3pm - Don L. Smith's Office. Doctor. Cauliflower nose. Brazil-esque decor. Easter stuff scattered amongst the other stuff. Cash only. HMO provider approved. The building looks like the remanants of a bankrupt out luxury community in La Bufadora, Mexico -- muted, empty, the future of civilization after the coming of the bomb.
Waiting for my EKG.
THE TIME ON THE CLOCK IS: 10:45?
THE BED IS: yikes.
I SAT IN TRAFFIC - on the two plus hour ride home. I hate driving to the OC for any health matter but that's where my permanent mailing address is and in a week I'm having a huge surgery. I lost 175 pounds over the last two years. Doing that so rapidly leaves a bunch of loose skin. I got over being self conscious about it and comfortable naked with the help of a lady. The rewards of the surgery comes in the form of the physical things. Simple gifts like being able to shit in any public bathroom and sit in a chair with no fear of it breaking or coming with you. You learn a lot about human nature and the people you're with when that happens - you get tough with the humiliation also you become a little screwed.
At this point in time, I just want to be able to button up a suit. If I could, I would wear one all the time - like the men from the fifties stepping out to buy a pack of camels and tomatoes.
I'm afraid. I have to tell you. Its a big old nasty surgery. If I'm repeating myself here forgive me, but you know its pretty major when the staff keeps saying - its one of the more uncomfortable surgeries.
gulp.
One lady - the financing lady - I caught her smiling a bit when she knew I didn't buy the - Its pretty painful, like childbirth - but just think of it this way - when you are done you'll be a new man - speel.
We laughed real hard about that one.
Back to Don, though. In spite of the fact that hiz bio-hazard waste basket looked like the kind that Oscar the Grouch lived in, Don was excited for me and as I was leaving mentioned that the surgery date was 8-8-08. Exactly two years from the date the deal was done. A man of whimsy and attention - god bless.
THE DRIVE HOME WAS A SON OF A BITCH.
Two and a half hours later I'm breaking into a friends home because I had a situation of absolute curiosity and he wasn't there. I am able to do this because of a nice lady who knew how to do things like this. Unfortunately, he wasn't there. Fortunately, she isnt'. But, eventually I found him. We both have fought hard. Things are on the god damn precipice. I am doing the best to get out of my own way.
ITS TOUGH WHEN THINGS GET GOOD AFTER BEING DOWN AND OUT for so long because it implies taking a good long look at the ass kickings that compose your the sum of your life that has culminated into a flashing point big enough that it has WOKEN YOU THE FUCK UP - its hard to take a good and honest look at it. It clarifies the state you live in and the fuck ups and decisions you have made and you forget your triumphs. it can be disconcerting and is the DNA of the phrase: "I got to stop getting in the way of myself." It has gone on for so long.
Its strange when it becomes more than just being alive. It is a noticeable shift when one realizes that the next trip one takes is not to find his place in the world but take his with him.
Another story. Another time.
And now . . . here's the end of the night.
This is the DJ booth at the Hyperion Tavern.
Apparently my DNA is fond of music.
In parting, I would like to share with you a poem from the morning. Or maybe, a morning before yesterday morning. I'm not sure. I don't know what this has to do with anything other than I want to post it. And there is a linear logic to these things. It is the DNA of me as well. The other side. The guy who searches for THE EVER ELUSIVE PEANUTBERRY.
let's begin:
FOR FIVE BUCKS IT COMES STUMBLING FROM A CUP
this morning a spilt cup of coffee demonstrates
the power and grace of a natural disaster.
it yanked everyone out of their longing and got
them talking.
she chirps, “i did that in an airport and it sucked”.
no shit.
smiles come and there is laughter.
this guy with a smoking sailor tattoo
stands there frozen, staring at the table of
misfortune:
it looks like he’s waiting for something.
pulled out of his stupor yet stupefied,
nonetheless.
(connected.)
the coffee here costs five bucks a cup, 
still we come.
it barely makes sense to anyone.
the other day a 5.8 earthquake shook the
city. i was buying a sandwich – ten dollars –
it had the same effect.
phones blew up – calls were made – everybody
eager to say that they were alive and doing well.
(those from ohio were particularly radiant.)
strangers gave birth to family.
the experience was absolute.
we all had a story to tell.
and it had nothing to do with
anyone.
which makes the world a better place,
somehow.
like coca cola and mercenaries.
but,
if i had my druthers
i’d choose a good California
earthquake over being
up shits creek
for five dollars.
either way i am capable enough
to see and seize it.
like my outfit from the other night
that i got cracked on and called
“Dead Poets Society” taught me.
An earthquake is never wrong.
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