Since the early 1980's, I have dressed for comfort in t-shirts that express my interests in bands, assorted media, you name it. Over the space of four decades, I have amassed quite the collection, and here are the ones currently in-house, most of which I have not worn in years.
Let's start with band tees:
NEXT: MONTY PYTHON
At this morning's dialysis weigh-in, I came in over my fluid weight again (not grossly so, but still...), so I looked into exactly how much fluid in kilos the limit of 32 ounces per day actually is in terms of visually understandable volume. 32 ounces per day is something like slightly less than two small glasses of water, barely enough to quench the average adult's thirst over the course of any given day. I can get away with a little more during the week, as 32 ounces is a general guideline and the actual amount for an individual can vary due to factors of height and weight, but whatever the case, 32 ounces is still an agonizingly small amount of fluid, especially for a person like me, who loves drinking water.
From now on, other than special occasions, I will restrict myself to water, unsweetened tea, or homemade lemonade (heavily diluted). Unless there's nothing else to drink or I'm at the movies, that means goodbye to sodas and other soft drinks. I will miss them, but if my fluid consumption must be so stringently limited, I will just keep my libation choices basic and mostly essential. And yes, tragically, soups count. Who know dialysis would turn me into a Fremen (only with my eyes remaining brown)?
Sometimes
I swear I must be a werewolf. My underbite, when I chose not to allow
my lower lip to hide it, resembles that of Lon Chaney Jr's in THE WOLF
MAN (1941), and when I shave any part of my body, hair aggressively
manifests overnight, and I spend the time until the next shave in a
scratchy state that feels like the onset of lycanthropic transformation.
Aaaaah-WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...
Last night I had the craziest dream:
I was throwing a massive party at my mother's house in Connecticut, and all of my friends were there. Adult libations flowed freely, the air was thick with the waft of copious weed consumption, loud music played, and good vibes were all around. After a good mingle among the attendees, I took a break in the dining room and began to roll a huge blunt of the kind my old friend Gordon used to call a "scoober."
As I smoked the scoober, who should press his shirtless pecs against the window but Jason Momoa? I got up and let him into the house, only to discover that he was completely naked, except for being covered with runnels of crude oil. I did not ask why he was in such a state, and he suddenly presented me with a huge fish for me to cook later. That was nice, but considering that naked Jason Momoa was present, I had to find my dear friend Cheri and let her meet him. I made my way through the masses but could not find her.
While looking for Cheri, the party suddenly came to a halt as all ceased activity and formed a line to pay respects to a kid next door who was dying of cancer, and our coming to see him was to be considered as his pirate-themed "going away party." The kid's house was an artsy abode whose interior featured Escheresque stairways and angles that required full concentration and great physical dexterity to navigate.
I never made it to see the dying child, as I ran into Cheri and told her of the presence of naked Jason Momoa. I steered her in his direction, but that's where the dream ended and I awoke to face the day.
Thank you, Gabapentin, for another night of weird-assed dreaming!
Wednesday morning’s car service pickup to dialysis saw the return of the “Liquor Man,” and he was in quite a talkative state. He went on at length wondering how I can live in a neighborhood so “loaded with beautiful American women without your dick falling off.” (He lives in Brighton Beach, among “beautiful Russian women who will let you eat their ass.”) He also wondered how he would do if he printed up more of his calling card and stood in front of my building handing them out, but he was too far into his delusions to accept that the hot 20-somethings in Park Slope likely have zero interest in a fat, balding, flagrantly horny 50-year-old with a face like a bulldog‘s ass. This one-sided conversation lasted for the duration of the trip, and it was just plain sad.
Being a captive audience is never the way to start a treatment day, but it’s inescapable when your driver is fluent in English (a rarity for this car service), likes you, and thinks they have a sympathetic ear to whom they can vent about the grottier aspects of their ongoing horniness.
Never mind the bollocks.
Just made it through PISTOL (2022), Hulu's six-part adaptation of Sex Pistols guitarist Steve Jones's memoir, LONELY BOY, directed by Danny Boyle of TRAINSPOTTING renown, and as rock biopics go, it's among my favorites. The story of the rise and fall of the Sex Pistols has held me fascinated since it was happening — I first heard them as their disastrous U.S. tour was occurring, so sometime during 1978 — and I was glad to see that the generous 6-hour format allowed for as much of its tapestry as possible. The performances were spot-on, if the actors were all far too attractive to be visually convincing as the people they were portraying (short of starving them and then giving them a steady diet of fistfuls of amphetamines) and with some of them leaning into the legend of the band members' individual characters almost to the point of a live-action cartoon, and from top to bottom the soundtrack is just stellar.
I fully get that punk is not for everyone, especially not the first wave U.K. flavor, but it spoke to my disenfranchised soul at the time and still resonates with me today, so I heartily recommend it to those who can handle its bleakness. A feel-good story it ain't, and there is no happy ending, other than the fact that all of the original members are still alive. (Remember, Sid Vicious was a replacement for original bassist Glenn Matlock.) RECOMMENDED.
