Tag Archives: home doctorin’

brain in a jar, that’s the life for me

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Whoa people, you don’t want to know what’s been coming out of my head lately. This is the sick that just won’t quit. It’s the time of the year when I start obsessing, thinking I must have HIV, oh why oh why did I ever do those things with all those sailors? Then I realize “ohhhh, I get ragingly ill every single year at this time, and every year I convince myself I have some dreadful auto-immune problem.” I have this sick schedule down. First we start off with a cold in October. Then the first two weeks of December are a total wash with some sort of strep-like thing. Finally, things cap off in January or early february with a bout of bronchitis. Sure, one year I bucked the trend and got pneumonia in November, but really that was just to get out of going to the symphony. I had an assignment to review a performance of some Mahler, and damned if I didn’t end up getting to review Being John Malkovich instead. Make up work, boo yeah. Lower culture, holla back.

Speaking of culture, I read a book. It happens. It was pretty good, even with all the Writing. Middlesex. I am sure Sofia Coppola has already optioned it. I shed a wee tear at the end. One little detail just absolutely killed me. No, I’m not going to tell you what it was. Freaking read it, then maybe we’ll talk. It’s got Detroit, it’s got incest, it’s got hermaphrodites, it’s out in paperback. What’s not to like?

That brain up there really is mine. I used to volunteer for any medical study involving an MRI in college. I love x-ray vision. I’ve been thinking a lot about what a bummer it is to be human meat. I’d totally go for being a brain in a jar, except then I couldn’t play at being attractive on weekends. Although the MRI tech did say I have lovely, perfectly formed ventricles. I have another shot that shows them. They look just like butterflies.

-xxoo

The Simpsons Are Going to Japan

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Thanks to my pal Thrifty J for pointing out the stupid cheap $360 fare from Boston to Tokyo! Huzzah. Turned out to be a misprint (it normally would have been $3000 for us to fly on those dates), but American honored it anyway. When I called to finagle it, the world-weary Texan lady who answered said “Oh, the Boston thing again.” Sigh. And now it’s gone, and someone probably got fired. I can’t wait for April. We’ll pirouette ‘neath daintily falling cherry blossoms, and I’ll croon “Hot Child in the City” with some drunken businessmen. Mr. H is all hot to go to a country n’ western bar.

Other than that stroke of luck, today was a major ass-ramming. And not in that good way. Just as poor Heather suffers from ailments of the tract, there seems to be a capricious gnome squatting in my chest. His friend Stabby lives in my throat. Maybe it’s rabies. I’m about to hit the Nyquil pretty hard.

We took Spare Cat (a stray who lived on the front porch) to the animal shelter last night, and he savaged us right and proper. I understood, I really did. I don’t like to get crammed in tiny boxes either, even with my very small frame. You’re right, I *can* curl up into a very small ball. Oh no, you flatter me! It didn’t help that Spare Cat had space madness from being stuck out in the cold. In a triumph of my mother’s meddlesome DNA, I made him a wretched little insulated hovel on the porch, which is how he survived the past week. If anyone is interested in a handsome devil of a white cat (with big blue eyes and an extra toe), I can point you in the right direction. Unfortunately he does not play well with other cats, which is why we couldn’t keep him. And he’s got a meow like a rusty hinge.

-xxoo

Bottom’s Up!

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Last night I had a fine time at Alvin and Jenny’s house. We played a rousing round of Dr. Quack. According to Alvin, one can suffer mightily from Driver’s elbow, a heartbreaking condition of the joint of the arm that does nothing while one is driving. I am in a dire state of vomitola. My poor Tract has been bothering me and I am finally going ’round to the doctor today. I do hope I have to swallow barium or have a colonoscopy, as I know there is nothing you eager little piranha will appreciate more than pictures of my supple bottom. The other good thing is that I will be granted entrance into Jenny’s new religion, The Diagnostics. But I have a long way to go to rival the founding members, who have suffered allergies to snail larvae, and a syndrome that paralyzes half your face in a stroke-like manner, but is easily treated with two days of antibiotics.

Here’s hoping I have Crone’s Disease!

-xo

What a cut-up

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This morning I awoke from a bizarre Tylenol PM-fueled dream that I was a spectator at a reality TV show featuring celebrity amputations. There was a glossy multi-tiered set, a cheering crowd, a dapper host (Ryan Seacrest?). I woke up, groggy and rubbing my eyes, not sure if I dreamed that or not. The name of the show escapes me, but I know it was something incredibly twee, like “Cut It Out!” Come to think of it, they should have gotten Dave Coulier.

The celebrities were pleased to be featured, and they were trotted out and an extraneous extremity was pruned with the benefit of local anesthetic, their choice of machete or mini guillotine. White uniformed medical professionals were in attendance, overseeing everything very seriously. The amputations had little catch phrases depending on the part in question. Jennifer Anniston got all the toes on one foot off; that one was called “The Footsie Tootsie.”

It all started getting hazy after something went awry with the severing of Jim J. Bullock’s forearm from the rest of him. A hazard of live TV I guess. Paramedics came, and then suddenly I realized the set was in the middle of a giant Pier 1. And Kirstie Alley was there, trying to sell me some fake sea grass. Arghhhhhhhhhh!

Can someone please tell me why there are C-list stars in my dreams? I am never taking Tylenol PM again, even if I stay up for 3 days. I’ve worked 7 days straight, looking at another 5. My marbles are rolling around in my head, all loosey goosey like.

-xxoo

Viewer outrage

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Gremlins

Oh readers, what a discombobulating day. Our Lambchop is off touring through Bavaria with Steele for the Easter holidays. She doesn’t know this, but Steele took me into strict confidence and mentioned they will be visiting a few realtors to shop for a castle! He is eager to find one with a suitable balcony for Lambchop to let down her tresses, the rosy gloaming delicately highlighting her cheekbones.

In other news, I am stuck in Boston for the duration of Jesus’ rising, making a valiant go at starting my morning the way normal people do: watching the Today show and drinking a medium regular from Dunkin’ Donuts. But I was ASSAULTED, yes ASSAULTED, by a Lamisil ad that features a maniacal newt-like critter wreaking havoc with an unsuspecting toe. You think that flip-top head in the toothbrush commercial of recent years was bad? Try the trap-door toenail! Dear God. Foot care is near and dear to my own heart, but this, this is crossing the line of propriety!

See my letter to Lamisil, sent via their website. If you have seen this ad and are similarly concerned, do not be shy: let them know!

>

Dear Lamisil:

Just saw the Lamisil TV ad with the gremlin character flipping up the cartoon toenail and running under it to munch on the nail bed and otherwise root around like a pig under a blanket. I almost spat out my coffee. That is absolutely disgusting! I found myself clutching my own toes, howling in distress, til the end of the ad. I never want to see that ad again. While I’m sure nail fungus is painful and your product no doubt effective, why do I, a fungus-free individual, need to see this graphic imagery during my breakfast?

Please stop running this ad!

-yours, Lickety

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Now I’m off to shiver in a darkened room.

-xxoo

Krank

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Poor Lambchop is home sick all alone, prescription filling up baskets with little bits of tissue. Sniffle, try sniffle. Last night I went to the cabaret. It was very lusty from what I can remember. Men in thick long skirts flagellating themsleves with roses. Drag queen acrobats and a dandy french clown. Tonight I going to wrap myself in wool and cart myself to the picture show. I hope I will sometime soon return to a coherent state.

blossom

Round Three!

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lambchop

I feel worse than a cold plate of clam sauce, sickness as my cold has regrouped and is knocking me about for a third time. But I am really just plain angry. I have been making a prince valiant effort to continue working in my studio. And in addition to the fabulous sundry cocktails, salve I have been taking vitamins and drinking vegetable juice. In other words, treatment I need this like I need a bra with three cups. Or a prosthetic nose or a Shania Twain record.

I am reminded of the latter because one of my housemates has wretched taste in music. And as the native english speaker of the house, I am often called upon to translate song lyrics of such noteworthy talents as Incubus. After one round of a song that contained the line “it goes round and round and round. like an existential carousel…”, I left the room telling her these things were not meant for earnest contemplation.

smooch

State of the Lambchop Address

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lambchop

Many of you have been inquiring about my health under the mistaken notion that I have been hit by a bread truck and am now zipping along on a Lark. Here is a sample of today’s mail:

“…braces and broken ribs…new teeth to replace the ones that you had put in last Fall. WHAT HAPPENED?!!!! Were you in an auto accident or some other mishap? Fall down a flight of stairs? Bike mishap? I am worried…”

Please stop sending flowers and your spare organs to my house! I have been painting figures swathed in gauze and other medical accoutrements. There is nothing the matter with me that can be explained by medical science.

Lambchop

springtime for hitler

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lambchop

It’s a strange, skull piercing event when the sun shines in Berlin in winter. Yesterday was one of those warm-ish days that drives everyone out into the open, forcibly exuding good cheer. I took a walk in Kreuzberg to take in the air of the first great thawing of dog shit. It’s a harbinger of spring when everywhere doggie briquets are defrosted and their richness permeates. I played bocci in the park and went to a horror movie on a snootful of sudafed. I drank myself under the table for a second day.

If you’ll excuse me now, I will continue my richard burton impression elsewhere.

smooch