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November 01, 2004
 Had one of those days that starts off with the Big Big Panic because the alarm button on the old-fashioned analog alarm clock that nevertheless beeps wasn't quite all the way up which led to running around and a lack of tooth-brushing but trains were caught work was done money was earned and now shirts must be washed and bicycles must be ridden into the country dark to quell the mania that turns the head into a balloon with a big smiley face on it and I suppose that means the medication is working but for all I know it could be God squeezing a blood vessel in my brain waiting to see what happens when I crash into a ditch because my eyes have gone all sparkle-popped and I can't move my feet anymore but he'd already know what would happen because of that whole omnipotency thing he's got going on.
I'm just saying.
November 02, 2004
EXCLUSIVE!!! EXCLUSIVE!!!!
ASTONISHED HEAD CALLS ELECTION FOR 3-QUART CAN OF WWII-ERA LIMPERT BROTHERS MARSHMALLOW FLUFF FOUND IN BASEMENT
"I WAS PART OF TASTY WELL-DESERVED SPECIAL TREATS FED TO THE TROOPS AT BASTOGNE AND IWO JIMA," SAYS FLUFF. "THOSE OTHER BASTARDS DIDN'T FEED ANYBODY."
Promises sundaes for all Americans, happy summer days, death to all terrorists everywhere immediately, with walnut sauce and maybe an expired maraschino cherry if it's feeling merciful.
November 03, 2004
November 04, 2004
To the unfortunate person who arrived here via a Google search for "balinese evil omens in dogs":
Sorry, man. You are totally screwed.
 It's dark out. 40 degrees. Raining. The weather radar image looks like a computer simulation of some kind of cellular disease process.
A perfect night for a ride!
I can do this because I am equipped to do it. I commuted via bicycle from Astoria to downtown Manhattan, eight miles each way, five days a week, rain or shine, summer and winter, for over two years, and acquired the gear to make me comfy while lesser mortals shivered on the elevated platforms of N line subway stations in Queens.
I have wicking layers in multiple weights of Bergelene, a nifty synthetic fabric that is toasty and good for doing active things. I have Cannondale Lycra tights. I have a complete single layer Gore-Tex rainsuit that used to be offered by L.L. Bean, perfect for cycling because it's Gore-Tex and nothing else, no lining, no fluff, which allows for clever under-layering to meet any conditions. I have Neoprene booties to keep my pedalling feet toasty and dry, and Pearl Izumi winter-weight gloves with Pittards leather palms. I have over 40 watts of lighting in two systems that I attached to the front of my Street Machine using a custom T-mount I made out of PVC pipe, blinky red lights visible for two miles on the rear rack, and the cold-cathode Down Low Glow on the chainstays that spreads an ice-blue cushion of radiance across the entire road.
So I strapped the batteries on the bike, suited up, popped Heaven or Las Vegas in the CD player, and headed off into the cold evening.
What I didn't have, it turned out, was a pair of cycling glasses with prescription inserts that wouldn't fog up. Not being able to see in the dark rain when you're on a recumbent that can top out at over 40 mph isn't particularly safe, hydraulic brakes or no. So I stashed the glasses in my jacket pocket and felt much better about blurred vision than I had about totally obscured vision as I huffed through the icy spatter.
8 miles in 38 minutes, in the country dark, with cold-clay wet cheeks on my face and hoots from a carful of girls who slowed down to see exactly what the hell I was riding and what a person who rides such a thing on such a night looks like. I didn't mind. I get equal attention day or night on this vehicle, which is fine, because while I am getting stared at from SUVs I am getting smaller, while those who are doing the staring are getting fatter. I grin and wave alot. I have found that children--especially those with with skateboards--and men with beards are the most appreciative of my vehicle.
I would never ride this in the city--it's too low, and not quite nimble enough to avoid foolish pedestrians and car doors flung wide. But here, among the rolling hills and the fields and along tree-lined roads, it's a swooping orange meditation on wheels. Unlike an upright bike, which shoves a block of seat up your ass and bends your spine and puts tension on your shoulders to maintain a riding position, the Street Machine actually rewards relaxation. The less tension I have in my body, the more I ease my shoulders, the gentler my grip on the steering bar, the easier the bike is to control, the more it flows, and the faster I go. It's sort of like an un-bike, in that respect: everything is opposite. I can't rely on gravity to mash pedals down when going up hills--it's all about leg muscle strength. There's no pulling up on the handle bars for leverage when going fast, because they're positioned under the seat and there's no leverage to be had there.
It's on the downhills that the joy comes: 30, 35, 40 miles per hour, with little or no effort, low to the ground, stable, nearly silent, all in a relaxed and reclining position with a full and easy view of the scenery.
Except, of course, when it's dark and raining and my glasses have totally fogged up and I'm blinded by the lights of an oncoming car. That can be a little tense.
But such adventures are my little mountains to free-climb, my bungee jumps and my sky-dives. I'd forgotten that: I need them. They're good for my body, mind, and soul.
Now, while my rain suit hangs drying on the shower bar in the bathroom, I'll head to bed and sleep the good sleep that comes from physical effort, and in the morning, I'll have lost a few ounces, and gained a bit more well-being.
And that's why I ride in the dark and the cold and the wet.
November 05, 2004
I got six sticksa' sassafras 'gainst your juga' beer there sez I kin poke yer eye out afore y'kin stop me.
We on?
*splorch*
Told ya. That's a mighty fine beer there, too.
November 07, 2004
 Another most peculiar dream last night. I've written before about my dream "map," the sense of orientation my dream-self often possesses. Since starting the Lexapro, the overall tone and sensibility of my dreams has been "off the map." They have an unfamiliar character, a strange cast to them, and I am unable to orient my dream self within them. I can only attribute this to the chemical workings of the SSRI. It seems reasonable that a chemical with such broad neurological effects in waking life would also affect the sleeping life.
In my dream, I had taken advantage of the five days' worth of inpatient psychiatric care provided by my insurance, and checked myself into a psychiatric ward. I was in a plain, institutional-looking room, wearing plain, institutional-looking "clothes"--pajamas, really. In one wall of the room was a sliding window, such as you might find in the reception area of a doctor's office.
It was locked, but there was a screwdriver-type tool on the window's ledge, and I was able to open the lock, slide the window back, and grab a big ring of keys on the receptionist's desk on the other side. My dream self knew that these were the "keys to the hospital," so to speak. They were of all sizes and shapes, and one of them was tagged "Pharmacy." I really wanted that key: I could only imagine what was in there. All my favorite synthetic opiates, Vicodin, the works. I knew that such seeking was symptomatic of addiction, but no matter... I was going to get that key, get into the pharmacological storeroom, and figure out some way to break open the narcotics cabinet when I got there (all the Good Stuff, you see, is generally kept under its own lock and key).
But I never quite made it that far. I ended up closing and relocking the window, then opening it again, never managing to actually get the key and set off on my mission. But even when I noticed that there were four or five cameras in the room, watching me fixedly, I kept at it. Opening the window, grabbing the key-ring, putting it back, closing it, opening it again. Then I heard the bustle of staff returning from lunch, and I left the room to wander the halls.
As it turned out, there was a bank in the front of the hospital. One of the halls just opened up into it, and there was nubbly bank-style carpeting, and desks with comfy chairs for financial consultations, and ropes on brass stands to control the lines for the tellers. So there I was in my pajamas, knowing that everyone knew that I must have wandered in from the psychiatric ward.
I think I may have headed back to make some more tries for the Pharmacy key, but the tail end of the dream has dissolved in waking memory.
Now, I tend not to analyze my dreams too deeply. I believe that their function is in their occurrence: just by having them, my mind is doing what it needs to be doing to maintain itself. But I find it fascinating that the SSRI is affecting the methods that my sleeping mind uses to do that work. The symbology has a different feel to it, my sense of myself as a dream individual is different, and the emotional resolution that I bring with me from sleep into wakefulness has changed. I don't know whether the process has become more effective or not, I just know that it's changed.
Of course, this bit of introspection could all just be from the 99+ degree fever I'm running right now. Looks like my rainy night ride a few days back was a bit much for a body that's not quite used to getting all of the exercise it's now getting. So today, when the weather was gorgeous for riding, I've been camped out on the couch with the cats, the television, and various aromatic teas. Pea is about halfway through her whirlwind tour of Italy, so I've got the house to myself, which is good in some ways, lonely in others, and a detriment to housekeeping.
Hopefully, I will be recovered enough to get up at 6AM on Tuesday to speed to the mall, grab my reserved copy of Halo 2, and spend the day blowing things up using the Big Television Downstairs That I'm Only Allowed To Play Videogames On When Pea Is Not Around.
Late night fevered thoughts, but on Sunday, when no one's watching, so it's safe.
November 08, 2004
There are three new Blasts From The Past to your left, and up a bit.
Well, not new, actually... I mean, the whole point is that they're old, see, and... never mind. Just read them, if you want.
 As it turns out, I don't have to be well enough to get up at 6AM on Tuesday to speed to the mall and grab my reserved copy of Halo 2.
I just have to be well enough to speed to the mall at midnight to grab my reserved copy of Halo 2, and then stay up for as long as I can shoot straight while scarfing pizza and maybe some Rolling Rock. I haven't decided about the Rocks yet. But the shooting and the pizza are definites.
Why?
Because the first Halo was that good. Other than Undying, it's the only game I've ever played through more than once. Undying was a genuinely atmospheric, creepy game with an interesting story, and that's what drew me in. Halo was even better than that: it was a sci-fi action movie that you could play. It had real dialogue acting. Real music. Real plot twists.
So yeah, I'm going to the mall at midnight so I can stay up most of the night playing it on the Big Big Flat-Screen TV (OK, it's not that big, but it's bigger than the smaller version of the same model that I have in my office for ordinary gameplaying) with the stereo turned up way loud.
Geek on.
---
UPDATE:
Die, Covenant scum! Die! Die, die ,di--! Crap.
Guess you can't throw grenades while double-wielding an SMG and an assault rifle.
Makes sense, I guess.
November 09, 2004
What, joo were especting content today? I'fe got aliens to keel. So come back later. Mebbe tomorrow I haff content for joo.
November 10, 2004
See, still no content for joo! I lie to joo, and still joo come back. Thees ees why joo keep dating all thosse strrange types of people, joo know.
What?! Joo come here again? Joo especting maybe the prrimate to dance for joo some more? I spit on joo, with the stupid head that always---THWACK! Aaagh! THWACK! Ah, god, joo stop it! THWACK!THWACK! *grrgl* THWACK! KRONCH! splash! *hhhhhehh... * THWACK!
That's certainly enough of that. Sometimes these silly things just get out of control, and must be put down with the requisite forthright savagery. Awful business, really, but by such methods are the forces of untamed Nature kept at bay, so that we here in the cities can keep the lights on and enjoy choosing from several different varieties of orange juice.
Regular posting will resume when Halo 2 has been completed or the author decides that he must express himself.
Silly characters with ridiculous accents are reminded that the baseball bat is made of aluminum, easily cleaned, and always close at hand.
--THE MANAGEMENT
November 11, 2004
Apparently, Yasser Arafat has passed on. He is no more! He has ceased to be! He has expired and gone to meet Allah! He's a stiff! Bereft of life, he rests in peace! His metabolic processes are now history! He's kicked the bucket, he's shuffled off his mortal coil, run down the curtain, and joined the choir explodable!
That... is an ex-terrorist!
November 15, 2004
Yes, I heard you, and the answer remains, as always, an emphatic no. With a gun, if you don't stop bothering me.
Ya hear?
All right then.
November 17, 2004
Nothing much to say. If bored, go here and play with this.
There's a lesson in it for all of us.
Oh, so now you want to know why I haven't got much to say? You damnable people, with your incessant demands and your Ritz crackers.
It's this accursed escitalopram oxalate, I think. Or maybe not. Who knows? It is all part of the crapshoot that is the modern psychiatrist's secret amusement and the worried well person's bane. An extra 10mg of the SSRI coupled with cessation of the lamotrigine has resulted in an acute case of the very, very sleepies. That's a technical term.
Then again, this lethargy could be because I just had two days of decent bike riding after a week's worth of mucous-laden immobility.
This afternoon, a slight nap turned into a sweaty sack-out with a cat topping, after which I installed the new gas dryer (the unexpected death by gunshot of the previous appliance was a shock to us all). Now it's 8:30 in the bloody evening and I haven't gotten much done, which means that tomorrow I shall have to labor a bit on my birthday.
Such is the life of a modern self-employed roustabout, I suppose.
Urgh. Too much chocolate--some of the spoils of Italy, now making me feel all thickly liquid and coldly molten.
In general: my overall state is not conducive to blogging, except for spurts like this, which will no doubt prove invaluable to my eventual biographers but are trying for the average reader.
There. That should keep my public at bay... for now.
November 18, 2004
It's my birthday, so I bought myself one of these. This will allow me to a) go grocery shopping on my bike, thus regaining some measure of the "integration of physical activity into daily life" I lost after leaving the city and my urban cycle commute; and b) go on long excursions into the wilderness, or at least as much of the wilderness as can be reached by decent roads. Which isn't much. But bike touring and camping and so forth in the spring are now possible, and we like that.
Now: cake, and a movie, and so forth, and then I have to start my ministry so I can get nailed to a tree by the Romans and open the way to salvation for all mankind.
November 22, 2004
A tenacious bastard of a virus has overwhelmed me, so I am currently ingesting a witch's brew of chemicals and herbal remedies in a desperate attempt to stave off my complete transformation into a pile of mucous.
Further bulletins as events mrgblpfthfff
November 24, 2004
Diagnosis: acute bronchitis. All right! So now, in addition to the other chemicals I'm ingesting for various reasons, I've got five days' worth of azithromycin dihydrate to swallow with lots and lots of water.
And I'm just really thrilled about that, because my shiny new Burley Nomad trailer (handcrafted in Eugene, Oregon) is now sitting in the living room looking nifty instead of being hauled behind my Street Machine full of groceries.
On the other hand, my girlfriend's first cousin has what is in all probability a sacral chordoma, which is an encapsulated tumor growing around the lower spinal column that could possibly involve any number of the other organ systems that do their work down there [.PDF article from August 2003 Neurosurgical Focus available here]. Treatment is primarily surgical, because such tumors tend to be radiation- and chemotherapy-resistant, and involves twelve hours under the knife going in from the front and the back, followed up by radiation and chemotherapy, just to be sure. Risks of treatment include loss of fine motor control in the legs, loss of sexual function, and loss of bowel and bladder control... not to mention death from metastasis or recurrence. He's 20.
So my problems, really, aren't worth a squirt of piss into the world's misery bucket.
November 30, 2004
I'm still alive. Posts are in the works.
--IAW
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