But as you all know, I feel a real tight bond with Ullyses S. Grant. Both of us have the need to finish our life's work (except his is only telling the story of his life's work which in actuality was being the best fucking general on the face of the earth in the 19th century at the very least.). But let's not quibble with minor details. Since When versus Saving the Union? As long as Rich feeds me ("...we'll fight 'em together, boy, like we did just now, on the floor, eh? You with the old gun, and me with the belt and the ammo, feeding you Jack! Feed me, you said, and I was feeding you, Jack...") I must feed him. I think I'm going mad.
My back is not happy. Much happier with wet heat. (After the bag of boiled clay cools a bit and no longer feels like I have a raging inferno on my back.) But unhappy nonetheless. Just so you know, raging infernos aren't a good thing. After a bloody week of waiting (the appointment with the orthopedist was last Monday) goddamnit, I find that I am suffering from some sort of soft tissue injury. Beats a break. But a break wouldn't have surprised me. When I first began life number 2, I gave myself two hairline rib fractures. From coughing. What the hell are you supposed to do about that? I was taking oxycodone. Not for pain. It turns out it's the best cough suppressant known to man aside from strangling, drowning, or plain old quick and dirty suffocation.
I think I made progress today. But this one was rough. When a chapter works better here and another there, you need to make sure that not only are you not repeating yourself, you also have all the facts you need to understand what it is you're reading. I hate it when an author tells you something he just told you three pages before. Or forgets to tell you something altogether. Well, it makes me nuts, because it happens only because someone in charge of keeping that shit straight was lazy. I love laziness. Just not someone else's. Mine is good, and I want it. I crave it. But I can't have it. Not yet.
It's incredible that it's taken this long to have Since When issues. I expected it to implode as soon as Rich started reading it and "found me out" on the blog. Look, I never said I was an intellectual. I never said I was a writer. My brother and I have discussed this. We're phonies. We don't seek out to be phony. It just happens. People think we're something we're not. We don't cultivate shit. (Well these Lipmans really do have a talent in that particular field.)
We'd both prefer to be the lowlifes we know ourselves to be. And that is not a putdown. It isn't a cry for help and reassurance from all of you of our bona fides. Bona fides for what? I have none that I know of. Douglas? Unless it's reassurance that we are, in fact, lowlifes. Ask Doug. We often just happen to know the right thing at the right time. I know this is tedious. "No! Not the Melbourne method, please! Two hours! So slow...") It's an illusion. Trust us. Lowlife is good.
You know I'm exhausted when I resort to movie quotes. I also feel lousy. I don't know why and if I don't know why, I think I must be winding down. Like a clock. But not winding down for the day. I mean winding down. (c'mon how can it keep it far from the surface. I may be a lowlife, but I'm not an idiot. In all likelihood, my days are numbered In base ten? Base 24? I dunno.) I can't imagine that my back will ever feel right. Earlier when I thought about getting PT, I thought did it much matter since I really can't breathe. So I hurt a little more, a little less. (This is very bad, terribly unproductive, and maybe even worse, self-fulfilling thinking.)
Oh Denise! Your coffee shop expedition sounds wonderful. But I was running over to "The Bon Vivant" (yes, it is really is the "The Bon Vivant") for their insanely wonderful burgers, I was still in being treated for Hodgkin's disease, "the best cancer a girl could ever dream of." It was during my chemo "downtime" when I started to fell human again. I was jittery and ravenous from the steroids I took that made my anti-nausea drugs work as they were supposed to. It was then I'd exercise, get on the arc trainer to be bright and peppy for the next week's poisoning.
Who even remembers what that all felt like? (Yes, I can recall nausea, and I can recall serious, awe-inspiring projectile vomit. It's amazing what a body can do to empty itself of everything it possibly can in one fell swoop.) But cancer? You must be talking about someone else. I can tell you all about stuff that may or may not have happened, but that was light years ago. At the tail end of lifetime number 1.
Doug, this is for you. We love "The Bon Vivant." We love the people, the food's not bad, the burgers are hellacious. (Chip heard a terrible rumor that is spreading through the neighborhood. That "The Bon Vivant" is closing. God forbid.) But could someone help my brother? Anyone with the wherewithal, could you please open a coffee shop in the East Village called "The Debonaire?" It would make him so happy.