Cadaver skin, Goat Legs, Crunchy Granola…my life
So here goes my attempt at recounting at least a month’s worth of happenings–some weird, some disturbing, all very very real. Mostly real, anyhow.
It all began with a mysterious patch of skin on my right forearm. It was a red bump at first and then I accidentally scratched it and it became multiple little red bumps all in a circular pattern that looked like some kinky bastard put a cigar out on my arm. That, or ringworm. RINGWORM?! Does that even happen to adults? I made an appointment to see the dermatologist who then scraped it and another similar spot on my right palm (stigmata much?) with a razor blade and I guess looked at it under a hi-def microscope. Not ringworm. He didn’t know what it was. So, he gave me some ointment and it’s still there. It’s funny the way this patch makes me really self-conscious.
When I went to the doctor to get a TB test, the nurse looked at it and grimaced and snapped her latex gloves up high. Yes, in order to volunteer to work with kids, you have to have proof you’re not going to infect them with terrible diseases. I understand this.
My third medical encounter in this very long month was a lovely and very worthwhile trip to see my periodontist. As suspected I have to have a gum graft. There are two tantalizing ways to go about this. I can either have them put cadaver skin in my mouth which is strange and disgusting; or I can have them scrape the roof of my mouth and use that gunk. Seriously, if it were any other part of my body, cadaver skin would suffice. My mouth is a little private, yo. Romes thinks this would make an excellent short story–like dude, you totally got some dead killer’s gum tissue and it makes you taste weird things or maybe say weird things–things the dead killer would say. We’ll have to flesh that one out.
Speaking of…remember a couple of weeks ago this lady stole a car and drove it from Concord or some other hellhole like it all the way to San Francisco where the CHP officers bizarrely shot and killed her in a tiny little dead-end street?? Well, that very street is one block away from me. It was a really dumb and really terrible incident. I guess they said she was using her car as a deadly weapon because she rammed a police car. I don’t know–sounds fishy to me. Who wouldn’t try to get away?
Well, ok, this very spot where they shot her is literally five paces away from another spot on the corner where this guy got shot in his car. This happened like a couple months back. His roadside memorial came down super effing quick. I suspect it was the realtors trying to sell a condo in the building right next to the scene of the crime. His memorial shrine was a little ghetto. Someone left a half-empty bottle of Hypnotiq, a couple 40s, some poor soggy little teddy bears and a poster board with shot-outs from all his homies. The woman’s shrines–there are two–are nice. They have flowers and a declaration from an attorney describing what he saw at the scene of the crime. The lame thing is, someone STOLE some flowers from one of those memorials. Come on. Weak.
So, my suspicion is that the place is cursed. Like really. At the very end of that murderous cul-de-sac is this dirt lot where a little kid has lined up all his action figures and random odd-and-end toys. I never used to leave my crap out in the rain for dogs like mine to piss on. The dogs love this little area. One day, my pop was walking them over there and Nichi got really fascinated by something in the mud. My dad tried to pull him away and then he saw what it was: a goat arm. No, I’m not even kidding. A goat arm–hoof intact. Probably a little front leg. I think he freaked out a little because he basically ran the other way after nudging it with his foot. Where the hell do I live? Seriously, where.
A couple of weeks ago, Mar and I took the miniest of road-trips out towards Novato and St. Helena and Calistoga and I had the best time ever. I cut work and got to look at the pretty country-side and wouldn’t you know–I even got a massage. It was an experience alright. Dude, the place I wanted to go to was booked and we happened upon this healing arts center and the hippie lesbians DID have time to kick my ass for thirty minutes. I got the crunchiest of the granola lesbians to give me the best massage of my life. I had to breathe with her. Like deep breaths. And she pulled my arms out of their sockets and realigned me in a more interesting and comfortable way. And when I got out of there I was sweating like a pig. Ask Mario–I was shiny.
In closing: I am about to construct an ark. Gather up the animals. The rain is making me crazy. I like water and all–as much as the next guy–but boy howdy, I am sick of the way it has increased my proximity to insects. This seems like a stretch, but they don’t like the rain either. Everywhere I’ve been lately, I’ve had some terrible encounter with some freaky-ass bug. My favorite pub, for example. Romes and I were just finishing up our lunch when we see this man at another table flail his arms wildly and this thing goes flying in the air and lands next to the bar. And then the thing ran. And it ran towards me. It was the biggest, reddest roach I done ever seen. I can never go back there. I’ve had a spider in my hair and a mosquito-eater landed on my face–all in the matter of one week. Oh yeah, and I ate a sour-cream-and-onion flavored cricket. So, maybe it’s payback time.