When You Get Out Of the Hospital

... please let me back into your life. Sang the slightly neurotic Jonathan Richman back in about 1972. He sure was weird back then. What's the quote? Looked like Dustin Hoffman, moved like Mick Jagger.

So I got out of Cedars-Sinai this afternoon, a release delayed by several hours due to my inability to produce a sterile bodily fluid. Comically, I had the contents of my bladder analyzed by several nurses, who determined, using a ultrasonic bladder scanner, that after drinking 3 cartons of juice, a glass of water and a grande Starbucks cappuccino, that I had literally nothing in the old internal bota bag. So I proceeded to guzzle a bunch of cranberry juice, apple juice, all your well-known diuretics. I go back to the room, nothing! And then of course, the orderly tells me that with any juice, no matter how diuretical it is, your kidneys have to process away all the solids. Which was his way of saying, "Why didn't you just drink some water?" He was right, of course.

With that out of the way, I had a couple of visitors. More on that later.

Quick question: why didn't my dog catch this? No biscuits for you, Kelly!

Yes, I am blogging high. I've had 6 Darvies, and plan to Vike it up bigtime tomorrow. I was fine until I went to bed tonight, and then boom. Everything in the manner of pain medication wore off at the same time. Ocho Cinco, indeed.

So of course, I can't sleep. Does anything need filing?

Bad Car, Great Review

I love cars. The cultural complexity they engender due to the complete incompetence of the auto industry, is of course, tragic. That is why this piece of writing is so excellent.

I have a nomination for Best Pants of the 1970s. And really, the most over-the-top ultra-sensitive song that really delivers the goods. The "goods" being dicklessness.

And speaking of such, what sort of mocking is needed in addition to the get up that Gilbert O'Sullivan was wearing for this very early performance, of what was otherwise a badly produced but decent song. I mean - how do you get an adult male to wear that sort of clothing?

But that's what I love about the 1970s. The utter randomness of it all. It's like no one had any idea of what to do, so they did random things. The whole world lost its culture. At once. And no one had any idea what to do in the vacuum. So they did ... amateur hour. For years on end. I miss it so.

My Sweet [Mary Lou] Lord

Once in a while it occurs
You find that you're not where that you thought you were
Or even where you hoped you might be in the field
It sounds like a lie but you know that it's real

And then you came and you reached out a hand
And so you stepped in as a part of the plan
The summer came and went and the leaves turned to red
Tell me were we wrong to believe what you said?

It can't be helped if we get on your nerves
We just wanna touch what you said we deserve
It's not that we don't know what you've done for the cause
It's just that there's a name on the line and its yours

[chorus] Hey hey hey, its another dog day
You never know what's on its way
Till its landed in your old tin tray
Hey hey hey, its another dog day
You never know what's on its way
Till its landed in your old tin tray

We can't say we'll succeed on our own
At least if we try and we end up unknown
It won't be 'cos of you that we're still on the shelf
It's easier to take if you do it yourself

And you know once in a while it occurs
You find that you're not where you thought you were
Or even where you hoped you might be in the field
You know what you can do with your sad little deal

[chorus]

That's "Old Tin Tray" as sung by the indisputably great Mary Lou Lord. I was gonna write about what a kickin' cool songwriter MLL was/is, but then I discovered this was written by her frequent collaborator, Nick Saloman, of the Bevis Frond. What makes that unusual is that, I would assume, that he wrote this song about MLL's specific situation with her record company, her career [busking], the DIY thing. I could be mistaken.

I'm thinking of doing "screwed by the record company" list of songs. This would be one of them.

1. Any number of Aimee Mann songs. "Way Back When". "I've Had It." "You Could Make A Killing." "It's Not Safe."
2. Traffic "Dear Mr. Fantasy"
3. Graham Parker "Mercury Poisoning"
4. Badfinger "Keep Believing", "Rock and Roll Contract"
5. Grant Hart "2541"
6. Nick Lowe "I Love My Label"
7. The Records "Starry Eyes"
8. Tom Petty "Into the Great Wide Open"

9. The Smiths "Paint a Vulgar Picture"

I'm certain that there are tons more songs out there that bemoan the state of record companies. Sad state of affairs, it will be a pity when all the record companies are gone.

Last note: Mike Penner is back, and with a sassy new attitude.

Is That All There Is?

First, a true American icon has passed. Let's reflect on that for a moment, instead of our petty problems.

Now, onto our petty problems.

First, the cancer thing. Let's clear this one out: As my brother said, so eloquently earlier today ... "It's not really cancer." Which is not exactly true. But sort of. It's the most benign of the malignant cancers [which is sort of like saying how Billy Baldwin is the most normal of the Baldwin brothers.] I got his point. What he was trying to do was to once again disparage one of my achievements. I got cancer and he didn't. Simple jealously.

Can we get back to Bettie Page? Wow. That's all I can say.

Oh yeah, the carcinoid. I suppose I could throw in with all the nutty carcinoid overreactors out there -- that is, the people who seem to take this disease seriously, and want to do a lot of due diligence. But what would that get me? A lot of trouble from my employer insurance company. God forbid.

Personally, I believe that if you even mention the "C" word, you increase your odds of contracting the disease by a factor of five. I've got temporary immunity, I believe, at the present, as Dr. House has shown me that the odds of getting something while you already have something else are the same as the twitty foppy English guy on the show getting laid.

And really, the carcinoid people could do with some better branding. Carcinoid. Sounds like "paranoid" and "carcinoma" did the old hayride bop and had a child. And they named it "Carcinoid!" Neither entirely scary nor a good title for an early sixties surf tune.

So to answer the carcinoidians out there ... the oncologist says no to the drip. Unless it is a drip consisting of 3 parts dry gin and a splash of vermouth. In which case, drip away! But as I have said many times [and may say so less in the future, as I will be down half a lung] "the internet is the playground of the obsessive." And so, gentle readers and lurkers and obsessive compulsives out there, please tread lightly on imaginary artificial turf on the playground surrounding this blog. And do not roughhouse on the monkey bars.

Tropic of Carciniods

I found out the afternoon of December 1st, Monday, in the office of possibly the most soft-spoken pulmonologist in California, that I have cancer, more specifically, a small carcinoid, in the lower lobe of my left lung.

And it's no major tumor either, just a modest little carcinoid, that previously - for the prior 6 months - was thought of, if at all, as a lesion. So it's like a promotion. It has been upgraded, if you will.

Sadly, for it, a carcinoid is barely cancer. Which is both good news and bad news. The good news is that, like being in my company, it will take fuckall forever to kill you. The bad news is that it is tougher to kill than John Travolta's career. Because, as cancer goes, it is horribly unambitious.

Unless it metastasizes. In which case, like a lot of things, once it hits the liver, you're cooked.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. The overall survival rate is better, say, than that of members of any mid-1990's rock band. That is, somewhere approaching 83% for 5 years. And hell, I don't even have a 3 year plan, let alone a 5 year plan. What am I? V. V. Kuibyshev?

So many questions! And I haven't even begun my Christmas shopping.

So I check into Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles the Monday after Christmas, when some naughty bits will be removed from my lung. Sadly, some of my lung - and lymph nodes too - will have to pay the price. But them's the breaks. Not all body parts will make it to the finish line. And if you do make it with all parts intact, lucky you!

And so, that's the news. I have cancer. So what. I get phone calls from doctors [instead of me calling them.] And they treat me better. Is it worth it? Oh, hell yes!

In some quarters, folks want me to get inspected internally so that we can make damned certain no other carcinoids are crawling around. Oh, and that sounds fun! So throw an endoscopy on my plate, too! I really need some stranger to stick a camera down my windpipe. I'd rather watch the Lions play the Chiefs.

So I think I'll go out and run 3 or 4 miles, while I still have 2 good lungs to wheeze with.

Misleading Headline Dept.

Eagle Swoops Down and Steals Cat. That's putting it nicely. The eagle did not merely steal the cat, I must report. Well, that's your liberal news media for you -- always soft peddling the hard truths, and over-selling the soft ones. My good woman, your cat is toast.

I would write about the proposed auto company bailout, but really, it's too depressing. In short, I would propose to give the money to Honda or Toyota, and have them transition production of the existing plants to Camrys and Priuses [Priux? Prii?] One thing baseball does right: When the team fails, the manager gets fired. Sure, the rest of the team may suck too, but rarely do they suck more than the manager does [Bill James, I dare you to prove me wrong!] In this case, the LEADERS of an entire industry which sucks are asking to be financially forgiven for their sins. Their cars are produced and sold much more cheaply than the competitors' cars, and yet they blame the unions, medical costs, legacy contracts and ... I don't know ... zombies from Neptune ... could it be their inept and incompetent management? Just maybe. Have you driven a Ford lately? Have you bought one?

My dog turned 4 yesterday. So the photo up top is my birthday honor for her.