Typically I'm not a fan of people touching me. This changed when I went for a doctor's visit on Friday. When I was called to one of the patient rooms, I discovered that I would be joined by three male Penn med students. I don't think I've seen a male under the age of 35 in a month. Of course I was pretty tight lipped in the event I uttered my love for one of them. I almost died when the doctor encouraged each student to feel how tender my skin felt around the battle wounds. Was I in someone's doctor-patient fantasy? Brief as it was, it got me aroused enough to listen to the following on repeat.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
SUMMER OF SENTIMENTALITY
I'm sorry but 2009 has been a total let down. So I'm declaring that this summer be a SUMMER OF SENTIMENTALITY. This means indulging romcom marathons, bad grammar, blogging Web 1.0 style, talking about feelings with hearts on the sleeve, crocheting said hearts on twitter feeds, and tuning into DELIAH ON THE RADIO.
Now, someone please give me a radio show.
I've come to this conclusion after listening to the following on repeat
Now, someone please give me a radio show.
no pain no gain
It's no surprise that I do everything in my power to avoid pain. In high school, I participated in the low impact sports of track and crew. If an opportunity for conflict erupted from an aggressive classmate, I negotiated a cease fire, made strategic alliances with older kids (and hot girls), and just played Switzerland. My idea of rough housing was climbing trees and seeing how long I could ignore my mother's pleas to come down for dinner.
I knew one misstep could send me to the emergency room. That's where pain is celebrated for its most traumatizing achievements. Pain gets accolades when you receive a cast on your foot, crutches to bear your weight on, and unlimited hours of daytime television. The only perk is that you get your cast signed by the cute boy that you really wanted to become "friends" with, but of course he's absent that day or rather he's the one person that doesn't care about your accident.
Anyway, I figured I take extra precautions in my ascent to the top of the tree. Double check each branch to see if it could handle your weight. Know that the limit comes before the sky so never reach too high. Should have taken my eight year old advice when I was barreling down Tasker Avenue on my bike in pursuit to make it home in record time from god-knows-where- at-4 am. Sadly, I didn't make it across Passyunk and ended up in that damn emergency room. Pain had finally conquered me.
I was surprised to learn that pain was a lot smarter than I ever gave it credit. It's not the dog you yell "OW" at when it bites you in the leg. Severe pain doesn't strike upon impact, but it likes to assess the damages and test out a few bruises and fractures. Before it seeps into your consciousness, pain's more compassionate, yet distant cousin adrenaline barges in to provide initial support that prepares you for what's next.
Pain is spoken on a scale from 1-10 with doctors and nurses. If you can utter, " a sharp 8 with increasing potential for a 9," that will guarantee you a four day post-op hospital stay with morphine drip on the house. The metal rod now permanently lodging in your leg will activate a steady 7 for a good week. When you are speaking in 5s and 6s, you are sent home with a goodie bag of Percocet and Vicodin. You make up modifiers to get your point across for anything below a 3. This works well in physical therapy when the Jane Fonda leg lifting causes you to a have a slight but achy 2, which excuses you from completing the ridiculous exercise.
However, when reach those levels, your time for easy sympathy is running low along with your stash of pain pills. Pretty soon everyone will want you to quit your whining, learn how to walk again, and get back to work. At least I can count on the isolated 2-and-3 level pain to check in through the metal rod to let me know a storm is a-brewing.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
MENTAL THERAPY
I often let things stew or marinate for too long, which is to say I've been slow with coming to terms with the emotional toll from my bike accident. Probably it's because the incident itself happened too fast. I remember that my internal monologue went from something like, "fuck where did this car come from I hope I can wing it" to "holy shit am I paralyzed bleeding where are my glasses?" But it's the middle sequence that haunts me. The part where my thoughts are silenced, and I'm flying through the air, ending up on the other side of the car that hit me. The only footage I have resembles what would happen if someone flipped a camcorder in the air.
I suppose I'm also a visual thinker as well. I'm not exactly sure what that exactly means, but something familiar registers while I was watching Ghost tonight. Towards the end of the film, Sam's (Patrick Swayze's) killer runs into traffic and gets hit by a bus. He meets his death by flying unto the hood of another oncoming vehicle.
I suppose I'm also a visual thinker as well. I'm not exactly sure what that exactly means, but something familiar registers while I was watching Ghost tonight. Towards the end of the film, Sam's (Patrick Swayze's) killer runs into traffic and gets hit by a bus. He meets his death by flying unto the hood of another oncoming vehicle.
I could finally capture my own flight path from the initial impact to air and then to the crash landing. My memory adds a few more seconds to the playback and cuts to a POV shot at a side angle. This new sequence, however, begs more questions than answers
TEEN BEAT PART DUH
A few days ago, a friend posted this video on their Facebook wall and referenced their painfully embarrassing Tori phase. I had one, too, right after my three year Smashing Pumpkins binge that led me into trouble. I wonder if my life would had been any different had this been a hit song. Would I be more well-adjusted? Would Kurt Cobain still be alive and well, or even relevant? Would Y Kant Tori Read be our number one export to keep our economy strong?
If only "The Big Picture" made the top of the charts, we'd all be happy and have our problems solved.
(Favorite lyric: Mothers on my case/I told it's my life/WELL SHE JUST DIED. WHAT?)
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
TEEN BEAT PART 1
Out of a class of 25 boys, I definitely lingered at the bottom five on the popularity rankings at the small catholic boys school I attended. I had zero coordination in the outfield, talked real funny, and had a brief Tori Amos phase.
This is a year after I listened to Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails on heavy rotation to get me through seventh grade. This self-diagnosed prescription for my angst problem led me to believe that I really was Billy Corgan. Such to the extent that I begin penning my own lyrics for the band's follow up to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. Fortunately, Adore would come out that summer before publication.
(Let's pause for second to think about how fabulously melodramatic that title is. If I ever compile a list for a Listener's Guide to Seventh Grade in the Mid to Late 90s, Mellon Collie would be firmly ranked as number one on its title alone.)
Anyway, I envisioned myself as Billy Corgan because, as an only child with strict parents that banned everything R rated and above, I had to entertain my penchant for all things grotesque and macabre somehow. Smuggling contraband (Parental Advisory CDs and other offensive materials from the local mall) and the petty theft from my mother's purse to fund the operation was not enough. My delinquency was too small scale, and I needed to escalate to something more permanent. Plus, I had a lot of time to kill on the hour long bus ride from Bryn Mawr to West Chester. So, under the influence of the Smashing Pumpkins' discography, I wrote my first poem.
I'm not sure how to describe my seventh grade sonnets. I'm sure I lifted lyrics like "I lie just to be real and I die just to feel," peppered with "fuck you," images of severed body limbs, and post-apocalyptic landscapes. Suddenly, the other kids noticed me scrawling away and I was a hit on the bus. I was even commissioned by a devoted few. I knew the humor was at my expense, but no longer was I the kid that hid under the bleaches during gym, or who kept the bench warm outside of the school psychologist's office. So what if I was still a loser. At least I secured a position as back seat poet with a mean publicity machine.
Soon enough my English teacher would get word of my nascent literary career. Some eighth grade snitch found a draft buried in my desk. My school was too small for lockers so personal property was easily subject for confiscation. I was too shocked and embarrassed to build a defense case at the time. Not that it would save me in a catholic school where you're guilty until proven innocent in the eyes of a nun. Besides, I'd always shutdown in the face of male aggression and think of a happy place. A place where the teacher would instead tell me to lighten up and rewrite the poem in the form of a dirty limerick.
This is a year after I listened to Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails on heavy rotation to get me through seventh grade. This self-diagnosed prescription for my angst problem led me to believe that I really was Billy Corgan. Such to the extent that I begin penning my own lyrics for the band's follow up to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. Fortunately, Adore would come out that summer before publication.
(Let's pause for second to think about how fabulously melodramatic that title is. If I ever compile a list for a Listener's Guide to Seventh Grade in the Mid to Late 90s, Mellon Collie would be firmly ranked as number one on its title alone.)
Anyway, I envisioned myself as Billy Corgan because, as an only child with strict parents that banned everything R rated and above, I had to entertain my penchant for all things grotesque and macabre somehow. Smuggling contraband (Parental Advisory CDs and other offensive materials from the local mall) and the petty theft from my mother's purse to fund the operation was not enough. My delinquency was too small scale, and I needed to escalate to something more permanent. Plus, I had a lot of time to kill on the hour long bus ride from Bryn Mawr to West Chester. So, under the influence of the Smashing Pumpkins' discography, I wrote my first poem.
I'm not sure how to describe my seventh grade sonnets. I'm sure I lifted lyrics like "I lie just to be real and I die just to feel," peppered with "fuck you," images of severed body limbs, and post-apocalyptic landscapes. Suddenly, the other kids noticed me scrawling away and I was a hit on the bus. I was even commissioned by a devoted few. I knew the humor was at my expense, but no longer was I the kid that hid under the bleaches during gym, or who kept the bench warm outside of the school psychologist's office. So what if I was still a loser. At least I secured a position as back seat poet with a mean publicity machine.
Soon enough my English teacher would get word of my nascent literary career. Some eighth grade snitch found a draft buried in my desk. My school was too small for lockers so personal property was easily subject for confiscation. I was too shocked and embarrassed to build a defense case at the time. Not that it would save me in a catholic school where you're guilty until proven innocent in the eyes of a nun. Besides, I'd always shutdown in the face of male aggression and think of a happy place. A place where the teacher would instead tell me to lighten up and rewrite the poem in the form of a dirty limerick.
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