Forsworn To Be Wild

Springtime. And almost every year about this time, as the temps get back to the 60’s and 70’s, I think how cool it would be to get a bike. Not a bicycle, as regular readers might presume, but a badass motorized one. Commonly referred to here in the States as a motorcycle. I sure you Canadians and Brits have your own wacky term for them. Many times when meeting people in social situations, as much as I try to avoid that type of thing, they will, in an attempt to feign interest, ask what I like to do. When I tell them I like to ride my bike, the men quiver and the women swoon, picturing me on my steel and chrome steed with 1200 cc’s between my legs. I correct them by explaining I meant I like to put on lycra clothing and ride my bicycle. Then the men back away slowly and the women steal my lunch money. But I digress.

I think the first time I decided to buy a bike was when I was 27, so you can’t blame this on any sort of mid-life crisis. A new buddy I met when I moved to Dallas had a dirt bike and invited me out to ride with him and his brother. I picked it up pretty quickly and had a blast tearing around a large field that was being prepped for some sort of construction project, while they took turns jumping some dirt mounds and looking way cooler than I. They convinced me that my 30 minutes of experience qualified me to do the same, and I lined up for my first jump to accept my promotion on the cool scale. It didn’t quite end as badly as you’re probably imagining but I was separated from the bike by some blunt force trauma and learned my second lesson. (The first lesson was that it probably takes something more like 60 minutes before tackling your first jump.) The second lesson, which they should have had the foresight to teach me before rolling out, was that once you’re falling off the bike don’t fight it. For some reason after landing and realizing that I was no longer securely seated upright on the bike, I decided I should still hang on as tight as I could even if that hand was gripped tightly to the throttle and responsible for dragging me through the dirt as if attached to a plow horse on steroids. The boys came over and repaired the bike while I shooed the birds circling my head and scooped earth out of my pants. Still with a smile on my face.

Of course, being a wise man of 27 years I decided that all I had to do was to buy a street bike not designed for dirt jumping and I would never crash again. Armed with this infallible logic I went out to check out the market on bikes. When all my friends discovered this information, I found out that they had started a pool to bet on the date of my likely early demise. As evidenced by the earlier dirt jumping anecdote, I wasn’t exactly risk averse at the time, and my penchant for beverages containing barley, hops, and, well, alcohol didn’t do much to improve the decision making process. After I tried to get into the pool on behalf of my estate, I came to the realization that maybe getting a bike at that time in my life wasn’t the best I idea I had ever had. However the idea always lurked in the back of my mind and struggled to take priority every Spring.

So what’s stopping me?

1) I’ve lived in big cities where congestion and long commutes encourage drivers to become more efficient by using driving time to make phone calls, text message, work on Sukoku, apply make-up, eat jelly donuts, share the latest Young Jeezy CD with fellow commuters, write blogs and run over motorcycles.

2) Even though I wanted to be a TV weatherman when I was a strange little kid, I suck at predicting weather even when presented with the latest in satellite imagery technology and a direct line to the National Weather Service. This would result in me getting cold or wet way more often than I could accept.

3) I’m married now to a woman whose nickname is Miss Safety. We wear safety goggles when we brush our teeth. If I owned a motorcycle I’d never be allowed to leave the house in anything less than full Stormtrooper gear.

4) All sorts of bikers would want me to join their gangs, and I’d constantly be having to recite the “I’m a loner, Dottie… a rebel” speech from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.

5) I’m just not cool enough to pull it off.

Don’t try to talk me out of it; I’m better off without it. The bug only strikes a handful of days out of the year and I seem to have it under control. In fact, once I pump up the bicycle tires this season, I’m sure a spin in my lycra will help me get over it.

Burn, Baby, Burn

In the last installment of Cancer Boy, we left our hero after having completed eight weeks of induction chemotherapy. Next on Dr. Evil’s agenda was a ten-week period of chemoradiotherapy, which would combine the finest elements of chemotherapy and radiation in order to rid me of that pesky tumor on the base of my tongue. The ten weeks were divided into 5 two-week cycles. The first week was inpatient for chemo and twice daily radiation, and the second week at home to experience the full extent of the side effects (with a return trip every Tuesday for more chemo and a check-up). I was warned up front by my doc that this portion of the treatment would be absolutely miserable and I should expect some pretty severe side effects, difficulty eating, and weight loss. In return, he would kill my cancer and a magic unicorn would take me home when it was all over. I signed a waiver giving him permission to bring it, and in return he promised he’d try not to kill me.

I would check into the hospital every Sunday at noon, get my room assignment, unpack my lingerie, porn, and troll dolls, and wait for my nurse and doc. The nurse would draw some blood and jam the IV needles in my port to ready it for the collection of toxins and other experimental concoctions that they were working on that week, while the doc on call would give me the once over to wager whether their plans would end in my early demise. I was approved for action and Sunday evening they would start me on my new chemo plan.

My new drugs of choice:

Fluorouracil aka 5FU: They would start the IV on this one at around 6:30 p.m. on Sunday and it would run continuously for five days until they would release me 120 hours later. I could expect mouth sores, loss of taste, and other delightful abdominal ailments from 5 FU. However, if you remember your 8th grade biochemistry, 5-FU is a commonly used pyrimidine antagonist. Like the other pyrimidine antagonists, 5-FU is similar in structure to the normal molecule. It functions to inhibit DNA synthesis both by blocking the formation of normal pyrimidine nucleotides via enzyme inhibition and by interfering with DNA synthesis after incorporation into a growing DNA molecule. I stole that from some Emory University site, but basically it means that the cancer cells will fry more easily when I get sent to radiation.

Hydroxyurea aka Hydrea: This came in a giant capsule form that I took Sunday night and then two hours before each radiation treatment. This might cause nausea and vomiting, so I’d also get my anti-nausea and vomiting drugs with it. Again, going back to 8th grade biochem and Emory University, hydrea is thought to inhibit DNA synthesis and prevent cell division, but does not interfere with the production of RNA or protein. Though the exact mechanism of this drug remains unknown, research suggests that DNA synthesis is blocked by interfering with the activity of an enzyme that is important for the process. That basically it means that the cancer cells will fry more easily when I get sent to radiation.

Cetuximab aka Erbitux: This is the clinical trial drug that was also used in the first part of the chemo process. I would get this one every Monday so that Dr. Evil could see what would happen if they throw it in the mix with the other two drugs and some radiation. This was the guinea pig portion of my treatment. The people in the other half of the study would get Erbitux with a different combo of drugs and once daily radiation for seven weeks. May the better half live!

The official name of the the study was A Randomized Phase II Trial of Concurrent Chemoradiation with Cetuximab (ERBITUX®), 5 Fluorouracil, Hydroxyurea, and Twice-daily Radiation (CetuxFHX) versus Cextuximab (ERBITUX®), Cisplatin, and Accelerated Radiation with Concomitant Boost (CetuxPX) after Induction Chemotherapy in Patients with Locally Advanced Head and Neck Cancer. For anyone not familiar with these clinical trials, in this trial people are randomly assigned to each group and both groups receive well-established treatment regimens without it being known which may be better. Then they toss the new drug, Cetuximab, on top to see what happens. That combo isn’t approved by the FDA for head and neck cancer, so I hopefully get to help prove it’s effective.

A couple weeks before this phase I had to go for a radiation simulation, in which they do some CT scans and make you a nifty “mask” for use during the treatments. The mask consisted of three fiberglass type strips that were molded to my face – one under the chin, one over the chin, and one across the forehead. Once it’s fit to your face, they can then strap your head tightly to the table like Hannibal Lecter so you don’t move or attempt to eat anyone while getting shot with radiation. I guess accuracy and personal safety is a priority to these people.

My first radiation treatment would be any time between 5:15 a.m. and 6:30 a.m. Not only are they sadistic, but also they wake you early for it. The main objective during radiation is to hold perfectly still and not freak out at being strapped in for 20 minutes. I only freaked a little my first time and they recommended a nice little sedative for future treatments. I capitulated and was in total control of my fingers and total control of my brain for future sessions. I even told them no hurry – I wouldn’t go insane, they wanted me sedated. Only one time after that I had to ask to get out of my mask, when I told them I had some mucous issues. “Spit or swallow?” my tech asked. I replied that it was the first time I’ve been asked that question. My techs Meghan and Kenny were always very cool and got a good laugh. By the way, I swallowed. Once settled in, the actual procedure entailed receiving doses, not unlike an x-ray, each for about 30-60 seconds from about 12 different positions around my head, zapping everything from my jaw line to my collarbone. I was such a model patient I settled into the 5:15 slot so I wouldn’t start their day with any problems. Now if you were paying attention, you might remember that I needed to take my Hydrea two hours before radiation. So make it a 3:15 a.m. wake up call. In fact, let’s review a typical relaxing day in the oncology wing…

Midnight: Vital signs taken by nurse’s aide (every 4 hrs)
3:15 a.m. – Wake up call to take Hydrea, note roosters are still sleeping
3:20 a.m. – Try to figure out why there are roosters in my room
3:30 a.m. – Clean neck in preparation of radiation to avoid wet, messy explosions
4:00 a.m. – Vital signs – still alive
4:15 a.m. – Request sedative and morphine as needed
4:30 a.m. – Cue up Mother’s Little Helper on iPod, take drugs and meditate
4:44 a.m. – Sink into deep meditative state, minutes from total enlightenment
4:45 a.m. – Pick up by patient escort, discuss implications of latest UN resolutions while in transit
5:00 a.m. -- Arrive at radiation oncology for 5:15 treatment, learn about the Inca, Aztec, and Spanish influence in Mexico on waiting room TV. Get price of pork bellies from farm report if behind schedule.
5:30 a.m. – Called in for treatment, arms bound to the side, head strapped tightly to the table, ordered to lay still for 10 to 20 minutes depending on cycle. Additional five minutes required on Mondays for x-rays to align everything and make sure my head hasn’t grown.
6:00 a.m. – Learn more than I really care to about crocodiles from Animal Planet on waiting room TV
6:30 a.m. – Patient escort back to room. Discuss Federal Reserve economic policies in transit
6:45 a.m. – Try to enjoy morphine/sedative buzz and catch up on some sleep.
7:00 a.m. – Welcome by new shift nurse
7:15 a.m. – Request more morphine as needed, return to sleep
8:00 a.m. – Wake up for vital signs, return to sleep
9:00 a.m. – Wake up for pre-rounds by physician assistant and resident on call, argue over how much weight I’ve lost, return to sleep
9:30 a.m. – Wake up for first feeding, return to sleep
10:00 a.m. – Wake up for rounds by physician assistant, resident on call, and attending physician, address drastic weight loss issues, return to sleep
10:15 – Wake up for rounds by research nurse and nurse practitioner, return to sleep
10:45 – Wake up for rounds by nutritionist to address weight loss issues. She nods in sympathy like Deb in Napoleon Dynamite and agrees that I’m not going to turn to dust.
Oh, and return to sleep.
11:30 – Wake up from nurse in radiation oncology to examine burns on my neck and try something new. Return to sleep.
Noon – Vital signs. Still alive.
12:15 p.m. – Access wireless connection to check email, update fantasy hockey lineup and attempt to find porn sites not filtered by UC.
1:00 p.m. – Turn on TV, check CNN Headline News for uplifting stories about war casualties and missing white people. Wonder why black people don’t get abducted or lost nearly as often.
2:00 p.m. – Patient escort to radiation, discuss investment opportunities resulting from growing global economy while in transit.
2:15 p.m. – Arrive for treatment, forced to watch Maury with fellow drugged up patients who somehow seem entertained by it.
2:45 p.m. – Arms bound, head strapped, zapped with ray gun for second time that day.
3:15 p.m. – Watch Judge Judy on waiting room TV, losing will to live
3:30 p.m. – Patient escort back to room, discuss merits of 3-4 defense
4:00 p.m. – Vital signs, still kicking
4:15 p.m. – Coat neck with Neosporin, greatly reduce chances of suffering manual strangulation
4:45 p.m. – Take care of second feeding of the day, try not to puke
5:00 p.m. – Check email, send messages begging to bust me out early
6:00 p.m. – Call DirecTV and attempt to order NHL Season Pass for my room
8:00 p.m. – Vital signs, barely clinging to life
8:30 p.m. – Flip through channels hoping to find a Pauly Shore movie
9:30 p.m. – Nightly call from Mrs. F’er. Convince her that life is swell so she can get back to memorizing cranial nerves for upcoming exam
10:00 p.m. – Begin nightly primping routine with collection of ointments, gels, rinses, etc that are supposed to keep me alive
10:30 p.m. – Turn on Letterman, attempt to go to sleep
11:55 p.m. – Finally succeed in dozing off
Midnight – Wake up for vital signs… argh.

During the second cycle, mouth sores, icky mucous, sore throat, and loss of taste made eating as attractive as a date with Rosie O’Donnell, so I gave up food cold turkey. Not just cold turkey, but all food. I barely managed to drink one high calorie shake each day, but my docs didn’t think 500 calories per day would cut it and scheduled me for a feeding tube. After the procedure I woke up with a small rubber tube protruding from my stomach just under my last rib on my left side. They gave me a syringe to flush it, a case of canned nutritional drinks to sustain me, and a warning to keep the Jack Daniels out of there. Meal times simply involved pouring a couple cans in an IV type bag and spending a couple hours letting it drip into my stomach while trying to determine what kind of wine goes best with something called Jevity 1.2. I was also dehydrated and even got the home version IV pole so I could give myself a liter of saline daily through my port in between my normal feedings. The home health care company sent over a plethora of supplies, and I’m pretty sure I could use the leftovers to supply the Red Cross when the next catastrophe hits.

It did get ugly for a while, where even I failed to see any humor – if you’re just here for the laughs, you can skip the next paragraph.

I’d say somewhere in the middle of this, probably in the third cycle, it got as bad as the doc had promised. Maybe even a little worse than I had imagined. I was losing about a pound and a half a day during my hunger strike and eventually ended up 27 pounds lighter than when I had started. I hadn’t been that skinny since high school when I had the metabolism of a Chihuahua on diet pills and couldn’t get laid since girls feared I might fall in. Well, that and I was a total geek. But I digress. I had already lost most of my hair during the previous chemo cycles, but now my skin dried out to the point that you could trace my path by following the trail of body dandruff I’d leave in my midst. And then it gets disgusting… please, skip ahead to the next paragraph. In addition to all the other pleasantries, that icky mucous I told you about continued to get worse. Gobs of it would clog up my mouth and throat. It was an ugly pale yellow and at it’s worst, the consistency of yogurt and impossible to spit up, instead choking and gagging me until I vomited it up several times a day. Lovely. I tried to warn you. And if the timing was right, I could even vomit up some of the delicious crap that I spent hours dripping into my feeding tube along with it. Followed by admonishments the next week for losing weight. Some time was spent in the mirror cursing the tumor, the mucous, myself, my doctors or the Chicago Blackhawks; other time was spent just lying on the floor begging some unknown force to make it go away while I wondered how I would make it through another two, four or six weeks. But even all that got to be part of the routine that did get me through it one day at a time.

After I had just checked in for my fourth cycle, I felt like crap and now had a pain in my back. I was also trying to get some nutrition in my feeding tube as the pain grew. And grew. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. So I tried to ignore it. That should make it go away. But like a pissed off two-year old, it refused to be ignored. I got ill and contorted my body any way it would go to try and alleviate the pain, and before I knew it I was kneeling on all fours on my bed, puking into a bucket and holding my back with an expression on my face that said, “Just kill me now.” My nurse happened to walk by, poked her head in and asked cheerily, “Is everything okay here, Mr. F’er?” I’m not a violent person by nature, but if I weren’t busy hurling and clawing at my own back I might have gnawed her ear off. She did regain a few points by getting the doctor on call there pretty quickly. He was able to convince me that examining me doggy style was not very dignified and I might be more comfortable sitting back. I obliged and he surmised I might have a kidney stone, and he rewarded me with massive doses of IV morphine. A CT scan confirmed his diagnosis and he informed me that it was small enough that it should pass on its own. So I buckled up with my morphine dealer nurse and tried to think about candy canes and Betty Rubble until the pain slowly subsided six hours later. Just the memory of that night caused me to chug a bottle of water right now to flush my kidneys out.

Also in the fourth cycle, an unexpected side effect of the Erbitux reared its ugly head. It had made the skin more sensitive to the radiation and, instead of just a couple bad spots, my entire neck was burned as if it had been stuck in a rotisserie oven for a week. With the proper spices from Kenny Rogers Roasters it might have made a nice meal in a primitive Paraguay village, but here it elevated me to celebrity status as the staff set up photo shoots so they could share the results with the rest of the medical community. Unfortunately I was on morphine at the time and failed to execute an agreement that might pay me royalties. Twice daily I’d have to soak my neck to clean it and re-apply the ointment or cream they gave me, which was as much fun as a full Brazilian bikini wax. Or so I hear. After that, I’d put on my customized t-shirt with a cut out neck (to avoid sticking), and sometimes I’d add legwarmers for that Jennifer Beale Flashdance effect. What a feeling! As much as I enjoyed reliving the 80’s in my Princess Reeboks, I added this new routine to my list of cursed activities.

By the fifth cycle, I was master of my disconsolate domain. I knew the routine and it was just a matter of mechanically knocking it out another two weeks without trying to think about it. Kind of like a weathered dancer at a low-rent strip club. I mostly took drugs and slept, and had taken to merely grunting at anyone who interfered with that. The cool thing was that people seemed to understand and accepted it. Everyone seemed excited that I was in my last cycle, but I was too bitter to share in it and would have rather they apologized for the first four cycles. By the time the last day of my inpatient stay came around, I did smile politely when the radiation oncology staff presented me with a certificate of completion. And right before I checked out, my favorite oncology nurses sang me a tune and presented me with a shirt signed by the staff, although I never remember being treated by Emma Roids or Willie Maykette. (Okay, I admit the last one was a little dark.)

I had to go back the following Tuesday for my final chemo treatment, which was rather anti-climatic, and I left pissed off that I didn’t get a certificate or a t-shirt. I couldn’t find the magic unicorn to take me home, either.

The following weeks post-treatment would involve a series of follow up appointments to track my recovery and, after approximately 4-6 weeks, a series of tests to make sure that the cancer packed up and left. I’ll let you know what happens in my next update.

Von Ehrics - April 2007 World Tour

When I moved from Chicago to Dallas years ago, I had frequent reunions with an old drinking buddy. After a quick review of a US map while sober we determined that Memphis was nearly in the middle, and several times we each made the drive to our adoptive watering hole for a long weekend. (Previous drunken attempts to determine the middle resulted in prospective camping trips to Big Bone Lick State Park in Kentucky, followed by uncontrollable laughter.(To make it even better, Wikipedia claims it's on Beaver Road between the communities of Beaverlick and Rabbit Hash.)) However, during those Memphis weekends, in that short time frame between Shoney’s breakfast buffet on the way home at 6 a.m. and our first shot of Murphy’s after a few hours sleep, we’d try to fit in a little culture. Stuff like the world famous ducks at the Peabody Hotel, the greatness of Graceland and of course, Sun Studio. We wanted to include the National Civil Rights Museum, but it wasn’t walking distance and we were in no condition to drive, even in Tennessee. For anyone unfamiliar with Sun Studio, it’s a tiny place often referred to as the birthplace of rock n’ roll and the Hot Pocket. It was where Elvis first recorded, alongside of Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, Roy Orbison, Neil Diamond and Johnny Cash. Okay, I made the Neil Diamond part up just to see if you were paying attention. However, a part of me wants to believe that if studio founder and producer Sam Phillips had spiked their Yoo-Hoo with methamphetamine during those early sessions, rock n’ roll would have taken a far different road where the Von Ehrics would be atop the charts instead Avril Lavigne. But I digress.

You say black I say white
You say bark I say bite
You say shark, I say hey man
Jaws was never my scene and I don't like Star Wars
You say Rolls I say Royce
You say God give me a choice
You say Lord I say Christ
I don't believe in Peter Pan, Frankenstein or Superman
All I wanna do is bicycle, bicycle, bicycle.

So why am I throwing down Queen lyrics during a discussion about the birthplace of rock n’ roll? Well, because I like to ride my bicycle. And so does my wife. More specifically, she likes to ride her bicycle since she probably couldn’t reach the pedals on mine, which does not make for a very fun ride unless you have a helluva a tailwind. Now cycling is a fine hobby if you just use your bicycle to ride down to the 7-11 to buy a Hustler or a Slurpee, but if you start to get obsessive (about the cycling, not the porn or Slurpees) then it can get expensive. Technically, I suppose porn and Slurpees could break the bank with the proper stamina, but it’s easier to go broke buying bicycles that double the value of your vehicle every time you load them up to go to the trailhead. This called for desperate measures so I sold my wife to the bike shop as an indentured servant. She was trying to decide between a career as a doctor or a bike mechanic, so I thought it might be helpful to her decision process as well as get us significant discounts on bikes and related accoutrements. She had already been spending time at the medical examiners office playing with dead bodies in the morgue, so I figured a little grease under the fingernails couldn’t hurt. Also seeing as I have the mechanical skills of Peter Brady, having a bike mechanic in the household would be a welcome addition. I’m proficient at changing flats, since I have a penchant for finding any and all road or trail hazards. If I rode my bike through a haystack, I’d come out the other end with the proverbial needle sticking out of my rear tire. However, I wouldn’t recommend you ask me to adjust your brakes before a big downhill unless you’re looking for a bad case of road rash. But I digress.

Most bike shops are cool places, typically staffed with aspiring bike racers, aspiring musicians and, uh, aspiring doctors. But mostly aspiring musicians.

So what do you do?
Oh yeah I wait tables too
No I haven’t heard your band
‘Cause you guys are pretty new

I never paid much attention when the Mrs. talked about any of their bands, figuring each one was a variation of four guys doing Quiet Riot or Blink 182 covers in their moms’ basements on Tuesday nights. But when I had a couple extra hockey tickets and realized that I didn’t have any friends due to my anti-social tendencies, I had the Mrs. ask around the shop if anyone cared to join us. Gabe won the sweepstakes and, in an effort to overcome my said anti-social tendencies, I decided to check out his band online so that I could make conversation between periods and wouldn’t be stuck entertaining the group all night with exciting stories about my latest lost income calculations at work. The band was The Von Ehrics and they call their music country punk, or honky tonk metal on their website. Merle Haggard meets Motorhead. With an emphasis on loud and fast. That sounded intriguing and I guess I did a pretty good job not being anti-social; although we didn’t get invited over after the game for some Parcheesi, we did get invited out to the next Von Ehrics show.

The show was only two days before we moved out of Texas, so we took a break from packing up our secret collection of erotic art and went down to the Darkside Lounge in Deep Ellum on a Saturday night. They rocked, nobody got hurt, and we became fans. To show his appreciation for our support, Gabe stopped by as the last official visitor to the F’er abode in Texas before we departed for Chicago. We sat on the living room floor and shared a Coke and a smile since all the furniture and whiskey was already packed up in the U-Haul in the driveway. We pulled out and left him in the living room and hoped the new owner would take a liking to him.

The band made a promised stop in Chicago last fall but I was depressed over the upcoming 10-year anniversary of the cancellation of Wings and couldn’t get out of bed. It was that or the chemotherapy. In any case, I was recently excited to hear that the band was coming through town again and got busy making sure I’d be there this time.

There were three shows within a reasonable distance – Chicago, Milwaukee and Madison. I wanted to go to the Chicago show, which was at a small neighborhood tavern, but the Mrs. had an exam the next day in some class ending with –ology and didn’t think a visit to the Montrose Saloon would be conducive to learning. Whatever. So I got out my little black book and realized that all the girls in there were in Texas and no longer on speaking terms with me. I also guessed the Mrs. might not be on speaking terms with me either if I did find a candidate. So I sold the book to one of the dumbasses hanging around outside the 7-11 after convincing him that 214 was a secret area code given to slutty girls in the Chicago area that wanted to have sex with him tonight. I then took the profits from that transaction and used them to bribe Stiv into meeting me out for the show in case any bar fights broke out as a result of me eating all the maraschino cherries in the joint. I put on my Sun Studios t-shirt, picked up Stiv, and luckily had him to navigate as I might have otherwise missed the place. We walked in and found a bar with at most 20 stools and a handful of tables on the opposite wall. A small alcove containing a small pool table and a dart board had already been commandeered by the band, but they politely abandoned their games to greet us, refill their beers, and find out what the heck we were doing there. After about an hour, it was clear that we weren’t going to leave without hearing some live music, so they finally capitulated and moved the pool table and loaded in their gear. Another four fans also showed up in the interim and there were maybe another half dozen regulars scattered around the bar. Perhaps everyone was already spent from the Billy Goat Boys bluegrass show the night before. Among the other fans were Razor and Di from the Razor and Di Show on WLUW 88.7 FM, heard Thursdays between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. I had never heard of them or their station until the Von Ehrics did their show, but highly recommend them now. They helped the band book this last minute gig and truly support independent bands, as well as totally being able to work the hair dyes. Di also has a kick ass camera and I’m hoping she won’t mind me borrowing a pic or two for this blog.

The Von Ehrics started tuning up and were asked by the bartender to turn it down a bit. And then a little bit more. She had obviously not read the part about their emphasis on loud and fast. They finally started, and I apologize for not knowing the song names since I just bought the new CD that night, but I think it might have been East Nashville Softshoe.

Remember when I said it was a neighborhood tavern? Well, I guess that particular neighborhood doesn’t like honky tonk metal interrupting Jay Leno’s monologue as evidenced by the rash of phone calls to the bar and the bartender’s subsequent request to turn it down even more. Gabe put a towel on his snare to help mute the sound, Jason turned down his guitar, but it appeared that Jeffery only pretended to turn down his bass. This didn’t trick the neighbors and after the third song and some more phone calls, the bartender relayed requests to turn down the bass. This time he complied and they continued the set in their neutered state. It was like the guy sitting in his Porsche in the middle of bumper to bumper rush hour traffic. It’s a nice car, but it’d be a lot more fun on a different road. They still rocked the house as hard as it was willing to be rocked that night, and everyone that showed up had a great time hearing some live tunes and hanging out with the band. More tavern regulars stopped in that night and they seemed to have picked up another half dozen fans. After the set, we sat at the bar and watched women’s boxing, noted there was much more action than men’s boxing, and debated whether it hurt more to get hit in a head full of tight cornrows than regular hair. I offered to braid half of Gabe’s head and punch him, but he made up some excuse about having to break down his drum kit so instead I just paid for my CD’s and bid them adieu.

The Friday night show in Milwaukee was at a club called Heart Breakers, and Gabe had told me the previous night that it would fulfill a lifelong dream of playing at a strip club. Unfortunately, he had also mentioned this to the Mrs. so I was unable to sell her on going to the Milwaukee show since it was closer than Madison. Come on, ladies get in free! I would have to wait to fulfill my dream of seeing the Von Ehrics play a strip club. I wasn’t that devastated as I’m not sure Milwaukee attracts the best talent in strip clubs and I was definitely spoiled coming from Dallas. But I digress. Titty bars can make you do that.

Mrs. F’er still wanted to see her old buddy, so I volunteered to drive her to Madison on Saturday. The fact that Madison is home to The University of Wisconsin and full of young, nubile rock and roll fans was irrelevant. They weren’t playing until midnight, so we didn’t plug in the Mrs.’ iPod and make the 2-hour drive until 8:00. Although she claimed to have 700 songs loaded on the thing, I’m convinced they were all either Beth Hart, the Killers, or Solomon Burke. With one Alkaline Trio tune thrown in to confuse me. We arrived at the King Club on schedule to find the band at the bar as usual. A fourth band was added to the bill, so their start time was bumped back to 1 a.m. After watching the National Beekeepers Society for a couple songs, Gabe invited us over to the Paradise Lounge for cocktails and conversation. I detected a Flaming Lips influence in the Beekeepers music, but the Mrs. countered with Blind Melon. It wasn’t bad, but Paradise was the right call. Great jukebox, great people-watching and a great menu featuring deep-fried cheese balls which are seemingly just referred to as “balls” by those in the know. We chatted, watched some cage-fighting on TV, and laughed uncontrollably every time someone ordered some balls to eat. Eventually we headed back and caught the end of the second band’s set – the Lee Rays. They didn’t make my ears bleed, but they didn’t make me smile and eat a bologna sandwich, either. I don’t know what that means, but I’m not sure their power pop worked its voodoo on me. Most of the crowd seemed to be there to hear the third band – the Motorz. Another power pop band, this time with a boner for Cheap Trick. That’s not a bad thing and the music was pretty tolerable. That Can’t Sleep tune even borders on catchy. But. Yes, the dreaded but. I really like you, but… the singer’s vocals annoyed me. Maybe more than they should have because his attempted comedy banter between songs was more than annoying and as funny as a soggy pair of sneakers. Finally, the bass player didn’t look like the kind of guy I’d ever want to hang out with. It’s hard to really like a band if you think you’d make fun of them behind their backs if you ever saw them in public. That being said, the crowd seemed to dig them and if I was hungry I might have eaten a bologna sandwich. But I’d really be craving some balls.



Finally all the cheddarheads cleared the stage and made room for the Von Ehrics. I guess this is where I’d start my review of their set if I was some sort of self-proclaimed genius music critic, but I’m not (except for my genius reviews of the opening bands). The Von Ehrics simply set up their shit, turn it way up and rock your socks off. Unless you’re one of those dirty hippies wearing Birkenstocks, in which case you would have left after the Motorz finished playing. Jason simply takes his position behind the mike, keeps the power chords coming and delivers the classic country lyrics about whiskey and the road. You’ll marvel at Jeffery’s nimble fingers on the bass as he delivers the standard Nashville bass lines in quadruple time while rocking out with speed metal sensibility. I’m not sure what that means but it seemed to capture the essence of his performance for me. And you’ll wonder how Gabe keeps that beat going for over an hour without collapsing like a fat middle-aged white guy with a heart condition in a pick-up basketball game. You can tell they love the music and love playing it for you – whether it’s half a dozen people in a corner tavern in Chicago, a gaggle of titty dancers in Milwaukee, or a good Saturday night crowd in downtown Madison who are rocking out with the band and singing along. They’re good guys, so check out their myspace page and give it a listen. If you like it, order the CD or download some stuff off iTunes. Be sure to support the band on their next trip through your town. And by support, I mean buy them shots of Jim Beam and let them crash on your floor. And if you don't like them, well then....

What In the World Is Going On?

What in the world is going on? Have you ever considered that question? I mean, really considered it? Most people ask it as a cliché when they are wondering why a given occurrence has happened in their window of perception. They hope for a specific answer pertaining to why there is house paint in the bread maker while soggy Alpha-Bits sludge down the wall spelling out the word “moribund” and there is a slight persistent flame coating the kitchen table. If you were to answer, “somebody in Mongolia just fell off a dromedary and landed on a yurt”, you may have correctly answered the question, but it wouldn’t be the answer the wonderer was looking for. Then xe scorns you for being a smart ass, even though it was xe’s fault for asking such a broad question without intending to accept all possible answers. But if you were to tell xe the truth, “you weren’t here so we decided to fuck some shit up”, xe’d be just as angry. When you flippantly ask that question, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment no matter what answer you get. You need to ask it seriously and expect all possible answers, which is what I do.

The fact is, at any moment, there are trillions of things going on in the world, most of which we don’t know about and will never know about. There may be even more going on than that, especially if you consider events on the microscopic level. And why wouldn’t you? What are you, some kind of scopist?

A mosquito just flew up a boar’s ass somewhere. Did you know that? If you did, consider yourself lucky. Most of us didn’t. Wait a minute, a Taco Bell employee in Encino just loogied into the refried beans – and we missed it. When I consider the breadth of the question, “what in the world is going on?”, my mind quakes, and the bellboy in Alesund, Norway who just received a hundred krone tip from a guest who had those krones in his mouth prior to tipping knows nothing about it. Nor does he know he will soon have mononucleosis.

Nobody knows what is really going on. There is too much to comprehend and not enough people there to record it. Even if we tried to record it, it would take all of us to do so. Then all that would be going on would be billions of people sitting around recording other people recording stuff. That’s not much of a life for anybody, probably even worse than the life that is ahead for Anna Nicole’s bastard baby. Of course, I’m referring to Anna Nicole Jansen, who resorted to the “crapshoot” jar of semen at the Fulton County Sperm Bank because they would not accept her out-of-date “Free Upgrade To Known Donors” coupon she found stuck to a wayward nail on a park bench while she was crawling around looking for unchewed, discarded sunflower seeds. We can only hope that all worldly events are being recorded in the fabric of space-time, waiting for Ron Popeil to invent the pocket space-time fabric viewer. Until then, we must remain ignorant to most happenings.

Sure, we have news agencies that tell us stuff. Some of it may even be interesting. Some of it may even be true. But none of it comes close to representing all that is going on. I guess those news agencies choose the “important” events to tell us about so we don’t need to be concerned with the girl in Honduras who is crying herself to sleep because she thinks the boy she likes doesn’t like her because he ignored her chicken today. It is more important that we know that Drew Barrymore has been chosen People magazine’s most beautiful person. That is the kind of information we can use. It is in this manner information that is significant to all of us can be shared and…just a second here…is that really true? Drew Barrymore? Really? The MOST beautiful? I don’t buy it. I mean, she’s cute and all, but there are plenty of more beautiful people out there. What about that one chick who compulsively scratches her nails on the pew at St. James American Episcopal Church, Via B. Rucellai 9 in Florence, Italy each Sunday? She’s pretty hot. Much hotter than Drew. I wonder if the People editors even considered her. She must not have a movie coming out that needs publicity. That’s why I finished only 3,698,400,324th on their 100 Most Beautiful list. That damn Al Gore just had to cut my carbon dioxide quelling performance art segment (where I dress up as a fallen tree and mime my inability to convert carbon dioxide into fresh oxygen while playing The Way We Were on one of those giant keyboard things they used in the movie Big) from his next global warming documentary, Is It Getting Hot In Here Or Am I Extinct? Stupid Al Gore.

Take some time to consider the full brunt of the question “what in the world is going on?” Don’t limit this thought exercise to what is important to you. Luckily, we always know what Oprah is up to. But what about the lonely glow worm in the Glow Worm caves of New Zealand who loses a leg that gets stuck in a tiny crag? The lonely glow worm chooses to sacrifice its leg in order to catch an elusive passing mayfly so it can grow to become a pupa at the top of the cave where it will glow intermittently until it becomes an adult only to find that it is unable to feed and starves to death. How do we live with a clear mind without knowing about this? And what about that rock at the floor of Death Valley that just sits there waiting for something to happen to it, but nothing ever does, except for the occasional slight breeze of scorching hot air that reminds it nothing is happening to it, just like aspiring hopefuls in our society that don’t know that you have to make your own happenings, so they sit there and watch Oprah and dream of what will never be because we are all rocks on the floor of Death Valley until we do something to make us not be that. This is the kind of fun shit you will realize when fully considering this amazing question. Soon, you will realize how much life you are missing and demand more out of it. Our world, with everything going on in it, will be a better place. Who knew that ice cream bar, slapped out of a young boy's hand by his mom because he flicked a crusty dragon at her, melting on a sewer grate in downtown London would make such a difference? I did, that’s who.

Whishouthimuhoay

Don Imus made some big news this week. Apparently, he’s not dead. That was news to me. I haven’t listened to him in years. The only reason I ever did listen to him was because I had been held captive in strange cities from time to time by my employer, and I was unfamiliar with the local radio stations. Imus was usually all I could find other than country stations or bible talk. Back then I found him to be self-centered, close-minded and boorish. From the looks of things, he hasn’t changed.

Most of you know what he did this week. If you don’t know, then I applaud you for ignoring this kind of crap better than I do. For those of you who are better crap-ignorers than I am, he referred to the Rutgers University women’s basketball team as “nappy-headed ho’s”. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. I don’t know in what context he presented this allegation or what his intent was. My research staff doesn’t like that I don’t pay them, so they won’t tell me anything. I have heard, however, some of the outcry resulting from the comment. Seems old Don has been slapped with a racist/sexist sticker. I don’t know if that is a fair claim or not, but I do know that he was wrong to make that comment. Not wrong in a politically correct sense. He was wrong in a factual sense.

The women on that team are not nappy-headed ho’s, from what I can tell. I saw parts of their press conference in reaction to the Imus comment. I didn’t see any nappy heads (clue me in on this, are we not supposed to have nappy heads, is that a bad thing? What’s the rule on that?), and they don’t seem like any of the ho’s I know. (Before I make this next comment, I must disclaim that it is only based on the ho’s I know and is not meant to be a generalization of all ho’s.) The ho’s I know are usually self-centered, close-minded and boorish. And, their brains don’t work so good. And, they smell weird. And, they steal my drugs. Based on their behavior at the press conference, the Rutgers players seemed like fine young women, with clear thoughts and a good perspective on the issue they were slathered with. Even though my television is not equipped with smellovision, none of these women looked like they smelled weird. And, I’ve never known any of them to steal my drugs. The only conclusion I can reach is that they are, indeed, not ho’s. Imus is wrong. Let me be the first to declare it!

Since Imus is wrong with his assessment of the character of the Rutgers’ women’s basketball team, how do we know he isn’t wrong with the rest of the swill he has been squirting through our radios and television sets? We don’t know, so all we can do is assume that he is wrong with at least 39% of his assertions (no need to do the math, I have a solar powered abacus). By my calculations, this gives him a 61% average which is either a D or an F, depending upon which grading scale you prefer. So why do so many people listen to him on the radio? And why, for the love of one life to live, would anybody watch him on television? And why does he wear that ghoul mask, and why does he need sycophants surrounding him licking all of his thoughts’ asses? These aren’t rhetorical questions. I would appreciate it if somebody could give me the answers. Until then, I can only assume that those listeners and viewers are dumb asses.

Speaking of dumb asses, I did a little research (on my own, see above) into the etymology of the name Imus. As it turns out, “imus” is a little known type of word called a “depound word”. A depound word is the opposite of a compound word. For you loyal Imus listeners, a compound word is a larger word formed by two smaller words joined together, such as “theme” (the + me) (or something like that, it’s been a while since I had second grade). A depound word is made up of at least two larger words that are destructed to form a smaller, more user friendly word. “Imus” is the depound word for “I am a dumb ass”. (This whole ordeal is making much more sense now, isn’t it?). Do not confuse a depound word with an acronym. An acronym is composed of the first initial of each root word. These are very popular with the text messaging community. That is, until they learn about depounds. As you will see in a mere moment, depounds are much more fun. Depounds are formed from various parts of the root words, not necessarily limited to the first initial of each. For example, shelouposhole is the depound for “Shut the hell up you piece of shit asshole”. And, an old favorite, masanakysul is the depound for “May satan take your soul.” And who could forget autmissiorest for “Automatic Submission of Requests”. Feel free to make up your own and invent your very own secret decoder rings to help you communicate with each other at parties.

Don I Am A Dumb Ass has begun to reap his rewards for his blatant moronic comment. Not only did his radio station suspend him for two weeks, his television show on MSNBC, The Planet of the Ropers, has been canceled. He will continue to suffer more as the world, enlightened by the exposure of this event, learns what he truly is – an old, bitter man who time has swept to the curb because he has let himself be swept aside by not understanding the doctrine of cool. Eventually, we will all ask ourselves “Who gives a shit about what this Imus has to say” or depoundly, Whishouthimuhoay?

Hey, Doll!

While I'm homebound I try to fill my day with at least some constructive activities, like Jenga, porn and pasta making, but occasionally I fall back to the default of television for entertainment. I was fascinated with the prospect of The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll. Very catchy title. I never knew who the hell the Pussycat Dolls (PCD) were or what they sang, but it quickly became apparent that you needed to be young and hot, dress scantily, and be able to fake your way through a song and dance in heels. Kind of how I spend my days.

On the other hand, Mrs. F'er, a first year med student is so busy that she doesn't really notice all my peripheral activities, although she is wondering where all the pasta is coming from. She does allow herself 42 minutes of free time per week, and on Friday she watches the episode of 24 that she recorded the previous Monday. As she was scrolling through the DVR menu, we had the following conversation:

Mrs: You're not watching the Pussycat Dolls, are you?
Sid: Yes.
Mrs: You are? I was just joking. Like actively watching?
Sid: Yes, they're down to 5 girls.
Mrs: Are any of them good?
Sid: I'm rooting for Anastasia. She has big hair.
Mrs: I think you just like saying Anastasia. Does she have big boobs too?
Sid: They're not bad. I'm also cheering for Melissa S. but she's not going to last.
Mrs: Why not?
Sid: She's not bringing the sexy enough.
Mrs: (laughing) What did you just say?
Sid: She's not bringing the sexy.
Mrs: If you don't watch it, I'm going to have take the remote away from you for your own good.

several minutes later...
Mrs: (laughing) She's not bringing the sexy?
Sid: Yes, what's so funny?
Mrs: I just never thought I'd hear those words come out of your mouth. Are you gay now?

I guess now's not the time to tell her I'm thinking of becoming a choreographer.

So the show rocks. A bunch of 18-24 year old girls with issues all together competing for one spot by seeing who can bring the sexy while overcoming the bitchiness and catiness of the other contestants. Sid says check it out.

Better Living Through Chemistry

If you remember, a few months ago I confessed that I done got me a tumor on the base of my tongue and was just starting treatment. The first phase of that was eight weeks of what they call “induction” chemotherapy, which I’ve found out is nothing like a Hall of Fame induction. I tried donating my Leper House Hogballs basketball jersey, but they stuffed it in a biohazard bag, kicked me in the shin, and told me to keep that crap out of their hospital. But I digress. Induction chemotherapy is fairly new from what I understand. In fact, I don’t understand much, so let me offer up my disclaimer – everything in this post (and probably most posts) is just my interpretation and understanding of what the hell is going on. My studies in business have not helped much, nor did my failed attempt at an engineering degree. At times, my info is also based on websites maintained by slutty teenage girls and Romanian prostitutes. Other times, I ask Mrs. F’er, a first year med student, but I pretty much hear what I want to and often inaccurately translate into layman’s terms. So, induction chemo. I guess they can never really be sure that the cancer hasn’t spread elsewhere, and since it just takes a few cells to start up again, they pretty much carpet bomb your body with toxic chemicals to kill everything off. It’s meant to reduce the recurrence rate so you don’t try to come back and collect too many frequent chemo points and comps. This time alone I almost earned enough for a free sponge bath. With some luck, induction chemo should also shrink your primary tumor like a scrotum in an ice bath.

My doctors’ toxic chemicals of choice were:

Cetuximab aka Erbitux – This one is famous. It took Martha Stewart down. The maker, Imclone, had it's first application for this drug rejected, causing it's stock to plummet. Mrs. Stewart was buds with the CEO over at Imclone and coincidentally sold her shares immediately before the announcement. The FDA rejected it because they questioned some of the trial protocols, but a couple years later Imclone re-did their application in the proper color ink and the FDA agreed that Erbitux does what Imclone said it does. Erbitux blocks these things called growth receptors on cells. When those are blocked the cell never receives signals to split and the cell eventually gets bored and self-destructs. Kind of like marriage. I got this drug every week.

Taxol aka Paclitaxel – This one goes into the cells and finds a piece called the tubulin that they need to divide. Then it hooks up with the tubulin like a good wingman and keeps it busy so the cell can’t divide. So even if a cell gets the signal to split, it won't be able to accomplish that. It's like stealing a mechanic's socket set. I got this one for three weeks, with one week off so my liver didn’t explode. Then repeat for three weeks.

Carboplatin – This is the platinum based drug that I guess is pretty common in chemo. My understanding is that this one goes in and scrambles the DNA of the cells like McMurphy’s brain after a lobotomy. So even if it manages to split, it's all jacked up and your body signals it to commit cellular suicide. I guess this one is nasty, so I only got it once every four weeks.

The Process – Every Tuesday morning, I’d get up around 5 a.m. to trek down to the south side of Chicago, the baddest part of town, and if you go down there you better just beware of a man named Leroy Brown. Fortunately, Leroy isn’t up that early so my treks were uneventful. Once there, I’d check in and take my place with about 50 other people sitting there for all types of infusions. They draw some blood for labs and you sit and wait some more. Then eventually you gain admittance past the velvet ropes into the infusion room – about 30 recliners ringing a room. Not exactly Lazy Boy quality with drink holders, but just flesh colored vinyl. There are also some enclosed rooms with beds for the really sick or lazy and a couple nurse stations in the middle. After about an hour, I get a copy of my labs and have Mrs. F’er explain them. The explanation is usually over my head, but I nod knowingly and briefly feel good about getting my money’s worth on med school tuition. Once the labs prove I’m alive enough to get killed some more, they send the orders off to pharmacy and I wait about another hour. Then the pharmacist decides my labs aren’t good enough and “fails” me and throws out my order until my nurse calls and “unfails” me and tells them to quit being dicks about it. Where was she when I was in college?

Eventually the meds are ready and come in a nice biohazard bag, which makes the nurses look like they just got back from the Chernobyl Galleria. They unload the booty and after finding a juicy vein for the IV, start pumping the premeds into you. One to prevent nausea, another to prevent vomiting in case the first doesn’t work, some pepcid for your stomach and then my favorite – the benedryl. Week one they pumped it in but instead of the pleasant buzz they told me to expect, I got dizzy, started sweating profusely, turned green and my blood pressure dropped to 70/30. Just like my wedding day. It was quite the spectacle, but I eventually recovered and now they drip it in over ten minutes to avoid those good times. Everything else is half speed in week one, too, to make sure you don’t have any deadly reactions to the drugs that will kill you before the docs allow. I survived round one and would earn the privilege to repeat this process for eight weeks.

Eventually both the nurses and I get tired of starting an IV every week, so a few weeks into it they installed something called a port-o-cath into my chest. This is about the size of a contact lens case with a couple rubber pads in which they can stick the IV needles without having to find a vein every week. A line runs from the “port” to the jugular vein, and my arms no longer look like those of a heroin junkie. But I now have a contact lens case implanted in my chest just below my collarbone. If I were still in school, the teacher could literally pin notes to my chest. On my off weeks I use it to display my 3-year-old niece’s art projects.

When you start the process, they give you an exhaustive list of every possible side effect so if you start to bitch they can just say “we told you so” and get back to poisoning you. After my first round I felt fine. Even went to work on Wednesday. And then around noon I passed out on the conference room table and didn’t wake up until Friday when the cleaning lady poked me with a feather duster to see if I was alive. I quickly learned that after my Tuesday feedings I had about a 24-hour grace period before a nasty hangover took over for about 4 days. Like a bottle of Murphy’s Whisky hangover. I never laid in bed so long in my life. Except for that time in the handcuffs. Lost keys, my ass. But I digress. I didn’t want to move, speak, or eat. So I didn’t. Sometime Saturday I’d come out of hibernation, and I’d actually feel like Irish river dancing on Sunday and Monday before starting the whole process over again on Tuesday. I scoured the countryside on horseback looking for Irish rivers in the tri-state area to no avail. So I’d usually just opt for a pot pie and watch some football.

They said my hair would fall out, but I doubted the drugs would be able to pierce my lush mane. Then in week two I discovered I could pull out my hair as easily as the pink flamingos in my front lawn. I made pre-emptive strike to avoid shedding like some breed of dog that sheds a lot, and I grabbed the clippers, set them on 1, and trimmed my locks like a sheep during a yarn shortage. My George Clooney good looks transformed into some Matthew Fox good looks, which seemed more relevant and made me pretty happy. However, a couple days later I was washing my hair and my hands were covered with my newly shorn fuzz to the point that I looked like Chewbacca. At this point in the shower I was simply wiping my remaining hair from my scalp, and then finished off the remaining stragglers with my clippers. My Matthew Fox good looks had quickly transformed into some Howie Mandel good looks. I searched the house for hot models with silver briefcases to no avail, and then sadly retreated to my bedroom. Not sure where to turn for consolation, I went to my idol Britney Spears’ website and was inspired by her undying fortitude in handling a divorce at such a young age and preparing for a custody battle all under the unforgiving and relentless media. I wrote her a fan letter telling her how she had inspired me, and how now I no longer feared my hair loss, but instead embraced it as a symbol of my struggle. I joked that she should do the same and even put one of those ;) emoticons on my note. I threw out my Jan Brady wig after that and proudly wore my shiny scalp proudly.

However, at about the same time I was warned that the Erbitux would give me a delightful rash on my face, chest and back. It did. And it wasn’t a problem until late in week two when the rash on my face erupted into a gaggle of pustules. The area around my forehead, nose and cheekbones soon resembled and felt like a meltdown in a nuclear reactor. Cold compresses were the only relief and that only lasted a few seconds, kind of like sex. I walked outside hoping to get hit in the face with a soothing snowball from some mischievous kids, but found no one but some lonely senior citizens hoping for the same attention. It sucked like that for two weeks. They gave me some antibiotics, but it mostly gets better on its own. After the pustules went away, it just looked like a bad case of acne. I survived that in 9th grade, so I think I could handle that now.

The only other side effects of consequence during this were some minor mouth sores. The type you might get by accidentally biting the side of your mouth or burning your tongue on a blowtorch. When these occurred, it was resolved by using one of my mouth rinses containing lidocaine, which would numb the mouth until I could finish eating or drinking.

And so it went for eight weeks. I met some good nurses. I gained even more respect for family members that would accompany me and sit there for 6-8 hours while the bags dripped into me - even when I didn’t feel like talking and wasn’t very good company. I slept more than I had in the previous year to date. And I learned that this was going to kick my ass no matter how healthy I thought I was going into it.

Now that the induction chemo part was over, I would start the chemo-radiotherapy. Continued chemotherapy to support the radiation treatments I would receive over the next ten weeks to finish off the primary tumor. More on that to follow.

Rock Star: Suave Porn Regurge

Rock Star The Porn Suave Saga was not a memorable experience for most of us. Sometimes, I am a part of most of us. Most of the time I am not part of most of us, but in this case, I am. I had to re-read my blogs about the last season of Rock Star to re-horrify myself in order to write this piece. The question is: Is this the LAST season for Rock Star? I haven’t read anything about its future. In fact I haven’t read anything at all since the season ended. I spend my days ignoring words. It’s not as easy as you would think especially if you read to the blind, like I do. “Mr. Rub, I don’t like this book, all the words are in gibberish.” “Yes, dear blind person, Stephen King’s later works aren’t as good as his earlier ones. You should have chosen The Shining for me to read to you instead of Bliimvlidly Fon Goffnofbilshly.”

Are they planning a third season of Rock Star? If so, what will it be, RockStar: Elvis? RockStar: Dexey’s Midnight Runners? RockStar: ABBA? RockStar: HeeHaw? RockStar: Sonny and Cher? That’s it! Cher needs a new Sonny. She’s been full of herself ever since The Sonny and Cher show ended. She needs a shorter, less talented and politically aware patsy by her side to bring equilibrium back into her life. That poor woman. Mark Burnett has saved the lives of the Farriss brothers and Tommy Lee, it’s high time he worked his magic to save the tragedy that is Cher Bono Allman Simmons Geffen Stoltz Kilmer Sambora and possibly Clapton. Out of all of those wonderful men she has befriended over the years, she has never found another Sonny. Neither has Mary Whitaker. I’m calling Mark Burnett right now!




OK, I’m back. Mark said he’d think about it, but he doesn’t know who Mary Whitaker is. He thinks he’s heard of Cher. If he makes it happen and if it is successful, he said he would send me a free The Apprentice: Martha Stewart smock.

Since the future of the RockStar:Whatever curiosity is murky (note: if you do happen to know what is going on with the show, please do not tell me. I want it to be a surprise when Mark Burnett calls me back about Cher. And, he will call me back.) all we have is the brain damage that the first two seasons inflicted upon us, the second more so than the first. The Marty Season, as I like to call the first season, did not cause so much brain damage as it caused JDidiots to crawl out from underneath their discarded toilet brush shelters to bore the rest of us with their inane claims of JD worthiness. The INXS fell for it. The rest of us fell for Marty, right kids? Let’s hear it for MARTY!!! Woooooooo! You know, when he sings, he thinks about me.

My brain damage happens to be wondering what the RockStar: Suave Porn contestants are doing with themselves these days. Golly, it’s been almost five months since the show ended. Certainly, they have put their lives back together by now. Through the miracle that is the Internet and an outmoded tool some refer to as imagination, I conducted extensive research to unearth the goings on of our second favorite group of Rock Star contestants. Below are the findings of my findings. Read carefully. These findings may surprise you. They may also make perfect sense. Or somewhere in between. Rest assured they are, indeed, findings. That should provide you some solace. Before I found them, they were lostings, or maybe misplacedings, or possibly who-caresings. It doesn’t matter what they were, they are now findings. Stop wallowing in the past. We don’t care how you got to the party, as long as you brought some muffins.

Storm Large – Storm was a little more upset about being cut from the show than she let on. She began eating constantly and ballooned to well over four hundred pounds. At some point her clothes did not fit her anymore, and she was too depressed to buy new ones. She became a nudist. One day she was having a web teleconference with her grandma and a delivery guy (nitrous oxide tanks) at her grandma’s house happened to get a look at the nude, fat Storm and became fetishly aroused. He pursued Storm, but she would have none of him. He persisted. She resisted. His will was stronger than hers. He did not want any physical contact, only the pleasure of watching her from his pc. So, she loaded up the truck and started The Fat Nude Storm web cam site. Not only does she attract people with large women fetishes, she also gets the occasional weather enthusiast. She has never been happier, especially when she drips chocolate sauce on herself.

Ryan Star – Ryan attempted to ignite his career by exploiting the fizzle that was the response to his original song, Back Seat Doinking Before Death or whatever it was called. He used the concept to brand himself. Unfortunately, George W. Bush has created such a safe global environment for US citizens to live in that the idea of somebody pelting us with atom bombs seems unfathomable, so nobody bought into the concept of making love as a beautiful curtain call to the cheers of nuclear devastation. I’m kidding, of course. We’ll all be dead soon, thanks to Bush. The fact is, the song sucked and so did Ryan. But, he stuck with his brand. Never compromise the integrity of the brand! Lately, he’s been selling himself to bachelor parties for live sex shows in the back seat of cars. He has a giant piece of cardboard with a mushroom cloud on it drawn in crayon that he uses as a back drop. It looks more real than you might imagine. Sometimes he climbs things and can’t figure out how to get down if they pitch in and extra fifty dollars.

Toby Rand – Being a consummate opportunist, Toby is trying to take advantage of the death of Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, to become America's next Australian Sweetheart. First, it was The Naked Vicar, then Crocodile Dundee, and then, mistakenly, Russell Crowe until he admitted being from New Zealand, and he is too much of a dick to be considered a “sweetheart", and then Steve Irwin. Since the crocodile motif seems to have been the most beloved by Americans, Toby has invented the persona “Crocodile EVS”. Whenever he comes into contact with a crocodile or the subject comes up in conversation, he simply replies “EVS” (meaning “whatever”), which ties in the popular catch phrase he introduced to the world on the Rock Star show. Paul Hogan (Crocodile Dundee) has agreed to help Toby since he has nothing better to do. However, people close to Toby feel that Paul Hogan is using Toby as a puppet sweetheart and intends to overthrow any success Toby achieves by the time the next Crocodile Dundee movie (Planet of the Crocodiles) comes out in 2011.

Patrice Pike – Patrice tried exploiting the contacts she made in Hollywood during the show to procure a personal assistant position with Ellen DeGeneres. She did get an interview with Ellen’s manager, but was not asked back for a second interview when they found out she was bi-sexual. They claimed it was potentially characteristic of Patrice’s inability to commit herself to a project. So she painted “Mystery Machine” on her VW van and is now driving around the United States solving supernatural mysteries with her dog, Labia Dooby-Doo. Sometimes she receives help from the Harlem Globetrotters or Phyllis Diller. This is actually a ploy to get close to Sarah Mclachlan. Patrice heard Sarah’s house may be haunted. She figured if she could solve the mystery behind the haunting, Sarah would consider redeploying the Lilith Fair festival and giving her the morning spot on the main stage, since Patrice has written several brunch appropriate songs. Unfortunately for Patrice, Sarah is expected to award the house cleaning bid to that freaky stumpy woman from Poltergeist.

Magni – Magni decided to go back to Iceland to make up some lost time with his family. Not only did he miss his son’s first steps, he also missed his son’s first electrical outlet encounter, his first pots and pans concert on the kitchen floor and his first standing broad jump (1 foot, 3 inches). Magni’s cab driver mistook Greenland for Iceland and dropped him off there instead. Magni argued they were on the wrong island, but since he could not convince the cab driver that just because there was so much ice it didn’t mean they were on Iceland, he was stuck there. The cabbie replied in a Cornish accent with a repetitive “What do you want, Bermuda?” until Magni paid him, without a tip. It was there that Magni discovered first hand affects of global warming, when his pumpkin garden was continuously washed out from the run off of melting glaciers. Magni took action and formed a coalition of concerned citizens who are fighting global warming by keeping their refrigerator doors open.

Zayra Alvarez – Zayra is attempting to recreate herself as Eva Peron as depicted by Madonna in Evita. However, instead of Argentina, she is trying to take over the state government of Montana. She faces a couple of obstacles in her quest. First, she is unable to find any Montana colonels to seduce so she has set her sights on Montana’s Lieutenant Governor, John Bohlinger, since a lieutenant is kind of like a colonel. Although Mr. Bohlinger has seriously considered her offers, he politely declined, and he outright shut down the idea of changing his last name to Peron, fearing he would lose his identity with the voters. Second, she is scaring the people of Montana by singing at them “Don't cry for me Montana, The truth is I never lived here, All through Rock Star days, My crazy costumes, I kept my weird stage moves, Don't keep your distance”. Frankly, they think she’s a little nutty.


Jenny Galt – Jenny became a prolific writer whose fiction explores three geographies and their cultures: the Yukon, California, and the South Pacific. She experiments with many literary forms, from conventional love stories and dystopias to science fantasy. Her noted journalism includes war correspondence, boxing stories, and the life of Molokai lepers. A committed socialist, she insists against editorial pressures to write political essays and inserts social criticism in her fiction. Jenny’s great passion is agriculture, and she was well on the way of creating a new model for ranching through her Beauty Ranch when she died of kidney disease at age 40. Well, she hasn’t died yet, but that is how she’ll go. I’m certain of it.

Josh Logan – Josh woke up this morning one minute before he was supposed to start work. He put on a pair of sweats, hawked a loogie into the sink and sat down to his computer, which was left on from last night. He logged into his company’s network exactly at his start time and then lied down on his couch. He had set his computer speakers at the highest level so he could hear alerts when email and instant messages floated in. It wasn’t loud enough. Josh woke up at lunch time. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the butter dish. When he removed the cover, the three-quarters stick of butter fell to the floor where it collected numerous dog hairs. Josh spent a half hour de-hairing the butter until he decided not to have macaroni and cheese for lunch. Instead, he got a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly and treated himself to bread slice jelly dip jubilee. With jelly on his face, Josh returned to his computer and began addressing work related issues sent to him via email. Soon this practice transformed into chatting on his favorite message board. The afternoon passed quickly. The work day ended. Josh logged off the network and returned to the couch to watch a rerun of The Simpsons.

OK, this was actually a description of what my day was like today. I have no idea what Josh is doing lately, but I think he repairs lightening rods.

Matt Hoffer – Matt did not join a Duran Duran cover band, as everyone expected he would do after the show. In fact, he was duped into singing that Duran Duran song by one of Mark Burnett’s hookers and has been trying to live it down ever since. A word to the wise – do not sing songs hookers in Hollywood ask you to sing on TV. Killing the hooker did him no good, but it did provide an opportunity for an Iowa-born starlet who had stepped off the bus that same day. He moved back to Chicago and has been spotted hanging with the Lovehammers. Like Snoopy playing the vulture in A Charlie Brown Christmas, he waits for something bad to happen to Billy Sawilchik so he can become their new guitarist. Little does he know that Billy wears the Reverse Amulet of Peril. For those of you who don’t know about this sort of thing, the Reverse Amulet of Peril is actually the Amulet of Peril (which brings peril and destruction and other kinds of fatal dangerousness to the bearer. For the life of me, I don’t know why anybody would wear one, but to each his own.), but he wears it in a special way, around the waist and hanging backwards down his butt crack (don’t worry, it is made out of an emulsified polybicarbonate material that is actually pretty comfy down there. Not that I would know, but I heard good things about it.) so that the normal, unfavorable effects of the amulet are reversed, thereby protecting the bearer from the ill will of loitering Snoopy vulture type people. Matt has his work cut out for him.

Dilana – The day after she was booted from the show, Dilana filed a multi-billion dollar law suit against Phillip Morris claiming that their cigarettes did not effectively erode her vocal cords to the refined quality to entice Suave Porn. She insists she religiously followed their “Two and a Half Packs a Day to Stardom” program (which has since been removed from their web site). She argues that her voice has turned into more of a Lucille Ball on acid than a smoky seductive Roctress. Phillip Morris provided no official statement regarding the law suit, although I did get one of their reps to admit in a bar that he did her.

Dana Andrews – Dana received a special gift from the Rock Star show – Tommy Lee’s demon seed. She went back to Georgia to have the baby and raise it on her own. She enjoyed being a mother so much that she now has five children from seven different fathers. Tommy Lee sends her a check for a hundred bucks each month to support his child. To make ends meet, Dana works the overnight shift at WalMart and sells heroin on the side. The heroin dealing is more of a hobby than an occupation. It’s a habit she picked up during her Rock Star days in Hollywood. She has also added to her other keepsake from the show – her tattoo. Her body is now ninety percent covered in tattoos, depicting her entire Rock Star experience – from the time she first entered the mansion on her little toe, to the pool table scene when she received Tommy Lee that is drawn on the left side of her neck. She has a special homage to Ryan Star on her anus, but she wouldn’t let me see it.

Phil Ritchie – After being brutally tossed off the show when Suave Porn found out he was only there to get exposure for his lame band, Phil tried bolstering his rebel, devil-may-care, rock star attitude by getting moose antlers surgically implanted to each of his scapula. He claimed it would make him look like a fallen angel and people would be enchanted by him. Eventually, he got tired of people hanging their coats, hats and purses on his “angel wing skeleton” during his band's shows. He ended up cracking them off in a revolving door, leaving two hideous, giant nipple-looking things in his back. He can deal with only two people hanging their coats on him while he rocks out, so they continued their bar tour across the central eastern seaboard.

Jill Goia – Jill’s body has become possessed by the spirit of Sam Kinison. He had been lurking in the ethereal world for quite some time waiting for the perfect screeching voice to seize so he could carry on his comical message. It didn’t matter to him whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. Sam actually likes being inside of a woman’s body, if you can believe that. However, during the metaphysical transfiguration, Sam’s spirit began to accidentally rotate around its horizontal access, which caused some discombobulation in Jill’s brain. Consequently, Sam’s prior experience as a preacher melded with his latter experience as a comedian to form Jill’s new persona. She now travels the world trying to help people with Sam’s comedic routines. For example, she has just established a mission in the northern plains of Mali to tell those suffering from hunger to move to where the food is. That’s the only help she provides to them. She has also set up shelters for people with social anxiety where she conducts sessions of incessant screaming. Her most controversial cause concerns the training of lesbians to learn to lick the alphabet, with the hopes of them become self-assured enough to come out of the closet.

Chris Pierson – Chris continues to try to convince anyone who will listen (mostly convicts and people in confessional booths) that he is one of the best singers in the world, as he deduced from that fact that he was chosen to be on the Rock Star show. He was not making much progress so he penned a letter to Andy Summers when he heard The Police were planning to tour again. He included a tape of his rendition of Roxanne and assured Andy he would be available should Sting choose to “go Big Shot on their asses again and rip their rock and roll feedbags from their faces” before the tour was over. He also asked Andy Summers if he was related to Donna Summer, Suzanne Somers or Edgar Winter. Chris lives in a tent outside of his post office box in anticipation of Andy’s response.

Lukas Rossi – Lukas joined Suave Porn and was never heard of again.

Sid's Bored - AI 2/27

I'm stuck in the hospital with crappy channels and have an hour to spare before having to feed myself, so let's check out AI. I haven't been watching so I'm not sure who these people are or how this works. I think the winner gets to do a movie with Eddie Murphy. This ain't a regular feature, either... if you want that stuff go visit our old friend AMAI at Islands In The Stream. I believe it's a site dedicated to Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton and home redecorating, but people seem to dig it.

First up - Phil - appears to be a Coast Guard dude that was released from his important role in the war on terror to share his gift with us. Apparently the gift of being a good karaoke guy. I won't be missing him at all when he goes away. Damn, Simon just stole my karaoke line. Then let's just say that Phil will be a fine line cook after serving his 39 tours of duty and he will probably get some consistant torn-up waitress tail by singing to them in the kitchen.

Jared is trying to accomplish something more adventurous by doing some Marvin Gaye. Because there's nothing edgier than Marvin Gaye. He looks like he just wants to hang out and tutor some underprivileged youth, but his parents are forcing him into being a man-child star. Like most of these songs, he makes me want to put on a Marvin Gaye record and forget I've ever heard this noise.

I missed AJ's backstory while trying to figure out how to upgrade my Blogger account. He picked a cool song, but it's a chick song. And while he did sing it like a chick and looked like a chick singing it, they should make him go sit with the girls and compete with them if he's going to be that way about it. Check out some Motorhead, AJ, and bring it like Lemme before you start menstruating.

Sanjaya - wow, pathetic. He's Indian, but the skinny dude put his hair up in a hat and he was a tad Prince-ish. If you dressed Prince at the Salvation Army, dumped some date-rape drug into his veins and then told him to make fun Harry Connick.

Chris - I'm sure I"m not the first to point out that he looks like Jack from the Osbournes. And he self-admittedly got the pretty hot wife despite his looks. Boring song, not much stage presence other than his Sideshow Bob haircut. Anyone that votes for this guy needs counseling.

Nick - He gushes a little too much about his girlfriend before the song, but picked a cool song (Fever) and did it without being annoying whatsoever. Not the greatest review, but I guess he should be thankful based on what I've seen so far.

Blake - He dresses like a fuckstick. Strike one. He wants to be Justin Timberlake. Strike two. He reminds you of your friend who thinks he's Justin Timberlake, you know, the one you just want to bitch slap and plant in the backyard. Strike three.

He'll probably win.

Brandon - I missed most of this performance but here are my vital signs as of 20:00 hours: Temp 37.3 C, BP 134/75, HR 81, Oxygen 99. Seemed like a pleasant enough song, but I won't be downloading that performance anytime soon. Or ever. Nor should anyone. But I bet his grandma liked it. Grandmas are like that.

Chris - Oooh, a second entry in the Timberlake subcompetition. I think Chris might be a better Justin than Blake. I still wanted to bitch slap him, but I think I'd spare planting him in any soil. Maybe he'll win.

Sundance - I saw Sundance's audition and I like him. But then he brings the most overplayed, make me want to scratch my eyes out, can't you think of anything else to request you blues club ninniies, songs - Mustang Sally. He makes it work and it's a nice change from the crap assembly line the other guys were working off of, but it wasn't much better than what you can hear on any given weekend in any given city with a fake blues club and a spare house band. I'll give him a break, but if I watch this show again, he had better be bringing the Motorhead unless he wants to end up going back to Saturday nights at the Roadhouse ($5 cover, $2.50 drafts all night long).

That's all I got. Go listen to some Maria McKee now.