mcgees.org

Bandwidth!  Bandwidth bandwidth bandwidth.  Now that I’m back to mental acuity, as it were, I need to look into how long I’m locked into my DSL and DirecTV contracts.  DSL is unacceptable.

I switched to DirecTV because my local cable company doesn’t carry Setanta.  But at this rate I’d rather have the bandwidth and download (read: steal) the matches.  I max out at 90kBps.  70 is more normal.  That’s all my copper can handle, living in what the phone company considers the boondocks (read: in the middle of a city).

Bandwidth!

Maybe an unnecessary post, but if you’re worried about me — or employing me — or now, wondering if you should — or married or related to me, however much you might have wished you weren’t this past week, you might want to read.

Detox is not easy.  It’s especially not easy on your own, but one can do it.  At least, I could do it.  I tapered myself off.  I got very agitated, very moody, said some very rude things that I shouldn’t have, made some very poor choices with compensatory drugs I otherwise eschew (e.g., alcohol), but otherwise got through it.  My father, who, bless his heart, reads this blog, informed me that “now you [Joshua] know what it’s like to quit smoking”.  Egads.  Trainspotting to get off nicotine.  And this stuff is legal?  And, as far as I know, subsidized.  What the hell is wrong with this country?

This was nine months of daily Oxycodone, Oxycontin, or Hydromorphone, post-surgically.  The constipation was bad, but the diarrhea has not abated since the detox.  But if you’re a stranger, and you’re looking for support, it can be done.  Warn your family.  Write with a Sharpie on a white t-shirt “I’m detoxing, I’m going to be an asshole for a while.”  Or something.  Whatever you come up with.  With any luck, the detox will hurt your relationships less than the habit.

But a moment on reward centers.  Of the brain.  I still can’t get out of the habit to think, following some large or small accomplishment, “now I deserve an opiate!”  Press the lever.  Get the jolt.  Starve to death.

Poppies are not fun.  A hundred years from now, we’ll look back on it the way we will on leeches, bloodletting, and chemotherapy.  The best we had, but as bad as the disease.

Thanks for bearing with me.  mcgees.org is back.

That took some work.  Time for … um … damn … a cup of tea, I guess.

This is an italic post.  Deal.

I’ll do this Lucas style.  You don’t get to see the first seven chapters.  At least not yet.

For a world-famous hospital, Cedars-Sinai is abysmal about returning telephone calls.  I called with enough time to get a refill on my Hillbilly Heroin.  I’m post-surgery-times-triplicate, remember.  Couldn’t get my neurologist to return my call.  I’m not sure the message ever made it to his desk.  And I’m not brave enough to really stand up for myself on the phone.  To tell the lady that it is really important to me that the doctor get this message, so that I won’t be in pain.

So that I won’t be in pain.  And so that my entire nervous system doesn’t rebel against me.  But I don’t mention that part.

I get a call back at 4:30 p.m.  The office is open until 5:00.  They’re an hour away.  But my prescription will be waiting for me, and there will probably be someone still there.

You need to titrate off Oxycodone.  You can’t just stop.  You can’t go from months on end, to a day without.  It’s approaching 24 hours.  Is the worst over?  Maybe I should just be done.  No.  I’ve gone off Dilaudid before.  The nights are worse.  I’d be facing a couple nights torment, at least.  And this goddamn pain.  In my neck, down my arm.  Down my arm, which the surgery should have fixed.

I have Pearl Jam’s Live at the Gorge seven-disc boxed set.  You read that right.  Seven discs.  Awesome.  Pearl Jam is a drug.  Sugar is a drug.  Benzodiazapines are drugs, and I’ve already taken two milligrams to blunt the withdrawal.  Seriously considering nicotine.  I don’t fucking smoke.

I make it to the office.  There’s someone there.  I get my Oxy scrip.  I even get my parking validated.  Free.  Awesome.  All this effort, though, and it would have been no extra to get my Lyrica refilled, too.  My non-narcotic Lyrica, to block the nerve pain.  The nerve pain that should be gone, but isn’t.

Driving away, calling my family, on four different phones, to let them know, mission accomplished.  But of course it isn’t.  An hour there, an hour and a half back.  Then drop off the scrip.  Then waiting for half an hour.  That’s where I am now.

There are lyrics jumping out at me from these songs, songs I know by heart, that have never resonated in me before.  I find myself at tears on the drive home.  Maybe it’s the songs.  Maybe it’s the pain.  Maybe it’s the withdrawal.

It’s all three, of course.

“I’d Rather Be Blading,” the license plate says.  “Sports Chalet.”  No kidding.  Endorphins.  When I upgraded to the X-Acto a few chapters ago, it cut really deep.  It’s been months, and it hasn’t healed.  Scarred.  Probably won’t ever heal fully.  Two big stripes and a bunch of little ones, just wristward from the crook of my elbow.

Where does the 710 North go?  Get a sudden urge to not change lanes, to just drive.  There are hours of music left.  Surely it leads somewhere with a pharmacy.  They have all-night ones, you know.

Play C-3.  Let the song protest.  Realize I’m completely out of the loop.  I don’t know anything that’s happened in the world in the last half year.  NPR was my lifeline.  Not a lot of radio reception at home, and sitting at my desk to read The Guardian is painful.  That damn pain again.

Feel the resonance of distance.  In the blood the iron lies.  Never understood that before.  I need to get back into the world.  I need to start reading news, listening to BBC, something.  Rewrite the lyric.  Feel the resonance of distance.  In their blood my iron lies.  I can handle the pain.  I’m driving, aren’t I?  I’ll go to Zazzle, get the t-shirt made.  Get it shipped to me.  Let my shirt protest.

And where the hell does all this perspiration come from?  I haven’t consumed this much fluid in the last three weeks.  I could wring out any garment.  That’s the great thing about comedy.  You can talk about any of the big subjects.  Death, religion … clammy weather.  But the weather’s not clammy.  It’s dry.  I’m clammy.

My family are almost done eating.  Jenn has promised to go get my meds.  And I’ll be dosed again.  My neurologist is a good guy.  He refilled my scrip.  He wants to see me in two weeks, and he’ll titrate me further.  Get down to 5 mg Q4.  That’s down from 15 mg Q4.  Big difference.

Damn.  I must look crazed.  Can’t help when I’m happy, look insane.  You can’t look crazy driving up to a pharmacy window to drop of an Oxy scrip.

I know why my friend wouldn’t watch the season finale of “Lost” a second time, even though I hadn’t seen it.  Sometimes you wish actors were just not as good.  Sometimes you wish writers were not as good.  Good music is good, though.  And family is good.  And changing into dry garments is good.

It will be all right.  Give me another month, and I’ll be off the meds.  Gently.  It should be easy.  I’ve gone off Dilaudid.  Just, not all at once.  Take me down gently.  Mom’s climbed up a tree.  Let me down gently.

Compulsive typing is painful.  Had to vent.  Must go rest.  Must go “neck-neutral”, as I’ve trained my family.  Have a down pillow just for that.  It’s yellow.  It’s stained, now, too.  That’s my fault.  But it’s soft.  Soft pillows.  And soon meds.  Meds, and no pain.

Bear with me.

Chad Donella is really a fine actor of my generation.  He, unfortunately, has not gotten a chance to really shine in a perfect role yet, but the performances I have witnessed have all been fantastic.

He was in the X-Files episode “Hungry”, playing a brain-eating mutant.  Just try to pull off that role in a heartwarming way, but he did it.  And then there’s Taco Bell.  Several years ago Taco Bell filmed a commercial with him overjoyed to be stuffing his face with a taco.  We’ll likely be deluged with the commercial again when the X Games start showing in a few weeks.

Thing is, he filmed the taco commercial after the X-Files episode, as far as I know.  And the X-Files episode has a scene where he compulsively and with great gusto sucks human brain matter off his fingers.  Fictionally, of course.  I hope.  Same expression of glee as in the Taco spot.

So what, did some ad executive see his brain-sucking and think, “That’s the guy for us!  Let’s have him dig into our tacos!”  Did they have an open call for the commercial, or did someone call his agent and say, “Hey, send the brain-sucker over to chomp our tacos!”  Would be interesting to find out.  Probably.

Wow.  The truth.  Email subscribers, go to the site for the scan.

Right now, there are two nag screens running at PayPal.  One tries to convince you, when you try to pay with a credit card, not to use one.  It gives a litany of reasons: no bills to pay, no interest, no impact on credit report, etc.  The other nag screen you have to click through?  An ad for a Paypal credit card!

Any botanists, amateur or professional?  What is it in Southern California that has been making my nights miserable for the last month or so (early June to early July) when the windows are left open?  Is there something releasing pollen late at night?  Is there some reason I have to megadose on Benadryl to make it through the night?  Something in San Gabriel / Pasadena to set one’s allergies on full alert?  Note I’m allergic to most weeds, trees, and grasses.

Why do I want to know?  Simple curiosity?  No.  “Find it and kill it”. 

For when you’re really hungry: