if i'd known we were talking this kinda money, i'd have crapped the bed every day and made 'em spoon-feed me

.

so how much does a week in the hospital cost these days?

when you pick your jaw up off the floor, keep in mind this is just for the bed--the bills for all the various doctors and their various medications and tests will follow shortly.

the part i really love is, how since i have insurance, i get the discount [whereas, if i were some poor uninsured shlub who could no doubt totally afford it, i'd take the full hit].  and thus is the state of healthcare in america.

more than once in the past few years i've thought about chucking it all, cashing in my chips and traveling the world while i'm still young.  one of the main reasons that hasn't happened:  the thought that one little uninsured illness like the above could wipe me out.

and thus i remain an indentured (and insured) corporate servant, and probably will for the foreseeable.

[and for anyone who's considering commenting on how obamacare's gonna fix this shit--don't even, ok?]

the new mkf cocktail

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so tonight noblesavage treats me to an early birthday dinner--essentially, the first non-work-related human contact i've had with anybody i personally know since since i got outta the hospital.

i relish the opportunity to leave the house--and to see him, because it's been awhile.  we argue the same old subjects and get nowhere as usual, but that's not what's remarkable about the evening.  what's remarkable about the evening is, faced with a panoply of mouth-watering carnivorous options spread before me, i happily opt for a simple greek salad.

that's right, folks--i'm now the "salad" guy.

wasn't always thus, i assure you.  hell, between the booze, my regular unhealthy diet plus all the crap i suddenly found myself stuffing into my face every day at the new job, i was on the verge of outgrowing my second pair of fat pants when the pneumonia struck.

and while i'm not ready to call that sudden affliction a gift, it did have some interesting after-effects.

that first night after having checked myself outta the hospital against doctor's orders and not feeling nearly as well as i insisted i did, i was scared shitless that i'd fucked up. i went to bed wheezing, still unable to draw a decent breath, but ended up getting my first good night's sleep in a week--nobody waking me up every two hours for fuckin' vital signs for a change, thank you baby jesus.

and next morning, instead of the standard hospital fare, i feasted on a fresh fruit-and-greens smoothie, courtesy of my blendtec and whole foods market.

that very afternoon i returned to work, assuring everybody i was fine [although god knows i wasn't, which everybody figured out pretty quick when i started coughing every time i tried to breathe].

whatever--that first night i headed down to the fitness center on my lunch hour, ran the treadmill up to 9.4 and did 30-second windsprints interspersed with what turned out to be overly optimistic two-minute recovery intervals [i.e., by the second round i was a gasping, coughing puddle of mush on the floor].

but the following night i did three--and two nights after that, i managed four. these days i'm up to eight with 90-second intervals, and i'm not coughing anymore.

and what's fueling this recovery? simple--the raw vegan diet i've adopted since getting outta the hospital. funny thing is, it was easy--somehow, this most recent trial by fire has killed my former urge to fill the empty with whatever cheap crap i could stuff in my mouth.

these days my diet consists of green smoothies [the one pictured above turned out to be a delicious, frosty concoction consisting of an orange, half a banana, a peach, a handful of blueberries, a huge handful of spinach, a few leaves of kale, half a cup of spring water and lots of ice], salads, guacamole, nut pates and other such vegan bullshit, and i don't miss the meat and junk food at all.

and the booze-bloat's dropping off--those last-resort fat pants i was worrying about having to upgrade are now falling off me, i'm working out again, my body's coming back, and my face is pretty much back to looking like it used to.

in other words, things are fine again, so i'm thinking maybe i should celebrate with a drink or two.

[you see where this is going, right?]

a thank-you note

.
sorry i haven't posted anything of substance lately--i haven't had much poetry in my soul [i.e., alcohol in my veins] since i got outta the hospital, so things are pretty goddam bleak around here.

but i wanted to thank my three most faithful commenters [and the random emailers--who knew?] for their good wishes--i'll try to be back with some decent content soon.

[and yeah, i did allow myself one drink tonight, but you'll be happy to know that it was all-natural, goddammit--instead of the evil 7-up for a mixer, i went with healthy fresh-squeezed o.j. and a splash of san pellegrino for the appropriate fizz.  that counts, right?]

state of mkf

you know those blogs where people just come on every day and bitch about minor shit that bugs 'em?  i swore i'd never fall into that trap, if for no other reason than because i know from bitter experience that whining about the mundane is basically just asking for the great equalizer to come down on your pussy ass and really give you something to complain about.


case in point:  a week after posting this self-indulgent nonsense, i woke up with what i hoped was only the flu; two days of denial later i'm checking my near-delirious ass into the emergency room at cedars with full-blown pneumonia [fucked up the new car getting there--prolly shoulda called a cab].

ask "why me?" in the ER but nobody has an answer--apparently it's going around.

flat on my back for four days, they're pumping serious, last-resort antibiotics into my veins around the clock and they don't have to tell me the pneumonia's winning, because i know.

[a scary, lonely time--as is my wont, i hadn't told anybody who really cares about me, so it's just me up there in room 7013]

day five: a corner is turned, and i'm suddenly back.

day seven and i'm outta there--i check myself out against my doctor's wishes, telling him i'll take oral antibiotics, decent food and a good night's sleep against one more night in that goddam hospital any day, pack my shit and, after stops at whole foods and rite-aid, drive my newly fucked-up new car home.

day eleven [i.e., today]:  clean bill of health, lungs are clear, back to normal.

and remember the stultifying job i was bitching about so recently?  all i can say now is, thank god for that lovely motherfucker and the health insurance that came with it [and yeah, as soon as i get the bill we'll play another round of "guess the total"--should be at least as entertaining as last time, right?].

down to me

Everything comes and goes
Marked by lovers and styles of clothes
Things that you held high
And told yourself were true
Lost or changing as the days come down to you
Down to you
Constant stranger
You're a kind person
You're a cold person too
It's down to you
It all comes down to you.


You go down to the pick up station
Craving warmth and beauty
You settle for less than fascination
A few drinks later you're not so choosy
When the closing lights strip off the shadows
On this strange new flesh you've found
Clutching the night to you like a fig leaf
You hurry
To the blackness
And the blankets
To lay down an impression
And your loneliness


In the morning there are lovers in the street
They look so high
You brush against a stranger
And you both apologize
Old friends seem indifferent
You must have brought that on
Old bonds have broken down
Love is gone

                                             joni mitchell, down to you

the way i keep even the people who matter at arms's length, i have no right to be surprised when they're not there for me when the crunch comes, but it's always a bitter pill anyway.

shining through

.

two months into the new job, and god knows it couldn't be easier.

every afternoon i leave my house with a mere twelve minutes to spare, slip-slide my way into century city in virtual solitude past the congested rush-hour mob headed the other way, pull into the garage of my building, take my pick of prime spaces, ride the empty elevator up to the plaza--the doorman always rushes to meet me me since i'm his only incoming at that late hour.

another empty elevator up to the 21st floor, i wave at the receptionist [whatever the fuck her name is--she always smiles back because she'll be leaving soon], head for my suite, drop my shit, start my day.

first thing, i review the day's email, most of it from people who have worked there for 20 years [and, since they all leave before i arrive, i'll never meet].

the work, if it comes at all, usually comes via email; when it's done, i traverse endless lavish, deserted corridors to deliver the finished product to dark, empty offices.

eight hours later when it's time to go home, century park east and santa monica boulevard are ghost towns, and i glide easily through the empty streets of beverly hills all the way home, making every light.

easy-peasy, right?

so tell me--why do i wanna fuckin' strangle somebody?

because perspective is everything

.

I shall never fight in the armed forces with a Negro by my side. . . Rather I should die a thousand times, and see Old Glory trampled in the dirt never to rise again, than to see this beloved land of ours become degraded by race mongrels, a throwback to the blackest specimen from the wilds.

klan member and future liberal icon robert byrd

in 1945 on the integration of the armed services

and since the phony charge of "racist" is tossed about with such facile, promiscuous abandon by the left these days, i thought it might be instructive to use the occasion of the good senator's passing to remind everyone of what the real thing looks like.