young male movie-goer. Holy shit dude! Morphine.
But there in the hospital, two 5mg doses later, I wasn't staring up at clouds, birds weren't chirping, and I could still feel the headache. Only if I had been dying would I have been more disappointed in morphine.
An hour later though, the doctors wrapped up their investigation, deciding they had better send me home with some steroids to lower the swelling in and around my head, as well as a few more vicodin. My father or mother, in their divine wisdom of the moment, ask for another 5mg of morphine for the road, which the docs proffer willingly and which I accept openly, along with two vicodin pills and 4 little steroid pills. The faint whispers of the headache are still there, but I'm starting to feel better and I think, "hey, maybe it just took the morphine time to kick in..."
Well, either that is the gods honest truth, and I am the unlucky soldier whose blood stream requires 2 hours to absorb my euthanasian dose, or I had fallen into what real drug lovers call the "cocktail".
The next four hours were unlike anything I've ever experienced. Lying in my bed at home, cold sweating but not uncomfortable, out of it but not sleeping, I finally realized why they gave morphine to dying men. I was dead. I was so flat-out stoned that I was uncomfortable. There were certainly not vivid signs of life. I didn't feel like I was breathing and it didn't matter to me one bit. I was oddly moist from the sweating but not hot. I wasn't awake but I certainly wasn't alseep, or around for that matter. 35,000 feet.
If I had had three bullets in my side, it wouldn't have mattered. If my intestines had been blown out and were slopping onto the ground by my side I wouldn't even have realized. Needlesstosay, staples in my head weren't a big theme.
So...morphine...I take it back. You're alright, as long as you come in various dosages and with a steroid vicodin chaser.
You can be my reaper anytime.