Now that I am through with my laser treatments and other medical distractions, it is time for me to declare war on stupidity--in particular, the brand of idiocy exhibited by my middle-aged friends who seem actually immune to common sense. Susan and I have been handholding one such chum who, through extreme denseness, manages to sabotage every potential relationship that falls into his lap. He spent months pulling a Prince Hamlet number wondering whether he was attracted to one particular young girl (about half his age) and was on the point of declaring his interest in her last weekend. Unfortunately, he decided to invite a few other people over to his apartment at the same time, including one not very pleasant young woman who overstayed her welcome and forced her way into his bedroom as the real object of his affections lay asleep on the couch. This would not have been so bad if this interloper had not taken the contraceptive device they shared and placed it in the middle of the kitchen floor the next morning as a crude way of marking her territory. My big dumb friend tried to distract the girl of his preference with some clumsy situation comedy manoeuvers, but to no avail. She left in tears--and the big lug had HER drive the Trojan Horsewoman home. Susan and I were supposed to have dinner with the friend and this girl, but she was (obviously) not having any of it. I urged him to call the girl and say that something like, "We really need to talk." He called her and said, "Hey, come on over! Plenty of food! Chili! Chili! Beer! Beer!" So much for romance.

So, how do you fight stupidity that profound? Unless my friend manages to grow up and smarten up, he will just wind up as an increasingly lonely, weird old man. He's 43 now and already visiting neighboring planets, and I don't see him improving any time soon. (His apartment is crammed with his own surreal artwork consisting of glass eyes stuck on otherwise commonplace objects, which are arranged in disturbing juxtaposition. He makes Joseph Cornell look like Norman Rockwell.) I really don't have time for this horseshit, but I can't seem to look away. It's like a bloody train wreck--except that my friend doesn't seem to feel a thing.   ¶ 8:51 PM 0 comments

  My experience at St. Lizzie Borden's was not at all bad except for the 500 or so laser shots I received in my right eye. My regular eye doctor did the procedure, and since he knows what he's doing, I sailed through it, more or less. In fact, the doctor and his assisting nurse remarked on my "stoicism"--yeah, sure it was weird and painful, but I got most of my bitching out of the way before arriving at St. Lizzie's. It felt like someone was trying to shoot holes through the back of my head (via my cornea) with Flash Gordon's ray gun, or like having a tooth drilled (under novocaine) except it was my eye. Naw, I didn't complain. It's the British in me--stiff upper lip, and all that. (My inner Polack was screaming like a sonofabitch.) I felt woozy afterward, and still have the vestiges of a headache. And, just think--only two more sessions to go! Hot damn!

BUT, OH MY BROTHERS! What joy I have to relate, in contrast to this former item. I met the shipment of the elusive SARANAC PILSENER, and have FILLED MY PANTRY THEREWITH! That's right--there's PILSENER IN THE HOUSE TONIGHT! (And, Boy, do I need it now!) The Discount Beverage man having tipped me off in advance, I was able to swoop down and procure 11 cases--264 bottles--of the Golden Nectar for my personal delectation! At this writing, 11 more cases remain in stock--and we may buy more. But at this moment, I am in direct possession of more Saranac Pilsener than anyone else in the United States of America! I am the real, the only PILSENERMAN, able to drink long into the night with a single beverage! This time I mean it--HOT DAMN!  ¶ 10:31 PM 0 comments

  Impending doom is getting me down. Tomorrow I am scheduled for my first laser treatment at the "hospital" that botched my appendectomy 27 years ago. I can't tell you how distressed I am to have to step back into that filthy abattoir for ANY procedure. These are the sons-of-bitches that let my appendix rupture in my body over Christmas vacation--even helping the process along with an enema--in 1976. That was about as much fun as being gored by a bull. I stayed in a month and left with a huge disfiguring scar that embarrassed me so much I couldn't take off my pants in front of a woman until I was 26. We incurred a huge debt--my chickenshit father was afraid to sue the "hospital" for malpractice lest it interfere with his failed political aspirations--so we had to endure collection agencies calling at 11:00 at night until we finally went bankrupt. I have to go back to that butcher shop?

When Sue called the doctor to set up the surgery, the receptionist heard me swear when I heard where it was taking place, and was "terrorized." Please! I'M the one shitting my pants right now! I have to be there in less than five hours to check in for the treatment--and we just had our first major snowstorm of the season. So I have to go across town to St. Lizzie Borden's through six to eight inches of slop just to give those assassins another crack at me. Balls!!   ¶ 2:50 AM 0 comments