Nothing good can come from this...

It's a movie now.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.  I remember when the book came out.  Every woman you saw had a copy of that book glued to her hand for a while there.  They all tried to get me to read it.  "It's so inspiring," they would say.  "It's so brave, and honest.  You absolutely have to read it.  It's, it's... it's life-changing!!"

Needless to say, I was skeptical.

I went to a bookstore, flipped through a few pages, and was unimpressed.  Seemed like a bunch a self-indulgent, new-age nonsense.  I put the book back on the shelf and forgot about it.

Last year when I went to Peru, I befriended a lovely mother and daughter from Washington, DC while traveling in the Amazon jungle.  We became quite close, and when we parted ways in Cusco the night before I was heading to Machu Picchu, the mother pressed a book into my hand.  "Here," she said, "Take this.  I'm finished with it and I would like you to have it."  It was a copy of Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.  I smiled, put it in my bag, and forgot about it.

A couple of days later, I broke my knee, you probably know the story, and I was in the hospital and in serious pain with nothing to do.  All the books and magazines were in Spanish, and I'm much too lazy to learn Spanish, regardless of how much I enjoy traveling in Spanish-speaking countries.  Same with the flat-screen TV I had in the room, all Spanish.  I don't watch TV anyway.  So I decided to pull out my copy of Eat, Pray, Love and see what Miss Elizabeth Gilbert had to say.

I read the entire book during my two-night stay, and in retrospect it was probably the perfect book to read under such circumstances because halfway through the first chapter I completely forgot about how much pain I was in because I wanted to smack the fuck out of Elizabeth Gilbert.

For those who have been under a rock and are unfamiliar with the book, let me sum it up:

It's a book about this stupid, whiny, petulant bitch crying and moaning about being thrown into an emotional tailspin and crippling depression all because she had to make the hugely selfish decision to leave her husband for no good reason other than he wanted to have kids and she didn't, preferring to pursue her own career and her own happiness, living a life of pure self-indulgence.  So she leaves her husband, who has been a perfect husband and hasn't fucked her over at all, and the emotional ramifications of this selfish decision were so great that Miss Gilbert, after fucking some hot, young actor for a while, is forced to take a year off to spend four months in Italy eating, four months in India praying, and four months in Indonesia "loving," whatever the fuck that means, because Miss Gilbert makes a huge declaration in the beginning of this adventure that SHE'S NOT GOING TO HAVE SEX AT ALL FOR THE WHOLE ENTIRE YEAR, so of course, she has sex with some guy she meets in Indonesia.  She also shrewdly convinces some publishing company to fund this little sabbatical for her, so she can write a book for them about it later.

Incidentally, Miss Gilbert also makes a huge declaration at the end of the book that SHE'S NEVER GETTING MARRIED AGAIN EVER.  She now has another book out about how, surprise surprise, she's married.  Hmm.  I'm sensing a pattern here.  Next will be her huge declaration that SHE'S NEVER, NEVER HAVING KIDS, EVER.

It was one of the worst books I'd read in a long time.  I considered writing my own version, entitled Eat, Drink, Fuck, but it looks like someone beat me to it.  Fucker.

So now they've made it into a movie, and women across the country will be leaving their husbands for no good reason and trying to go find themselves in foreign countries.  And people will again say how brave she was to make that painful decision, and how amazing and strong she is for getting past that debilitating depression and I will want to smack the fuck out of them.

I would love to see what would happen to Miss Gilbert if life tossed some real problems her way.  Because there are far worse things that could happen to a person besides leaving your husband for a young, hot actor who's awesome in bed.  Trust me on this one.

The hotel around the corner

It's a really nice hotel.  Beautiful rooms with really cool photographs on the wall.  Comfortable bed with a big, luxurious comforter.  Gorgeous bathroom with a ledge cut into the shower wall for kinky sexual adventures.  It's unfortunate that I know all this, really.  How do I know all this?  Funny story...

It was a family wedding, way out on Long fucking Island.  As you might know, I hate weddings.  I really do.  I've got my reasons, I could probably write a book.  I really hate spending a shit-ton of money buying plane tickets and new dresses to attend a wedding and watching the marriage end in divorce, sometimes less than three years later.  But as much as anything, I don't think such a personal, spiritual moment in a couple's life needs to be on display.  If I ever make the biggest mistake of my life (oops, I mean, if I ever get married) I certainly wouldn't want a hundred some-odd people, friends, family or otherwise, around watching me share such an intimate, life-changing moment with my partner.  I would find it distracting.  I'd be more willing to show you the video we make on our wedding night.

Yes, weddings.  They're awful in every way, except the free booze.  I find myself forced to endure at least two or three weddings a year.  This one was especially fun, because it involved spending all day with people who swim in my immediate gene pool.  As you might know, I don't get the family thing so well either.  I understand that there are people out there who share my last name and DNA, but I'm not really sure how the concept applies to me.  I find it's best if I restrict these gatherings to every ten years or so.

Right on cue, it's been eleven years since I've seen most of these people.  Sweetheart kept poking me in the ribs and saying, "Who's that?" and I kept saying, "I don't know.  I think we might be related.  I know I'm related to those other guys over there, and that their names are Tony, Rick and Jim, but I don't know who's who.  Go find out."

I've found that Maker's Mark works well in such situations, and the whiskey was flowing and we had a great time.  The party continued at the groom's house, and we got back to Manhattan a little later than expected, drunk, tired and happy.

Skanky sluts that we are, Sweetheart and I had a little fun on the deserted train ride home and we were looking forward to clean towels and a toothbrush.  Also, we both had to pee.  After what seemed like forever, we got to my building.

And the key wouldn't work.

What?  Are you fucking kidding me?

No.  The fucking lock was broken.

Complicating matters, I had left my phone in my father's car when he dropped us off at the train station.  Not that I had the super's cell phone number anyway.  And Sweetheart's battery was almost dead.  Not that we really had anyone to call, or even anyone's number, anyway.

So we weren't getting in that fucking building.

Now we were wandering the streets of New York at fuck knows what hour on a Saturday night looking for a hotel room, drunk, tired, and not so happy anymore.

Four hotels and two hundred dollars later we finally found a room.  A beautiful room.  We started cracking up because obviously, this was the funniest thing that had happened to either one of us in a long time.  Sweetheart filled the bathtub with hot water and threw me in it and went out in search of food and Aleve for my aching back and knee.

After he left, I realized, HEY!  I'm finally getting to take that bath I've been wanting to take!  My last post regarding the subject was grievously incorrect, my bathtub faucet at home is still fucked.

I enjoyed my bath thoroughly, and when Sweetheart got back I forced myself to get out of the tub and we ate and laughed and talked shit and were drunk, tired and happy again.  In a hotel room.  Three and a half blocks from my apartment.  Fucking ridiculous.  But fucking hilarious.

          

The hotel is called On the Avenue.  Their website is here.  I highly recommend them for the next time you're locked out of your own motherfucking building in the middle of the night in New York City.

It begins

Not the first casualty, to be sure, but a significant one.  I woke up to this article today.  Serious shit, people. Not good.

P&J Oyster Co. has been providing oysters to local restaurants here in New Orleans for 134 years.  Well, they were.  They've suspended operations as of today.

Just yesterday our chef was talking to a guy at the bar about seafood prices and availability, and how we don't really know what the long-term ramifications will be, and we're starting to see changes right now, and who knows what the fuck is going to happen.   I know I have an over-active imagination, but I don't like what's going on in my head right now.  Could twenty-five dollar fried oyster po-boys be on the horizon around here?  The disappearance of the 25-cent oyster-on-the-halfshell happy hour?

Say it ain't so.

I beseech you once again, my friends.  I know you're sick of hearing it, but fuck you.  I'll keep saying it until I think you're listening.  Lower your air-conditioner.  Downsize a little bit.  Recycle.  Reduce the amount of crap you buy.  Use less fuel, use less electricity.  Hey, it saves you money, right?  Isn't that the American way, worship of the almighty Dollar?  Use your car less.  Much less.  I know it's a necessary evil and you need to use it sometimes, but you don't need to use your car that much.  No, you don't.  You have options.  Yes, you do.  You aren't "above" public transportation.  No, you're not.

You aren't too good to walk places, either.  Weren't you complaining about wanting to lose those extra five pounds?  Here's your golden opportunity.  Can't really walk that far, maybe your knees hurt?  I can relate to that.  Ride your bike.  Don't have one?  Get one, they don't have to cost that much.  Borrow mine.  Steal your sisters.  It may not be as comfy as your nice, cushy private auto with the AC and all, but this can't be all that comfortable either...

                              


That's a bird, by the way.  You've seen that one already, right?

Anyway.  I'll get off my soapbox and leave you alone.  I've got to pedal down to Jack Dempsey's and get a huge plate of fried oysters before my bank account won't let me.


**ADDENDUM**   CLICK HERE



          

Pre-game...

The French Quarter was at its best.  The chaos of Mardi Gras is a beautiful and wonderful thing, precisely because of the disorganized chaos of a million different kinds of parties happening all at once.  This was different, and a thousand times better.  It was the jubilation of Mardi Gras, but it was like our own (public) private party.  A million people celebrating one common cause, and all wearing the same costume.  BLACK AND GOLD PATROL!!

I've never seen so many happy people in one place.  Move over, Disneyworld...

  
                                        

                        

This guy is my hero.  I can't imagine being on crutches in the French Quarter this weekend.  Actually, yes I can.  Broken knees suck.

                    

The beauty of complete strangers hugging and kissing on the street never gets old to me.  Post-game, on Frenchmen St. some guy grabbed my friend and starting screaming and hugging him.  Then they grabbed each other's arms and started jumping up and down screaming, "WHO DAT!! WHO DAT!!"

"Earl," I said, "Who was that?"

He said, "I don't know.  But I feel closer to him now..."

It was a beautiful thing.  I myself have been picked up and spun around by so many random dudes this weekend I'm still dizzy.  These two were walking past each other and started shrieking and hugging.  For no apparent reason.  Oh yeah, wait a minute.  The Saints were about to play in the Superbowl!

              

The best part is, I hadn't even been back in town for twenty-four hours yet.  What a welcome home party!

          

Rest stop on the road home

Albuquerque, NM

My two days in Albuquerque were great.  Wonderful place to recharge after two days in a car.  Good company, too.  This was a beautiful place to spend an afternoon...

    

          

Fun day climbing around on rocks.  I know.  Wasn't that how I broke my knee back in August?  Yes.  Yes it was.   

                      

  
If you go, make sure you stop at the visitors center to get a map.  Bring water.  It's dry out there.  Even in the middle of winter.

Maui Kayaks

If you want to go kayaking in Maui with a broken knee, I highly recommend Maui Kayaks.  As you know, when I was there in October I still couldn't walk, but I don't need to walk to paddle a kayak or go snorkeling, do I?

That's K, kayak guide extraordinaire, the man who made it all possible.  I call him K not to protect his identity, but because I don't know how to spell his name.  Getting into the water was easy enough, I crutched on down the beach to the kayak and was pulled out to sea.  K ran the crutches back up to the van.

I very much appreciated K's skill at doing his job successfully while wearing very little clothing.

I also appreciated his skill at finding cool shit for us to look at.  He had lots of info to share about the fish and the turtles and the local area, most of which I forgot once we returned to shore.

   Our small group paddled around all day, anchoring and jumping out to snorkel now and then.  On the way back, what was most likely someone's lost pet bird landed on my kayak.  Twice.

        

                                
Once we did get back to shore, we ran into the issue of how to get me back up the beach as quickly and comfortably as possible.  At first, I tried to lean on K and hop up the beach.  That didn't last long.

K: "You know, I could carry you."

Me: "You don't mind?"

K: "Do YOU mind?"

You might to scroll back up here and remind yourself what K looks like.

Did I mind?  Aaahh, no.  Not a bit.

Lunch was waiting for us in the van, along with my crutches.  A good time was had by all.  Mahalo, K!

mauikayaks.com

Happy Halloween

I was in Maui for Halloween.  Still hopping around on crutches.  Broke out a costume I've used before.  Miss Behaving.  Didn't want to brave the Lahaina madness on crutches, not a good idea.  Found a friendly nurse out and about in Kihei...

The Brothers Comatose

This is my favorite band in San Francisco.  I'm not just saying that because they're friends of mine.  I'm saying it because it's true.  The Brothers Comatose kick ass.  You can see for yourself here.

The Brothers Comatose played in my living room back in September, right after I broke my knee.  I had just come home from surgery, I could barely move.  KKV called and said she was coming over with a surprise.  Imagine my delight when I buzzed her up and she walked in followed by a bunch of dudes carrying instruments. 

                                                                           

We fit lots of people in my room that night.  And lots of beer in my refrigerator.  Apparently the whole thing was Joe's idea.  He figured if I couldn't make it out to their shows for the time being, they should bring the show to me.  Thanks Joe!

                                                          

http://thebrotherscomatose.com/

Shadow Shot Sunday

A broken knee and crutches didn't stop me from having a good time on a boat in Maui.  Didn't even slow me down.

                                       

  Shadow Shot Sunday

Ten screws, eight pins, one metal plate

That's what I have in my knee right now.  Apparently I did a fantastic job of fucking shit up in there.  These photos were taken on September 30th, thirty-three days after my surgery:

                                                 

Sexy, huh?

I went to the doctor yesterday.  Finally got the OK to start walking on it again.  It was my first time standing on two feet since August 22nd.  That's seventy-three days.  Ten weeks.  Two and a half months.  However you want to look at it, it's way too fucking long to be hopping around on one leg. 

Feels amazing to walk with two feet.  Who cares if I'm still on crutches?  I'M WALKING WITH TWO FEET!!  It's incredible what a huge difference that makes.

Does it hurt?  Oh yeah, it fucking hurts.  But I don't care.  I walked all the way to the Walgreens and back today.  Eight whole blocks.  Doesn't sound like much, I know.  But to me, it was miraculous.

My muscles have completely atrophied.  The pain in the knee, I can handle that.  But when I tried to stand on that leg without crutches, it buckled.  Felt like jello.  It can't support my body anymore.  Too weak.  Going to take some time to get it back in shape.  I don't care.  Bring it.  It's on, bitch!  I'll be climbing mountains again before you know it.

Yeah you right!

                                      

United sucks

I already knew this.

But I had no choice. United was the only airline that could get me to Maui on short notice for a reasonable price.  I should of coughed up the extra six hundred bucks and gone with Continental.

Continental is great.  So are those goofy folks over at Southwest.  I spend a lot of time on Alaska Airlines too.  Love them.

But United can suck last year’s used tampon.

My knee is still broken.   I still can’t walk on it.  When I checked in, they asked if I wanted a wheelchair.  Uh, yes?  That might be nice.  The unhelpful bitch, I mean lady, who showed up was obviously annoyed to have to deal with me. She didn’t say a word to me unless absolutely necessary, and when she did, she said as few as possible.

Once we got to the gate, (LOVE being wheeled to the front of security) she wheeled me down the jet way.  When we got about eight feet from the entrance to the plane, she stopped and stood next to me.  I looked over at her.  She was staring straight ahead silently.  Well, OK, then.  End of the line, I guess. 

There was another bitch, I mean a flight attendant, standing in the entrance to the plane, watching as I struggled to get my backpack on while still seated in the wheelchair.  Not easy.  I asked bitch #1 if she would help carry my bag onto the plane.  “No. I can’t get on the plane. FAA.”  Well, OK.  I can kind of, sort of, understand that, even though you work for the damn airline.  Fine.  “Well, can you ask that flight attendant if SHE will help me get my bag onto the plane?”

“I can’t ask her that.  You have to ask her.”  WHAT?!?!  What the fuck?

So I asked bitch #2. “Sorry.  I can’t get off the plane.  FAA regulations.”    So it’s against FAA regulations to help a crippled girl with her luggage?  And why couldn’t bitch #1 wheel me closer to the plane?  Why eight fucking feet away?  Must be some sort of FAA regulation.

So I sat there and continued to struggle with my bag.  I dropped a crutch on purpose, just to see if she would help me pick it up.  Of course not.  Sadly, I’m not making this up.  You can’t make this shit up.

Finally hefted my bag onto my back and started hobbling down the aisle all the way to seat 34E.  It was one of those huge planes, with five seats in the middle of the plane, so lots of flight attendants wandering around.  Completely oblivious to the gimp on crutches.  Finally, around row 19 or 20, an adorable little flight attendant came up to me and said, “Sweetie, do you want me to help you with your bag?” 

Yes.  Yes I do.  She was a sweetheart.  Her name was Mimi.  United is lucky to have her.

But the rest of them?  Fucking worthless.  Nobody seemed to give a fuck about their job.  The dude pushing the food cart was clearly bored out of his mind.  “Something to eat?”  “Well, what do you have?”  He handed me a menu wordlessly and wandered off.  When he wandered back my way, I flagged him down.  “Oh.  Did you want something?”

Remember bitch #2?  An elderly man three rows in front of me tried to get her attention.  “Miss, could you take this for me?”  She looked aggravated.  “Just hold on a minute, OK?”  I wanted to punch her.  Hard.  Right in the face.

Sorry about that lady.   I’m not allowed to let flight attendants abuse sweet old grandpas.  FAA regulations…

WHO DAT!!

Picture this: Fifty or sixty Saints fans on a street corner in San Francisco, all waving white napkins and screaming, "WHO DAT! WHO DAT! WHO DAT SAID DEY GONNA BEAT DEM SAINTS! WHO DAT!"

It was a beautiful thing.

If you're in San Francisco and you want to watch a Saints game, the Black Magic Voodoo Lounge is the place to be.  It's on Lombard and Franklin.  Everybody in the room will be from Louisiana.  New Orleans y'at accents everywhere.  It is LITERALLY like being in New Orleans for four hours.  Seriously.  If you've never been to New Orleans and want to know what it's like, go there for a Saints game.  It's the real deal.  It's us being us.  Yeah you right, baby!

Hell of a game yesterday.  48-27.  The Saints killed it.  They're undefeated.  Un-fucking believable.  Bless you boys.

The place was insane by half-time.  Music blaring, Dr. John, Rebirth Brass Band. A cute boy in glasses grabbed me and started twirling me around the dance floor.  Yes.  On one foot.  With a broken knee.  Give me enough Maker's Mark and Abita Amber and anything is possible!

I met Regina, who I love.  She's in a leg brace right now too!  We're going to go dancing when we can walk again.

More hot Louisiana boys. Delicious. Fuck, I miss my southern Louisiana men.  Men who are MEN.  Not these pretty city boys.  When I go out in SF, there are rarely guys worth hitting on. But at the Black Magic Voodoo Lounge during a Saints game? A room full of men I want to fuck. Look at these cutie pies, from Napa:

Yum.  I want them all.  First separately, for a minimum of four hours each.  Then, all four at once.  All night. Yum again.

When our boys were finished thrashing the Giants, the place exploded.  We screamed.  People were dancing on the bar, standing in the windows.  We second-lined down the street.  Yes, even me.  On crutches.

Yeah you right indeed.  Geaux fucking Saints.  WHO DAT!

Adventures in Peruvian medical care

Or, Las aventuras en el cuidado médico Peruano

First of all, let me say that whatever Peruvians are lacking in technology, they make up for in love.  Especially those ladies at the medi-center on top of the mountain.  There was really nothing they could do for me, so they gave me lots of hugs and kisses.  The nurses at the hospital, very hands on.  Lots of hugging and saying soothing things in Spanish.

It wasn't the horror show you might imagine, although the equipment wasn't exactly new, and things were pretty casual.  When the orthopedic specialist came to see me, he introduced himself by his first name.  Alvaro.  Rosa, the doctor who came with me from Machu Picchu did the same when we met.  Check out the rusty wheels on the x-ray stand.  And what's with those wooden steps!  See the girl in the doorway?  That was the X-ray technician.  She looks like she's on her way to the movies!

And check out Rosa, my doctor!  She's hot!  And she's wearing jeans and a tight top!

I didn't realize they weren't going to give me painkillers until I asked for them.  You're paying for everything out of pocket, and unfortunately, most Peruvians are broke.  Meanwhile, at the ER here in SF, they force-fed me vicodin and morphine the minute I walked in the door.  Well, maybe not FORCE-fed.

Anyway, they even asked me before taking the X-rays!  They were like, "Are you sure? Because it's 60 soles?"  Which is like twenty bucks.  Go ahead.  Take ten.

So, they never offered painkillers and I didn't think to ask.  Once Rosa was gone and I was alone and all the adrenaline wore off, the pain came on.  Hard.

When the nurses came in I was howling in pain.  They finally hooked me up to an I.V. of I don't know what but it knocked me the fuck out.  Which was exactly what I wanted.

After that, things were pretty much fine.  They kept the pain meds coming and let me use the internet to email the exciting news to my ride from the airport and work.  I was even considering having the surgery to fix it right there in Cusco.

Until the apple incident.

I will say, I did notice that they weren't exactly diligent about using rubber gloves.  Which is quite different from the U.S., where they won't come within 50 feet of you without a biohazard suit.  But I was still surprised when a nurse strolled into my room to ask me a question while she was eating an apple.  OK, whatever.  I went with it.  I asked her if someone could unhook the tube from my I.V. needle and help me to the bathroom.  She said sure, and went ahead and did it herself.

With the apple still in her hand.

I wish I were making this up.  And really, what could I say?  Their house, not mine.  Fuck it.

What's that?  You want to slice my knee open and put it back together again?  Well, only if it won't interrupt your lunch...

How I broke my knee in Peru

OK, here's what happened to my knee, more or less.

It was my second day at Machu Picchu, and I had gotten to the top of the mountain early, in time for the sunrise. It was a beautiful day, and I was looking forward to wandering around the ruins some more.

After a few hours, I found myself in a lovely little spot, quiet and free of people. I was coming down some stone steps, at the bottom was a two or three foot drop to the ground. The final steps were in the shade, still damp from the morning mist. When I put my foot on the last one, it slipped out from under me and straight to the ground. All my weight on one foot. My knee buckled and I went down. I knew immediately that my knee was fucked.

The pain made me dizzy.  After a few minutes I tried to walk.  Not happening.  My knee buckled, pop pop pop!  So I sat there, half crazed on endorphins and adrenaline, thinking if I sat there and rubbed it for a while, I'd be able to drag myself back to the entrance, where there was a first aid station.  So I sat there, massaging my knee and taking in the view.  I even took a couple of pictures.

Eventually, I realized I wasn't making it back to the entrance without help.  Irony of ironies!  I spent all day trying to get as far away from the crowds of people as I could, and now I desperately needed someone, anyone, to walk by, or at least come within shouting distance.  After what seemed like forever, I saw some people and yelled for them to send some help.

So I had to be carried back to the entrance by four Peruvian men, which is really not a bad way to get off a mountainside.  There was a fifth young man named Angel (I'm not kidding) whose job was to hold my hand and keep me from freaking out.  Keep in mind, I had just fallen on a wet rock.  What was to stop THEM from falling on a wet rock?   I was a little nervous.

At the entrance, they couldn't do much but give me an ace bandage, a pain pill, and arrange to get me back to Cusco and into a hospital.

I had to take a bus to the bottom of the mountain, about a half hour ride.  My luggage was being stored at the hostel.  I couldn't walk, and there were no crutches.  Anywhere.  What the fuck?  If, as the doctor said, this sort of thing happens all the time, how could they NOT have a pair of crutches?!?!  And I was traveling alone.  So, the doctor carried my luggage, and the dude from the hostel carried ME, three blocks uphill to the train station.  After a two hour train ride, where Rosa (the doctor) and I had plenty of time to bond, we arrived in Ollantaytambo and this was waiting for me...

                                   

Another two hour ride, all the way to Cusco, where Rosa and I had even more time to bond.  This is Rosa.

                                    

In Cusco, I had some X-rays and was brought to a hospital room.  Before leaving, Rosa brought lunch, a chocolate rose with a get well card, and her MOTHER in to meet me!  I love Rosa.  Her and I still stay in touch, through email.

This all happened on Saturday.  I was scheduled to leave Peru Monday morning.  My diagnosis was a broken knee that needed surgery.  For reasons I'll get into in a later post, I chose to fly back to San Francisco on Monday as planned and have the surgery there.

All in all the hospital stay wasn't bad.  They kept me comfortable and out of pain as best as they could.  My room was huge, and had a beautiful view!

Flying home was a fun adventure.  Three different flights, Cusco to Lima, Lima to San Salvador, San Salvador to SF.  All with a broken knee.  And a handful of Peruvian pain pills.  Mostly I slept.  Otherwise I was in a daze.

The emergency room in SF had the same diagnosis, tibial plateau fracture, need surgery to fix it.  They gave me morphine.  Everyone loves morphine!  Sent me home, had surgery that Friday.  Been at home ever since, more or less.  I still get out to play now and then.  I can't sit still for long.

Coming soon, more stories about the ups and downs of Peruvian medical care!