I’m going to have to start explaining away these long electronic absences, aren’t I? What’s believable? But then again, does anybody care?
I mean, I could have been whisked away to an exotic isle by some dashing prince or sultan or something, to lounge about on pillows while sipping mimosas fresh squeezed by virgin albinos.
Or injured in a horrible car crash that left me unable to remember anything but all my old phone numbers, and I’ve been spending the last month dialing them in the vain hope that someone will answer and have an inkling of who the hell I am…
But then again, I barely know who I am sometimes, so to expect a perfect stranger with themisfortune to have been passed down my old digits to clue me in to the answer to the existential crisis I suffer on a daily basis would be futile at best, a really shitty story at worst.
The truth, of course, is never as exciting as fiction, and with that I must admit that, in addition to being absurdly busy, I’ve been globe hopping and recuperating from the effects of living in one of the worst air quality regions around.
Thanks coal… you killed my grandpa, great-grandpa, and all their friends, and now you’re going after me…
I’ve got asthma, folks, it’s true – hence the forced rejection of the rock’n’roll lifestyle in favor of albuterol inhalers and moments of looking like a purple Chihuahua, all bug eyed and suffocate’y – and that ailment tends to result in at minimum two bronchial infections a year.
I got this most recent the week before I was supposed to go to Canada for work. By the time I got back, old men carting oxygen tanks for their emphysema were offering me hits.
Although, I did resist the urge to attempt to joke with customs.
“Are you carrying any plants, produce or live animals into the United States?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure I’m an incubator for the Hanta Virus…. Kill me, please!”
Thing is, as much as we joke about it, Canadians ARE really super nice. It creeped me out. I was afraid to turn around because I was sure they’d be making faces at me…
But, I survived long enough to make it back on American soil and into my snuggly, Venus sleep trap bed.
Also went to the acupuncturist, which is always fun but even more so when you’re sick: walked out with my usual dazed and confused look, along with a back covered in perfectly symmetrical purple bruises and a chest littered with small metal dots.
Apparently the former is an ancient Asian tool used to draw toxins and bad stuff out of your body and into these glass suction cups. Thus, it’s called cupping. All I brought out was some suntan lotion from the 1970s and a few gnats I’d swallowed while running along Forbidden Drive a few weeks ago.
The latter are press balls, which I usually have scattered along my ears. They’re little metal balls placed strategically along pressure points, covered by a small square of Band Aid material. You’re supposed to press on them at regular intervals. They’re certainly a conversation starter.
“Oh these. Yeah, you haven’t heard?”
“I’m beta testing a new government program to imbed personal data, ranging from blood type to credit rating, directly into the body. Less need for paperwork, saving trees, blah blah… Granted, the Wallet Makers Union Local 666 has been protesting since its launch, but I think the MIBs have pretty much disappeared most of them by now. Wanna’ press on them? Ooh, that feels gooood!”