Ankle Update.

I think that I'm witnessing a phenomenon here. The gruesome bruising seems to be migrating "up". My foot/ankle is no longer bruised, but my calf is completely technicolor. I hope that I'm not getting a thrombosis or something a la Ian Anderson.

Like Those Hip Musicians With Their Complicated Shoes!

I had to get a new pair of sneakers because I've walked the sole off of my 507s. Actually, only the left shoe is totally done. I think that's part of the reason that I'm getting the sciatica again--this time, it's on both sides, and really unpleasant--I need to get to the doctor for some drugs once it's debilitating. Hopefully, I can get through August before getting disabled again.

I think that Andrew and I are the only people that wear the New Balances. I like 'em because I can easily get an 11.5 EEE.

These 473s are like a stealth bomber for my feet, but at least they're made in the USA:

I love that New Balance imports Indonesian 4-year-olds and makes shoes in this country. I also love that I can't manage to find a pair of jeans that fits my stubby legs.

Alergias

The weather patterns for the last couple of days have me totally sneezy and not feeling peachy. The benedryl helps, but I don't like the feeling stoned bit (can't drive so good, apparently).

I don't like it. Hopefully, I'll be cool by the weekend.

A New Physician.

Since I really screwed up my back last week, I was supposed to go to a follow up visit with my 'regular doctor' this week. I explained to the urgent care doctor that I had issues with my doctor (totally a quack in my opinion; the incorrect diagnosis with my chode issues was a deal-breaker), and that I'd appreciate the name of a good 'new doctor'. She thought that a sports medicine/family practice doctor would best meet my needs (I'm so so athletic, as everyone knows; hee hee hee). I didn't want to, but I scheduled an appointment for today.

I didn't really want to go, but I'm still having some issues--all of this heavy lifting is for the birds. I'm almost good on Monday mornings--but I get to recover on the weekends.

I showed up, and there weren't droves of octogenarians (freaked me out). There weren't dumb ugly chicks at the desk--only nice twenty-somethings. Black Sabbath (WAR PIGS?!? I was blown away) was playing on the overhead PA speaker (loudly). The two young ladies were very nice. In fact, after completing my paperwork, I didn't even have horrible hypertension (180/110 last week; 140/80 this week). Then, I waited for a couple of minutes.

As it turns out, the doctor is a fairly young guy; only slightly older than me, if that. He checked out my back, and, as it turns out, it's actually my fat ass that's spasmodic, and that inflammation has pinched the nerves that innervate my legs. Sweet--that might explain the constant pain. Apparently, my pelvis is all screwed up, too--he didn't say that it was broken, but that it could have been (unbeknownst to me), because it's pretty damn crooked (some x-rays might elucidate, but I want to get all good on the cheap). He seems to think that I'm fixable, and I'm all for it, because this chronic pain is fucking up my mood, seriously (ask LRC, or my handful of friends--you have to experience chronic pain to understand it. I'm actually a lot more not nice and 'eat shit' when I'm focusing on my pain). Luckily, playing music seems to cure me (it just distracts me). Now that I'm relegated to a single band, I can't get my pain fix, and have to do up the 'scripts. Oh well, I'm off-topic....

Next, he started with the grappling. I was like, "Whoa, dude, you're getting all Hulk Hogan on my ass" (funniest thing I've written recently). It freaked me out, for real. I didn't know that I was in a wrestling ring (it looked like a cheesy doctor's office, complete with magazines featuring Randy Jackson). As it turns out, dude was inclined to get chiropractic training after he had a rather desperate injury--he was in pain and willing to let another man beat him up to cure him.

I don't think that I've ever heard such sounds from the bones. I require a girl to walk on my back. A naked, hot, Asian girl...

So, I now have a family practice/chiropractor as my PCP. I think that I'm 3" taller, too. That wrestling shit really made me feel a lot better. He doubled my prescription for Flexeril, too (whoop--I really just need to keep a supply on-hand).

As it turns out, I require a "butt massage", seriously. How funny is that?!? That'll be one of my pickup lines. I also require heavy muscle relaxants and too much (makes me sick) NSAIDs. I'm so not sold of them because they hurt my stomach. I want something that will interact with the Flexeril, so I won't even have to drink.

I love pills.

Bad Luck City Is Everywhere!

I don't know wtf is going on, but we've actually gotten a few little write-ups recently. The girl actually was surprised to see us today (not as much as I was). It's not like we're actually doing anything, or at least that's what the press should think. We're actually rehearsing and polishing the new ones (fuck those old songs). I still don't get that people have BLC on the brain (probably the weather)....oh well, it's cool:

Mile High Makeout (thank you to Eryc Eyl)

Sepiachord

Aversion (thank you to Doug Beam)

Decider (thank you to Robin Edwards)

It's totally like this:



Speaking of The King, I've been obsessing about a new bass, since the orange one just is feeling so tainted. It's all in my mind, for sure, but I think that it's time to retire her--once I locate what I'm seeking. I'm missing two basses on the wall since the demise of the green monster (to LRC, and sad about that) and the OG RC bass (glad to be rid of it to Andrew). What I'm seeking is an old-school, slab-bodied precision. I think that I'll be happier with a single-coil configuration, but I need to check out a '70s T-bass to make sure that the single 'ham-backing' pickup might be the dude.

That's like this (from the 11211952 patent):

I've read a lot of concerns 'bout the weight of the ash body, which is a concern to me. I totally screwed myself up today at work. I don't like not being able to walk. I'm imagining that I won't be able to get out of bed tomorrow.

I ought to get some rest for my back.

20 Pounds.

I got on my scale for the first time in a few weeks on Friday night, and it seems that I've lost twenty pounds. I know that I've cut my booze consumption at night and my food consumption overall (everything's getting expensive), but I was surprised by that. I'm sure that the major GI issues aren't helping me maintain weight.

Seriously, though, I can stand to lose a few pounds. I just hope that I'm not having some serious issues. My clothes aren't fitting, though. This will help with the Halloween costume, but if this continues, I'll need to see a doctor a la The Who.

I've been taking numerous supplements, and I've been feeling fairly well, outside of the malady. I'll keep posting the health updates...

All Screwed Up.

I'm totally convinced that I did some major damage during that sleepwalking injury a while ago. The magic of modern over the counter medicine (first aid gear) means that the infection is gone and that huge, kneecap-exposing wound is almost healed completely (super glue rocks).

I think that I fractured something. I'm havin' major knee pain most of the time now. Walking ain't cool, my friends. After last night, I have terrible pain from the knee, and the ankle that I almost broke a year ago.

I'm suckin' down pain drugs and glucosamine, MSM and chondroitin ain't helping. I hate being beat up all the time.

One Of These People Doesn't Belong At The Show (not a music post, just whining)

Why? Dig this (or watch me rationalize my anti-social):

• I don't even dig the social bullshit that comes with live music. I love love live music, but I really don't want to deal with people. I'd rather listen to the soundboard recording at home, honestly. So, obviously, I totally had to get the fuck out of there. Too many people were vibin' me out completely.
  

• Steve's cousin made an appearance (need to get that checked out--now that Manuel isn't in jail and Kip's not on vacation, I ought to be able to do that). Shittin' blood just ain't cool, my dudes, especially when you're at the show.
  

• After all, it should've been Neil's show. Next time, I'll just say 'no thank you.' It would've been different if he'd asked me. I feel entirely dirty. It was one of those things that at the time seemed like a good idea. My friends encouraged me, and they're pretty convincing (and mean well, I'm sure).

• I totally fucked up, too. All the energy drinks and lime green wristbands in the world couldn't have stopped that. I just ain't Rocks Tar material, friends. I can't even play the instrument after 20 years. In fact, I ought to just quit.
  

• I'm fucking tired. Getting up and starting work before the sun comes up and then having to drive fast and run all day makes for complete exhaustion.

Tomorrow, though, it all starts again. I just wish that I could live up to the tattoo. I'm so fed up with this shit. Seriously.

Cancelled.

I canceled my appointment with the GI doctor. Some people are mad at me, but I can't get enough time off of the job to cope with this shit (ha ha) right now. The good news is that things are semi-groovy at the moment (no pain). This bloody ass is so lame, though.

Hospitality, Bitches

Tomorrow is my trip to the hospital in order to cure my malady (second time for this repair). I'm all nervous and shit. My mantra is all about feeling better after I go under the knife. No BLC practice on Saturday means I can actually do some recovering, although I'd rather play bass than chill out stoned on Oxycodone (hee hee) all weekend long.

Speaking of that, I feel like I'm playing really well presently. My BLC rig is sounding awesome and Ampeg-y. I am digging that 4x10" sound for that band (who'd have thunk). The orange one is sounding nice, too, wired parallel. Working out "The Distaff" last weekend was really a high point for me. Just hanging out with Dameon, Andrew and Kelly really can improve my attitude.

Agonizing through a very peculiar bridge tonight was equally satisfying. The tube meanie is requiring some dialing in, however. I'm either standing too close to the amp, or playing too loud. That B tonight was totally getting away from me. Maybe that's because it's all 60 cycle? That's my theory for the time being. I'll work it out. Might need to do some work to quell that feedback--maybe switch to heavy gauge strings (!?!), a higher-mass bridge, and a brass nut (mas mass). I need to replace zee hinkey nut since I've fucked it up with los cheapies de medium. After the next batch of shows, I'll take her into the shop.

The two bands are very different sounds, and I'm glad that I can get my electric grandmother off after getting my moody on. I cannot use a plectrum, though. Thus, I'm not going to pretend that I'm Peter Hook anytime soon. That was a funny moment.

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Now playing: New Order - Broken Promise

Lung Butter

That's what we called it in high school. All I know is that coughing it up means relief, especially if it's chunky and green. I'm sucking down the high-powered expectorants, and it still feels like I'm having major pulmonic issues.

Coughing...coughing...this doesn't help my sleeping or, my emotional state (people are out to get me, again).

I'm All About Solutions

That title is totally consultant-speak, isn't it? I can't help it--that's how I learnt to writ, really. It applies this time, I promise.

Further research on the food allergy front has commenced. As it turns out, my grandfather is allergic to tomatoes [good information, MOM (I could've used that information years ago), but giving 'em up is going to be fuckinghell since they're my favorite fruit]. I know that shellfish hurts me (two months in Louisiana will teach you). Two other possible culprits are dairy products and eggs.

Shellfish are easy easy to avoid since I reside within the (mighty) Colorado; those other three are in virtually everything, and so much more difficult to avoid. I'm trying my hardest to cure the skin and GI problems once and for all. This shit has been getting me down since I was 15 (excepting that test of the 'mint chocolate chip ice cream' diet--my skin and guts were totally groovy for the first time in years--I think that I'm okay with dairy prod).

The second solution was at Robb's Music today. I talked to Jeff at length about what I was trying to do--he was suggesting that I build something. That's certainly okay for someone who gets electronics (which I don't, really--easy DC and open and closed are just about it for me). I should've gotten his numero de telefono, but I was too freaked out. Meanwhile, I was still on a quest for a non-buffered output a/b box. Robb's does not stock such a device, according to the bald elf with a rasta hat that helped me out. Dude suggested a passive volume pedal with a tuner out jack:

"You're kidding me, right?"

"It's right here, man."

Amazing. I've been thinking about a volume pedal for quite some time now, and presently have an excuse to own one. This seems like it will solve the problem of "tuner tone suck."

I certainly will require a fucking pedal board. I have some shit for it, and I'll mix it up (thank you Matt Winkleman). I need a wicked fuzz pedal (probably two of 'em), now, and the options are limited. I already have the mighty compressor, a couple of flangers, and the DI--I recently heard some envelope filter nonsense that made me want one (probably a nice one or some other interesting filter device).
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Now playing: the body lovers - 2. 5-32

The Green Fairy Rides

At least in the OTC pain relief aisle at the King Soopers, she does.

My opiates have run out, friends (I'd seriously kill for some oxycodone right about now). I've been checking out lots of pain relievers:

Japanese patches (from the hippy girlfriend);
OTC pills (that totally don't work);
and several others.

Absorbine Jr. appears to be some sort of absinthe plus. The ingredients:

Active ingredient
Natural menthol 1.27%
Inactive ingredients
absinthium oil, acetone, chloroxylenol, FD&C blue no. 1, FC&C yell no. 6, iodine, plant extracts of calendula, echinacea, and wormwood; potassium iodide, thymol, and water.

I'm tempted, for sure. I'm not an organic chemist, but I know all about what acetone will do to me, since I spent an entire summer stoned on acetone when I was 15.

The volume swell + bass chords middle section on this one still gets me off. G'n'R totally stole that one riff.
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Now playing: Rush - La Villa Strangiato (live 1981)

The Condition Formerly Known As 'Gothic Ankle'

Day 2...

Indeed, it hurts a little bit. Just getting started with the amazing color-changing.

I actually dreamt up a post about 'gothic ankle.' Going into great detail about the indications of the malady and such. It would've been a good 'amateur doctor' post.

Unfortunately, my wit has run out. I would've been talking out of my ass, since, like the emo, I also don't get the goth. I still don't get those Gothic John jokes.

It started like this:

Clearly, my ankle has been hanging out at Paris on the Platte way too much, smoking clove cigarettes, wearing makeup, ogling high school girls, and listening to Sisters of Mercy.

Then I realized that I didn't know WTF I was talking about.

Percocet does indeed banish Bad Ass Steve. That's another amateur doctor diagnosis, for another post (with etymology) sometime.
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Now playing: The Velvet Underground - Sister Ray

Unbelievable.

I totally smoked my ankle falling out of a truck today. I was actually reduced to tears. I called to get a rent a drunk (labor ready), but instead I got one of our employees.

Doesn't look so good compared to my right ankle:

Walking is not happening, even on 1600 mg of Advil and 650 mg of Oxycodon (only because it hurts). It's a good thing that I keep those crutches around. I'm convinced that it's The Kaptain's Kurse or something.

Something that I won't be doing (unless I get my hands on some weed and booze; Zappa rocks):
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Now playing: Frank Zappa - Dancin' Fool

Burning Tolex Blows

I totally think that I've gotten instant lung cancer (whoops). Hope that this silly cabinet turns out nice.

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Now playing: Cocteau Twins - the itchy glowbo blow

A Mini-Vacation

After waking up in a puddle of blood (I was losing my mind), I went to the urologist (kaptain kiwi) this morning to further the investigation of my explosion. My 'treatment' is awesome--sit around in a bathtub for two days stoned on Percocet. I think that I can manage that. Dude said that he should've seen me last week instead of those quacks--looking for a new internist--one that's liberal with pain meds, and doesn't think that everything is an STD, and accepts my insurance.

Probably won't be doing any riding during my favorite season. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Now, I'm just like Mike Watt, except that his infection got all systemic and shit. He had nine weeks of recovery. It doesn't look like I'll be doing that schedule. I require rock.
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Now playing: The Louvin Brothers - Satan Is Real

Lost And Found and lost again

Been a lot foggy lately, my friends. Running red lights...stopping at green ones..."losing" important documents. Essentially, I feel high, however, that is not the case. It's like someone is putting depakote in the water supply (supposed to be on 1,500 mg a day). Really miserable. I believe that this numb feeling is a stress-related deal. I've got the "I'm stressed out" rash, again (third time since I was 17). I seem to be dealing fairly well this time.

I probably require a vacation and some weed.

This weekend was restorative, though. My pets are feeling lonely, for sure, but those little assholes have been getting on my nerves. I'm feeling better about the girl after moving in for a few days. We made it out to a show (saw a lot of pals). I had "lost" my driver license. The fucking patriot act means that I can't make a deposit at the bank without one (fuckers). The state of Colorado doesn't accept my birth certificate as valid (although I was born in a U.S. military hospital in country). It's a two-day hassle to get another license. Fuckers.

Practice with BLC was instrumentalists and missing a bass player (put me on the spot without a net). I'm still feeling things out, for sure. My "menacing" tone might not work for this band. I'll try something different for the next practice. If I get the dynamics right, I think that it's doable, though. That's a reasonable goal, right? It's proving to be difficult to adjust to a much quieter band (on 2, the practice rig is far too much--The OC goes to 11). I think that they would've said something if I had been really obscene. They're used to a subliminal bass player, which isn't what I've been doing lately. Andrew did clue me into a decrescendo that I totally did wrong. Thanks, dude--I got it now. It's all going to work out with a little practice. One month until the debut of the unfuckwithable new lineup. Fingers crossed.

I found the MIA license in a truck that I drove a week ago today. Excellent.

Later, I got a bad phone call with another cancer scare. Why is it that everyone I really care about is having these fucking issues?!? Meanwhile, back in my crotch, the "lymphoma" seems to have cured itself sans medical intervention. Whoot.

I'm probably dying. Whoot.

Hypertension, Man

Today I crushed my right index finger while "fixing" stuff on the motorcycle. I was actually able to hear the blood flowing out of my finger. The little pin hole made a hissing sort of sound.

I should really consider taking my medicine. The doctor was right when he said that I'm a heart attack waiting to happen.

Losing My Cool

I totally yelled at the cat today because she was annoying me while I attempted to take it easy (still sick). They've both been hell-bent on irritating me for two days. I don't think that I've come unglued like that with either cat before.

Nitwit's response? Vomit on the floor.

Priceless.

Sick.

Totally. Won't be able to get the things done that I wanted to this weekend.

Desperate Calls From My Physician

Dude is like, "You have to have this procedure." And, "I don't know why you don't return my calls."

The official JZ response: "get fucked, dude."

Monday, I will return his call, and be the telephone devil. If this is indeed the cancer (as it seems), I don't even want to know about it, and neither does anyone else. Seriously, who will be affected by another cancer death? I can count four people, really.

Something To Look Forward To

Here. I totally dig the two tracks, especially 'Black River Song,' which is beautiful. Listen to that bass!!! That's some sort of JZ foolishness goin' on there. The write-ups are hilarious. This should be an epic record, for sure.

Hurting to the extreme this evening. I hate the maladies. Working above 9,000' and driving a 12-speed manual seems to have aggravated my condition. I actually faked it pretty well--thank goodness for exhaust brakes in Central City (fucking steep shit).

I am hopeful, now, because of an especially great rockpractice, and a nice talk last night with the girl. As depressing as this world seems, I'm not going to opt out just yet.

Let Down

I really felt like I couldn't play my way out of a paper sack tonight. We sounded alright with the exception of the hinkey bass playing. Sometimes, I really feel like I'm letting them down.

In other news my Japanese faith healer is totally into working on my malady.

Mahoney was right

Recall this post. He was right, but so was I, sort of. Still functioning, despite the green, the lack o' hair, and new "snack size." Perhaps it's actually "fun sized." I wish that I still had a Geiger counter.

In other news, I have decided to opt out of the surgery after weighing the probabilities. If it turns out that it is indeed cancer or something otherwise nefarious, it'll be a true "dude...fuck" moment.

Under the Knife?!?

Apparently, this "tumor" is exciting enough that they want to remove it. I got the call during yesterday's rock. I asked if this was a body part that I was going to miss and the doctor said "no." It needs to be done as soon as possible. I just need to do some schedule juggling with work and possibly rock. Completely freaking out about this.

Monkeypuss' operation went well. I pick her up tomorrow morning. The nitwit is up to her old tricks--talking to aliens and shit. It reminds me of why I got a second cat.

The Scan-o-rama

wasn't so bad--they load you into a talking arch that reminds you to breathe. The worst part is getting shot up with the hot iodine, which feels a lot like a niacin overdose. I totally got a CD-ROM with a bunch of cool images. I'm not even an amateur radiologist, but it's pretty far out to see one's organs. They all look sort of the same: there's a kidney; hey,I have a spine; wtf is that; etc.

Atomically Heavy Drinking

I don't know how I feel about voluntarily consuming a non-alcoholic, radioactive beverage. To get good data from this scan-o-rama, I have to drink this stuff as well as get a hot IV.

If I don't have cancer now, I will. I'm actually afraid. I need to call Tito.

CT Scan?

Is it chic to blog about one's maladies? I hope so...

I'm making a second career out of confounding the doctors. My blood work came back cool (no surprises), but this "tumor" is still bothering me (has been for months). Thus, Friday is the mighty CT scan of the naughty parts. I just hope that dude gets a clue--he's acting so perplexed that I actually asked him if he actually went to medical school. He didn't like that very much.

My stepfather says that my pubic hair will all fall out and that I'll never be able to have an erection again.

During the introduction of "The Incredible Hulk," I seem to remember Dr. David Banner (you'll recall that they changed the character's name to David on TV) in a cool radiation machine. I was a superfan of the show for many reasons as a child. What a memory I have, though:



I'm wishing for a muscular green penis out of this deal. Just in case Mahoney is right (he is a doctor, and was in the army, after all), I'd better get some use out of the junk before the week's end.