Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Okay, personal update time. Let's start with the leg, shall we?
I was planning to make this post sooner, but my combination of laziness and embarrassment has pushed it out to now. About three weeks ago now (see previous sentence), I went back to the dermatologist for a follow up. At that point, I still had no idea what had caused the infection; the best guess I had heard was when Shellswick suggested that it was due to a spider bite, which sounded logical to me, especially when a spider the size of a Yugo came brazenly strolling through the living room. After sending the little fucker to a grisly fate, I reluctantly collected the carcass in a Ziploc and stuck it away, in case the dermatologist was able to do some CSI mojo on it.
Well, the dermatologist figured it out. He didn't even need to see the spider. You know what caused the leg infection that's plagued me for two months, and put a damper on our weekend in Victoria?
Athlete's foot.
I've got itchy toes and callused, cracked heels, something Shellswick has been bugging me about for years, especially when they scratch her at night. Whatever bacteria got into me found its ingress through the small cracks in my heels.
I'm not the heroic survivor of a vicious attack by slavering arachnids. I'm the guy who missed a week of work due to athlete's foot.
The dermatologist did do a bit of CSI-ing to figure it out; I had always worn shorts to my previous doctor appointments, so they could get to it easily without me having to doff my trousers (though it didn't matter much when the other doctor decided to check me for jock itch; there are very few contexts where one WANTS to be told "spread your cheeks"). This time, though, I went before work, so I wore jeans. When I was taking off my shoes, one sock slipped down, and that's when he thought to ask if I'd ever had athlete's foot. That's some Grissom-worthy work right there.
So now I have three different greasy substances I have to smear on my lower extremities; one for around the toes, one to soften the heels, and one to rub on the infected area twice a day. In addition to using baby powder in my socks and alternating different pairs of shoes every day. Thank god the jock itch didn't last long and I don't have to keep using THAT cream.
The leg's almost better, and by next week I'm confident I'll be able to start wearing shorts, as long as the weather keeps up. The only problem now (apart from all the aforementioned unguents) is that gigantuous spider carcass I saved. I, um...can't remember where I left it. I really should try to take care of that before Shelly gets here, because if she opens a drawer and there's a dead spider big enough to eat a golden retriever, I don't think she'd see the humor in it.
NEXT: Where the hell is my wife, already?
Copyright 2004 Rich Bowen
I was planning to make this post sooner, but my combination of laziness and embarrassment has pushed it out to now. About three weeks ago now (see previous sentence), I went back to the dermatologist for a follow up. At that point, I still had no idea what had caused the infection; the best guess I had heard was when Shellswick suggested that it was due to a spider bite, which sounded logical to me, especially when a spider the size of a Yugo came brazenly strolling through the living room. After sending the little fucker to a grisly fate, I reluctantly collected the carcass in a Ziploc and stuck it away, in case the dermatologist was able to do some CSI mojo on it.
Well, the dermatologist figured it out. He didn't even need to see the spider. You know what caused the leg infection that's plagued me for two months, and put a damper on our weekend in Victoria?
Athlete's foot.
I've got itchy toes and callused, cracked heels, something Shellswick has been bugging me about for years, especially when they scratch her at night. Whatever bacteria got into me found its ingress through the small cracks in my heels.
I'm not the heroic survivor of a vicious attack by slavering arachnids. I'm the guy who missed a week of work due to athlete's foot.
The dermatologist did do a bit of CSI-ing to figure it out; I had always worn shorts to my previous doctor appointments, so they could get to it easily without me having to doff my trousers (though it didn't matter much when the other doctor decided to check me for jock itch; there are very few contexts where one WANTS to be told "spread your cheeks"). This time, though, I went before work, so I wore jeans. When I was taking off my shoes, one sock slipped down, and that's when he thought to ask if I'd ever had athlete's foot. That's some Grissom-worthy work right there.
So now I have three different greasy substances I have to smear on my lower extremities; one for around the toes, one to soften the heels, and one to rub on the infected area twice a day. In addition to using baby powder in my socks and alternating different pairs of shoes every day. Thank god the jock itch didn't last long and I don't have to keep using THAT cream.
The leg's almost better, and by next week I'm confident I'll be able to start wearing shorts, as long as the weather keeps up. The only problem now (apart from all the aforementioned unguents) is that gigantuous spider carcass I saved. I, um...can't remember where I left it. I really should try to take care of that before Shelly gets here, because if she opens a drawer and there's a dead spider big enough to eat a golden retriever, I don't think she'd see the humor in it.
NEXT: Where the hell is my wife, already?
Copyright 2004 Rich Bowen
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Belgium!
I didn't know they were still doing this: after Douglas Adams died five years ago (five years? gak), May 25th was declared Towel Day, a day you were supposed to carry a towel with you all day in DNA's honor. I thought it was a one-off thing, and I did in fact carry a towel all day, a ratty yellow one hanging from my back pocket as I dealt the cards. But apparently this is an annual event, meaning that for five years now I have been an unhoopy non-frood who does not, in fact, know where his towel is.
Monday, May 22, 2006
I had been planning a big post, updating my current situation on a number of fronts (my bum leg, my job, my recurrent yearning to make another film), but all that has been pushed out of my mind by the fact that, while I was in Canada this weekend, our van was broken into.
I will grant, we have been pretty lackadaisical about locking the doors; the driver's side lock won't accept the key, so most of the time we skip it. But this means that some little shit (or shits) from the subdivision where Shellswicks family lives were just going around saturday night, trying car doors and grabbing whatever was in easy reach.
There are a number of names for someone like that; I'll stick with little shits, and I'll offer this helpful message: If robbing cars is what you do for fun on a saturday night, then you are a complete waste of space in this world, and the world will be vastly improved on the day that you die in an alley of an incurable venereal disease that you will contract by sucking off a diseased rottweiler for meth money, you little fuck.
Relax, I'm not gonna turn into some rabid, ship-em-all-to-gitmo gun fetishist. I'm still your unrepentant, soft-on-crime, blame-the-victim liberal. I'm just telling this little cuntsmear something he needs to hear.
So here's the tally: they got my MP3-CD player, the one Mowrer got me for my birthday. They got Shelly's MP3 player, which is just the right amount of music for the trip between Seattle and Vancouver. They got my brown leather coat, which had in the pockets my cellphone, my keycard from work, and my SOG, the multitool Shellswick got me for christmas, and has practically replaced the penis as the most useful accessory a man can own.
They also got the CD that was in the player, an audio care package I had burned for Shellswick less than two days before, with both Mitch Hedburg albums, a couple of Bill Hicks, and the George W Bush Singers. I can't imagine a little ass-eater like that would be too into Bill Hicks.
The good news is, I can buy a new phone and keep the same account. The bad news is, since the phone didn't include roaming in Canada, I can't call the little shitstreak and fuck with his mind, telling him I'm going to drag him into a bomb shelter and cornhole him with an AK-47.
Copyright 2004 Rich Bowen
I will grant, we have been pretty lackadaisical about locking the doors; the driver's side lock won't accept the key, so most of the time we skip it. But this means that some little shit (or shits) from the subdivision where Shellswicks family lives were just going around saturday night, trying car doors and grabbing whatever was in easy reach.
There are a number of names for someone like that; I'll stick with little shits, and I'll offer this helpful message: If robbing cars is what you do for fun on a saturday night, then you are a complete waste of space in this world, and the world will be vastly improved on the day that you die in an alley of an incurable venereal disease that you will contract by sucking off a diseased rottweiler for meth money, you little fuck.
Relax, I'm not gonna turn into some rabid, ship-em-all-to-gitmo gun fetishist. I'm still your unrepentant, soft-on-crime, blame-the-victim liberal. I'm just telling this little cuntsmear something he needs to hear.
So here's the tally: they got my MP3-CD player, the one Mowrer got me for my birthday. They got Shelly's MP3 player, which is just the right amount of music for the trip between Seattle and Vancouver. They got my brown leather coat, which had in the pockets my cellphone, my keycard from work, and my SOG, the multitool Shellswick got me for christmas, and has practically replaced the penis as the most useful accessory a man can own.
They also got the CD that was in the player, an audio care package I had burned for Shellswick less than two days before, with both Mitch Hedburg albums, a couple of Bill Hicks, and the George W Bush Singers. I can't imagine a little ass-eater like that would be too into Bill Hicks.
The good news is, I can buy a new phone and keep the same account. The bad news is, since the phone didn't include roaming in Canada, I can't call the little shitstreak and fuck with his mind, telling him I'm going to drag him into a bomb shelter and cornhole him with an AK-47.
Copyright 2004 Rich Bowen
Monday, May 15, 2006
Everything you love, everything meaningful...will be appropriated, mishandled, watered down...repackaged, marketed and sold to the people you hate"
I admit that I'm not up on my Von Dutch, but I understand this all the same.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Friday, May 05, 2006
This September: Original Unaltered Star Wars Trilogy on DVD
This, of course, has been followed by the usual whinging about George making us shell out AGAIN for something we already bought back in 2004. Well, I don't usually like to get my smug on, but I would like to point out that when the OT first came out on DVD in 2004, my attitude was this: I don't particularly care for the changes he made, I think the set needs more extras, and if I ever do want the set, I'm sure I'll be able to find it used, especially once the next release happens.
Y'know, we've been through this cycle enough times that we should know. Y'know?
This, of course, has been followed by the usual whinging about George making us shell out AGAIN for something we already bought back in 2004. Well, I don't usually like to get my smug on, but I would like to point out that when the OT first came out on DVD in 2004, my attitude was this: I don't particularly care for the changes he made, I think the set needs more extras, and if I ever do want the set, I'm sure I'll be able to find it used, especially once the next release happens.
Y'know, we've been through this cycle enough times that we should know. Y'know?
