It's a social visit. My neurologist and me. An annual tradition. This man who has known me since early adolescence, I go and see him ever twelve months. I take an afternoon off work, pay an insane amount for metered parking by the hospital (Twice as much as anywhere else in the city? These people should be shot.). I sit in his waiting room - perhaps five minutes, perhaps forty-five. He collects me and we head to his examination room, where, every year, a new resident doctor waits, anxious to see such a rare, nameless case. They're always quite lovely, a sharp contrast to him. Tall, wiry, sort of hideous, from a colonial nation - I'm convinced his entire family line did horrible things. He's brilliant, if a horrible human being. Cold, removed, occasionally droning on about hospital bureaucracy or making vague political remarks that are completely inappropriate coming from an MD. I don't care. I'm not here for any real reason.

He pokes. He prods. He pricks me with safety pins and touches a vibrating mechanism to my skin to see if I can feel it. Sometimes he attempts to fool me by making the sound of hitting the vibration device but stopping it before it reaches my skin. I always look away as though to show that I'm being a good sport, but I can tell. It sounds different when he stops the vibration.

He speak to the resident, using medical jargon he doesn't bother to explain to me. It doesn't matter. He tells the intern I'm a musician. They ask me how the deterioration affects my profession. He then takes the opportunity to prattle on about his childhood relationship to the recorder or how much his wife hates the bassoon.

He concludes by saying he has nothing more to say. He has other patients in far worse shape. He tells us one or two stories about them. He states that my numbers are good, commenting on my broad shoulders (lol), though in a rare moment of humanity he does acknowledge that good numbers in no way negates the functional deterioration I report. He then asks if I wish to see him again next year. This is a farcically meaningless question because we both know I have to. Not for him, of course. He's completely useless to me. But my insurer will have too many questions if I stop this annual pilgrimage, so I agree. He'll get to share me with his latest resident, and, in turn, I won't lose my livelihood. Not a bad trade, actually.

Maybe next year I'll bring a picnic,

 I loved the Bon Appetite YouTube...you know, before the whole we're-racist-pieces-of-shit thing.

One of my favourite contributors was Carla. Jews and Italians, you know? We just kind of get each other. Connection to family, connection to food, connection to feeling like the world is out to get us...very sympatico. And when she starts her own channel, the algorithm is all in. It's not fancy. Mostly weeknight recipes, nothing complex, but usually food I wouldn't make on my own. Fine. I barely watch, but it's nice to see the thumbnails.

And then the beans. Crispy tofu and green beans, no less (I'm a vegetarian now. Mostly.). Sounds incredible. Asian inspired. Mirin, soy, black vinegar. As if I've ever seen black vinegar. For weeks I think about making it, but the fucking black vinegar. Sure, there are specialty stores, but I'm just not going to make a special trip.

Tonight. A little toke. A little (lot) of vodka. So I order from a local dim sum place because one of the side effects of pandemic depression is that despite years honing culinary skills, delivery is more commonplace. To add insult to my injured Jewish guilt are four shrimp spring rolls. MSG, fuck me slowly, sideways, and upside down. They are incredible. The black vinegar they come with, not so much.

Black vinegar. I've been thinking of it for weeks, and though the spring rolls doused in chili sauce are long gone, I am left with a couple tablespoons of the stuff, enough to make this recipe.

Joy is not an easily found commodity these days. I think the last time I was happy was 2008. But I get the teensiest serotonin rush at the idea of cooking with this serendipitous liquid currently inhabiting a a plastic thimble. I carry my dish to the sink, reach for the lid and lift the container to put it on.

A soundless thud as it hits the counter, black gold spilling everywhere. My fingers, numb, hang in mid-air. 

It has been nearly four years since my body began decaying. It's never been great (see Not-So-Tiny Tim tag), but the overnight symptoms on April 7, 2008 and subsequent decline have ravaged a once joyful soul. I have fought. For security, for longevity, for companionship. I have won many of these battles (not the companionship), having a developed a sense of self-advocacy rarely seen apart from certain Family Ties alumni. I complain about snow in handicap parking spaces. I go on local radio to talk about discrimination faced at a neighbourhood establishment. I order wicked fuckin' cool canes on amazon dot com. In short, I take care of my shit.

And then a tiny container of black vinegar spills. It pools towards the sink, almost reaching but not quite, so small is its quantity. It forecasts my future, swirling on the granite like mist in a crystal ball. This is the best you will ever have it. Prepare to run, tumble, fall downhill towards...what? I have no idea. But the fingers are worse each month. Then each week. I've planned so much, fought so hard, but the reality slaps me in the mouth. This is the best you will ever have it. You can give up things you love. You can fight corporations. You can order shrimp spring rolls every night of the week without significant impact to your resources. But the one resource that is depleting exponentially faster before your very eyes is you. This is the best you will ever have it.

Hello, old friends.

I'm a lumbarjack and I don't care

Saturday morning, I woke up with the sun, tossed my adorably emaciated legs over the side of the bed, stood up to greet the dawn and threw my back out.

Clearly I'm 52 years old.

As such, I have been on my back on the floor for the better part of the last four days in a hazy stupor resulting from a heady cocktail of Robaxicet, Aleve, wine and Mary J. Hwuana. The latter, it should be noted, was my father's suggestion and required me to locate the dime bag my uncle had shoved in my pocket in lieu of a Hanukkah present last December and that had been living in the back of my desk drawer ever since then. So to my therapist, who may be wondering about my habit of using alcohol and narcotics as a form of escapism, there's another piece of the puzzle for ya.

Some things I have accomplished during my sojourn on the floor:

- Upon discovering tv "on demand", watched an entire season each of The Hills, The City and The Real World: Brooklyn. Bathed twice after finishing each. Douched once.

- Discovered that The Cleveland Show can actually be funny but only when high on the gange.

- Talked to many of my friends and family members only to have zero recollection of these conversations the next day.

- Was visited by a current e-mail buddy who sorta made me wish I was on my back for completely different reasons.

- Created an original dish, a baked layered casserole consisting of (bottom to top): canned salmon, fresh spinach, grilled eggplant, roasted potatoes. bechamel sauce, sliced tomatoes, marble cheese. Tragically, I wasn't even stoned when making this, just really low on groceries.

- Ordered two XL gourmet pizzas from down the street, totalling roughly $60.

- Ordered groceries online. Yeah. It's possible. It was pretty pricey, costing about as much as a Sobey's/Publix but the delivery charge was only $10 and they dropped it off in front of my fridge, mufukas. IN FRONT OF MY FRIDGE. You can't buy that kind of service. Oh wait, you can and it costs $10.

Ok, I'm still a bit high.


Finally, to all the ladies on the subway carrying designer purses and JANSPORT backpacks, a quick lesson:

+

=

This morning whilst waiting for the streetcar, I observed a woman labouriously gimping down the street, bravely trudging through the newly fallen slush of Queen St. W. In solidarity, I gently lefted the corners of my mouth as she strolled by, a smile that would unite us in our differently abledness. She responded by lifting a different body part and flipped me off.

You stay classy, disabled people.

I got on the streetcar and sat adjascent to a very good looking South Asian fellow, standing right by me and texting on his blackberry, and ate my orange, placing the peel in my bag as to not besmirch the saliva/urine laden floor of a TTC vehicle. Feeling his eyes upon me, I indignantly responded in my thoughts that the peel would serve as a positive olaftory force, its addition lending some much needed citrus top notes to my Kenneth Cole satchel . I thought about telling this to my friends, but remembering that they are all opera singers, I realized that they would look at me as though I was a mongoloid and mutter something about incorrect warm up techniques.

I met a couple new ones last night (opera singers, not mongoloids). The girl had dyed red hair, drank like a fish and swore like a sailor. I like her a lot. The boy had natural red hair (auburn, not gingey), made some successful quips and brought up his love of stubble burn on various body parts throughout the evening. And I liked him. A lot. They both laughed at my some of my humour, though the girl harder, so she is my favourite, despite the fact that the boy is sort of one of the most beautiful things I've seen. Fist-bump for fleeting moments of non-superficiality. I realized that laughing at something I said makes me want to have you for a sleepover. Girls, on my futon; boys, on my me.

Speaking of boys who want on my bed, there's been a recent surge of Manhunt messages from guys that are a) my age or younger b) above average looking and c) wanna get with this, frequently unlocking their (Act impressed) private photos. Granted many want me to show up at their hotel rooms (flight attendants) or drive to the suburbs (Coffee Time employees), but it's still an honour just to be nominated. I feel this ushers in a new era of my demographic appeal: guys seeking the big brother type. A bit creepy for you straights? Probably, but realize that this is just as common in hetero relationships. Think of all the girls dating 4-8 years above their age. It's about protectorship and flattery, sometimes in that order. Oh and in this case the want of my sex. And following up to the last post, as witnessed by these private photos, turns out that some white guys really are doing their bit to bring down the size average. And they're flight attendants. And Coffee Time employees. Niche market, I welcome thee.

I'd really like walking home on weekend nights because I'd rather people think I was really drunk than disabled.

Hey, guess who's back?!




If you guessed Pervy Gym Bunny David, then you would be right!

It's a rather odd sensation to feel as though you're damaged goods before you've even began. It's akin to being a dented can of tuna at Safeway. People notice that can, to be certain, probably pausing momentarily to ponder what circumstanced led to its indentation. Most likely a clumsy, blemished stock boy. Yet, after this diversion, they inevitably decide on an undented can of tuna, the safe choice.

That poor fucking can of tuna. It's perfectly good inside and yet know one really wants to give it a go when it is surrounded by all it's perfectly cylindrical cousins, who may very well be discovered to have gone bad themselves upon opening.

That's really what it is, isn't it: you want to be opened, want the chance to show that you're not spoiled and that you would taste lovely with a tomato on rye. It's understandable. The metaphorical dent can be very tiring after carrying it with you your whole life. It's not that people are mean about it, the odd car full of drunken asshole at 2am aside. They don't intend to be rude when they ask you about it on the street, and really isn't intent the most important thing in these situations? You kind of like it at first, think you're being checked out even, until the brow furrows and the eyes move down from your face to your feet and then back up again with curiosity, sympathy even. Hardly the lustful gaze you had anticipated. Sometimes they ask you about it, again, without malice, but real wonder. Never a pleasant experience, you stop - or maybe you don't - and tell them that it's medical, wait for their reaction, sometimes a "That's cool. We were just wondering" (they're never alone, always in a small group) and you continue on your way. Sometimes if you're feeling particularly pissy, you tell them that it's a 46-letter medical condition and would they like the entire name of it or simply an abbreviation. You always regret this the moment you say it as the embarrassment creeps across their face. Sometimes if you're tired or maybe a little sad and don't feel like this inquisition, you lie. You tell them that you were in Afghanistan and had both of your legs blown up below the knee. To sell it, you'll knock on your shin, as though it made a hollow noise that they can't hear. Surprisingly, this last response offers less guilt than one would think. You're not proud of it, but somehow you feel you've earned the chance to be seen as more noble than who you really are, earned through the constant efforts it takes to just stay on your feet. They don't know, nor should they. If they knew, then they would realize that the best thing in this circumstance is no comments at all.

My-ami: Part 2 - Sarasota

Monday: Belt in loops, I set out for cultural bastion that is Sarasota, Florida. This pretty little town is the host of the second most Caucasian zip code after Anaheim, CA. I'm pretty sure the hotel house keeping staff were in black face, or brown face, seeing as this was Florida. The purpose of this trip was to see this big shot physio/massage therapist/potential quack who'd developed this program of stretching and muscle building that could possibly really help my lurvely physical state. The trip by car between Miami and Sarasota is anywhere between four and a half and five hours. With my father at the wheel, it took just over three and felt like seventeen. Allow me to digress with a parable about my parents' courtship. At the six month mark, my mother was convinced that Father hated his family. Every time he would speak on the phone with them, it was constant yelling. In Hungarian, a language that makes Wookie sound romantic. He took her down to meet his folks and upon arrival, amid the hugging and kissing, was more hostile yelling. Except everyone was smiling. Hungarians, while capable of providing the audio for a foreign Jerry Springer show, are actually very loving people. Still, this didn't help my stress level and by the time we pulled into the immaculate little town (think Victoria/Transcona hybrid), my hairline had receded another quarter inch.


Searching out sustenance, we settled on the most elegant establishment in the surrounding neighborhood: Chilli's. The Palm, this was not. The wait staff appeared to consist of a hostess with an "I hate yanks!" sticker on the back of her pleather writing pad, a very tall, very skinny, very in recovery from meth fellow fellow and Chuck, our waiter, who I'm pretty sure had replaced all of his hemoglobin with steroids. When you have money, it becomes very easy to enjoy the high-falutin' five-star restaurant lifestyle. However, when you didn't start that way, there's this odd comfort in slummin' it. Cut to my aunt demolishing two empanadas. (Side note: do not order ice tea, even sweetened, anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line.)

So then we went to see this non-doctor and I'll spare you all the details but he essentially stretched me and worked me out for about three hours, leaving me feeling rather lab rat-esque. More on him later. That evening we went to the touristy shopping and dining district, which was a series of curved boulevards surrounding one central square. Think art emporiums, beach wear, real estate shops, over-priced bistros and Starbucks. Thank fucking God. We took a stroll to the beach, Aunty, Father and I, and sat down to watch the sunset. Naturally, this was when the only two cute, young gay guys in the county stroll onto the beach, pooka-shell necklaces in place (I know.) and with a demeanor that said "No, we're not together, but we'd totally show a nice, semi-attractive stranger, say from Canada, 'round these parts." Naturally, this was at the precise moment my aunt decided that she wanted to rest her eyes and that my lap would make a natural pillow. American Gigolo, I am thee. What used to be the lovely pastime of gazing at adorable boys has become an exercise in increasing frustration over the years. I should really just shave off what remains of my hair and settle into monk-hood.After this shrinking of my pride and penis, we went and drank lots of champagne sangria (Yes, you read right and yes, it's amazing) and chowed down on unexpectedly delicious Spanish food. This was topped off with Starbucks (Daddy's maiden voyage) and stroll around the boulevards.

Full and (tragic foreshadowing alert) oddly optimistic, we went back to our hotel at which time I checked my e-mail and my life fell apart. Multiple - MULTIPLE - messages awaited me detailing how the things I'd been planning in the next weeks and months were crashing and burning two thousand miles away from me. I kinda lost it, I gotta say. Sitting in a hotel room with my two Hungarian elders (they're loving, but far from sympathetic), having been pummeled by this guy all day, feeling utterly isolated...man alive, I think it was one of the lowest, non-drug-related moments I've experienced. Aunty gave me a Xanax and I slept long and dreamless.

Tuesday: Awaking to a relatively-kick ass breakfast buffet (read: free), we headed off to see the good non-doctor. The previous session would come to be considered a candy-filled, unicorn-riding wonderland by comparison. Kids, he pretty much broke my toes. I've never experienced so much pain in my life. His whole theory was to wake up the long-dead nerves by stretching and manipulating them so he contorted them in all sorts of directions, laughing that in the past he'd gotten carried away and actually torn the skin. After a good chortle, I went into the bathroom and sure enough, zee skin, she was spleet. I certainly don't mean to make light of a very serious situation, so I say this with sincerity, but I kinda felt like a rape victim. I don't really have an explanation other than I just felt violated. I mean, it was good and all and I think that if I actually stick to it, his methods could make a big difference, but still.

Upon completion of another three and a half hour session, we set out for home. During this time, my aunt received about a half a dozen calls on her in-car Bluetooth with the speaker set at "God's Voice" volume from various other Miami socialite housewives, implementing all sorts of endearments ("honey"; "sweetheart"; "darling"; "hot piece of ass") with the exact same nasal, monotonic whine all of which made for very poor napping.

I spent the evening playing rummy with my grandmother and her nurse, finally free of the bickering twosome and then headed to bed, band-aids encircling my toes.

Son of a sandbagger, it is cold outside.

So cold, in fact, that I could not wait the extra 15 seconds to wait for the onslaught of rush hour traffic to slow down before crossing Smith St. I would have been fine had the octogenarian who was last in line before I made my dash not been going one seventh of his age in speed, leaving me but 1.6 seconds to dash across the street.

"Oh, look at me!" I thought, "Light as a feather, I frolic across the pasto-" [thud]

My g.d. pointed boot had caught in a crater of the Kilimanjaro-esque snowdrift lining the opposite side of the street, sending my ever-expanding ass into the air as I completed a half-pike, full-turn somersault onto the sidewalk. Freshly sanded.

Fuck, I hate my legs. You would, too, if you knew them as I do. Trust me. They're bitches.

I feel that we should develop some sort of metaphysical medical technology that would allow me to use the legs of 365 of my nearest and dearest for one day a year. Think about it. Not only would you get to do a brother a solid, you would also gain empathy for the gimps of the world. They could even make a Facebook application for it.

In related news: Ow, crap, my knee hurts.

Susan Powter hates me

Ok, kids, 90’s flashback time: Who here remembers platinum-blond crew-cut, pre-Madonna’s defined biceps, 90’s fitness guru Susan Powter? (Michael, you can put your hand down; no one can see you.) The bitch is back and crazier than Gurney-Strapped Spears.

I stumbled upon her website via last month’s “Everything old is new again” obsession, the delightfully insightful and unbalanced Ms. Rosie O’Donnell, who got all linky wit it on her blog. I watched some of SP’s videos whilst at work on Monday (what? Me, slack?...Neve-...Ok, yeah, totally.) and immediately fell in love with her insanity. She’s kinda like the love child of my aunt Katika in Miami (who has undertaken more health crazes than Hal Johnson & Joanne McLeod combined), a Jewish convert (they’re always waaaaaaaaay too into it, far more than those of us born into the tribe), and a Popple. My favourite video is a 5 minute diatribe on how to make a “sweet, simple, beautiful late night snack” of couscous, soy yogurt, orange segments, raisins and just a “touch of precious honey.” Highlight: “…and oranges, organic oranges. Oy vey, don’t even get me started on fossil fuels.” Could you die?

So the woman has set up in her house a yoga ‘den’, complete with webcam and mood lighting (LED, anyone?) and she has started building up an exercise programs for you, the home viewer. Every day or two she updates with a video showing the old moves as well as one or two new ones. So given my less than stellar attendance at the gym as of late (I know…) I decided to take her on. I laid out my yoga mat and commenced with The Program. It wasn’t all that difficult, although it did require a lot more balance than I normally request of myself. Still, kinda fun and she’s just so nuts even whilst directing you that it’s a good time.

Now here’s where it all goes wrong. Feeling absolutely tickled rainbow colours with myself, I decide that yoga should totally be my next thing. Knowing absolutely nothing on the subject other than basic pop culture knowledge, I rack my brains. This is what I conjure up: Madonna (she of the aforementioned biceps) chanted from the Ashtanga yoga mantra on the track Shanti/Ashtangi, and in the past year all I’ve heard about is Bikram/hot yoga, practiced in a 40 degree room. Ok, so I find a torrent for Ashtanga yoga, download a CD of appropriately electronic-kissed meditation music and before going to bed, crank up the radiator to high in the living room.

In the morning, I awake before my alarm clock, so filled am I with yogaic anticipation. The living room is near-balmy 29 degrees. Good enough. I make myself some tea (Susan is always seen with a mug of liquid), hike up my silk pyjama pants to capri-level and boot up iTunes & Real Player. The gentleman in my video is about 50, balding like a mofo and wearing a Grimace-purple garment, but he’s ripped and not altogether creepy, so I, with a deep, spiritual breath, begin. I get through the introduction and about 8 Sun Salutations before I very moistely call it a day. The entire thing lasts a half an hour. It becomes clear that I will not be reaching yogi status this morning. I go over to the window and prop it open to let the heat escape while I enjoy a small, meditative breakfast and proceed to place my hand on the still-scalding radiator and burn myself quite nicely. I turn off the radiator. I make a mental note to reverse these steps in the future. I go to the bathroom to find that the flop sweat pouring down my forehead has turned blue-grey from the previous night’s hair dying adventure. I ruin a towel. I go to the kitchen to prepare the motherf#^$ing meditative breakfast, settling on an espresso and a bagel with a schmear of cream cheese. What, I can’t be a Jewish yogi? I go to the bedroom to remove the dewey silk pyjama bottoms and replace them with dry boxer-briefs before returning (via the Sahara-esque living room) to the kitchen. I lean on the stove. I spill the coffee across the stove, into the burners, and mostly on my underwear. Clearly a sign from Vishnu that orange juice would be a more appropriate beverage. It is in this moment that the previous day’s workout with Susan decides to hit me, instantly making every muscle ache and limiting my range of motion by approximately 98%.

I am in pain from muscle soreness and multiple yoga-related burns, my face is streaked with grey and my apartment is such a disaster zone that while at work today I submitted multiple relief assistance applications to both FEMA and the Red Cross.

FEMA’s thinking on it.

A few things to discuss but first, something so music school-centric I just threw up a bit in my mouth:

I was trying to find an Israeli song via the MP3/Audio search on altavista.com and for some reason it displayed Erik Satie's Gymnopédie (for non-music geeks, this was a funky early 20th c. piece we studied last term whose name is derived from words meaning young + boys + naked + feet). Then I clicked on the link and it took me to http://www.cherry-classics.com/weddings.html which is a site promoting popular wedding music. So apparently among the fans of Jesu Joy of Man's Desire and Ave Maria, some sick shmucks are waltzing down the aisle to a tinkley little piano piece about pedophiles with a fot fetish.

So my big hospital thing is all over and done with, but funny story - it doesn't seemed to have done a lick of good. We were out at the obviously-packed-beyond-capacity Shannon's Irish Pub last night and I could barely shuffle across the packed floor without feeling like I was gonna fall onto someone. Oh well. At least I got to watch What Not To Wear at the hospital. The fact that some boozed up Guiness-slut spilt one all over me didn't help either. There is something about the smell of malt liquor on wool pants that is very reminiscent of sushi, or more specifically the soy sauce mixed with a bit of wasabi that one ingests while eating sushi. I had always been beyond curious as how to manufacture that smell at home, so thank you beer-ho. Thank you.

(Before reading this concluding paragraph, let it me known to all that there exists a very famous opera named Lucia di Lammermoor, ayit?)

Lastly, before Shannon's, we went bowling and as I was not in fact taking part of the physical aspects of the game, I chose instead to be the social animal/guy that changes everyone's names on the screen. One of my friends was blessed with the middle name Lucia. So I changed her name to Lucia di Bowling. I thought it was freaking hilarious. Everyone else didn't, ergo everyone else can suck it.

As my friend Mikey J. so correctly pointed out in his comment, I've been rather vague in my bitching so this is what it is:

Chronic inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy (CIDP) is a neurological disorder characterized by progressive weakness and impaired sensory function in the legs and arms. The disorder, which is sometimes called chronic relapsing polyneuropathy, is caused by damage to the myelin sheath (the fatty covering that wraps around and protects nerve fibers) of the peripheral nerves. Although it can occur at any age and in both genders, CIDP is more common in young adults, and in men more so than women. It often presents with symptoms that include tingling or numbness (beginning in the toes and fingers), weakness of the arms and legs, loss of deep tendon reflexes (areflexia), fatigue, and abnormal sensations.

In my case, it gives me my memorable walking gait, essentially no muscles in my ankles or feet nor any stamina for high impact physical activity, and the balance of a 3 year old. Had it since I was 8. Had IV treatements at ages 9, 13, and now, but my main treatment as been prednisone, an oral steroid. They haven't stopped working nor is anything really wrong, per se, but I'm realizing more and more than performing is hard enough without worrying that you're gonna suddenly lose your balance in the middle of an aria. So we're trying this again.

Any further questions can be adressed one-on-one and c'est tout.

God, I feel like shit.

Started the IV treatments today. Five fun-filled hours sitting in a plastic-covered recliner and now I feel utterly trashed. Kind of like hung-over minus the headache more with the dull pain of the impossibly thin plastic tube currently stuck in my wrist. It's makes my whole fore arm feel like there's tiny ice crystals inbedded there within. But not in a cool, refreshing way. It's an IV, not a Listerine Pocket Pack. The nurse said I could take it out if it was bothering me, but there is no way I could pull it out. There is not enough ecstacy in the world to make me optimistc enough to do that. I feel like an Elliott Smith song: a somewhat lovely little wit of a thing that is secretly just sick, sick, sick.

So I just feel like crap and this damn election is just compounding it. We're so fucking dumb. All these morons are talking about punishing the Liberals. First of all, it's a political party, not a shitzu. And really, what are you punishing them for? Eliminating the debt? Keep the country in an economic boom? No, we hate them because they gave one drop of water to from the bucket to their friends. That's like me giving a buck to my friend instead of giving it to the United Way. Was it right? No. Is it something over which it's worth electing facists? Um, yeah, probably not. And yet...

I kinda want to die a little. Like, say until Thursday.