TAKING IT WAY TOO FAR

While grocery shopping yesterday, I could not help but overhear a 20-something couple picking out assorted items.

What brought them to my attention was how unconsciously loud the woman, who happened to be a very cute blonde, was, as she blathered on endlessly about this that and everything else, but mostly about white women. What drove it firmly into the territory of the ridiculous and offensive was her doing all of this in an intentional "white woman" accent cribbed from virtually every black standup act of the the past sixty years — if you knew where to look, starting in the days when black men talking about white women on stage was a possible one-way ticket to the morgue — and her accent bore verifiable influences from Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, and Tyler Perry. All of this was compounded by mixing things up with an outrageous "ghetto ho" accent for counter-point. She was basically a one-woman minstrel show dropping "white gurl" jokes, or, if you prefer, a one-woman show of WHITE CHICKS. It was bizarre and I almost said something, but I let it go. If the cosmos wants to give her a "Bitch, are you for real?" moment, then let someone else do it. I have too much on my plate at the moment.

This level of un-self-aware cringe is what I was afraid of when some of my very white nieces and nephews started getting into Tyler Perry and began imitating Madea's mannerisms. Needless to say, I came down hard on that shit.

And now we have today's climate. How is her unabashedly doing this in a neighborhood dominated by people of color? The mind wobbles.

THE NEVER-ENDING SHITSTORM CONTINUES

Well, today sucked out loud. "Hey, Steve! What did I do on your summer vacation? Fun in the sun? Debauchery between the oiled, tanned thighs of some sweet lady in a sarong? Teaching bottlenose dolphins to be eloquent vulgarians?" Oh, GO FUCK YOURSELF...

Though the recurring hiccups gave me a brief respite during last night's watch of DOOM PATROL, they returned with a vengeance and kept me awake all night long. I could not go for more than a few seconds without hiccuping, so I resolved to make my way to the local urgent care when it opened at 8am. I had a similar issue two or three years ago and that's where I went for help during that incident, receiving a prescription for Gabapentin in the bargain. (It resets the vagus nerve, thus preventing the hiccups.)

Today, however, found me admitted a little after 10am, and once shown into an examination room I told the resident what was wrong, along with my prior history with the same thing and how I had come there before for help, and making sure to mention that Gabapentin did the trick last time. I also clarified matters further by letting him know that I'd had that nuclear stress test on Monday and that my hiccups started in earnest sometime on Tuesday.

The resident left and soon came back with the attending physician, and upon hearing all of this he asked me why I needed the nuclear stress test. I told him it was to check the state of my heart ahead of the upcoming dialysis fistula surgery, which was itself ahead of the eventual kidney transplant, and that information gave him pause. He felt that because a nuclear stress test is stressful (it's right there in the name), it was possible that the dilation of my heart's arteries may have shaken me up and kick-started the hiccups. So, before anything else could be done, he felt it would be advisable for me to undergo an EKG. I resigned myself to it because an EKG is basically non-invasive and quick, plus my chest and abdomen still bore the bare patches from when I got shaved for the EKG I underwent the other day.

Unfortunately for me, the resident was the one who was tasked to hook me up and administer the test, and the guy clearly did not know what he was doing. It took him 20 minutes to figure everything out, and the doctor, who was present for most of the prep, offered no assistance. After much fumbling I was finally properly connected to the unit, and when the doctor looked over the results he told me to get myself to the nearest ER immediately.

I was stunned.

I had just been given good news in this department by my team at Mount Sinai two days prior, so to hear that was a blow.

When I asked exactly what was wrong, the doctor stated that due to my age and the fact that I am a high-risk patient, it was best if I let the folks in the ER at NY Methodist (which was two avenues away) give me a going-over, which would include another EKG, blood work, et cetera, a prospect that filled me with dread, especially since I just cannot seem to go more than a week or two without being in a hospital for something. And frankly, I am fucking sick of it.

I explained that I had received good results from my cardiologist, but the urgent care doctor was having none of it. He began filling my head with every worst case scenario he could think of, including the possibility of me having "a metabolic abnormality," and with that I admittedly kind of lost it. I just sat there, silent at first, and then I quietly-but-sternly stated "It never fucking ends..." followed by a ramble expressing my utter weariness of all of this, only I cannot even remember exactly what I said. All I know is that I was clearly angry, as when I am in that state I remain seemingly calm but level-voiced while avoiding the use of contractions when I speak. The doctor was visibly taken aback, and he had backed up by a few feet as he said "I'm sorry. It's a hard road." In my head I responded with "Tell me something I don't know motherfucker," but I opted to be polite and instead stated "Yeah. It's a hard road I've been walking for the past seven years, and I am just exhausted."

The doctor proceeded to try and placate me, stating that if I went to the ER and it turned out to be a waste of time, "Hey, no big deal, but you've got to stay on top of this sort of thing." I figured there was no point in trying to get across to him just how comprehensively "on top of this sort of thing" I am and have been for years, so I told him I would go. At that point I would have said anything, just so I could get the hell out of there. Not just because of the unpleasantness of yet more testing and hospital shit, but because I could see my energy was scaring the shit out of the doctor. Those of you who know me in the world outside of social media know that I am basically a pussycat, but to those who have never encountered me before, I am a large black man whose manner of communication and overall demeanor do not jibe with the common perception an American black male, so I am already an unknown and confusing commodity to most. Couple all of that with all that's been going on of late, and in some eyes I become some weird sepia golem, only dispatched by who knows what ire-fueled forces. (Let me assure you it was not Rabbi Loew.) I did not mean to scare anyone, and the fact that that's exactly what I was doing just brought me right down. Anyway, I left immediately after being handed my dismissal papers.

Instead of hitting the ER, I came straight home, deeply bummed-out, and called a dear friend who's a doctor. Since all of my medical shit kicked off, she kindly offered her assistance as a consultant if shit gets too thick, so I called and told her what had just happened. I was immediately glad that I called her, because her calm, rational and soothing voice always puts me at familial ease, and upon hearing the situation she suggested that I call my cardiologist and may primary care physician at Mount Sinai for their take on the matter. I was still hiccuping and it was driving me insane, so I hoped talking with either of them would get me the Gabapentin I was denied during my urgent care visit. I left messages with the aforementioned Mount Sinai doctors and attempted to get some sleep while awaiting their responses, but that effort proved futile.

I eventually heard back from my cardiologist and, upon hearing of the situation at urgent care, he told me in no uncertain terms that there was no need for me to go to the ER, as my results from the other day clearly showed that, while not the acme of heart health, I was doing quite well, all things considered. The urgent care doctor may have been erring on the side of caution, but he also did not have my charts or the recent cardiac imaging to base his assumptions on, while my cardiologist had all of that. He told me not to worry and that the hiccups should clear up. If not, I was to call him again and we would take it from there. As for my primary care physician, she can sometimes take a while to get back to me if I leave her a message, which is wholly understandable, as Mount Sinai is swamped with COVID-19 cases, so I have yet to hear back from her. Thus, still no Gabapentin.

I again tried for some sleep, but I was so disoriented after no sleep due to endless hiccuping, I have no idea exactly how long I may or may not have managed to achieve some shuteye. The hiccups did eventually diminish considerably, but they still sneak in every few minutes, which definitely beats them occurring every ten seconds or less. I'm hoping it will all finally abate by the morning, by my throat is raw from all of it, and I have massive headache.

A MOMENT OF "PURE IMAGINATION"

You never know where you'll find much-needed emotional release. To say that I have been incredibly wound-up of late would be a massive understatement, and tonight while finally watching last week's episode of DOOM PATROL — "Sex Patrol" — my emotional guard was unexpectedly fully let down, and the floodgates opened.

During an impromptu party to restore the broken Danny the Brick to his full glory as Danny the Street, Dorothy lets loose with a sweet rendition of "Pure Imagination" that, especially considering who it's coming from, was heartfelt and poignant. So much so that I found myself singing along with her as happy tears streamed down my face.

As a possible side-effect of the drug that dilated the arteries in my heart at the hospital the other day, I suffered with hiccups that would only briefly subside, so I got no sleep last night and spent the majority of going "hic" and having no appetite. I was going to hit the local urgent care in the morning and ask for a prescription for Gabapentin, the drug they gave me to reset my Vagus nerve when this happened a couple of years ago, but after "Pure Imagination" I felt better and my hiccups ceased.
Let's see if that state holds for the night (at the very least).

A LOST DAY

Today went by in a hazy blink.

As has been previously stated, it'd been a stressful past few weeks, with very little little sleep, so upon returning from the hospital yesterday I almost immediately crashed out for a few hours, waking up only for the most minimal of food intake. Today was no different, as I only got out of bed for the occasional bathroom break and a piece of toast. The residual effects of the isotope serum and artery-dilating drug rather did me in, so I was either sluggish and woozy with limbs that felt as heavy as lead, or I was out cold asleep for most of the day. I clearly needed the rest and I will likely go back to bed in a bit, but my appetite is final returning and it must be sated. Frozen Swedish meatballs and pasta to the rescue...

UPDATE

I just received my test results from my cardiologist and he says that after careful examination of the imaging and discussing matters with the cardiovascular surgeon, there is no reason for my fistula surgery not to go forward. My heart itself is in excellent condition, though there is a scar toward the lower region, but that could be due to my diabetes or a number of other things. The point it that I am in no immediate danger and no stent or other heart procedure is required. 

I asked him about my recent issues with occasional chest pains, and he stated that that could also be due to any number of factors — I've narrowed it down to a combination of endless worry over my medical issues, my mother's medical issues, the pandemic, and the lack of regular exercise at the gym for just under four months, plus dread over having to take yesterday's nuclear stress test (which proved to be unwarranted, as I was able to opt out of the treadmill) — but there was nothing in the imaging that pointed to anything being wrong. Not that I should ignore it if it happens again (don't worry, I won't), but it's all good enough for now.

I'm still confined to quarters for a few hours due to yesterday's two doses of that radioactive isotope serum, but that's fine by me. I'm also still kind of sluggish and loopy from the drug that dilated my arteries for the imaging, and part of its effects are feelings of nausea, wooziness, that sort of thing, so I'll mostly be staying in bed for the rest of the day. And with the dread over possibly croaking during the nuclear stress test out of the way, last night was the deepest sleep I've had in a couple of weeks.

ONCE MORE INTO THE MEDICAL BREECH...

Here we go again...

Due to anxiousness over what today's nuclear stress test at Mount Sinai may reveal, I got no sleep on Saturday night and finally shut down around 9am on Sunday morning, sleeping through to 4:30pm, after which I awoke briefly to hydrate, and then back to bed until around eight. Consequently I only slept for about an hour upon actually going to bed on Sunday night.

The echo stress test that I took on June 10th revealed that there is some narrowing in the arteries of my heart, so my surgery to install a dialysis fistula ahead of my eventual kidney transplant was delayed until I undergo a nuclear stress test to receive more precise data, which in turn delays moving forward with the transplant. A stress test sucks bad enough if one has not had any proper exercise for a while — as has been the case four almost four months, thanks to the pandemic shutting down gyms everywhere — and the nuclear version ups the ante by introducing radioactive material into the patient's system. I had one leading up to having my stent installed back in 2013, and I would not be surprised if I may require another stent. The stent is nowhere near as bad as it sounds; in fact, I was awake for the installation of my first one and I was fascinated. No pain, either, and after an overnight stay for observation I walked home from the local hospital where it was performed.

The issue with the current situation is that of late I have begun to experience a certain level of chest pains if I exert myself too much, and that is obviously concerning, but it was on the list of possible effects from decrease in kidney function, and mine is down to below 10%.

A stress test (of either variety) is intended to elevate and tax the patient's heart rate on a treadmill whose angle, speed, and level of difficulty increase throughout, and one is expected to hold on through it despite how torturous it becomes. The one I took a few weeks ago lasted for as long as I could stand it, but I had to quit before the optimal limit because my semi-arthritic right hip and knees just could not hold out, and when I got off of the treadmill I collapsed on the nearby gurney, heart racing/pounding, and painfully panting until I could finally breathe regularly. It's a scary sensation and I felt like my heart was about to explode, but the one reassurance was that all of this was taking place in one of country's best hospitals and under immediate care and observation by specialists. I will be enduring that again today, with things scheduled to kick off by me getting injected with radioactive imaging material at 1, after of which I lay there for a good, long while as the material permeates my system, and then the dreaded treadmill. Fortunately, a kind soul is giving me a lift there and back, so no dealing with public transportation. (The trip to today's branch of Mount Sinai usually averages about 70 minutes each way, featuring two trains and crosstown bus, and traffic permitting; by car it's about a half-hour each way.)

If I have to get another stent, then so be it, but anticipating that stress test is like slowly being led to the guillotine. And if I do have to get stented again, that means I will be in the hospital overnight for observation. I will have my phone and laptop with me, so I will be back with updates. Until then, I have to eat something before 9am, as I am allowed no food in my system as of four hours before the testing. Looks like poached eggs and toast and maybe a Chobani vanilla yogurt.

HOORAY FOR 2020...

TODAY I AM 55

Another birthday, once more alone, but this time taking place under quarantine as I await the green light for upcoming dialysis fistula and kidney transplant surgeries. It's a shitty time and there will be no celebrations, but I did receive the following Facebook post from my dear friend since college, the Jewish flower of the Lower East Side, Izzy Izzy Bo Bizzy, now residing in Australia, married, and the coolest mother in the world the three superb kids:

Izzy (and her legendary midriff), circa 1991, surrounded by but a few of her cult of worshipers.

Bunche
Holy shit! That time again?
To celebrate my dear OLD friend.
You must be 69 by now.
The years have flown right by and how.
Let’s see, I need to get some things.
To ensure that this new year brings.
All of the pleasures without any stings.
Here is my list:
A 3 foot bong for old times sake.
Jaegermeister, to blame for mistakes.
A sushi platter and lots of dim sum.
A healthy maiden with a big round bum.
A certificate for my undying love.
A promise of fine weather from up above.
New nunchucks and a sexy blade.
Memories that will never fade.
A round-trip ticket to visit us here.
That won’t expire for over a year.
A day’s worth of talking, a lifetime of hugs.
A stroll in the park to hassle young thugs.
A year with my children to help them get right.
The knowledge that you are loved every night.
This year It is harder to give you these things.
Only Covid-19 knows what the next day brings.
But my friendship is your inalienable right.
I won’t give it up, I am prepared to fight.
Distance and time effect us in no way.
I will be your friend for EVERY birthday.
Even though now you are not in your prime.
I happily claim you as one of mine.
Eat, drink and make merry.
Celebrate your life.
Be good or next year I will gift you a wife!

I love you too, Izzy, and I miss you terribly.

 1994: Izzy at my apartment on the Upper West Side, expressing awe at the triumph of documentary cinema that is BOX BALL. 

Izzy today: Despite surviving marriage, three rambunctious children, and ongoing daily life in Australia (the land where literally everything is out to kill you), her mind remains haunted by that long-ago film of white trash testicular torture.

RIDING THE DESOLATION LINE

10:30am: Totally alone on the 3 train to the Upper West Side. I have ridden this train innumerable times over the past 23 years, and I have never been alone on this specific line at any time of the day or night. The car remained empty, save for myself, for a good thirty minutes.

Just a day after meeting with the vascular surgeon who will be creating the fistula in my left arm to facilitate dialysis ahead of my inevitable kidney transplant, I received a call telling me I had to come in today for a COVID-19 screening, 48 hours before my thoracic echo stress test early on Friday morning. So, despite a night of little sleep and a mind unsettled by the state of the nation and its civil unrest, plus to say nothing of concern over my own issues, I hauled myself up to Mount Sinai's 114th Street location on Manhattan's Upper West Side. It's a two-hour round trip, and the COVID swab took all of maybe ten seconds.

You may ask why I made such a journey when there is an urgent care facility about nine blocks down the avenue from me, and the answer is simple. Mount Sinai knows and has worked with my various medical setbacks for about five years, so they know me inside and out and by having everything handled by them, there is less likelihood of crossed wires or misinformation with my lab results. Case in point: My prime donor for a kidney called me yesterday to inform me that she she would have to re-check her blood type, as her most recent info on it came from two different sources. (She'd had procedures at two unrelated locations.) The records at one shows her blood type to be O, a match for me, while the other states that she A-. It's stuff like that that makes me keep everything as centralized as possible.

THE CURRENT STATE OF AFFAIRS

Yer Bunche, post ultrasound.

Since having a stent implanted in my heart back in the fall of 2013, I have mostly avoided chronicling   my seemingly endless revolving doors of medical issues and setbacks, including severe atopic dermatitis, Type 2 diabetes, and ancillary issues. I did so mostly because I usually try to keep things here light and amusing, but in the interest of full disclosure and for the sake of posterity in case my tribulations may offer others some insight or hope when striving to overcome their own Job-like suffering, I will from now on record that which transpires, as well as periodically going back over the past seven years to supply the epic of my battle with atopic dermatitis and my road to recovery as one of the human guinea pigs for Dupilumab, the wonder drug that is now marketed as Dupixent. So, welcome to the ongoing narrative.

Ever since being diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes roughly 24 years ago, I have also been suffering slow decrease in kidney function. In case you were unaware, kidney failure often goes hand-in-hand with Type 2 diabetes and in my case of late that decrease in function has drastically escalated. As of the other day my overall kidney function is down to a mere 10%, and as recently as four months ago, when my creatinine levels ceased randomly fluctuating and just kept escalating, my renal specialist told me in no uncertain terms that I had best prepare myself for the inevitability of either regular dialysis, which would mean implantation of a port in my arm to allow dialysis hookups three times per week, or a kidney transplant. 

I was put on the NY State kidney transplant list and, due to my blood type, the wait for a compatible kidney is anywhere from 7 to 10 years. (other sources say 3 to 10.) Fortunately for me, once I let it get around that I was up for a transplant, two very dear friends immediately volunteered to see if they were a match, so I just as  immediately had two possible live donors. With that in mind, the ball for transplant got rolling for me last Tuesday, as I endured a multi-hour screening with four surgeons at Mount Sinai, which included 18 (!!!) vials of blood being drawn for comprehensive testing. I was given a thick stack of paperwork to fill out, plus an equally thick stack of reading on the whole shebang, but the bottom line is that the process has taken baby steps toward getting started. Thus I waited to receive test results from Mount Sinai.

I got several calls from Mount Sinai less than 24 hours later, starting in the morning and going on throughout the day, once I confirmed with my specialist that I have a potential donor. (They knew I had two volunteers at that point.) They gave me two numbers and a website for the prime candidate to contact to get her screening process started, so I sent her all of it and I walked her through any info she needed from me via text.

My specialist is all over this to the point of being annoying, but her time at Sinai concludes at the end of next month and she's been tracking and working with my case for a couple of years now, so she wants everything done as right and as precisely as possible ahead of her departure.

No time is being wasted. I spoke with my specialist a few times that Wednesday and the day after and she is quite concerned about how rapidly my kidney function has decreased since the last time I saw her, which was just in March. She wants to get me started on dialysis ASAP, so while I was asleep on Thursday morning the vascular surgeon — who will be creating my dialysis fistula — called and left me a message, saying he would call back. Since then I spoke with two other surgeons, both of whom pretty much repeated the same information, the admin who gave me the info to give to my prime potential donor, and then my specialist again, who was checking to make sure all of the others had contacted me.

I left a message for my primary care physician, as I required a referral for a cardiovascular specialist ahead of the appointment that was made for me with one on June 10th. I will need a thoracic echo stress test ahead of any procedures, and I was told I will hear back from my PC either today or Monday. Meanwhile, the vascular surgeon eventually got back to me, as promised, and I went in to see him yesterday, That visit entailed a get-to-know-you along with a going-over of my current regular meds, along with an ultrasound evaluation of the arm that will receive the dialysis fistula. Both the surgeon and the ultrasound technician stated that my veins were excellent, so that's a relief at least. However, I have to go in tomorrow for a COVID-19 test ahead of the echo stress test, which takes place very early on Friday morning. And after that, I return for a followup next Wednesday.

Also, the prime donor's son, whom I consider my Number One nephew, let me know that he is also filling out the donor information, so that bring the tally of potential kidneys up to six. The past few days have seen an outpouring of support, as well as several kind volunteers offering up a spare, but of those who have made the offer six are immediate and two have fully registered with Mount Sinai's kidney transplant department, while the other requested and received the registration info. The two prime donors have both been given the green light as donors, so now they must endure a battery of tests to determine their overall health ahead of giving up a kidney.

That said, I'm good, albeit rather on edge. I'm just sitting here buzzing with nervousness, dreading the next time my phone rings, and also dreading filling my mother in on all of this as it all progresses. The past couple of days when speaking to her, it immediately degenerates into her going on and on about how she is constantly praying for me. I understand where she's coming from but she gets all wound-up and manic when she does it, so she comes off as quite crazy, which is in no way constructive. So, upon returning from picking up two prescriptions yesterday, I filled her in on the updates. I know she means well but I had to politely tell her to can it with the platitudes and prayer stuff, as I know she wants me to come out of this well, but platitudes and Jesus did not save me during my years of health tribulations. Science did. She reluctantly cut off the prayer stuff that was on the verge of issuing from her mouth and simply, sheepishly said "I won't say anything." 

So, I'm still buzzing, but a little less agitated than I have been. I am not afraid, just extremely weary after seven years of relentless poking, prodding, slicing, draining, biopsies, and hospital stays. I am absolutely dizzy from all of this, and this isn't really even the start of Round 1 with this procedure...

Whatever the case, one endures and comes out stronger. Adopt, adapt, improve.

"THIS IS WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE IN BROOKLYN"

Just after 7:30pm a demonstration made its way up 5th Avenue, just around the corner from my apartment, less than a half-hour before the newly-imposed nightly curfew goes into effect. The understandably incensed vibes of the crowd were palpable and the chanting of "THIS IS WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE IN BROOKLYN" did not fail to resonate. (Though it did seem a tad odd to hear that in tony Park Slope. I can name several communities in Brooklyn where such sentiments are way more justified.) Whatever the case, until the wielding of torches and pitchforks eases up, I will be staying indoors from 8pm through sunrise for the foreseeable future.

Stay safe out there, everyone. And stay sane and civilized. Exhibit more humanity than the oppressors.

T-BONED

The "steak shopping" scene from PINK FLAMINGOS (1972).

I just got back from stepping out to pick up a prescription, and as I exited my building I saw the younger manager of the Associated supermarket around the corner running full-tilt down my block toward 4th Avenue, with a beefy staff member who could not keep pace hot on his heels. I put it pout of my head as I made my way to the chemists shop, and upon picking up my prescription I made my way back here but stopped into the Associated first for some seltzer. When I entered I noticed two NYPD officers, clipboards for taking notes in hand, conferring with the manager who'd hauled ass past my building.

Being a regular anywhere for nearly 24 years allows one a certain amount of access to the behind-the-scenes skinny, so when I hit the checkout counter I asked the cashier, whom I am friendly with, what was up. She described the situation thusly:

"What happened was this big woman in a hat, lookin' like a man — I think she was a dyke — came to me with a stack of steaks and asked about our return policy. I told her that without receipts we don't take back meats, so she looked at me and snarled 'So, I'm stuck with these steaks???' and with that she walked out with the steaks. So basically she chose some of our most expensive steaks, came up to me, and tricked me into thinking she was an actual customer. Alex (the manager) chased her all the way down to the R train, but she got on and he missed her by like a second."

I suppose I should not be surprised that this sort of thing goes on, but is it just me or is that move incredibly selfish? While the managers at the Associated treat the staff very well and understand when this kind of shit happens, that same kindness might not be exhibited at other NYC supermarkets, and losing high-end goods, especially during a time of crisis, could easily get an innocent cashier fired and cut loose into the nightmare that is the current unemployment maelstrom. Douchebaggery.

"WHERE NOBODY'S DREAMS COME TRUE..."

One upside to the barrenness wrought by the pandemic: Being able to wander around a practically-deserted Key food at 7:30am in what amounts to a gas mask while loudly singing along with "Pico & Sepulveda" and grooving my way to the self-checkout aisle. The staffer assigned to watch the line and enforce social distancing could not take his eyes off of the large, strange black man singing and dancing like a loon. The few others present at checkout didn't bat an eye. Quite freeing, really.

A WOULD-BE PANDEMIC PROFITEER STRIKES OUT

Enterprise! You've got to enterprise!

Enterprise! 

You've got to enterprise!

And God bless the blackout when it comes!

— "Enterprise" from RUNAWAYS (1978)

After completing errands before 9am today, I had planned to stay indoors for the next few days at least, but I ventured out just after 2pm once alerted of a prescription being available for pickup.

After the rainy weather of the past couple of days, spring arrived in all of its (quarantined) glory, so by the afternoon the previously deserted streets of Park Slope were once again bustling with life. Most of the people that I saw were merrily wandering about, glad to be out of their homes, hugging too-long-unseen friends and loved ones, but few sported masks or any form of mouth coverings or gloves, save for those entering the supermarket right around the corner. (No mask, no admittance.)

As I walked north along 5th Avenue toward the Chemists Shop (my preferred pharmacy by a landslide), I noted a guy across the street who was decked out from head to toe in a well-worn hasmat suit of the kind you can snag via eBay for around thirteen bucks (excluding shipping and handling). His face was obscured by a mask and he even sported those plastic baggie boots, along with, for some unknown reason, a blue superhero-style cape, rendering his whole look into a sorry cosplay variant of Moon Knight. He ducked into the 24/7 convenience store on one of the corners, but came out again almost immediately, after which he quickly crossed the avenue and ended up on the sidewalk a few lengths ahead of me. 

He too headed into the Chemists Shop. 

When I entered, I saw him brandishing a sealed box of ventilator masks, and he was attempting to sell them, "cheap," to the too-savvy-for him counter girl and the weekend manager, who is also always on the ball. The mystery wandering medical supply entrepreneur gave it his all, but the staff simply were not having it, outlining to him how they were only stocking and selling 3M brand N95 masks, and noting that what he was attempting to push on them were cheap paper knockoff that were functionally "useless." Realizing he was not dealing with the gullible, he beat a hasty retreat.

When I approached the counter, I engaged the staff in our usual session of friendly "regular" chatter, and allowed them to vent about what had just transpired. Apparently, the guy had been hitting all of the local convenience stores, supermarkets, bodegas, and supermarkets, and word of his scheme had gotten around.

Never underestimate the grapevine of small Brooklyn businesses.

SERIOUS SAUSAGE, RUNNY OVER-EASY EGG and CHEESE CROISSANT

I say that as a reward for making it through the week during the pandemic/quarantine, we all treat ourselves to an obscene weekend breakfast. Today's for me was a sausage, runny over-easy egg, and cheese croissant, with a lashing of cayenne pepper. Utterly delicious and way better than one you'd get at a diner or a Dunkin' Donuts.

The secret is obtaining a large croissant (as you are making a proper sandwich and not a dainty snack) and flattening your sausage patty meat between two sheets of parchment paper, making sure it's flatter and wider than a pancake. Meat shrinks on a griddle, so making the patty super-wide and super-flat compensates for for that and allows the patty to be at a respectable size upon completion of cooking. The area of the sausage surface space also allows for carefully placing your egg and allowing the runny bits room to move but still stay on the sausage (more or less) while the croissant sops up some of the runoff.

Whatever the case, this is a 10 out of a possible 10 on the quality breakfast scale if done properly, and it goes swimmingly with tea.

SEASON OF THE WITCH

Waiting for the bus home on the deserted 5th Avenue in Park Slope after picking up a prescription during a quarantine is already weird enough, but doing so while listening to Vanilla Fudge's cover of the Donovan classic "Season of the Witch" adds a whole other eerie layer to the experience.

MY SPRING LOOK

Considering my Type 2 diabetes and kidney issues, plus the fact that a number of my friends/family have been stricken with Covid-19, I decided to stop fucking around with the standard 3M mask and go for a SERIOUS upgrade. 

This bad mutha is a hell of a lot easier to breathe through, it fits snugly and comfortably thanks to straps around the back of my head and at the top, and it comes with modular organic vapor cartridges for filtration. As more and more reports come in concerning the virus as possibly becoming an annual event, this purchase was for something made to last, and I assure you this meet that criteria. 

Plus, in this bizarre climate, it's also something of a fashion statement. I can't wait to rock it with my bowler and Russian winter hat!

ENTER THE...???

Today's moment of Brooklyn weirdness:

While walking back from picking up a pizza at La Villa — Park Slope's finest Italian restaurant/pizzeria, which was kind enough to be open for takeout during the quarantine — I passed some random guy who was sitting near the Garfield Place bus stop on 5th Avenue. When I passed he suddenly looked up, stared at me and, unprompted, yelled out "CHUCK NORRIS!" I initially ignored him but he again shouted out "CHUCK NORRIS!" so I kept walking but loudly responded with "BRUCE!" Confused, he asked "BRUCE???" I shot back with "BRUCE!!!" and kept walking.

I was wearing no martial arts attire and was carrying the pizza in one hand, and a bag of bottled seltzer in the other, so I have no fucking clue why that exchange took place.

A HARD HAT UPON AN EMPTY HEAD

Today's moment of charm: 

While at one of the local schmancy 24/7 convenience stores (the supermarket around the corner is closed until tomorrow), I was on line at the checkout counter behind to hardhat-wearing Latino construction workers. While waiting for the cashier to ring up his purchase, he complained to his co-worker about another employee at their place of employ. "Can't have that kinda shit goin' on at the site, man. The guy acts like a girl. I'm gonna get him fired. Can't be havin;' no faggot in in the crew. The boys don't play that shit son, you feel me? Gonna get him FIRED." The two of them then burst out laughing and loudly guffawed while leaving with their purchases. 

I was hoping to hear the too-late squeal of brakes as they were flattened by a delivery truck while crossing the street, but no such luck.

GEARING UP FOR COOKOUT SEASON (HOPEFULLY)

It's always a good day when one's new shirt for the cookout season arrives. (Though it's anyone's guess as to when this year's cookout season can officially start...)

WHAT IS SEEN CANNOT BE UNSEEN

I'd hit it. (Oh, yeah, right. Like you wouldn't.)

I just mentioned this in a Facebook group conversation with fellow plague shut-ins and I felt it was worth publicly disseminating:

Considering how fast the adult film industry cranks out "parodies" of movies and TV shows, out of sheer morbid curiosity I just checked to see if a proper X-rated version of the CATS movie exists and what salacious idiocy it bore as packaging art. It could not possibly be more ludicrous than the actual movie, right? A proper tenderloin parody does not exist — YET — so the search did not yield the results I was looking for. That said, and I say this as a friend and as a concerned citizen: Do NOT Google "cats porn version." Trust me on this one...