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It’s Cancer! Woohoo!

(Editor’s note:  This is incomplete and I’ll come back and polish the turd sometime, but my lack of enthusiasm for finishing it keeps diminishing, especially since I have just had my last treatment (details below) of any kind earlier this week.  However, because of what this posting describes, my desire to complete it outweighed my need to post other unrelated thoughts I’ve had since I started it.  I have finally decided to just crap this article out so I could move on to other subjects and revisit its completion later.

And there ain’t no editor, it’s just me.)

So, whoever picked “cancer” in the unexpected clusterfucks pool has won.  Please report to one of the payout windows for your winnings.  Try to blow it all on a really good time.

I already knew that it sucked to be me– getting cancer just adds more weight to the argument.

So, Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot happened?

By the first week of April, I was experiencing shortness of breath with what I had with my Afib (another long story about my ruined summer, last year– sucks to be me, get over it)– but this was different, somehow. It was like I could not draw in a full breath.

You remember in physics (or maybe math, who the fuck remembers?) when they were covering displacement? You’d put  a block of something that didn’t float you had measured (Width x Height x Depth) into a beaker and add water until the beaker was full, take out the block and measure how much water was left over.  The difference was the displacement (and it should have been the same as the volume of the block).

Again: who the fuck remembers?  Anyway…

It felt like that– I had a block in my lungs that took the place a lot of air.  Up until just last year (Afib, remember?), I rode my bike a lot.  Back when I was younger, I ran a lot,  So, I have a pretty good idea of what a full breath feels like. And walking up a flight of stairs? No big deal.

But during the week starting April 2, I walked up the one flight of stairs to my current contract job and had to put my head on the desk and take a minute to recover.

Something was wrong.

(Dur!)

On Friday, April 7, I could not even get out of bed, being so tired and having a headache from coughing so much during the night.  But I’m a male and on top of that me, so it took my wife’s pleasant reminder to call the doctor and get in to Kaiser that afternoon.

It was there that a Nurse Practitioner named Andrea probably saved my life.  I owe her and I think I should send her some flowers.  Better her getting flowers than me, am I right?

Flowers?  What the fuck am I thinking?  She saved my life.

Maybe a nice plant.

Anyway, Andrea sent me down to imaging for a chest X-ray.  Modern medical imaging has a quick turn around anymore, so by the time I got back upstairs (using the elevator!), she had the results.

It turns out I had a “mass” in my chest and fluid around my right lung.  Made sense.

Now, at the term “mass”, my mind did not immediately leap to cancer.  Andrea did not say “cancer”; but “mass”.  I appreciate this.  She did not render a diagnosis or frighten me with conjecture– she told me what she knew: M-A-S-S.  Se also told me that she’d set up a CT scan for the following Tuesday (the 12th of April).

I, being a male, had all the information I needed to answer the question “what’s up and what’s the plan?” so I satisfied. At this point, what good would more information do me?

What else could I do?  Ask if I should start a vegetarian regimen?  Maybe sell everything I owned and start worshiping a fungus in a cave somewhere (i.e., start praying)?

Worrying is pointless, reacting in radical ways to limited information is even worse.  Besides, they were moving on this– they got me scheduled for as soon as they could for the scan.

Check.

Seeing that I appeared to have no more questions, Andrea offered that a “mass” did not necessarily mean cancer.   There were certain thyroid-related issues that could account for the location and size of the “mass.”

Cool.  I didn’t ask the cancer question, but still nothing to be alarmed about.

“Okay,” I said and thanking her, left.

I went home and told my wife about the x-ray and the “mass” (my new name for the little fucker), and she asked me a lot of questions I apparently did not think to ask myself because not only was I male; but apparently an idiot by her estimation.

Some people, mostly female, would say that those two conditions are the same thing, but I digress.

The weekend came and went, and on Monday morning I noticed a lump at the crux of my neck and right shoulder.  It hurt a little, like a muscle cramp and was about 4 cm across.   Oh well, nothing to worry about, I thought, since I was going in the following day.

My twisted little mind though went to an old science fiction movie I’d seen about a guy who had a second head growing out of his shoulder, so I gave it the name “lumpy” and awaited the appearance of an eye in the middle of it.

Tuesday rolled around and my wife went with me to the CT scan appointment.  After the scan I went upstairs to the doctor’s office (elevator!) to see if I could get squeezed in to have him look at “lumpy”.  Funniest thing– “lumpy” had grown somewhat to about 6 cm since the day before.

They got me right in, and came in to tell me that if I had not come up from the CT scan myself they would have called me back in if I had left and had me admitted to the hospital immediately.   It seems that the “mass” had grown significantly since Friday, and was definitely cancer.  After having looked at “lumpy”, Dr. Wolsko said that it was related and was probably a tumorous growth.

Awesome.

The hospital was a short walk from the Kaiser office (actually, it’s physically in the same building) and I went to the emergency room to await admittance.

I was set upon by a host of very concerned people. They started an IV that would not be removed for about 6 days, making me feel like an astronaut on a spacewalk for my entire stay.  They got my vitals, and were very concerned about the apparent pressure the tumors (we can call ’em that now) in my chest were putting on my heart and the plumbing around it.

My wife called our sons and my middle son came up on his way home. I called my parents and let them know the news. I kind of wished I hadn’t since they didn’t get much sleep for the next couple of days over it. Everybody seemed worried– I didn’t feel worried at all. Well, I might have felt sorry for myself for all of ten minutes; but I figured what was the point of keeping that up?

I know that I am going to die someday– I have since it hit me and really soaked in when I was about 15.  Whether we want to believe it or not, every day is a crap-shoot about whether we live or die.  Every day.

Something is always out to get us.  Might be a bus, or a meteor, or a heart attack, or a jealous husband, or choking on a gummy bear, or… you name it.

I mean, by the terms I had grown accustomed to I was dying anyway (we are all dying from the minute we are born, it’s just a matter of time), cancer was just the (possible) terminal vector for me.  Cancer was always a possibility; but so were an infinite variety of other causes.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to live and I was perfectly willing to do whatever was necessary to stick around; but, why kid myself?  Death is inevitable. Fretting over mortality is a terrible waste of what little time each of us has in this life.  I’m not special, neither are you– I wish you a long and happy life; but sooner or later entropy will get you and me both.  Ernest Becker’s Denial of Death is a great read on the subject of just how much energy we burn on ignoring the subject.

I remembered all the times in my life when that wonderful experiment called “me” had come close to dying before, either by accident, stupidity or circumstance I had survived:

  • That time in Bequia when I (yes, stupidly) separated from my dive partner and then swam though a short. very tight tunnel I found though a coral head.  Once fully lodged in the tunnel, I became somewhat stuck.  I tried to
  • As an infant I became dehydrated and nearly died from what was apparently just the flu.
  • I drove drunk on many occasions.  I know, I’m an idiot.  One time between my freshman and sophomore years of college, I was enticed into joining a drinking club with the dubious name of the “zug-zug keg team” by a friend of mine . The membership ritual consisted of drinking 5 beer bongs.  I “made” it (yeah, young, stupid, male–got it) and was, needless to say, inebriated.  After a friend told me she would drive me home, I got impatient and got in my car and drove away (I assume) and woke up to the sunrise hours later on a street near my parent’s home.  Dumb.
  • The list goes on…

I had already died many times– or at least had the opportunity to.  Every day I had lived since any one of these occasions had been living on borrowed time.

Anyway, back to the narrative…

They carted me up to a room in the internal medicine ward and not oncology as I expected.  There, they slapped a monitoring device that I lovingly called “the Octopus” onto my chest so they could tell if I threw a clot or had heart failure.  It turns out that the real danger at this time was not the cancer itself, but the secondary problems it was causing me physically.

The tumors in my chest were between my lungs and around my heart, putting pressure on my vena cava and jugular veins to the point that clots were forming in them.  In addition, there was fluid building up under my right lung, which was the cause of my breathing difficulty.

(Spoiler alert: as it turns out my lymphatic system had gone haywire due to the Lymphoma I had contracted and was pumping out fluid that my system could not adequately dispose of.  You know that fluid you get in a blister?  That’s lymphatic fluid, and your lymphatic system pumps it out when you are injured– a lot of the reason for swelling.  So, like a really bad housekeeper, my lymphatic system was producing a lot of fluid to address the problem with itself and swept it under my right lung– the bodily equivalent of a rug).

The doctors started me on (different) blood thinners than I was taking for my A-Fib.  They also had me get an immediate head CT-scan to make sure that I had no tumors in my brain (I didn’t).

I wasn’t able to string together more than maybe a half hour’s sleep together all the time I was in the hospital. Blood samples, “are you ok?” checks, getting tangled up in the Octopus or the IV.

The next day (Wednesday), I went down to surgery where they drained a liter and a half of fluid from under my lung (the rug had quite a lump in it at this point) and performed a biopsy.  I was fortunate in that “lumpy” was much more accessible than the tumors in my chest, so they took a couple of lymph nodes from it rather than having to fish around my compressed heart for them.

On Thursday, I was given a PET scan that showed the tumors stretching from about the bottom of the sternum up to and pressing down on the heart and diagonally up to the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

Now, a PET scan is very interesting: first, you can’t eat anything for about 12 hours ahead of time (they would have done one on Wednesday, but I had already eaten lunch before they could have fit me in in the evening. Second, they inject you (using a lead-lined hypodermic needle) with radio-active sugar that the tumors soak up like coke heads do nose-candy.  The images were very arty– yellow stars in the constellation of my body.  My chest looked like the center of the galaxy.

Later that day, the preliminary results of the biopsy came back indicating Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.  The doctors were fairly sure that this was the case already, since the cancer was so fast-growing– a common indicator of Hodgkin’s.

My doctor said that if I had to get cancer, this was the one to get– I had effectively “won the cancer lottery”.  Hodgkin’s has about an 80% survival rate if treated in time.  I was in stage 3– the cancer had spread beyond the starting location in my chest to lymph nodes to below my diaphragm but had not reached my liver, spleen or kidneys.

On Friday, I was moved to the oncology ward.  My breathing was vastly improved after the fluid was drained around my lung.

On Saturday, I had my first chemo treatment in the hospital and on Easter Sunday I went home.  At last I was able to get a good night’s sleep without the IVs and “the Octopus” attached to me.

I have since had 6 more chemo treatments.  I have 5 left.

I have learned a lot of things from my experience.

  • Cancer is expensive.  Save your money– don’t get it.  If I had not been lucky enough to have walk-on-water health insurance, I would be looking at about $200k in expenses at this point.  I can see why there are so many people who need help on GoFundMe.com— and those are just the people who have the same kind of cancer I do.  My wife and I find someone there every month and give them some money.  It’s fairly easy to recognize someone genuine– their stories are remarkably similar to my own minus the insurance.  Help them out a little.
  • Cancer is a pain in the ass. Lots of new routine. Then there are the side effects from the chemo that get progressively worse.
  • Cancer is boring.
  • Cancer involves spending a lot of time reassuring others.  Yes, people are genuinely concerned and very sympathetic; but I think they want to be reassured because of their own discomfort with a very uncomfortable situation.
  • Everybody has an anecdotal cure.
  • I have pansy cancer.  There are people at the clinic when I go in for chemo that are really bad off.  They’ve had surgeries, chemo and radiation.
  • The doctors at Kaiser are fantastic– they were all right on top of my treatment. Every department has been involved and very aware.  The fact that they can easily exchange patient information with one another and consult with no artificial boundaries shows me what medicine can be.
  • People take my attitude as bravery.  I’ve been accused of being “stoic.” The only time someone can be brave is when they are afraid.  I’m not really that afraid.  I’ve not been asked to do anything more than to survive, and we all do that every day whether we recognize it  or not.

I want to keep writing about this, but

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General Strike!

Since the ascendancy of our corrupt, clueless and illegitimate dear leader and the evident unwillingness of the congress of the United States to corral his extreme tendencies, I have had a number of people remark to me that they don’t feel there is any action they can take to have any say in their government.

Oh, there have been marches and tweets and a lot of hand wringing, but none of these things really has any concrete effect. They largely serve to make us all feel better, but are not an effective demonstration of power in the face of a regime that lives by “alternative facts.”

There are the more mundane things we can all do, like get involved in local politics, inject ourselves into the redistricting process to insure that gerrymandering in the favor of an outdated minority of neanderthals (that’s you, conservatives) are kept to a minimum, and get-out-the-vote drives for the 2018 mid-terms; but none of these will have any immediate effect if they have any at all.

My own belief is that there is little short of violence that will address the situation (think 1860, my friends); but, if you are not willing to face that particular piece of music just yet, I suggest an alternative that may be less destructive and I am fairly sure will yield positive results fairly soon.

It’s called a “general strike.” Historically, the general strike has worked a lot of magic, although few history books mention it (since their contents are governed by people who have a vested interest in our not knowing the tools available to the citizenry to redress the wrongs done to it).

What is a general strike?

Simply put, it’s when a large portion of the populace does nothing. They stay home, they buy nothing, they strike by “calling in sick” to work– exerting their strength over an oppressor by not participating in the activities that drive the mechanism of their oppression, the broken vessel of society itself.

Now, vital services on which human lives are at stake, such as ambulance, police and fire should and would remain exempt from the strike. Emergencies should be addressed because lives and property matter. Doctors should also still see patients for non-trivial procedures. However, if it is not vital, an activity should completely cease.

What I recommend is that for 2 or three days, a week at the most, we don’t go to work; we don’t buy that book on Amazon, we don’t go for a drive nor go out to eat nor order take-out. Minimize our activities while yielding few valuable results to society at large– just enough to get by.

Actors will not act in or on any TV shows. Recording artists and athletes won’t perform. Uber drivers won’t drive, pizzas will not be delivered, food won’t be served, sold nor restocked. Planes, trains and buses won’t take anyone anywhere. No gasoline will be purchased. No profits will be made.

We’ll turn down our thermostats, skip bathing and laundering our clothes. We can even take all our money out of the bank (if we have any that the 1% have let us keep).

The message delivered to that asshole we’re stuck with for the next 4 years (at least) and his enablers is not to fuck with us. We can bring this lame system down if you push us too hard, and this little, limited-term strike is just a taste. We can do it anytime and for as long as it takes.

Fuck you, Trump! Take that, Ayn Randian Objectivists! There’s “going Gault” right back in your worthless faces! Makers and takers, indeed.

So what do you say “nasty women”? How about you, oppressed minorities? What about you disaffected youth?

What say you?

Asshole in Chief

In honor of the inauguration of our 45th president:

Once the organs had a disagreement as to who was in charge in the human body.

“I am the leader,” said the heart. “I pump the blood that feeds all the organs. Without me, you’d all starve and drown in your own waste.”

“And who filters all that waste to clean the blood?” The kidneys asked. “We do, so I guess that makes us the leader.”

“Not so fast,” said a lung. “Every one of you need the oxygen I and my twin supply and need to get rid of the carbon dioxide they produce. You’d all smother without me.”

The brain said, “obviously I am the rightful leader of the body. I make all the decisions, consciously and unconsciously: what and when to eat and drink, when to sleep, I even make the heart beat and the lungs breath.”

And so the arguments went on with each organ, muscle and bone making its case with no clear argument being made to distinguish who was the ultimate leader.

Finally having worked up the courage to throw his voice into the din, the asshole meekly chimed in. “I’m the leader,” he said.

The other organs stopped their bickering ans started to laugh.

“You?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“That’s a laugh!”

“The asshole, the leader!”

The asshole grew angry at their chiding and said, “I’ll show you! I’ll just plug up and we’ll see what you think then.”

So, the asshole tightened up and refused to pass anything solid, liquid or even gaseous.

After three days, the heart grew sluggish, the lungs caught on each breath, the brain could hardly think, the kidneys could not filter anything, the whole body was on the verge of immanent collapse.

“We give up,” they all said in one voice. “You are the leader.”

And so it was that the asshole (and often the largest one) was always in charge.

Kumbayaware: smell the disappointment

After the 2016 elections, there seems to be a desire by tech-savvy entrepreneurs to write software to “bring the country together.”

For instance, in the latest Built in Colorado newsletter, there is an article about using apps to bridge the gap between what has become two very distinct political and social philosophies. I have seen or heard of a number of similar apps in the last month and now feel I must address all the silly that is going on.

I hate to rain on the parade of Ms’s Nina Sharma and Maribeth Romslo (the founders of The Whole Truth Booth), but attempting to write an app to fill this very deep divide is not only naive but is akin to continuing to dig to get one’s way out of a hole.

I call such software Kumbayaware, and I expect it to do nothing more than calm the jittery nerves of people who think they are on the left end of the spectrum. I say such people are on the left in name only largely because they are more interested in quelling words and feelings they don’t like and avoiding confrontation (ew, ick!) than addressing real issues. For instance, they never address how the so-called left has failed just about everyone, because it is different from the right in name only.

The idea behind their site (and, of course, app– because everything needs an app, right?) is that if we all just sit down an talk, we can resolve all our differences. If we all just post our viewpoint and air our grievances, we can all resolve our differences like adults and make a better world.

This approach fails on two points:

First, it’s time to face the music that there are people out there who can’t be reasoned with. They cannot now and never will sit down around the campfire and sing kumbaya. For the most part, such people will never hear of the app, let alone calmly discuss their viewpoint in such a forum. Should they make an appearance in The Whole Truth Booth or any other forum for discussion, expect a largely flame-oriented rant and fake-news driven hate fest.

Welcome to the bubble, and welcome to software that is written inside the bubble to approach problems that don’t exist anywhere but in the bubble– like that we all need to talk to one another more. Most of the people who will use Kumbayaware will talk and listen to people of a like mind only.

Second, technology applied in such a manner is what got us into this mess in the first place. Facebook and Twitter have divided us because they allow the creation of “channels”– echo chambers where people can spout and listen to crazed rantings that reflect their limited viewpoint. Everybody promulgates and consumes their fair share of fake news and generated outrage. Not only is such talk echoed, it is amplified.

I’m talking about both the faux-left and the alt-right here. Just as only alt-righters only watch Fox News, read The Drudge Report and Newsmax, and listen to Alex Jones, faux-lefties only watch MSNBC, read Salon and Daily Kos and since they are “hip” don’t even listen to that archaic radio thing. But does either of these two channels address real issues or do they merely provide a calming assurance that we are not alone?

It’s all boiling down to brand-loyalty and insulation. Both sides think that their “brand” (whether R or D) will bring about real change for ordinary people and shield them from uncomfortable outside influences that disturb their “reality”. And both realities are false. On the right the reality is a conspiracy-based worldview in which white people are surrounded in a Fort Apache last-ditch defense against all that is corrupt and evil (read: black, latino, LGBT, etc.). On the “left” is the delusion that rationality and calm discussion will bring back a status-quo normalcy of goodishness.

A friend of mine on the right does not give a flying rat’s ass about Trump’s policies, but that now he will be able to say any old thing he wants any time he wants to. That’s all that matters to him: the appearance of change.

Furthermore, if you think that there is really a shift in policy that would have substantially changed america in more than a superficial way had Hillary Clinton been elected, you need to read a book: “A People’s History of the United States” by Howard Zinn. Go get a copy and read it right now– I’ll wait. She would have been in the back pocket of Wallstreet and had to prove that she was “tough”, so more money would have been dumped on the Pentagon and into prisons. She just would have been less of an asshole about it.

But back to the app: it’s this sort of self-congratulatory, substance-free pap that has gotten the left into the position it now holds today: nowhere. It allows its adherents to cling to the cottony-comfortable assurance that talk without action will draw us all together: an echo chamber indeed. Can we go back to ignoring our real problems now so I can catch up on my Facebook posts?

Let me just add one more thing about our current dilemma and the silliness with which I see people on the “left” approaching it, a little analogy if you will:

When you put your head in the sand, it leaves your ass sticking way up in the air where the mean-spirited (read: people) are likely come along and either kick it or fuck it.

Screenplay: Mars Attacks the Team America World Police! (the script just writes itself)

Scene 1: A flying saucer lands somewhere in a middle eastern desert, and a delegation of martians emerges. A group of local inhabitants who were nearby as the ship landed approaches cautiously.

Martian 1: (To the group of locals) Ack, ack ack ack!

Arabic Marionette 1: Durka durka durka?

Martian 2: Ack ack ack ack. Ack (gestures broadly at the surrounding dunes) ack ack ack ack.

Arabic Marionette 2: Durka durka (offers a skin of water to the first martian) durka. Durka durka.

Martian 1: Ack  (Takes skin of water, looks around in a confused manner and returns it).

Arabic Marionette 1: Durka!Durka durka durka durka durka. Durka durka durka.

Martian 2: Ack ack ack ack ack ack. Ack! Ack ack ack ack.

Martian 1: Ack ack ack.

Martian 3: Ack.

Arabic Marionette 1: Durka durka durka (wipes brow with sleeve) durka durka, durka durka durka.

Martian 2: Ack ack ack ack (raises a sidearm gesturing threateningly at Arabic Marionette 1).

Arabic Marionette 2: Durka durka, durka durka (makes gagging motions with hand) durka. Durka durka durka durka. Durka durka (raises right hand high above his head and pointing skyward) durka durka. Durka (lowers his hand to his side and spins in a complete circle) durka! Durka durka durka. DURKA! Durka durka.

Martian: Ack. Ack ack ack ack.

(The martian delegation turns to the ship and enters, the ship ascends to the sky, the locals watch in amazement).

Arabic Marionette 3: Durka!

Scene 2 (Aboard the martian ship)

Martian 1 (watching view screen of Earth as it falls into the distance): Ack ack ack.

Martian 4 (seated at control panel): Ack ack ack ack. Ack ack ack ack ack.

Martian 2 (looks askance at Marian 4 but says nothing).

(Fade).

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari

I’ve been watching a lot of silent films lately… ‘Nosferatu’, ‘Faust’ and the tile of this blog. Most of what I’ve been watching is silent film from the Weimar Republic– that little country that Germany was before the Nazi’s took over.

Silent film is very strange. At the same time it feels both ancient and new. In some ways, if the graininess is removed and the file is properly restored it can seem fresher than a film made even 10 to 20 years ago. The people are much more expressive, especially in the German films, where camp poses and extreme actions were less used than in American films of that era.

One thing that particularly strikes me in ‘The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari’ and “Faust’ is the set design. Comparing it to the sets of, say, the TV production of Cinderella from the 1960s is how similar they are. The windows are not square. They frame awkward scenes of tilted chimneys and abstracted skies. The flashbacks are cartoon renderings of canted buildings, imperfect in form as is the memory of the person who recalls them.

It’s like one can wonder what the artistic endeavors of Germany might have been if the National Socialists had not tried to throw the country back to a pre-medieval way of thinking. What if that openness that we attempted to capture in the 1960s had taken root then instead of a nightmare world of hate?

And then I think of what we as a country are throwing away now.

We are turning our back on progress. We are ignoring fact in favor of doctrine. We are embracing fear over acceptance. The future is dead, long live the past!

On film, in the 1920s, Germany was experimenting with what the meaning of progress might be; but then turned its back on the future in a suicidal attempt to recapture a glorified past that never really was.

Are we becoming that kind of nation? What have we imagined that we are willing to sacrifice for our hate and anger?

Black Lives Don’t Matter

…and that’s the point.

I have a lot of white conservative friends who love to insist “ALL LIVES MATTER!” To which I can only say:

Dur!

The fact that all lives matter goes without saying really, unless you’re not keen to the idea that murder is a crime and morally incomprehensible.

But I think it’s become obvious that some lives matter more than others.

Let me explain. Statistically speaking, there are an inordinate number of deaths by police action of black people than white. If the percentage of the black people in our country is 12.3%, then one would expect only 12.3% of the victims involving the death of citizens by police officers to be black.

However, according to the incidents reported by police themselves, 26% of all deaths at the hands of officers are black. That is double the amount one would expect, well outside any reasonable margin of error (which could be generously expected to be no more than 2%, yielding around 15% of incidents at most). Put simply, one in four people killed by police are black when only 1 in 8 people in the general population are black.

Strictly numerically speaking, there are more white deaths at the hands of police officers than black people, but that’s because there are more white people. 50% of all police incidents involving death of citizens are of white people, but this too is outside what one would expect when the latest census measures the white population at 62%. Again, the 50% rate is well outside the reasonable margin of error– one would reasonably expect 62 percent of all people killed by law enforcement officers to be 62%.

There are one of two possible explanations for this discrepancy:

  1. Black people are more likely to be involved in criminal activity by nature.
  2. There is an inherent, systematic racism at work in the actions of law enforcement officers.

The first of these two explanations is inherently racist itself. That one racial or ethnic group is naturally more inclined to crime and therefore more deserving of potentially lethal treatment under the law is at the very heart beliefs held by the KKK and the Nazi Party.

So, which is it?  You can only stand behind one of these arguments. If you are reasonably enough to accept the second explanation– that there is an asymmetric treatment of black and white lives in any situation faced by police, then you can understand why it becomes necessary to remind law enforcement officers in particular that Black Lives should Matter, when they obviously do not as much as white lives do.

15 things to do after the Trumpocalypse

  1. As an endearment, we must refer to Mr. Trump as Il Douche (pronounced “ill do-shay”).
  2. The motto on the Statue of Liberty must be changed to “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.” (Abandon all hope, ye that enter). That or “Arbeit Macht Frei”.
  3. We have to make sure that Mr. Trump stays alive to keep Vice President Palin from becoming POTUS. (Wait–we’ve been here before, haven’t we?)
  4. Start praying for the zombie apocalypse, or some kind of apocalypse– any apocalypse will do.
  5. Get used to saying “I told you so” a lot to your conservative friends as the country slides steadily into the shitter.
  6. Learn to envy the Russians for how good they have it (comparatively speaking).
  7. Get used to the equivalent of 24-hour “The Apprentice” only you won’t be able to change the channel and, unfortunately, it won’t be scripted. Talk about “reality TV”… It doesn’t get more real than “supreme leader of the western world.”
  8. Come up with really good slogans to graffiti the wall the Canadians will build to keep us out.
  9. Prepare to be reviled world-wide even more than we are already. America will become the moral equivalent of a fart joke.
  10. Constantly fight the urge to vomit a little bit in your mouth.
  11. Take deep breaths (especially if you are locked in your garage with your car running).
  12. Prepare to enjoy ever-increasing heights of ridiculousness flowing from the mouth of our highest elected official.
  13. Laugh! As the douche-baggery ensues, try to keep a sense of humor. Provide your own laugh-track, you might make it through the first term with your sanity. Your are, however, fucked if he’s reelected.
  14. Start a drinking game based on how often Mr. Trump says “Yuuuuuge”.
  15. Suffer with dignity.

OK, so the Afib is under control; but…

I’m having a drug reaction  that itches like sin.  I have a rash from the knees down on  both legs. It’s on my elbows, chest and stomach.

I can hardly wait until it spreads to someplace that is not so sociably acceptable to scratch.

On the bright side, I’m still alive. That’s a plus.

I can ride my bike again because I can breathe. I need to build my way back up to 30 mile rides; but I can get in 10 around town.

Enough of that. I need to write again.

Well, maybe not.

I’m back in AFib again.  Made it about 3 weeks before I went back into an irregular rhythm, so they are putting me on new drugs and talking about cardioversion (the big jolt) again.

So, whoever had me for 3 weeks before I went back into AFib and had to get more treatment can collect their winnings.

Symptoms suck– it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach all the time because the edema is causing my abdomen to retain water–weirdest thing, just my abdomen (but at least I’m not getting “Fred Flintstone feet”). The nurse asked me if I felt bloated the other day, and I had to remind her that men don’t get bloated.