Seizures SUCK.

Two days ago, I woke up, tired, after only six hours of sleep. Not awful, but I had been abnormally tired over the past week. The previous afternoon, I had a 3 hour long nap, and felt I could have slept another three hours.

I also had a muffin for breakfast, a few slices of pizza for lunch, plus a bit of water, then some gelato afterward. Probably what some people would consider not bad for meals, but it wasn't enough for me.

Finally, I went to a choral concert, invited by a friend of mine. It was fine, but I was just exhausted throughout the entire thing. I was invited for canapés and drinks with said friend's family, but politely demurred, partially because of my fatigue.

I came home, saw Mr. Man in the bedroom watching Mad Men, and joined him, just laying down on the bed.

...

Next I knew, I found myself in a wheelchair at the nearest hospital, utterly exhausted and unable to comprehend much of what was going on around me. Mr. Man finally told me (as he probably had numerous times over the previous half hour) that I had had a grand mal seizure. First one in eight years, almost to the day. I'd like to say that the news frustrated me at the time, but I was so wiped out, I could barely feel anything, and was only just capable of performing simple tasks like going to the bathroom. Mr. Man took excellent care of me, getting me situated, and making sure I was okay until the nurse or PA or whomever took me back to rest about 10 minutes later. I got an IV in the back of my hand and a bit of Ativan (my least favorite drug EVER), just to take the edge off, and tried my best to answer basic questions given to me by the nurse, missing only one ("What month is it? What's your name? Do you know what happened?"). My parents showed up a bit later, certainly concerned, but in my stupor, I couldn't really read their expressions. Still, at least I was secure and being watched over. And atypically, I didn't have a pounding headache, nor was I really all that tired after a bit. But my tongue was chewed up pretty badly (still is, in fact), and I was more or less a lump of clay, just sitting there, trying to engage everyone in conversation, and (I'm sure) failing badly. Finally, after a few hours, when it was evident that I had stabilized, I was released, and Mr. Man took me home for some dinner and some rest.

Only the next day did I realize how much I had scared him. He had asked me a question in the bedroom, and noticed that I wasn't answering him. Then he looked over and saw a weird grimace on my face and my arms starting to spasm, and he freaked out. I'll spare you the details, but he thought I looked possessed. I can't imagine what it must feel like to see someone you love suddenly going through something so frightening, suddenly unconscious, yet jerking uncontrollably for minutes on end, then seeing them collapse and not breathe for up to a minute, sometimes more...then seeing them gasping for breath while barely coming to. You can't do anything to help them in the meantime, other than just keeping them safe from themselves and anything around them that might harm them. And you never, NEVER put anything in a seizing person's mouth! Want said thing to break off and puncture their palate? Want to lose a finger? Didn't think so. Tongues and sides of the mouth heal. Scary at the time, but really, they heal uneventfully.

Also on the next day, I felt fine. Perhaps a bit tired, and I had a hard time talking because my ragged tongue was swollen, but otherwise, no issues...almost as if nothing had happened the day before. Mr. Man and I went shopping around town, but nothing too taxing. And I slept well and ate well.

...

Two days ago marked the eighth seizure I've had in my lifetime. And let me tell you...they SUCK. So miserable. Only six of them have been actually witnessed and diagnosed; the first two were never discovered. Only years later, after putting symptoms together, did I realize that some unexplained symptoms I'd had (pounding headache, confusion, extreme exhaustion) made sense. I've been on medication for much of my life...coming on fully half, actually, to be accurate. The times I've had seizures since, I believe, could be chalked up to suboptimal levels of meds in my blood for one reason or another (not taking meds, taking supplements that speed up the metabolism of meds, being overweight), and it's frustrating and frightening.

For me, perhaps the worst part of having a seizure is the legal inability to drive for six months afterward. I love to drive. I love my car. And I will miss it sorely until December 24th. But also, poor Mr. Man is justifiably concerned also because the last time I had a seizure, I began to feel trapped and purely under his control. And it wasn't long after I got my freedom/car back, that I began to exult in my freedom and...uh...look around. I found myself in what then seemed an innocent affair, but it honestly came thisclose to breaking us apart over the next year and a half. I'm ashamed of it, and really, really don't want to open myself up to that again. I know what a great thing I have in Mr. Man, and I'm not willing to shatter it.

So there's what will probably amount to the excitement of 2013. I will do what I can to get by, but it's going to be tough for the next six months. Wish us luck. (I say us, because it will inevitably be a team effort.)

I'd like to be positive...I just don't have the energy.

Things that really don't affect me, (despite everyone around me insisting that they do, or else they wouldn't be posting them on Facebook with such gravitas and insistence), and my admittedly asshole-ish responses.

• James Gandolfini - Really could care less. I never watched The Sopranos. Never had any desire to. My interest, passing as it was, with the Mafia began and ended with watching Goodfellas. Joe Pesci's "You think I'm funny?" scene was beyond chilling, but holy paregoric, Batman, I am forevermore turned off of "Layla" because of that neverending...uh...ending. And the movie was just fuckin' deathless. Anyhoo, the guy never did a thing for me. As my oh-so-compassionate dad would say, "We all die. It just happens. Move on." (Said most recently about my sister-in-law's mom dying suddenly of cancer, while said sister-in-law was still, understandably, grieving a few months later.)
• Paula Deen - A Southern woman being racist. Is this where I'm supposed to act shocked? Pass the butter, please.
• Another of my colleagues - First off, let me say that I'm a traitor to the cause, and my colleagues are becoming less and less my people every day. I've mentioned my annoyance with astrology and a certain doc's reliance on it for her life's direction (despite the fact that, yes indeed, I do fit the picture of a Pisces perfectly), but this post, with no context whatsoever, implying its universal application, just...I just can't. "Hang on to your haciendas. There is a huge energetic clearing afoot. Trade 'pushing through it' to surrendering to the moment today..."
• Still, anything bear-related - For me, this is the equivalent of girls/women looking at fashion magazines and the perfect models therein, and alternately desiring those bodies for themselves, and seething with jealousy, frustration, and self-loathing that no matter how they try, they will never be able to measure up. And yes, I am going to one of the biggest bear-related events of the year (a good friend is on this page, bottom center.) I have such mixed emotions about it. Anyhow, I see endless posts about this bear event, that woofy guy (worst term ever, by the way), this bear group, and I die a bit inside. How ironic that the bear community sprang from annoyance about big hairy guys not fitting into the clone/twink culture of the '70s and '80s. I'm closer to being a bear than a twink or a clone, but nope, it ain't me. I know, I know...breathe, breathe, you're perfect as you are, don't compare yourself to others, just be yourself...sometimes it ain't easy.

Maybe this means that I should spend less time on Faceplace, or just cull my friends more judiciously. Of course, the whole Gandolfini worship and anguish seems pretty endemic, so I'll just have to ride this one out.

Um...I invented Post-Its.

Nope...looking at pictures, of my 20th high school reunion, I still do not regret not going. Actually feel a bit of relief and vindication about the whole thing, to be honest. A varied assortment of folks I did not get along with then, and around whom I would still have been uncomfortable now. There were, to be sure, a few friends scattered here and there, but they reside here in town, and it'd be easy enough to catch up with 'em. But otherwise...I kinda like Don Draper's assessment of his life: "My life goes in one direction. Forward." Doesn't mean I always adhere to it (witness my high school avuncularisms...and college may be burbling beneath the surface here, too), but it can come in handy. Particularly when justifying not going to high school reunions.

And thus ends a quick one. Off to begin the work week.

The grumpy old contrarian strikes!

- I do not like David Sedaris.
- I do not like alcohol...at least, in huge amounts.
- I am a natural doctor who has little interest in nutrition.
- In particular, I hate pushing nutritional supplements.
- It is "brrr" when describing how cold you feel. Not "burrr." That's a misspelling of a thorn. So there.
- I hate Michelangelo Signorile. Simply because he has such an infuriatingly long, pretentious name that's hard to pronounce. And he insists on the full version, too. I don't care that he's a gay activist/writer. Of course he's gay. No one who's straight would go by "Michelangelo" nowadays, unless they're Italian.
- David Beckham can suck my left nut.
- And Victoria Beckham can rot for all I care. She's not worthy to suck either of my nuts.
- Not going to my 20 year high school reunion. The people all in charge of it were the people I abhorred back in the day. The pictures they're posting (particularly of 20 years ago) nauseate me. And if people really want to see how I'm doing, it's not like I'm hard to find online. (Only thing that may change my mind: if the Silver Skating Dame herself actually ends up showing up, but that's kinda doubtful. She keeps a pretty low profile online as well.)
- I'm not gluten free. And I won't go gluten free until I personally decide it's worth it, despite what the vast majority of my colleagues say.

Speaking of where my colleagues and I are concerned:
- I am NOT a fan of Breitenbush Hot Springs.
- I am not a fan of much that is new-agey.
- I HAAATE, with a withering hatred, The Four Agreements.
- I likewise hate the egomaniac Wayne Dyer. (Publishing an audiobook where you recite the Tao te Ching, then give your personal interpretation of it immediately pushes you into the realm of douchebaggery.)
- Many of my colleagues with whom I shared Portland for four years, believe that the sterile, often warehouse-like Powell's Books is the best bookstore in the universe. These ignorant, misguided dolts have never been to Tattered Cover here in Denver.

Obviously, you'll see more. Go ahead and judge me as bitter. So are you, deep inside. Give in to it. Cold pricklies are your friends.

You can steal?

So, a few things. Won't go into too many revealing details (I hope), but I've tipped my hand too far before, and in vino veritas, so why not?

Arvind Mahankali: Very, very deserving winner this year...none more so. Major kudos and respect to him.

Last few words: As per usual, slightly arbitrary. First "cyanophycean" (as a noun, no less), then two words later, "knaidel" to wrap it up? (Not quite on the level of "luge," but we've been blessed with tougher winning words over the years. Obvs, not Arvind's fault.)

German: Finally pwned. "Jugendstil" and "schwannoma" - and for that matter, the whole German language - can eat it. I only wish Arvind had said so before he launched into "knaidel." It would have been poetic justice. But there's ice in that man's iron veins. (And yes, I said man. His voice dropped like an octave over the past year.)

Pranav Sivakimar: Very deserving runner-up. Confidence in spades...and the goods to back it up, too.

Sriram Hathwar: Very glad to see him back in the finals where he belongs. Great showing. Watch out for him next year.

Vismaya Kharkar: Holy root knowledge, Batman! She was AWESOME. Even (or maybe especially) on her last word, she showed nonpareil navigation skills...and was still ruthlessly felled by the almighty schwa. Major respect to her.

Vanya Shivashankar: Charming, adorable, and totally in her element. Or as she puts it, simpatico. Arguably the crowd favorite. A future title is inevitable. (I mean, c'mon...her older sister, a former champion, is her coach! Yowza.)

Amber Born: LOVE LOVE LOVE. The other crowd favorite. She wants to be a comedian or a comic writer? Consider her career begun. I can already see agents offering her contracts...and she hasn't hit high school yet. Oh, and yeah, awesome speller, too...as if that wasn't obvious.

Grace Remmer: Awesome, awesome showing, felled by a tough one. Props to Arvind for having the class to say on ESPN he would not have known her word, either.

And now, for the un-PC, potentially offensive portion of tonight's broadcast...(read it while you can, folks...it may be taken down at some point)

I'm thrilled that the bee this year recognized awesome talent, as it always does. And I have no question that, as I stated above, the winner and runner-up - and all other high placers, for that matter - were very deserving. Obviously, there's a lot of talent from Indian-Americans. (And I feel comfortable saying that these are mostly, if not all, first-generation Indian-Americans, too...all of their parents have moved from India or points close by, and speak with a pronounced accent.) At least as far as spelling goes, a major line has been drawn. Both last year and this year, the top three were Indian-American; this year, only 2 out of the top 9 were not Indian-American. Folks, these are observations, nothing more.

And now for the judgments. I think that the Indian Americans I've seen in action and have worked with are doing something really right here. They have their heads screwed on right. (Maybe a bit too right in some cases, but their ambition is admirable, and their hearts are in the right place.) In contrast, a few months ago, my mother said that a family friend's daughter had made it to the oral rounds in the state bee. I offered up my services...well, via proxy, at least...but my mother shot my offer down, saying, "Oh, you're probably out of their price range." Really? I know these people...if they're family friends, they're not hurting for money. (This is the rarefied air my parents and their friends inhabit.) Besides, I've been working with kids whose parents are actually hurting for money, yet they still somehow find it worth their while to scrounge up the money to pay me to further their kids' education. And I do...in very worthwhile, tangible ways that will pay off tremendously for years to come.

The potentially racist part? I'd like to see a bee that doesn't act as a kind of surrogate North-South Foundation bee. (This is the bee series that is only open to those of Indian-American descent and similar. Think Sri Lankan or perhaps Bangladeshi.) At some point, I'm certain the kids up there are thinking, "Hey...this is just like the bee that will take place a few months down the road!" The non Indian-Americans need to step it up somehow. And I don't mean this in a "beat the Indians" kind of way. But Indian-Americans, as I said up above, are doing great and in many ways, setting the standard nowadays for academic excellence. And this bleeds into excellence in many other areas of life. Why can't the rest of the populace do the same?

Count 'em: Four (nah, five) kids are waiting to work with me for 2014. Two Three Indian-Americans (including a brother-sister combo), one Asian-American, and one...damn, can I actually say two? Caucasians are wanting to work with me to prepare for next year's bee. So maybe that's six. Maybe I'm a bit...no, I'll own it. I'm quite biased, but seriously? This competition teaches a hell of a lot more than just memorizing words. Want to learn how to conduct yourself gracefully under pressure? How to think on your feet? How to behave appropriately when you have microphones shoved at you by reporters wanting that perfect 5-second sound bite? These are all extremely applicable skills in life. Sitting in class won't teach you these things. Speech will. Debate will. Drama will. Performing arts will. Journalism will. Many sports will. But many (not all) of those experiences take place in high school, after the realm of the spelling bee. Want a really, really awesome head start? That's where rare folks like me come into play.

I have more to say (vocabulary, anyone?), but this will suffice for tonight. Bed, bed, perchance to sleep...

===

(Okay...now we can add another motivated brother/sister combo to the list, as of a few hours ago. Make that a full EIGHT kids. I've worked with them before and adore them, and no, their parents are not swimming in money, but boy, do they have their hearts in the right place. Maybe I should contemplate quitting my day job and just become a full-time coach or something.)

Shit just got real.

(To be submitted for consideration for the most groan-worthy blog title of 2013.)

(Also: NOT for the faint of heart or queasy of stomach, this one.)

I have a relative who has been dealing with an on-again, off-again case of C. diff., a form of chronic diarrhea, the likes of which (when you get past the ickiness of that concept) is truly a public health issue, and a scourge for many people, particularly the elderly and immunocompromised. (C. diff. is an abbreviation for Clostridium difficile...a bacteria that is so-named partially because it is so difficult to eradicate.) Dehydration, inability to be more than a few steps away from a bathroom because you have to go NOW goddammit, low energy, imbalanced electrolytes -- the likes of which cause you to fall and smack your head on the ground, then send you to the hospital to get checked out by a cardiac team and placed under quarantine -- these are just a few of the annoyances that C. diff can cause. And -- knock wood -- these will remain the only annoyances said relative must deal with. But I'm dubious.

A year or two ago, I read about an experimental therapy that on paper, sounded so disgusting, so repulsive, that I had a hard time wondering how anyone in their right mind would even consider it. (And believe me, I immerse myself in the realm of the strange and unusual medical practices. The validity of things like maggots for safe wound debridement and topical honey for diabetic ulcers fascinated me, and -- beyond that -- has been proven in repeated studies.) But then I stepped back, put on my I'm-in-anatomy-lab face -- the one that you have to put on when faced with the reality of being a medical student and being freaked out by a preserved specimen of the human body is simply not an option anymore -- and considered the therapy. Hmm...maybe it could work. Theoretically, it might make sense.

Then I read the studies done with said therapy. And all I can say is that if any drug company could promise a 90%+ success rate with eradicating a disease that is a public health scourge with a single treatment, without any side effects whatsoever, that company could sell off all its other piddly little drug offerings, mark up that one treatment, and exist comfortably till kingdom come. Because people? There is no such thing in the drug world.

But apparently there is such a thing that...ahem...exists within us all.

One study done with this therapy was discontinued prematurely because the study designers deemed it unethical to deny any of the study subjects this therapy, when it had proven so effective so quickly and uneventfully. Everyone got the therapy, everyone went home happy.

So at the hospital today, while I was visiting said relative (who, it must be said, looked exhausted and in rather bad shape), the supervising gastroenterologist walked in. So I got to ask him about the possibility of...yep...all together now...fecal transplantation.

He had to tell me that if I had asked him 2 weeks ago, he would have heartily agreed. As it is now, the FDA has put a stop on all fecal transplants unless a doctor really wants to go through a mind-numbing set of bureaucratic hoops, tons of paperwork, and waiting a minimum of 30 days to be approved. In which time a patient for whom antibiotics aren't working, could possibly suffer an infection to the colon and instead need to get a colectomy. (Sorry...told ya this could get tough in here.)

I'm still not sure why the FDA is preventing this sort of treatment right now. Legal stuff? Trying to establish a standardized protocol? I understand the need for that. But in a case like this, you don't stand on the cliff and wait to get your wings right before you fly. You jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down. Because in the latter case, you're saving lives and helping others to become dramatically better with a single treatment. And in the former, you're basically being unethical, to put it rather euphemistically.

So now we sit and wait and hope and pray that yet another round of antibiotics -- probably months' worth -- could somehow get this flare-up under control. (Me myself, I doubt it. If a month-plus of vancomycin and Flagyl didn't eradicate it entirely last time, when this poor woman was a bit younger and a bit healthier, why would it work this time?)

Meow! Meow!

Oh, my legions of followers, I had to jump on the bandwagon. For the two of you with internet access who have yet to see this, set aside a leisurely 20 minutes to watch it. Then like a good thriller you can't put down, you'll be compelled to watch the second 20 minutes.

Folks, there's some major pathology there. Yes, obvious. Unrepentant delusion, solid and impermeable to reason as a concrete wall, is hard to come by even in this age of rampant mental illness. But these two nutjobs take the...uh...cake. (I did not mean to go there, I swear.) Halfway through the show, I was muttering to myself, "God, these people are a homeopathic case just waiting to be taken." And ten minutes later, I was all, "Oh HELL no." Who'd want to deal with these fucked up fantods?

Incidentally, I've known about the link between cats and mental disease in humans; it was, I believe, brought up in med school lo these many years ago. Or perhaps sometime later. (It's not that farfetched, really. Eccentric cat ladies, anyone? Anyone ever seen Grey Gardens?) And lots of research actually substantiates this now. It did not pass my observation that these wackadoos own three cats...and referred to them as their kids in cat costumes. And how the wife actually began meowing during the show? A big hint that she's not all there - if the unjustified aggressive attacking of their diners didn't tip you off to that before. I wonder how long the two of them have been this way, and wonder if there's a correlation between when they got their cats and when things started spiraling downhill. I mean, at one point, they did garner some rave reviews for their restaurant, but that was five years ago.

I'd be so curious to see if, indeed, these folks are infected with Toxoplasma, and if so, how an antiparasitic protocol would work for them. But don't expect me to be the one to either suggest the link or to recommend therapy. If it were to result in a restaurant turning around and succeeding, it might be worth a try. And if this is a confirmable case, I suddenly have much more pity in my heart for these two (I really hesitate to say "compassion" after seeing how they treat everyone around them) and much less incredulity.

The best years of your life (or something...) (part 4)

What I'd tell myself back in 12th grade - the last of the series. (Part 1, part 2, and part 3 all here.)

-- College applications! Fun! But please, please, make sure to protect that application from Brown with your life. And if it gets kinda shredded in your backpack (and yes, it will), don't hesitate to call and ask for a second application. I doubt they'll hold it against you. It'd be a great school to go to, right? Your (up to now) first choice? Yeah. Go after it.

-- (added months later) Will you please promise me that you'll apply to at least one more college in the Northeast? Middlebury is pretty awesome. Bowdoin, Colby, and Amherst are, too. Besides, it's fucking gorgeous up there. You'll quite possibly love it more than...oh...oops. Better not say. Let's just say that you have a chance to alter your future right now...and quite possibly for the better.

-- Oh, God. I'm sorry about the Silver Skating Dame. She still is every bit as awesome as you know she is. But yeah, as great as she was, there's just that one little aspect of your life that got in the way. I will say it looked like (just between you and me), you were looking for an excuse to call the relationship off. Call it inspiration from James Dean and Route 66. Whatever. I know you can't be there for her the way she would really like.

-- FINALLY you're not doing speech. Good for you. It's not like you had enough on your plate before. Enjoy sleeping in on Saturdays, finally. (Oh, and same goes for not doing swim team.)

-- So Deep Springs called your bluff. Really, though, you did come across that well on paper. That essay on Woody Guthrie? Brilliant. Whoda thunk? Anyhow, get ready for one of the best...uh...four-day periods of your life. Seriously. I'd love to relive that trip over and over again.

-- Prednisone is EVIL. Don't do it like you did last year. Really. It will have some effects this time that will render All State Choir no fun at all. Cutting your vocal range in half is the least of it.

-- I know this will fall on deaf ears. But really, you shouldn't call your neighbors to see if you got the letter from Deep Springs. Trust me on this. Sit on it over the weekend. (and then...)

-- Man, I'm sorry about Deep Springs. I know how much you had your heart set on it. And yes, falling from that place to the land of Malt-O-Meal is quite a drop. Take it easy on yourself.

-- I know you're extremely anti-censorship. Me too. And I know you need to yell out the frustration you feel. But keep in mind that there's a fine line between expressing yourself and adding gasoline to the fire. You don't want to get so hung up on being so angry and all that it consumes you. In a nutshell: don't let your struggle become your identity. Then again...

-- Your anger. There's a great way to channel it. Hit the goddamned gym. Hit the free weights. None of this circuit crap. Chow down on some ginger while you're at it to boost your appetite. And don't worry about the big football jocks there who may be mocking you. You know where they started? Where you are right now. The good guys will respect you for working out. The assholes (and there are many fewer of them than the good guys) can just fuck off. So start off easy, and build up from there. And by "start off easy," I mean start off absurdly, insanely easy. But be consistent, and you'll see some awesome results.

-- The Metallica album? Get it. Just do. Good shit to listen to while you're lifting weights.

-- I just want to plant a seed here, amidst all the - honestly - misinformation and prejudice you're telling yourself, and absorbing from your dad. What I'm saying is coming from a struggling self-employed businessman, too...so keep that in mind. "Business" really, truly, honestly is not a four-letter word. Neither are "responsibility" or "professionalism." And here's why. The majority of businesses out there started as dreams and ambitions and hopes. Lofty and worthy ones, often. And ideally, they remain so. Business is the nuts-and-bolts work of making that dream a reality. Responsibility is a commitment to making that dream a reality. And professionalism is the outward manifestation of making that dream a reality. If people call you professional, they're acknowledging your commitment. It's honestly a compliment. Those words do not comprise a straitjacket. And conversely, you do not need to wear a suit and tie, or even business casual to be professional.

-- So now that you're back on good terms with the Silver Skating Dame, be cool to her. You know how awesome she is. You do know why she's following you to college, right? It's not because she thought that the Lutheran land of cows, colleges and contentment was her ideal place. (You KNOW that she couldn't have picked a worse fit if she'd tried.) So hang out with her every once in a while, let her know you still care. She'll appreciate it more than you know.

Pushing maximum density...

And the award for the bitchiest off-the-cuff remark of the day goes to...yours truly. Why?

Picture it. Sicily. 1917. (Okay, not really.) A suburban brunch spot in suburban Denver specializing in bacon and all its appurtenances. (Seriously...these guys have a bacon flight.) After food and many mimosas and bloody marys and plenty of laughs and sassy comments, someone points out to me that a mutual friend, who was also a closeted gay boy back in the day in high school, thought that I was quite a looker at the time. (No word on what he thinks now, but that's beside the point; he's partnered and quite happy where that's concerned.)

My immediate response? A mean side-eye and a caustic "Well, shows how much he knows."

Silence. Then plenty of "ooh! that's harsh!"-like comments.

So let's back up, shall we? Did I mean to slam him? No. Definitely not. But this comes from recognition that very few people in high school are good looking - or at least, as good looking as they would like. We're all adjusting to bodies that are suddenly shooting skyward and out...and often in pretty embarrassing ways, sometimes beyond our control. Or they aren't growing quite the way we were hoping they would. For my part, I was a pencil-necked stick figure, cursing my physique - or lack thereof. I had a hard time thinking that anyone would find me attractive. Particularly - years later - said guy, whom I found also kinda cute, in a beefy/nerdy kind of way.

It's an interesting conundrum. One of my best friends in college was a self-professed chubby girl who was also insanely brilliant, tremendously sensitive, and utterly punk-rock. I could always rely on her for some great ultra-leftie polemic or an update on her latest self-published fanzine called Anarchy Penguin. And she always called me her little pumpkin blossom or some other sweet nothing. But combine all of the above qualities, and man, you have one painfully self-conscious girl on your hands. She did not fare well in the dating scene. Such was her shame, she told me that even if the girl of her dreams showed up and found her equally as appealing, she would run away, because who in their right mind would even give her a second look? And my heart ached for her. But I got where she was coming from, so I couldn't stand on a pedestal and say "Why can't you just accept that others will love you for who you are...and if they're physically attractive to you, so much the better?" I could feel it, but it would be really disingenuous and hypocritical to say it.

(Years ago, the story seemed to have a happy ending. She began growing out of her "chubby" phase, mainly due to a job that was accessible by bike, so she rode all the time. She also found a guy who loved her for who she was. And I breathed a joyous sigh of relief. Haven't seen her since, though, which is a shame.)

Blog Posts I Have (Almost) Known

I have grand ambitions to make blog posts as fulfilling as I can, both for myself and for the reader. Sometimes they just don't reach muster, but at the same time, they also don't reach the waste bin. So they sit in purgatory, waiting for...I dunno...I guess a blog post like this. So, a small compendium of what you could have been reading instead of this, and why it never came to fruition. So damned meta it hurts.

1. A reflection on Copper Mountain, one of my favorite ski areas of all time.
Why not? Seemed too facile at the time, no real point to it. Yet for some reason, this post seemed much more important to me. Now I feel like I really should post it. Oh, and it included a mildly time-sensitive component to it. Probably innocuous now.

2. Why music from the '90s sucked.
Why not? I really couldn't get inspired. Basic point: Nirvana was awesome, but laid the groundwork for some truly hoarktastic music. Also, do we really need to reconfirm how awful Hootie & the Blowfish or the Dave Matthews Band were back in the day?

3. An album review of Rufus Wainwright's Release the Stars.
Why not? Because it sucked. The album, I mean. Key passage: "At his worst (especially on his first album), he's incredibly nasal and effete. (Of course, that last is unavoidable if you're singing songs about matinee idols, operatic tragediennes and snobbish boarding schools.)"

4. Cool-ass men.
Why not? Maybe a work in progress more than anything. Maybe I just don't think there are that many out there. Either way, I'll keep ya updated.

5. Notes from a gay bar, 4/14/12.
Why not? Must have just fallen by the wayside.  It's short enough that...well, here ya go.
(Evidently meant to inspire some blog post, but now they're here in skeletal form, and there they'll stay.)
- Duck you I'm awesome.
- $5 tip to hot stripper
- Gladiator costumes
- I'm texting Pandora Boxx?
- Getting too old for this kind of shit.
- Sauna + 70 degree pool = HEAVEN.

6. A huge rant about how a friend of mine was unfairly shut out of the process of interviewing to become director of the Denver Gay Men's Chorus.
Why not? Because it warn't purty. Oh, and looking over it, because I never even got to that point. Shot my wad while bitching about how much I already hated the organization, and couldn't stay hard to continue. Key passage: "Much grumbling and annoyance ensued, and the rehearsals were really uninspiring. I was so disgusted, I ended up leaving a month before the concert. (A song about a kid who saved Christmas in a snow-bound town by urinating all over it so Santa would see it was the proverbial cherry. No, I'm not kidding.)"

7. A post in defense of Lance Armstrong.
Why not? Began to ramble too much. Also seemed to pass its expiration date. Lance is already so last year. But so many people jumped on the bandwagon to vilify him. Maybe it was my contrarian coming out, but I did not see all that much that justified everyone thinking he had such a huge fall from grace. Also - and this may really be where I got into trouble - I started looking at the definition of a sociopath, and tried to show that sociopathy really isn't all that awful. I got bogged down in the detritus.