Thursday, September 22, 2005

Homo-Dopeic

A moment happened earlier this evening at Dialysis that was one half laughable, one quarter ridiculous and dipped fully in a big bowl of tangy surprise.

I was enjoying the most amazing reality show ever created by mankind: "America's Next Top Model."

If you have not witnessed this one hour train wreck of emotion and nakedness, it's created and hosted by Miss Tyra Banks.

I give Miss Banks some cred. She realized that as a model, your career has a terminal length and so you better plan for your future.

I don't even know if she models anymore, but with this show and her new talk show, she's becoming the new Oprah.

Oprah.

That has to be the funniest name in show bi-ness.

Starts with a vowel, ends with a dangling syllable.

Sounds obscene really.

"Lets Oprah baby."

Or slightly kinky.

"Does it feel good when I touch your Oprah?"

One of the funniest bits Letterman ever did was at the Oscars when Dave introcued Uma and Oprah.

I busted a gut for five continuous minutes while critics used keywods like "dopey" and "annoying" to describe the event.

Actually, that's how local media critics describe my radio show, but Dave's my hero so it all ends up making sense.

But back to Tyra Banks.

The latest edition of America's Next Top Model (Wednesday nights on UPN) was a two hour blast of a premiere. Hot model wannabees in bikini's. Girl-on-girl making out. Confessions of lesbianism.

Add all those events together and you've got ratings gold, as goons in my industry like to say.

The show came back from commercial and I mentioned to the babeish Filipino Dialysis tech how much I adore short-haired women in bikini's (there are three on this season's show...Stacy heaven!)

As she was writing down the nearby patient's blood pressure reading, she said, "It's confirmed then."

I was stymied.

"Excuse me?"

She is one of my favorite tech's with her deep brown eyes and long straying raven hair, but this threw me for a loop.

"Hold on. Don't walk away. What do you mean 'it's confirmed'?"

"That you like women."

As I barrel back through the pages of my memory, I remember that my first month at the clinic I ASKED THIS VERY SAME TECH OUT TO DINNER.

"You're telling me that I set off your gaydar?"

"Well, you're thirty five and still single."

I wanted to hop out of my chair and wring her pretty little neck.

When did society state that if you're thirty-five and still unmarried you're automatically gay??

I'm odd, strange, geekish to the core and have been on Dialysis for a year and a half now. Why would I ask anyone I cared for to put up with my crap? Why would I expect them to console me week after week when Dialysis steals my personality and uses it for toilet paper? Who in their right mind would want to endure a mid-thirties failure?

The answer is: no one.

I adore every subtle nuance of the female form but I will not push my health situation on anyone, especially not someone I care for.

This is why I'm sometimes grateful my family members all live in ajoining states, because I have enough guilt shoving their time from the past away dealing with my illness.

So let's recap, shall we??

I'm single, thirty-five years old, never been married and have a feminine name.

Thus, according to present societal rules, I'm gay. And a loser.

One day I will find the woman of my dreams, she'll see past the bandages and the dopey stare and we'll live happily ever after.

Until then, I'll just have to put up with the homodopes.

Thank you and good night.

Monday, September 19, 2005

So Long Vicodin and Thanks for All the Buzz

I've spent the last twenty minutes dusting off my blog. It's been a rough two weeks since my last blog entry, so I'll try to illuminate on why I haven't been able to compose anything of merit lately.

--- I gave up Vicodin.

For the last sixteen months I've been slowly using more and more Vicodin to ease the miserable pain of Dialysis. I never quite understood why people could get addicted to painkillers, because they never really seemed strong enough to really ease my misery.

Then I met my good friend Vicodin and Dialysis became an inconvenience rather than a hellish episode of Everybody Loves Hell.

Three weeks ago I thought I had food poisoning because I couldn't keep any food down. Blood was taken, tests were done and viruses were nowhere to be found. I recently had an Upper GI Exam and no blockage was discovered.

Today is Day 5 from my personal breakup with Vicodin. I miss her, but not in a "I can't live without it" kinda way. Dialysis has been painful, but if I've discovered anything about myself in the last year and a half it's that I am stronger than I ever realized.

I'm still throwing up, so a problem is still present, but at least I'm free.

--- My Dad was hospitalized.

Two days after my last post he came out of his pain medication stupor (seems to be a regressive theme in my family lately) and didn't remember ANYTHING that he did or said.

That's probably for the best, but the words he spit at my mother are burned into my memory and I doubt time will be able to pave over them with any success.

--- I had writer's block.

I despise when my creative juices dry up.

I know. Ewww.

I've gone through these periods in my life when nothing seemed to have flavor, as though someone took my color and tint knobs and turned them all the way down. Then broke the knobs off and chewed them into oblivion.

When I enter this type of period, I don't want to compose anything for fear it will lack the usual Stacyish that most of my writing relishes in.

I mustard up enough courage to ketchup with my blog and spread that previous sentence like mayonaisse all over the bread of my blog. Lettuce rejoice.

Sorry. I couldn't resist. I'm trying to digest a $2.99 Happy Star Burger from Carl's Jr. and it's wandering around my intestine looking for a place to drop off it's small wallet of nutrition in hopes that I'll live through the entire experience.

Or something like that.

--- Update: The Stacy Radio Show Mailbag

No. I never did call the letter writer. Vomiting isn't a pleasant aphrodisiac so maybe once that ceases I'll have the courage.

But probably not.

This blog entry was a waste of the alphabet.

This just in: a, e, i, o, u and sometimes y are all on strike.

The remaining entries for the remainder of the week will be written using trigonometric equations written with ink from the blood of characters from cereal commercials aired exclusively on Nickelodeon.

I knew I picked the wrong week to give up Vicodin.