It was kind of a strange week. I could tell my blood counts were getting lower as the week wore on – felt weak, slight ear noise when I stood up, and I could not get warm. I expected low blood counts 7-10 days after the last cytarabine shot, and sure enough the doc called yesterday. Of course, I was at Morro Rock looking at the surf, and Johnny got the call, and immediately went back to whatever he was doing. Luckily I didn’t surf because I felt so tired and it was cold in Morro Bay. Johnny told me later the doc had called and said all my counts were low, I should lay low. I called the doc and he asked ‘Are you bleeding? Any fevers? How do you feel?’ No, no, OK.
I am now laying low. Dana and Johnny are off to tour Berkeley and Sonoma State, so Mike and I will have a TV/PC gaming fest this weekend, wow.
Pat, you should have started your own blog long ago, I am getting extra work here and I am so busy. Email me some pics from your trip and I will post them, then for crying out loud fill in some of the gory details, how many bodies were floating around, something about fear and loathing, we love fear stuff. Maybe naked people, that’s always big, especially if they are playing blackjack on a cruise ship. I always bring those disinfecting wipes to the naked blackjack tourneys, and you should too.
Mac, it’s back to the basics for my golf game. Watched Golf My Way by Nicklaus, and now I’m reading Dave Pelz’s Short Game Bible. This book is a must, I think. If only you could get your body to do what you watch and read. I’d be a porn star that golfs well!
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John, Holy Shit ! ! ! What an idea - Porn Golf. Tiger does Anika. The Walrus Roll. Kinky Korean Kims. Dykes-A-Putting. Stewart Cinks The Big One. The Full Monty Fairway Fantasy. A Little Wie Goes A Long Way. BernHard Langer Than Most. Janice Moodie But Still Does It All. Paula Creamer's Cup Is Full. Johanna Head Indeed. Oh, somebody stop me.
ReplyDeletePat, bring it on. We want lots and lots of naked blackjack pics.
John, I have most every golf book ever printed. I took a Dave Pelz short game course in Atlanta a couple of years ago. Like most things, it's very thought-provoking for a while. Then, you get out there and execute that new discipline for a while before you go back to your same basic, shitty shot-making. I played so badly on Friday that I would have had more fun having f-ing dental surgery.
Hey, hang in there. Laying low is not so bad for a while.
Mac
So Johnny I guess I should use those wipes before communicating with porno golf stars like yourself?
ReplyDeleteI spent half of saturday night writing back to Mac and Lisa, which reply somehow got lost in space.
Twice.
The third time I figured take the hint...but I will try again later to entertain you low-layers with the story of how I became a storm-chasing cross-dresser.
Right now I have to be quick and just say once and for all that I DON'T WANT MY OWN BLOG.
If I had my own blog, where would I be at 5am in 20 ft swell somewhere past some islands I can't remember the name of, with finally no lines at the computers because everybody else on the boat is too hung over to get down the stairs?!
YOu guys don't know how great it was to tune in and see that you were all still virtually there!!!!
Just imagine Dorothy when the field hands come to the blown-out window...
be back later, film at 11
Given the reliability of internet connections, blog sites, mail servers et al, I generally type anything longer than a paragraph into Word and save it, then copy it into the blog or wherever it needs to go.
ReplyDeleteWhat the hell is the Walrus Roll?
I am more terrified now back in the USSA than I was on the boat. Johnny I don’t think you can reach across the country and twist my arms; still I tremble to admit I am about to break the big rule of storytelling you drilled and drummed and pounded into us as kids: don’t—do NOT—whet my interest and then piss on it.
ReplyDeleteMy WILMA docu-trauma is pretty wimpy compared to your instructions but ain’t that the way it usually goes?
And it was not chemo, and we weren’t hanging like human pendulums from a helicopter over the bayou, and it’s only the second time I’ve returned home from a natural disaster wearing borrowed mens underwear. The first was the blizzard of ’78 but that really is another blog.
I searched half of last night for photos of naked people in Cococay I could submit as fake embellishment. But what I learned is that most travelers ENJOY drinking coco-loco at 9am in a stage set where ugly americana meets disney on steroids, Sebastian the Crab sings from the speakers in the trees and the nature trail is a path through the hammocks where you get to step over the chickens that are probably tomorrow’s barbecue.
Between the ferry and the 500 lounge chairs lined up on the beach awaiting the drunk and dehydrated are some beautifully-colored shacks under straw roofs where you can buy…well, the same junk in every one but from a different Bahamian employee of Royal Caribbean who lives somewhere nice and takes a boat to work at this simulated paradise ala Gilligan. The water park was on land because everybody with a brain knew that the tornadoes were on the way.
When I started having flashbacks to the harbor scene from Caddyshack, (HEY, my new friends—and he smashes up every boat for miles with his new yacht) I figured time to go back to the boat for a nap, tried to concentrate on the memory of a big sea turtle we saw swimming through clear turquoise water next to the ship. Either was tough to do with the bells and speakers going off to remind you it’s BINGo tiiiiiiiiiime, or karoke time, or 5 minutes since you last loaded your platter of cholesterol while balancing a big rum drink in your other hand.
The next day we got to walk around Nassau a little, take a swim, buy more dramomine as a souvenir. Once we dodged the tour busses to swim with dolphins in the cage that formerly held flipper or ride a horse carriage by the historical homes built by pirates (different from America how?) we did ok...took a local bus for one dollar, swam at a public beach, sang back-up to our rasta drivers after they found us for the ride back once break was over, mon.
Nice to soak up some sun before being held captive for the next 2 1/2 days in 20ft swells listening to the stories of many of the international group of indentured servants who work the boat and found our faces to be invitation enough to disclose most.
Their biographies, though some sad, were more interesting than watching closed-circuit tv that gave you either five Royal Caribbean channels or RetroTV—bewitched, Jeannie, everything but the Hillbillies. Our cabin attendant, Fernando from Costa Rica, named his middle child after Melissa Gilbert because his favorite show was Little House on the Prairie. He had a great sense of humor, in spite of his lingering grief over the death of Michael Landon.
Aye yi yi.
We are a carpenter/boat whisperer and a June-Cleaver-in-the-wrong-century wannabe who waitresses at an Italian banquet hall. Our idea of a vacation is a bike ride along the Cape Cod Canal. Is there an amendment we can plead to that covers stupidity? We simply got on the boat knowing how many munchkins back in Munchkinland just wanted us to have some fun—the various guilds gave us the trip, took our son, provided luggage and rides and clothes they thought suitable to replace our funky best. And while I love the intention, I am happy to have survived the experience.
By the end of it I guess I have another chapter for that How Not-To series we were talking about weeks ago. How not to gain weight on a cruise? How not to get too close to your husband so you don’t end up thrown overboard? How not to give in to the urge to kiss the patent-leather feet of Louie Paz the wedding singer when you are finally back to serving the blue-haired red-lipstick crowd and relief that the dance floor isn’t rocking overwhelms you?
I guess all my random prayers to Saint Christopher, Mama Etta and Dorothy from Oz were answered, because I am back at home, overworking my favorite blog host and happy to go out and rake up the dead tomatoes and caved-in pumpkins.
Trick or treat,
Who can tell the difference?
Love,
Mullaney
Well, my friend, I'm not sure how clear a picture you wanna paint about The Walrus Roll. The Walrus, ya know, is PGA golfer Craig Stadler. You can "roll" with it from there with your own imagination, in any fashion that appears to adequately cook yer grits.
ReplyDeletePat-Pat-Pat, whatawegunnado with you? Returning home with borrowed mens underwear (again). And would that be men's underwear, or mens' underwear? You must be sumkindafun party girl. The last time anything close to that happened to me, I hadda take penicillin shots fer a month. In any event, it's good yer home safe and sound, even if it gives some strange pleasure to retiring the tomatoe and pumpkin droppings. Speaking of which, I have to confess that I, once again, gave in to copping out on the little trick and treaters last evening. Before I left, however, I darkened the house, inside and out, and left a small, concealed basement window open just below and off to the side of the front door. I borrowed a friend's not-so-polite Rottweiller and posted him down there in the basement, near that discreet open window. I'm sure some of the Baptist parents mustabeen shocked with the reactionary prose from their little ones. It's a very unfriendly neighborhood - you know?
Fifty four more days til Christmas. Or, as men see it, 53.5 more regular days and one half shopping day.
Roll Tide!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Mac