Motherf****r, I want more iced tea.

Look, buddy, I’ve graded a lot of papers in my time, and that’s a B paper.  Now get the f**k out of my office.

Wench, bring me more wine.

You must have me confused with someone that gives a shit.

Oh, and put some ice in that iced tea.  Did I say I wanted tepid tea, b***h?

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When the demands of the patriarchy and the demands of the new fascist security order conflict.

Apparently the good folks at the Georgia DMV have taken it into their heads to hold that since the “Real ID” act (jesus haploid christ what an Orwellian term) demands that every SS# correspond to one named individual whose name must never change….

That means that when a woman marries she must, perforce, keep her name. 

Love it!

Else she must, logically, be, oh, some kinda turrist or something.

This puts me in mind of a conversation between the partner’s father and the partner’s mother:

PF (named for 13th century English King): “Hey [wifey], are there any circumstances under which you would be known as Mrs. [her Christian name + his surname] instance of Mrs. [his Christian name and surname]?

PM (named for 14th century French Queen): “Yeah, when you die”

Because apparently when you take someone’s name, you really do take their name.

See this is the sort of thing that same-sex marriage just totally does away with.  And isn’t that a good thing, after all?

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To all the well-wishers and good-thinkers.  Being laid up, injecting self with non-psycho pharmaceuticals every eight hours, is less than fun. 

Thanks especially to Guin, who was available to visit me in the hospital. 

Had dinner tonight at the next addition to the Midtown hispter scene: “Level Up,” the swank second story to the place that houses Thai Basil.  Didn’t try the cocktails (not taking any chances with the meds), but the decor was cool and the layout intimate.  Of course, as the partner pointed out, when you drench everything in panko crust, it’s kinda hard not to think either “mmm… trust the Gorton’s fisherman,” such is the power of branding.

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Turns out it wasn’t gout, after all.

Turns out it was cellulitis, a disease shared by the high and mighty and the low and powerless (would insert a link to an article about a recent staph outbreak at Folsom prison if the stupid Sacto Bee would archive their articles for more than a bloody 7 days, for crying out loud found the link, my bad)

Think necrotizing fasciitis, only not so much (really: it’s staph, but in a different layer of skin.  So scary, but it’ll kill you in, oh, 10 days, rather than 10 hours).

So, am back home, on oral antibiotics, with my foot up.

Consumption of shellfish will resume this evening, with a paella.  Consumption of porcine filthiness to resume probably at some point within the next week or so. Consumption of beer to resume once I’m off the meds.

And no, there is no moral lesson regarding how to avoid cellulitis.  I was not walking barefoot in the park.  I was not injecting drugs between my toes to avoid the track marks.  I was not bitten by common house-spider.  I was not engaging in exotic tantric sexual activities at wherever it is that people do that sort of thing.  As a doctor once told me: “Son, I’m sorry to tell you, but as a health professional, it is my considered opinion that sometimes, shit happens.  This time, it happened to you.”

My current off-the-cuff hypothesis is that it is the result of some massive amount of internalized stress (and thus a lowering of immune response, etc.) produced by job change, new semester, living in childhood home, living in childhood home with insane needy cat-lady, etc.

Investigations into the much-reputed therapeutic powers of yoga, etc. may follow.

Which reminds me of a joke someone told me: why do hippies wear patchouli?  So that even blind people can hate them.  This from someone named “Ouchie the Clown.”  My friend — who was told this joke by Mr. Ouchie, in person, while at Burning Man – did not, sadly, know the clown jokes. 

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…has arrived.  And unfortunately for me, approximately 15 years ahead of schedule.

So, goodbye beer… (a snuffle)

Goodbye lentils (a sigh of relief)

Goodbye pork… (the first tear squeezes from its duct)

Goodbye beef… (now comes the wailing)

Goodbye shellfish… (and the gnashing of teeth)

That’s right, kiddies, it would appear that I have the gout (either that or something far worse, but we won’t go there just yet).

Lordie it sucks to be middle-aged.

What makes it worse is that I appear to have fallen into a Mooreian universe where my out-of-state coverage from my former employer consists of two business-hours only, cash-preferred, but if you have insurance we sure as shit aren’t going to give you an estimate of the cost of any of our procedures, and what are you stupid I have no idea what your co-pay is you middle-class fool, doc-in-the boxes (one on Alhambra and one out on Northgate someplace).  Meanwhile, my current coverage would have gone into effect, had not the particular HR person to whom my SS# assigns me decided that she didn’t particularly want to work for this particular state agency anymore, but in the meantime is going to make the bastards fire her.

In other words, I’m not in the system, Kaiser doesn’t know me from Adam, and in the meantime I’m gaffling my parents’ medicine chest (specifically, my father’s, as it’s his genes that brought this on me, durnit!)

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