2:48 p.m. - 2007-09-11
This T-Q: What is it?
Why look, it's Nine Eleven Day again already! Has another year really gone by so quickly; my my wherever does the time go?? The great thing about Nine Eleven Day is that each one brings something new. Holidays like Christmas, Rosh Hashanah and Secretary's day always consist of the same old rigmorale: gifts are exchanged, families are barely tolerated, there's a lot of driving and resentment, etc. Not so on Nine Eleven Day. Sure, the cynical manipulation of the public's emotions and the disgusting exploitation of the Nine Eleven victims never changes, but each year there's a little something extra, ie, some idiot using the tragedy as a pretext for further violence. This year, I think some idiot in a uniform is making some sort of speech. HAPPY NINE ELEVEN DAY, EACH AND ALL!!!
Meanwhile, summer appears to have entered its death throes. Or at least it's been cooler the last couple of days. NICE and cool, enough to wear long-sleeved shirts again. This is refreshing for Kia, who's spent the last four months looking at me wearing a sweat-besotted t-shirt while I complain about the heat and how it's making me sweat and MY GOD WILL IT NEVER STOP. But eventually it does stop, and this makes living possible. Along with MEDICATION.
Yesterday I paid my annual visit to the psychiatric doctor man (actually, he's not technically a doctor, but has some complicated title, like Advanced Practice Nurse Prescriber or something, but let's just say he's a doctor) who prescribes medication (lorazepam) for my twenty-nine or so anxiety disorders. These visits are always pretty quick and painless: he looks at me to determine if I look sane and asks me how I'm doing, I say okay except for the goddam panic attacks but I think the pills help keep them at bay, he says okay I'll give you another prescription and call if there are any problems, and I'm back on the street with a bunch of new pills. The thing is, I always get a little stressed before these appointments because I can never shake the idea that THIS time he'll decide that I'm NOT sane, and he'll distract me with a Rorschach test or something while he stealthily pushes a button under his desk, which button alerts the, I don't know, mental health police or something, who show up in his office and escort me out to a waiting vehicle which deposits me in some institution or other, where they hand me my Napoleon hat and lead me to the day room.
But so far this hasn't happened. On my way out I stopped at the pharmacy window for a refill. The young woman in the window was very nice and asked if I had any questions about the medication. I said no. Later I wondered: what if my response had been "Yeah, say I want to get fucked up, I mean REALLY fucked up, almost to the point of losing consciousness, but not quite. How much do I have to take, and how much vodka do I need to wash it down? You know, to get really high?" Call it a hunch, but I'm guessing she wouldn't have been amused by this response. Better that I just said no. Which, ironically, I wasn't. Saying no, I mean. To drugs. Because, see, Nancy Reagan was always saying Just say no. Yeah. So it turns out all my pharmacy jokes suck. Moving along.
In addition to Nine Eleven Day, it's a Tuesday, which means Gomeroke, which is always an exciting time. Tonight I may wear the latest novelty clothing item Kia bought me: the T-Q. What it is, see, is a black t-shirt with a vinyl rectangular panel on the chest part with a bunch of rectangles of varying color in a grid pattern. When the shirt is turned on--because, see, it's battery-operated, right?--the little rectangles light up like the equalizer thing on a stereo, the lights being triggered by sound. So if you wear it while, say, playing drums, the lights are jumping around all over the place and it's a feast for the eyes. I wore it to a Gomeroke a few weeks ago and it blew everyone's mind. I don't think Dave the keyboardist has seen it yet, having been absent on that occasion. Dave, if you're reading this, prepare to HAVE YOUR MIND BLOWN. And to stare uncontrollably at my chest, as uncontrollably as if I were insert name of buxom female celebrity here. Let's say Jayne Mansfield. Yeah, so Dave, get ready to stare at me like I'm Jayne Mansfield. FINALLY, a little attention. Thanks, T-Q!
