Hi-Yo Silver Away! Pt.3 (A Toe of Two Cities)

"It's always hard to deal with injuries mentally, but I like to think about it as a new beginning. I can't change what happened, so the focus needs to go toward healing and coming back stronger than before." - Cari Lloyd

"I make jokes because humor is the greatest healing factor that there is."- Dick Dale

Hello Blogiteers!

When last we met, I was finally back at home, bedridden, with a foot wrapped in bandages, and feeling completely useless and going slightly stir-crazy. But what a difference a week at home makes- granted, nothing has actually changed, but I did manage to escape the house twice, and in one of those times, I went out all by myself, just like a big boy.

And yes, I was wearing clean Luke Skywalker Underoos in case of an accident.

[Seriously, this is REAL. Visit https://underoos.com/ for more awesomeness.]

To celebrate this all too brief moment of limited freedom, I wound up buying myself a Big Mac and a large chocolate shake for lunch, in the manner that anyone adulating at full speed would. After all, I went and got my insurance upgraded to include the addition of renters insurance, which I paid in full, kept an appointment with my new female GP doctor who looks disturbingly like my ex-fiancé, and attempted to re-register as a NM voter, only to find the Democratic office closed that day. (9-11)

Of course, I only discovered this after I had gotten my walker out of the car, shuffled my somewhat disabled butt up a long and uneven brick walkway, and successfully negotiated some steps, only to discover the small handwritten note on the door glass saying they were closed out of "remembrance." Son-of-a-c**k-wobbling-spankwanker, that's just frustrating.

No offense to the 9-11 dead and the horrendous tragedy, but can we please all stop pretending that 17 years out, we're still wearing sackcloth and mourning crape? Every year, the American flags come out for a day, and then almost immediately, get stored away until the next year. The only difference between this day of tragedy and the 4th of July, is the omission of a cookout. And while I expect some of you to be mouthing a strong "F**k you" in my general direction, right about now, I'd still bet dollars to doughnuts you give zero thought to this event until the dire day of the anniversary, and forget it by the morning of the 12th.

As an addendum, I for one, am sick and tired of the media's resolve at feeding off the grotesque imagery of that day for close to two decades. There is no need for I, or anyone else for that matter, to watch that clip of the planes hitting the towers- it is seared in our collective consciousness, and needs no refreshing. I once noted in a previous screed of several years ago that the media takes only two positions in how it reports the "news" of the day, that being either FEAR (look! terrorism everywhere!) or FLUFF (look! Kardashians everywhere!) with that in mind, I really do think it's way past time to stop milking this monstrosity for it's faux nationalism, and either make it an official day of solemn tribute with all the dignity that it's due, or finally admit that we need to move on, and go forward as a country.

To add to the days aggravation, I probably should also note that I was given the wrong address for the doctor as well, which I only discovered after I had gotten my walker out of the car, shuffled my somewhat disabled butt up a long concrete walkway, successfully negotiated a flight of steps, entered the building, walked the interminable distance up to the reception desk, only to be told that the office I sought was across the street. Fortunately, the receptionist saw the overwhelmed look on my face, as using a walker tends to be highly exhausting for me, due to the debilitating factors of my diabetic-related weight loss, the erosion of my essential muscle tone due to the same, and the workmans injury I suffered earlier last year.

I'm pretty sure if I had been born a horse, I'd be a box of glue sticks right about now.Amazingly, they were nice enough to secure a wheelchair in order to get me back to my car, yet another reason why I really dig living here- everybody is so damn kind, and thoughtful to a degree that sometimes I'm tempted to ask if anyone here hails from Stepford, Connecticut*. Not that I'd really care, but it would come in handy at Christmas, as I'm pretty certain the majority of robots aren't programmed to expect gifts.
*[ The Stepford Wives is a 1972 satirical thriller novel by author Ira Levin. The story concerns Joanna Eberhart, a young mother who begins to suspect that the frighteningly submissive housewives in her new idyllic neighborhood of Stepford, Connecticut may possibly be robot duplicates created by their husbands.]

So after getting myself and my dead-sexy chromed collapsible ride inside my car, I drive across the street to my new GP's office, park in the handicapped space without guilt for the first time in my life, shuffle my somewhat arguably disabled butt up a long concrete walkway, where at the end, someone was holding the door open for me, (what a town!) make my introductions, start to fill out the anticipated paperwork, and as I do, discover this printed on my form:

Holy underpinnings of Unitarianism, is this progressive or what? Take that, you second so-called Man of God at the Gila Regional Medical Center, who I'm fairly confident, wouldn't condescend to go here. At least I'm hoping he doesn't, because it would be awkward if I was forced to commit an act of justifiable martyrdom inside such a clean office, using nothing but my walker and a two-year old copy of Us Magazine. On the  upside, it would settle the eternal question at least for him anyway, of whether or not his God is as narrow-minded as he is, as I'm hoping not to have that discussion for another 50 years or so, at the very minimum.

However, if he is, I'm still pretty sure that my twenties alone banked enough honorary credit with Satan to the point that he'd still offer me a job in the new arrivals department. After all, I am truly a people person, and who better than a writer and Creative to spin the wax poetic as to how and where you'll be spending eternity? Always keep your personal options open, says I, for you never know what end-hand Fate will deal you.

Personally, I'm praying for a Royal Flush, but I'd settle in favor of a Straight, if it came right down to it. Semi-corrupted beggars can't be virtuous choosers, if all I heard at Sunday School was even remotely accurate. So, the nurse comes in, runs through my medical history, takes my (always low) blood pressure, asks some related questions, shares a story or two, and then departs, leaving me alone to wait on my doctor for ten minutes or so- the fairly standard routine, that we all know and have come to absolutely hate.

In order to kill time, I played around with my phone, checked my e-mail, answered some fan comments on my social pages, and was once again struck cold by how even though we all literally have the world's information at our fingertips, the number of terrifyingly unintelligent people is seemingly increasing. Flat-earth tripe. Political tripe. Anti-vaxxer tripe. Denise Richards is considered an actual actress, tripe.

And don't even get me started on those idiots who erroneously believe that Jean-luc Picard is a better Starfleet captain than James the f*****g man Tiberius Kirk.

It's enough for me to get my custom-made Bat'leth* off the studio wall and just start lopping off these egregious fan-boys grotesquely swollen and misshapen heads. You know... like you do? Covered in a sheen of failure flop sweat and consisting on a diet of  microwaved by your mom Hot Pockets is not the way to go through life, kids- just a tip from me to you.

*[The bat'leth, or "sword of honor" is a traditional bladed weapon. While Klingons often carry disruptors, they prefer to use bladed weapons in combat, with the two most common being the aforementioned bat'leth and the mek'leth, which is also a badass piece of tech. Seriously. Google it. Just don't take my word for it.]

As I was in the middle of eating another conservatives marginally functioning soul on my Twitter feed, and consequently posting the resulting hilarity on my Instagram feed, my potentially new doctor walks in, and to be quite honest, it was a tad bit disquieting, as she looks a lot like my ex-fiancé whom I still warmly refer to as "Whora the Explorer", a pet name that implies nothing but my best wishes of success sent her way.

When of course in due time, she works her way back up to the "W" section of the male species, that is. And the best part of having flushed three years of my life down the metaphorical toilet is that I'm not bitter about it at all. Fairly well-adjusted, in fact. I think that much is pretty apparent, if one were to look at it from an outsiders perspective, that is. And anyone who says different is obviously just projecting their own insecurities, which is just sad, if you ask me.

Unlike my ex-fiancé however, I'm fairly certain my new doctor isn't going to look at my male friends the same way one looks at the appetizer menu from Dennys, so that's a plus. The unspoken advantage being that if they did so, I might be able to negotiate a better co-pay, but I'm also fairly confident that's a conversation that would only be framed by the use of the word "awkward", at best. But overall, the visit went off without a hitch. Mainly since I was smart enough not to bring up the topic of that uncomfortable metaphorical conversation to begin with, and also because unlike my ex, we got along.

A very nice lady, good sense of humor, sharp eye for detail, and dissimilar to my ex-fiancé, doesn't blame me for stuff I didn't do or that never happened in the first place. Nice, that. See? I told you I was well-adjusted regarding the waste of three years of my life. I seriously have no idea why you even keep bringing it up. That's sad. Just sad.

After that, it was time to grab some lunch, and since I'm relatively immobile, that meant hitting the ol' drive-thru, since I could only imagine the wandering nightmare me and a walker in a restaurant would lead to, and here in Silver City, that's a selection that tends to be limited, small town and all that. We do, to my limited knowledge, have one Wendy's, two Sonics, one Mc Donald's, an Arby's, and oddly, a shuttered up Burger King and defunct KFC. The KFC is kind of a weird casualty, given the fact it's located squarely in the parking lot of our local Super Wal-Mart, and let's be brutally honest- that demographic clearly loves the Colonel and his mondo chicken buckets, along with KFC's nightmare-inducing KFC Famous Bowl, so once brutally mocked by comedian Patton Oswalt.

The KFC Famous Bowl is described on the KFC website thusly: "Creamy mashed potatoes, sweet corn and bite-sized chunks of crispy chicken are layered together then drizzled with home-style gravy and topped with a perfect blend of three shredded cheeses." In response to KFC's fluffy prose, his almost bowl-ending joke goes like this:

"Stop right there! Can you pile all of those items into a single bowl and just kinda make them into a wet mound of starch that I can eat with a spoon like I'm a death-row prisoner on suicide watch? I just want kind of a light brown hillock of glop. If you could put my lunch in a blender, and liquefy it, and then put it into a caulking gun and inject it right into my femoral artery, even better! But until you invent a lunch gun, I would like a failure pile in a sadness bowl!"

The sad reality of my day was that I wasn't in the mood for the heaviness of Sonic, the almost-healthiness of Wendy's, or even if it had been open, the salt-encrusted depravity that comprises what passes for fried chicken at KFC. Seriously, with their five dollar two-piece drumstick and thigh combo, the chicken by itself constitutes over 90% of your daily sodium intake due to it's monstrous amount of 2200 mg. of contained sodium. And that's before any of the sides you can add on, such as the gravy, mashed potatoes, and those dog treats they refer to as biscuits.

For me, that strikes as if one were to ingest a container of Morton's, but at least you could wash it down with gravy, I guess. To give you an idea what health officials suggest, here are some guidelines: the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA): recommends 2300 mg. a day, the American Heart Association (AHA): 1500 mg. a day, the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics (AND): 1500 to 2300 mg. a day, and the American Diabetes Association (ADA): 1500 to 2300 mg. a day. But me? I was in the mood for a Big Mac and a large chocolate shake. Not healthy for sure, but how bad could it really be for me? After all, I only have one of these combos roughly every three months or so, when for whatever reason, I get the craving somewhat fierce.

And as I was craving protein, due to the surgeries, in essence, when it came to equating  KFC's boxed salt lick combos against a jovial clowns fare which allegedly fosters possible heart disease, I'd have to be ahead to some extent, right? Well... the answer is yes, but not by much. A Big Mac has 1007mg, and a large chocolate shake, 420mg, for a combined total of 1427, or 56% of recommended daily value. But since I eat amazingly healthy at home, I rationalized the permission of what is essentially an almost tasteless burger paired with a beverage made mostly of corn syrup, as treat worthy of my efforts.

As an aside, the actual ingredients in a Mc Donald's chocolate shake are: Milk, sugar, cream, corn syrup, natural flavor, mono and diglycerides, cellulose gum, guar gum, carrageenan, vitamin A, and palmitate. Feel free to look up the more exotic ones. It'll do nothing but ease your mind.

But I can freely admit that the inclusion of Vitamin A* was kind of a shocker. After all, when you have a product that's mostly made up of a corn-derived syrup whose main purpose is to soften texture, add volume, prevent the crystallization of sugar, and enhance flavor, the addition of something that's actually good for you seems almost like a sardonic joke from the alleged food scientists slaving away in the clowns secluded victuals lab.
*[Vitamin A is a group of unsaturated nutritional organic compounds that includes retinol, retinal, retinoic acid, and several provitamin A carotenoids. Vitamin A has multiple functions: it is important for growth and development, for the maintenance of the immune system and good vision.]

Granted, while the addition of this vital nutrient does have some debatable value, I'm still pretty sure that I wouldn't successfully win the point with my endocrinologist nor my ophthalmologist that I should be able to knock back a few of these a week. Just one of the cruel realities of life, I guess. Besides, that stuff goes straight to my hips, anyway. Speaking of hips, that brings me to the matter of the insurance office I had to go visit next, in order to be compliant under the laws of New Mexico. Unfortunately, their parking lot was on the opposite side of the building they inhabit, and there was no allowable street parking, so I had to shuffle my somewhat disabled butt out of the loose gravel parking lot, successfully negotiate the uneven street in front of the office, walk the interminable distance up a long concrete sidewalk, and plopped my aching hips in the first chair I came across.

Inevitably, the questions arose about my injury, so I gave the cliff notes about the initial wound, detailed the surgeries, and wrapped it up with a rave review of the Gila Reigional Medical Center, as I've been doing for anyone who's asked. Regrettably, there was another customer in the office at the time who overheard my conversation, which I had deliberately kept light, as I don't like bumming strangers out with my problems, and proceeded to state that she had recently lost her husband of 46 years, a fact she blamed squarely on same said hospital, bitterly attributing his death to multiple surgeries that (in her opinion) led to a MRSA* infection, which subsequently, may have ended his life.  
*[Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (aka: MRSA) refers to a group of gram-positive bacteria that are genetically distinct from other strains of Staphylococcus aureus. MRSA is responsible for several difficult-to-treat infections in humans.]

As you might imagine, it's rather difficult to recover the thread of your positive narrative after someone hurls an unexpected heartbreak grenade into the center of the discussion campfire. And to my exceedingly limited credit, I didn't even try, for what can you actually say at that point that moves the conversation forward past the offering of unforeseen condolences? Luckily, the dialogue was interrupted by my agent requiring some further personal details, so this particular discomfort resolved itself, as she left the office soon after, only to be replaced by a worker at our local open air copper mine who rather unprompted, educated me about it's history and inner workings, which were rather more interesting than you might think.

As the settling of my insurance issues came to a close, two things were made inevitably clear: one: this is a town full of stories, and two: people are seemingly willing to share them. As someone who's both a natural chatterbox and a dedicated writer, I feel as If I'm on some fertile ground as to the fate of my future industriousness in the endeavors of writing. I've been wanting to get somewhat out of the literary art-box I've found myself in, and from what I've been hearing, New Mexico is rich with possibility. Not that I'm going to stop writing about Art and it's creators, nor the drama surrounding them mind you, but I think I also need to be open to telling other stories that I run across, and that others hopefully will deem to be interesting.

Not to mention that thanks to my injury, I still haven't been able to make the inroads yet that I still require in order to swim alongside my soon to be adopted arts community here in Silver City. I have been giving serious thought however, to using my amputated toe as a "hook"- you know, use it as an in by maybe introducing myself via a cool-sounding related nickname, like "Nicky Nine-toes", or maybe drop in the conversational tidbit that I can't wear sandals anymore, due to the fact that I'm "lack-toe intolerant". All I know is that I need to come up with a much more interesting story as to how I lost my toe than what actually happened.

Maybe I could craft a tale about rescuing orphans from a burning boat off the coast of Madagascar, letting all know that as I was pulling the last one aboard, a ferociously ravenous pygmy shark* rose up from the murky depths and nailed me, as I shielded the innocent child with my pinky toe... it's a work in progress- I'll keep you guys posted.
*[The pygmy shark (Euprotomicrus bispinatus), the second-smallest of all the shark species after the dwarf lanternshark, is a sleeper shark of the Dalatiidae family, and the only memeber of the genus Euprotomicrus. Their lengths are up to about 10 in for females and about 8.7 in for males. It's this kind of information btw, that's going to allow you to kick ass the next time you play Trivial Pursuit.]

Arriving home, I suffered the indignity of a less than graceful egress out of my car, as I nearly tripped over my own feet, trying to hold onto my slack bag (aka: male purse), my cell phone, and a paperback book that was inadvertently left in my car during the move, all while attempting to manipulate my walker on our somewhat uneven driveway.

Mikhail Nikolayevich Baryshnikov, I am glaringly not. A drunken Jennifer Lawrence, wearing five inch stilettos and juggling disagreeable ferrets during an earthquake however, is a distinct possibility. So, I manage to shuffle my somewhat arguably disabled butt up the driveway, correct course, shuffle along our mercifully short concrete walkway, fumble with my keys and rapidly slipping sunglasses, and manage to get my shambling self inside the house... where I almost take myself out by catching a corner of one of the numerous unpacked boxes from our move with my walker.

I can see the news crawl* now: "Artbitch pulls a full Vonnegut,** story at 11."
*[A News crawl or news ticker, is the moving line of text seen at the bottom of your screen during TV news programs. ** American writer (and my literary hero) Kurt Vonnegut died as a result of brain injuries from a fall, hence my morbid joke.

In an interview shortly before his death, Vonnegut mockingly stated that he would sue the maker of the Pall Mall cigarettes he had been smoking most of his life for false advertising. "And do you know why? Because I'm 83 years old. The lying bastards! On the package  Brown & Williamson promised to kill me."

When I eventually spin off this mortal coil, I want to be armed with the same sense of mordant humor when and if, I face whatever constitutes the one true God.]

But near-misses mark the inner character of a man, does it not? Fortuitously, I managed to get my right leg underneath me to break my fall, keeping a limited grip on my walker, while somehow managing to keep my left foot from making direct contact with the ground. If anyone had walked in mere milliseconds after this happened, they would have surmised I was practicing some new form of Yoga involving medical equipment, as I assumed a pose appropriate only for the male lead in a late 70's porn movie.

Yeah... best of luck getting that picture out of your head- I'm telling you right now, when you go to sleep tonight, that image is going to pop into your skull, and stick there as if it were coated in Krazy Glue. I'm so sorry. You have no idea. As I pick myself up off the floor, two thoughts pop into my head, the first being: "well, that f*****g sucked", and the second was; "Hey... there's that box I was looking for!" As the saying goes, when life hands you lemons, point out to Life that you can't make lemonade without sugar and water, so within the context of things, Life just pulled a dick move, and you sure as Hell aren't putting up with it's crap, no way, no how.

Another thing I'm really having trouble putting up with is the mildly enforced bedrest I have to endure due to my injury- keeping my leg elevated is a key factor to it's healing, and it literally is for the birds. You can only watch so much TV, read so many paperbacks, or surf the internet before you start losing your virtual marbles. How vexed am I by this, you ask? Well, the other day in an online cooking forum, I "yelled" at a 76 year old Latvian woman for calmly suggesting that oatmeal raisin is a far better cookie recipe than the standard chocolate chip one . And while I do feel bad about doing so, it's not like she was right to begin with in the first place, so I'm not even sure I can note that as a true mental crackup. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xO7EFfdX8Rs]

What's harder to handle however, is how my foot looks- my surgeon did an amazing job, no doubts there, and I've been told constantly since the ray amputation surgery that it "looks great", but that's from the people whose sole job it is to evaluate the healing process, not the aesthetic one. From my artists intrinsic perspective, it's reminiscent of what I've always thought would happen if an undead Chihuahua ever managed to sneak up on the sandal-wearing hero in a B-grade zombie movie, and got him by the toes. Now, according to my surgeon, in time my foot will "fill out" and not look so severe, but at this moment, I can't look at it without feeling alternating shades of revulsion, depression, and horror.

So naturally, I'm assuming you'd like to see a picture from the first time my bandages were removed right after the surgery? God, you people are gluttons for punishment, or you're morbid- either way, this should be a real treat for you, and only you. My joy will derive from finally hitting that line when it comes to over-sharing. A small hint: you may not want to be reading this as you eat dinner, and you definitely will never look at an un-breaded chicken cutlet the same way ever again. Just saying.

So here goes....

When I first saw it as is, my first reaction was straight out shock- I didn't expect it to look pretty by any means, but I also didn't expect to see that much of my foot gone, either. And no, it wasn't my surgeon's fault that this came as such an eye-opener to me, he had been pretty straight-up as to what I should anticipate, I just couldn't mentally conceptualize it, which is, let's face it, somewhat odd for a visual artist such as myself. It might have something to do with the fact I've never dabbled in the more organic styles of art, or it could just be my naive optimism that makes me such a blödmann* to begin with.
*["Dumbass" in German. See, you're learning something new, and that's always fun.]

By looking at it, you might think I'm in a world of pain, but shockingly, this really hasn't hurt as much as you might think, mainly due to the extensive nerve damage I already have below my knees. I don't really feel anything past the occasional tingle or pressure on my foot, and for the first time since I contracted this stupid disease, the loss of sensation is actually a win-win in my favor, and I'm embracing that fully. Another minus is that all of the research I've done regarding how long this might take to heal fully, lays the timeline out to be anywhere from one to two months, at which point I may find myself in a bell tower*, taking out the wicked and the innocent alike with carefully directed water balloons.

*[Google "Charles Whitman". Who by the way of a spoiler, did not use water balloons.]

Here's the unseasoned dry rub- I'm a true Type A personality who really needs to start making some artistic inroads, unpack a ton of boxes, get his studio in order, seek out new writing and future employment opportunities, and in general, just wants to be out of his bed more than in it, no matter how cool and comfy my lounge-pants are. And trust me, I've got some seriously cool and comfy lounge pants. But the awesomeness of my Hello Kitty matching wardrobe aside, I've got stuff to do, and this injury didn't take the diligence due to fill out the proper forms to officially get in my way of doing what needs to be done.

I tells ya, it's like my body doesn't even listen to it's own intellect anymore. It's as if I'm comprised mostly of unruly teenagers, all of whom think the brain "doesn't get it" and are gonna do what they wanna do, no matter the consequences. First my pancreas fails at the age of thirty, and I find out only then that there's no warranty coverage past the first six months of ownership, and as a means to add insult to eventual injury, my foot decides to raise Cain and attempts to set off a gangrenous gas grenade in it's brother Abel, also known as my leg.

The sheer freaking nerve, am I right?

Kids... pretty much the "better you than me" category when referring to unwanted gifts from Life. Seriously Life, you really shouldn't have. And I say this as someone who not only loves kids, but is truly great with them as well. That's why I could never be an effective father- I'd be way too busy out-fitting my kids with bundles of M-80's, matches, cans of Krylon, paint-thinner-filled water-guns, and continually printing fake ID's, to ever dispense any sort of wisdom past my three hard-earned life lessons: One, on no account should you ever cook bacon in the nude. Two, by no means should you ever allow yourself to fall in love with anyone who pays their rent in singles, and three, always respect someone for what's between their ears, and not their legs.

Come to think of it, that's actually some pretty damn good advice. Screw what I typed earlier, I'd be an awesome dad. I certainly wouldn't be boring, that's for sure. And there's no better bonding experience than lying to your local police as a family. Trust me on this. Ooof. Looks like it's getting late, so now might be a really good place to stop. And when we come back...

I discover that when you've got two bum shoulders, a walker is a torture device you get to bring with you, answer some questions for an online art magazine interview, and ponder some career options.

“Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters.” - Neil Gaiman

Hi-Yo Silver Away! Pt.2 (A Toe of Two Cities)

“Scars are simply modern battle wounds. Sometimes the enemy happens to be inside us.” - Andrew Grey

“With all due respect to my surgeon, in a perfect world he would be out of a job.”  
- Russ Ramsey

Hello Blogiteers!

Today is an absolutely gorgeous day here just outside of Silver City, NM- there's a touch of a cold front coming, a hint of petrichor in the air, and the sky is staging a breathtaking visualization of clouds so puffy, it looks as if the heavens are bleeding cotton candy- or as we like to call it out here, Wednesday. Truly, this place is breathtakingly gorgeous in it's unblemished splendor. I seriously cannot think of a more perfect backdrop in which to find myself in regards to recovering from an unforeseen and highly traumatic surgical procedure, that being the amputation of one of my lesser toes, along with a good portion of my foot as well.

On the additional downside, I'm currently laid up on prescribed and strictly enforced bed-rest, so for someone like me who's a full-blown Type A personality, it's essentially an exercise in making sure I don't go completely batshit stir-crazy, so thank Allah for PBS online and Netflix as a panacea towards keeping my sanity in check.

A small, yet relevant to our story side note: I don't know who's responsible for discovering new content for Netflix, but they scored a South Korean zombie movie called "Last Train to Busan" which is a holy-scary-motherf**k-balls flick which will literally make you wet yourself, no lie. I still haven't finished it yet, and I've been purposely watching it durirng the day, with all the window-shades up- that's how intense this thing is. I may take a cue from TV's "Friends", by following Joeys advice, and putting my TV in the freezer, where the horror can be contained safely.

After all, my copy of "The Shining" is already in there, and I'm sure it could use the company. Lord knows, I could use some. See, one of the negatives about landing in a new town is that you essentially have no network to lean on, until you've gone and made some new friends, which is kind of hard to do when you're doing your best impression of John and Yuko at The Queen Elizabeth in Montreal, circa 1969. It's even more stressful when the original game plan was to be a house husband for a brief moment in time, and then run free to go seek fame, fortune, and the occasional complimentary box of Ding Dongs.

But as John Lennon once soberly said: "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." And boy, did Life happen with a vengeance. If it had been the game or the cereal, I probably would have come out on the other side with nothing more than the loss of two excruciatingly boring hours with my relatives and a mid-level sugar high, but it didn't work out that way, so help me Bob.*

*[During the mid-19th century, "Bob" was used as a euphemism for "God," as in "So help me, Bob!". According to Google N-grams, the idiom came into substantial use towards the end of the 19th century. Isn't learning about the lexicon fun? Of course it is, because knowing is half the battle. And hopefully the next World War will be more like a quiz show, in which case... you'll do fine.]

It all started (perhaps) back in Phoenix roughly two months ago or so- in a moment of abject non-thinking stupidity, I stepped out onto my then concrete balcony in the middle of the afternoon, and badly burned my feet. That in and of itself was bad enough, as the concretes baseline temperature was probably bubbling around 135 degrees, but due to the severe and chronic diabetic nerve damage in my legs, I did not feel or realize the massive harm I had inadvertently self-inflicted until several hours after the fact. By that point, the bottoms of my feet looked like a truly wretched cheese pizza. You know, like the ones that Papa John's makes? But in my case, the carnage was delivered without the arrogant racism or the exploitation of highly under compensated workers.

It still sucked, however.

Visually, and literally, my feet were toast, and it was horrifying to look at. Cross a flattened Shar-pei with Freddy Kreuger and glue it to my soles, and you'll get the general idea that I'm going for here. In the end, I was off my cooked feet for three days, and the burns eventually healed nicely, or so I thought. See, here's the deal- I don't know if what happened recently stems from this particular incident, or if it was another factor entirely, due to the fact I was so focused on our move, that I literally tuned out everything that wasn't directly involved with it.

In hindsight, that was obviously a massive cock-up.

Roughly a week and a half after we arrived at our new home just ouside Silver City, NM, my left foot started puffing up, and despite our best efforts, we could not get the swelling to go back down. At first, I wasn't too worried- after all, one of the side effects of the drug I take [Lyrica] to keep my nerve pain in check is localized swelling, and I have, over the years, dealt with this symptomatic annoyance/pain-in-the-ass from time to time. But when a red "bloom" started appearing over the surface of my foot, I called my Phoenix-based endocrinologist who in no uncertain terms told me to, and I quote: "get your damn ass to a hospital... NOW"

Did I mention that when I left to go to the hospital at 8:30 that night, it was both raining cats and dogs, and that I had no idea where I was going? Thank the corpse of Steve Jobs for whomever he tried to steal my Samsung's far superior GPS from, for it directed me like a champ to the Gila River Medical Center, which is roughly 20 minutes from my house.

Disturbingly, the online reviews on this place were uniformly terrible, but after my solo experience with this facility and its fkng amazeballs staff, I'm inclined, no, I wholeheartedly hold the opinion that not only are these 'sour grape" reviews, they're also most likely from people who as customers in the retail sphere, have those angular haircuts and the resting bitch face that screams "I'm going to need to talk to your manager Karen, because I: didn't get what I want / you're not psychic / how dare you not kiss my ass fast enough"- you know, the same people constructed of hubris and human pudding-skin that go into an In-and-Out Burger, and are incensed that they have to wait six and a half minutes for their fresh food to be cooked?

This place not only has the best care I've ever received, but the best support staff, the best surgeon(s), and the best damn nursing team I've ever had the pleasure of interacting with in regards to what has been one of the most horrible and wholly terrifying situations I've ever found myself in, minus my near-death experience, back in 2009.

When I originally checked in, I thought to myself that at worst, I'd be hospitalized for a night at best, while I received some strong antibiotics and took in a few of those bags of saline us diabetics seem to like so much. Unfortunately, that's not the way things worked out. I was immediately admitted, had numerous vials of blood drawn, was x-rayed, and then directly clued-in that not only was there was a massive infection in my foot, which had crossed the line into being septic, but was now filling my leg with gas gangrene* from the ongoing necrosis.
*[Gas gangrene (also known as clostridial myonecrosis and myonecrosis) is a bacterial infection that produces gas in tissues in gangrene. This deadly form of gangrene usually is caused by Clostridium perfringens bacteria Myonecrosis is a condition of necrotic damage, specific to muscle tissue.]

At this point, I was starting to think that perhaps, things had gone a bit awry, and that I probably wasn't going to be on top of checking off any of the items on my to-do list for a while. Sure, not losing my leg or my life was important, but I had intended an entire day centered around binge-watching America's Test Kitchen, and now thanks to this, I feared I was never going to find out how to make a properly light and tasty macaroon. Don't give me that look... they are a bitch to make, and you know it.

As do the French, who I'm quite sure, did this to us on purpose. Some people just hold onto grudges forever, evermore the pity. But to get back on the proverbial track, after a few more hours, the ER doctor, first name of Sharon, comes in with the full diagnosis, and lets me know that the orthopedic surgeons will talk to me first thing in the morning, which honestly, freaked me out even more than having my foot filling up with necrotic gases and flesh for some reason. It might have something to do with the fact that so far, I've managed to keep most of my stock parts, and as a recovering Catholic, I've always wondered if God issues penalties for showing up at the Gates without everything he gave you originally.

Hopefully, that's a question that will be answered a long time from now, and if He starts getting persnickety, I'll remind him that he's the one who gave me diabetes in the first place, and then we'll see how good his sense of humor is. After all, he's responsible for both the platypus and the aardvark, so I really like my chances here.

So, with that scalpel of Damocles over my head, I eventually turn in for the night, as truly comfortable as I could be with an IV line stuck in my right arm while laying in a strange and weirdly narrow bed, thinking about my decomposing interior. Some advice for all the hospitals out there- invest in a few Purple mattresses, and save patients the trouble of having to find the "sweet spot" where one needs to nestle correctly in order to get some restful sleep. Just a thought.

On the upside, I was delighted to discover that the hospital food was unexpectedly good, [thank you, Brett!] and that the hospital had a never-ending supply of two of my favorite snacks- graham crackers and pudding, in the standard two flavors of course, that being vanilla and chocolate. I'm not sure why this is, but hospital pudding in my opinion, always tastes better than home pudding. Maybe it's a comfort thing, maybe it's just projection, but anytime I've been in the hospital, I figuratively wreck whatever stores of the gooey goodness that hospital may have. It's literally my favorite thing to eat, and I'm pretty sure my nurses wondered what my obsession with it was. Sadly, it's a diabetic thing, and they'll never understand.

Moving on..

The next day, a stocky, rather refreshingly blunt speaking, and according to Ashley, "attractive" surgeon (if you like that ruggedly handsome kind of thing, that is) by the name of Dr. Roberto Carreon, comes in to talk to me, letting me know with no hyperbole what will be involved in regards to what eventually turns out to be four surgeries in ten days, or to put it another way, I spent at least four hours sleeping the light fantastic, and don't remember a thing... at all. I can't recall the name of the two doctors who did my anesthesia, but they dropped me as if I were a flaming rock.

And amazingly, when I woke up in post-op recovery, I was in fact, startlingly clear-headed, not nauseous, and completely tuned-in. My gut instinct tells me that I can safely bet on the option that these two could easily make a pitcher of Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters out of various items one might find in the average kitchen, and not even break a sweat while doing so. What was unforeseen and ill-fated, was that an old nemesis and I had to meet again prior to my first surgery, and unlike when I was hospitalized in 2009 for a case of rampant ketoacidosis, I was unfortunately conscious when said reunion took place.

Enter the Foley catheter swaggering into my life yet again, drunk on urine and bitterness. What exactly is a Foley catheter? Well...

"A Foley catheter is a thin, sterile tube inserted into the bladder to drain urine. Because it can be left in place in the bladder for a period of time, it is also called an indwelling catheter."

A few minor quibbles here in regards to this portrayal? On the surface, this charmingly phrased description seems as sterile as the medical accessory itself- what it neglects to  mention is how and where it's inserted to gain access to that reservoir of liquid gold. The last time I had one of these inflicted upon me, I wasn't entirely lucid when it was inserted, due to mental impairment caused by exceedingly high blood sugar, but this time, I was not that lucky, as I noted earlier.

I don't think it would be overstating the point to mention that I, like most men throughout the ages, have spent a great deal of my life defending the ol' spawn-hammer from harm, when I haven't been bragging about what it can do and how awesome it looks while doing it, that is. Seriously. I wrote a piece about posing nude for a fellow artist once, and it was literally the talk of the town for weeks. Nobody seemed to appreciate the signed 8x10's though, in retrospect.

Regardless, It's exactly the first thing they teach you on the playground- that is, to protect your Everlasting Gob-dropper from all enemies, be they sucker punches, that horizontal bar on men's bikes that was placed there by Satan, or errant foul balls. So, when in the moments preceding my surgery I was informed that I needed to vacate my bladder and wasn't able to do so to the nurse's satisfaction, I really didn't think about the end game, to be quite frank.

After all, what was the worst that could possibly happen?

Note to self: in the immediate and long-term future, STOP ASKING THESE KINDS OF ASININE QUESTIONS. SERIOUSLY. JUST STOP ASKING, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND COUNTRY. After about 20 minutes trying to get my bladder to do it's job and falling far short of the write your name in the snow line, an issue I'm going to blame on middle-age performance anxiety, a very cute, and very young, nurse walks in with the Foley kit, and plainly tells me that this is going to happen. Ask the universe an idiotically phrased metaphorical question, and boy, will it return with an even shoddier answer, I kid you not.

This is mainly why it and I don't go out carousing anymore. Well that, and the difficulty in securing a reliable bail bondsman. As I'm getting prepped for the procedure, she states that I should "prepare for some discomfort", to which I make a flippant comment about it getting caught in a zipper once (true story) and there's "no way it could be worse" than that.
[ See: "Idiotic assumptions." Subheading: "Things morons say." ]

Those of you who are squeamish, might want to skip ahead a bit, due to the metaphors I'm about to lay down. But before we begin, let's look at what the dictionary has classified the definition of discomfort as. It states it to be: "an absence of comfort or ease; uneasiness, hardship, or mild pain, anything that is disturbing to or interferes with comfort." Now, if we use this depiction as a base, it would foreshadow that what I was about to go through at best, would be minimal, both in pain and effort, right? As I stated earlier, I need to STOP ASKING THE COSMOS THESE KINDS OF ASININE QUESTIONS. Especially where the safety and well-being of my Rogering Ramjet is concerned. First they applied an antibiotic- it stung a little, but overall the sensation was not too bad, and it rather easily falls under the banner of discomfort I was just talking about.

Hell, this part I could do all day standing on my head. Sadly however, next comes the part that the demon Guyota* himself obviously scripted out of spite, that being the insertion of a flesh-rendering tentacle from Hell.

*[In Guanche mythology, Guyota is the principal malignant deity, and is said to be represented as a black dog, accompanied by demons, also in the form of black dogs]

The only way I could accurately describe the pain of this procedure is to say it felt like someone casually took a red-hot razor-studded sewer pipe, and decided to shove it up my wookie-blood-sword sideways, as hungry ferrets wrapped in fish hooks and wearing ice skates, pole danced to Rammstein, while simultaneously swinging nail-studded baseball bats- in essence, IT F*****G HURT... A LOT. More than watching Tom Cruise as Jack the Forest Boy in Legend. More than suffering through Denise Richards mutilating her role as a nuclear scientist named Christmas Jones in The World is Not Enough. It hurt worse than watcthing our tangerine-colored president attemptng to string a coherent sentence together, and that's a gift that keeps on giving, sort of like Deadpool if he was afflicted with Herpes.

It was intense, to say the very least.

I'll never experience childbirth, but I'd have to assume it would feel like this, if after the kid was born, they decided to thrust it back into the womb with a cannon, after outfitting it with golf shoes, sandpaper mittens, and Saber-tooth tiger fangs. I once wrote about going through a procedure like this before when I wasn't lucid, but the end conclusion I came to then remains the same as now- if in the future it becomes imperative to insert one of these again to drain my bladder, either knock me the f**k out  first, or just leave me on top of a mound of Sham-Wows to slowly drain, as nature intended.

Just a simple request, ok?

So a few moments after this little side-trip through the plains of Gehenna*, the surgical team comes to get me, and within mere minutes, I was knocked out colder than a tiki-torch wielding Nazi at a Black Lives Matter rally.
*[In the rabbinic literature as well as Christian and Islamic scripture, Gehenna is a destination of the wicked. This is different from the more neutral Sheol/Hades, the abode of the dead, See? You learn something new every time you read me.]

Eventually, I wake up, looked over by a delightful nurse with a really good sense of humor, and that strong sense of professionalism that I mentioned earlier. After a few enjoyable minutes of post-surgery banter like you do, Dr. Carreon comes into the recovery area, and he looks serious. Almost grim, in fact. Downright solemn. One might even say somber, if one were so inclined. Obviously, he was there to deliver the best of news.
[ See once again: "Idiotic assumptions." Subheading: "Things morons think." ]

He however, does not bring tidings of non-necrotic joy as hoped, but states that despite his best efforts, the operation exposed the cheerless reality that the tissue damage was far more extensive than originally predicted, and the infectivity had actually progressed into the bone in two different locations- this was not good on so many different levels, and I'll inform you as to why. Diabetics as a rule, have a lot of varying issues to deal with when we get sick, our healing factor being the top key for most of us.

For me, my immune system has always been a double-edged sword- I generally don't show symptoms until I'm already very unwell, and the nerve damage I suffer from can mask the severity of wounds until they become considerable tribulations, as was the case here. Essentially, I appear to have Wolverine type healing abilities, but my immune system these days seem to be as fortified as Supermans when he's inadvertently been tricked into wearing Kryptonite Speedos.*

*[And you really should try them- they're surprisingly comfy, the radiation keeps your nether region warm and cozy, and the best part? They glow in the dark.]

But even given all that bad news, Dr. Carreon was still holding on to his optimism about saving my pinky toe at the time. He wasn't going to give up, and the course of antibiotics seemed to be working overtime to bring down both my fever and sweep the legs out from under my necrotic infection, so it seemed I was heading in the right direction... or so he and I hoped. I'd like to go off tangent here for a moment, for as I noted earlier: "This place not only has the best care I've ever received, but the best support staff, the best surgeon(s), and the best damn nursing team I've ever had the pleasure of interacting with in regards to what has been one of the most horrible and wholly terrifying situations I've ever found myself in, minus my near-death experience, back in 2009."

What I failed to address in regards to my glowing review was this-what separated this particular experience from my earlier medical misadventures was the humanity expressed in relation to my individual care. Not once did anyone forget, even for the briefest of moments, that there was an actual person on the other end of the diagnosis, and this definitely applies to Dr. Carreon. Right to the point, definitely straight-shooting, and always firm, I never at any time felt the need to question his skills, his perception, or his resolve. In fact, when he had to deliver the unwanted, yet necessary information that saving my toe was indeed impossible, I felt the metaphorical weight he was carrying. I would opine that's not just the hallmark of a truly great doctor, but in the end, an even better human being.

Regrettably, the outcome of the first surgery led to my being hospitalized for a total of eleven days, which to be accurate, was not even remotely part  of the original plan. To note, twice I was informed that I might be able to go home the day after a procedure, only to have those hopes dashed against the rocks as each subsequent surgery revealed that the necrotic infection was hanging on to my toe and more disturbingly- my bone, like a spurned ex.

In order to correctly express my feelings regarding this analogy at those particular moments, I shall qoute another eminent Wayne, that being the one and only Wayne Campbell of Wayne's World fame: "I lost you two months ago. We broke up. Are you mental? Get the net!" Grimly, I had finally reached the point where I was going through surgery number three, hoping against hope and praying that this time, I'd have truly good news to wake up to.
[ See yet again: "Idiotic assumptions." Subheading: "Things morons pray for." ]

Sadly, that was not the case to be.

Dammit. I just knew being a recovering Catholic was going to bite me in the ass someday. Yet another side note for which I am terribly sorry- as a lapsed, but documented anyway by the nursing staff as a member of the "my holy trinity beats your singular God" club, it's not uncommon to be visited by various clergypersons while vacationing unwillingly in the hospital. Most of the time, these interactions are fairly pleasant- somebody full of grace and goodwill comes into your room, gives you a free spiritual tune-up if so desired, and on the way out, generally puts in a good word with their main deity seeking your speedy recovery.

All things considered, not a bad return on your non-investment, if I say so myself.

And as far as life's circumstances went, my experience was no different- I was visited in the style of Charles Dickens, by three such holy folk. The first, a very nice lady who was also a Protestant but didn't carry the grudge against us pen-pals of the Pope, was super agreeable, very uplifting, and when the moment came to alert her deity as to my cause, laid her rap down like a mother-freaking boss. I've been to African-American churches in the South that while passionate as heck, didn't rock the testifying half as hard. I'm of the mindset that this woman has God on speed-dial, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't swipe to the right when she calls.

He wouldn't dare, methinks.

The third spiritual visitor to visit me (I'll address number two in a moment) as I engaged in a split second of inner reflection, was a Lutheran, who was, and I say this honestly, cool as f**k. I would totally party with this guy, and that could ultimately happen, because Lutherans are what Catholics could be if they'd just lighten the hell up. My GF Ashley has commented more than once that in the bitter end, I'm really a closeted Lutheran who happens to possess better Icon statues, and she may just be right, if I were to give it serious pause.

As I said, he was cool as f**k- we talked about motorcycles, motorcycle crashes, and about his four kids, one of which was central to the discussion of both bikes and unforeseen accidents, and it was, as I said, a totally cool moment. No prayer at the end though, because Lutherans as a rule, aren't super pushy, but he did wish me a speedy recovery, which I still appreciated. Mainly because at this point, I can't switch teams- I have a ton of the merchandise and most of the collectibles.

I'm still missing the Judas Iscariot coin collection, but I'm pretty sure I can get that online for around 30 Shekels of Tyre, if I play my prayer cards right. And with that, we come to spiritual visitor number two... Oh boy, do we ever. By and large, I don't consider myself a sincerely religious or even somewhat of a pious individual, despite one of my close friends noting that in their opinion, I was more of a Christian than I liked to let on.

I'll let that observation rest there for a moment, because anybody who knew me well in my pre-forties would witness without hesitation that I was no more a pure representative of Christian values, than I was of the Mariinsky Ballet.*
*[The Mariinsky Ballet is the resident classical ballet company of the Mariinsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Founded in the 18th century and originally known as the Imperial Russian Ballet, the Mariinsky Ballet is one of the world's leading ballet companies.]

Granted, I wasn't a horrible person, I didn't do drugs, or drink, or smoke, or treat women with disrespect, but my apartment at one point did hold the moniker of "Wayne's Home for Wayward Strippers", so take that as you will, with as much salt as you like.  When it gets right down to it, I'm fairly agnostic, except in times of extreme duress- then I tend to fall back on my extensive collection of crucifixes and rosaries, along with an almost endless array of Hail Marys.

[Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.]

Factor in that to this day my best friend of close to twenty years still refers to my morality meter as "Gumby" and you can see what a prior reputation can do to your current one. Does God exist? I honestly don't know what I believe at this point in my life- I do however, loathe having any form of religious fervor directed towards me, and I react even worse when I observe people using their faith as a sword to hurt or deny others their inherent humanity. I despise hypocrisy under any appearance, and when people attempt to use the Bible as justification or rationalization for their biases or hatred, I characteristically will introduce a new and painful way of acquiring fiber into their lives, by jamming the good book down their throat.

And here's where we meet the number two advisor- an older gentleman, representing as he put it, an "independent" church that split from the Baptist body politic, IE: a church that interprets the Word in a way the main church doesn't agree with. To say the interaction was awkward would be underselling it by miles. I was condescended to, informed what a true Christian was, the undertone being that Catholics barely made the cut, and when the obligatory deity beseeching was enacted, the suggestion that I needed to find my "way back to God" was slipped in at the end, because there's nothing I enjoy more than to be lectured about my level of faith, or the lack thereof, by an arrogant, self-centered SOB who seemingly took offense at the fact I support LGBTQ rights, and think Trump is an unqualified ass.

How aggravated was I? Let's just say that if I truly had two good feet at that moment, at least one of them would have been jammed up his ass, and the other would be kicking some humility back into him. I'm not a violent man by any means, but give me a NERF bat, and I would have made the magic happen at that particular point in time. Gah. Nothing so vexing than someone who pimps Jesus as if he were soap.

That annoyance having been addressed, let's get back to the post-op meeting with my surgeon. When I woke up after this, my third surgical procedure, the news was sadly grim- Dr. Carreon looked as if his soul had been crushed, and it was exceedingly obvious that he thought he had failed me. [good news doc- you didn't] The toe definitely had to go, and there was (pardon the bad pun) no bones about it. As you can imagine, this was not what I wanted to hear, but it also wasn't like I hadn't been prepped for it, to be quite honest.

So, after talking to the doc, and later on Ashley, we wind up scheduling the separation of my metaphorical Tito Jackson from the rest of the Jackson 5. The surgery went off like a fine Swiss watch, and just as before, there were no major complications in regards to the anesthesia. Mentally, I was alternating between being zen-centered to suffering minor freak-outs, but overall, I was adulting like a badass. The day after the procedure, I was finally discharged, and able to go home, where I was then and now, semi-confined to my bed for the duration of the healing process.

And since I am currently flat on my back, this seems like an excellent place to take a break, And when we come back...

I get to see what my foot looks like, contemplate what story I'll tell as to how I did lose my toe in the future, and discover that using a walker is far more complicated than one might think.

You know... riveting stuff.

“You go in through the front door of the hospital and depending on how successful your treatment is, it determines whether you leave through the front door or in a box out of the back door.” - Steven Magee
 

Hi-Yo Silver Away! Pt. 1 (A Toe of Two Cities)

“A world made of skulls was no place for roses, and it was time to plant more than bones." - Linda L. Zern, Following the Strandline

Hello Blogiteers!

What a difference a few weeks makes, does it not?

When last we met, Ashley and I had just left Phoenix for the literally greener pastures of Silver City, New Mexico. As fas as small towns go, it's breathtaking- beautiful scenery, nice people, clean water, and air that unlike the city we just left, is actually invisible to the naked eye. Add in a vibrant arts community, replete with a gaggle of writers and talented musicians, alongside a surprisingly strong food scene, and you've got yourself a rather idyllic place to live, overall.

But despite all the upfront bucolic loveliness, there ran an undercurrent of unforeseen darkness, much like when you take a bite of what you think is a carne asada burrito, but instead turns out to be one that's vegan-friendly.

(shaking) I get chills just thinking about it.

First, there was what should have been the non-issue of renting a house. To that end, we made the five hour drive from Phoenix to Silver City, choosing a local management company established in 1964, operating under the moniker of Smith Real Estate, to serve as our guides for our quest. Some advice gained in hindsight: if you're ever given a choice between having to do business with this company or being forced to watch a remake of Showgirls with Steven Segal playing the titular character of Nomi Malone, I'd say go with the monolithic slab of acting who eventually dry-humps Kyle MacLachlan's lap- at least that way, the pain you'll experience was intentional.

To say our experience was substandard at best, would be akin to implying that in August of 1945, the residents of Hiroshima suffered a mild case of widespread sunburn. Our walk down the path of truly professional incompetence started with our agent to be telling us that he had four houses for us to look at, a rather good number for us to muddle through, or so we thought... at first. The agent who at best, had the disposition of a narcoleptic Vogon suffering a past weekend of chasing down pitchers of Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters, actually wound up showing us only three, feebly claiming the fourth was "being painted", which as we found out later, was not entirely true, but more regarding that in a bit.

The first house could be charitably described as "cozy", and would have been perfect, if we had wanted an abode that could double as both a t-shirt and a birdhouse, so we passed almost immediately. House number three (yes, I know I skipped number two) was a confused jumble of rooms, with a so-called kitchen that was bizarrely split in twain, with each section separated by several feet. Not too surprisingly, we passed on that one as well, as for some strange reason, we prefer to cook without having to run a marathon at the same time. So, while this confused warren didn't make the cut, house number two, well...

It was almost perfect.

Big bedrooms. Good kitchen. A garage. Cool workshop. And an utterly awesome solarium that had the potential to be a totally kickass studio space. Sure, the backyard was a dirt morass with a strangely painted lightpole placed squarely and oddly in the middle of it, but that was just a minor quibble overall. And while the interior carpet was stained, buckling in spots, and tinted a delightful shade of horse-puckey brown, causing the agent to state after I mentioned the issues, that they wouldn't replace or fix it, that didn't necessarily mean the deal had to be scotched, now did it?

Of course not. After all, it was a rental, not a purchase. And we could always hide that three foot by three foot crime-scene outline with a carefully sited coffee table. See? Once asked for, a solution usually presents itself, all praise to the Goddess Debbie Harry. After deciding this was the house for us, we headed back to the realty office, filled out the minor financial paperwork, cut a deposit check, and headed back to Phoenix, secure in the knowledge we had adulted like bosses. Once home, we made plans to empty out our storage units, load up a U-Haul, and by doing so, hopefully reduce the size if not the stress, of the "big" move- a simple plan, no?

Apparently not.

Two weeks later, and two days before I was supposed to drive said fully loaded truck down to come and take possession of our new domicile, Ashley discovered that not only was the agent attempting to rent us the wrong house, but that he had also already rented out the one we had raved about for close to half an hour in his office. Now you would think after such a display of interest, he would have remembered which house it was, but as it turns out, he apparently never noted that particular detail down, and instead, tried to blame Ashley for, and I quote: "giving the wrong address".

Yes... because the people who have no idea where anything is yet in our soon to be new city are the ones at fault for his not writing the pertinent information down, am I correct? When Ashley tells him that it was his responsibility, not ours to know which house he was accountable for renting, he attempts to rectify his mistake by offering up the house we had not seen, apologizing that it wasn't available for viewing at the time due to the fact it was "still being painted". When Ashley informs him that was his excuse from two weeks ago, there is a considerable pause before he responds again- at this point, she informs him that she wants our deposit back, and that we will collect it in person.

When we do, it turns out that not only have they not cashed the check which they've had for almost two weeks, the agent didn't even bother to tell his associates that we were coming to retrieve it in the first place. I'm starting to think that attention to detail is not this guy's niche- it's subtle, but it's there. Even better is the fact that they were genuinely shocked that we didn't want to do any further business with them in the future.

Weird, that.

Enter realtor number two, also known as Enchantment Realty, whom when Ashley calls them and explains the situation, are horrified, and immediately schedule a showing for the upcoming Friday, and since our credit had already been pre-approved by Smith, we got bumped to the top of the list, which in the end, proved to be a godsend. The house we were shown was not only in the same neighborhood, it was on the same street as the house we originally wanted, and was actually nicer with a better view- hardwood laminate floors, one car garage, newer kitchen with gas stove, washer and dryer, huge master bath and walk-in closet. and also a storage shed and workshop.

Throw in an awesome back patio, the addition of a new roof, a good sized dining room, and the fact that for the first time in 12 years that I have a dedicated studio space, and you can see why we're thrilled with this company thus far.

So after we close the deal with Enchantment, we head back to our hotel, and through an odd twist of coincidence, the clerk relays a story about their own experience with Smith, which was even worse than ours. Turns out when they moved into their residence, all of the light fixtures and kitchen cabinets had been ripped out by the previous tenant, and Smith had allegedly neither replaced them, nor informed their incoming tenant about the damage. To add further insult to shoddy vandalism, they purportedly refused to do any repairs, and instead informed their client that they could replace them and take that amount off their rent in its place. If this story and others that I've heard since coming here are allegedly true, it does beg the question- how in the flippity frak do these guys stay in business?

Naturally, I was curious. And when I get curious, I break out my claws and go looking for information to eviscerate until I get some answers that make sense. Sometimes I achieve this by talking to people, other times I dive into books and other ephemera, or in this case, I just shook the internet until I found what I was seeking. And boy, am I glad we didn't get in bed with these people, because judging by some of these Google reviews, if we had. we'd probably wake up the next morning in a cheap motel bathtub, covered in ice, and missing a kidney.

Out of a total of a five star rating system, Smith Real Estate averages 2.8... yeeouch. Here are some of the alleged highlights, from my first cull of the Interweb:

Client Briana Romo: "I wish I would of read the reviews before buying a home with them as our Realtor. Becky Smith was very unprofessional and rude. I can't believe she runs a business! I wish I could give negative stars. Instead of assisting with the process of buying a house, she made the whole process ten times harder. I wouldn't recommend Smith Real Estate to anyone!"

Client  Ryan G. :"Absolutely THE worst company to work with. The employees are extremely rude, not helpful and only in this market for their commission. I am not sure how a company like this can stay in business! DO NOT BUY OR RENT FROM THESE PEOPLE! I have heard horror stories from people but did not believe them until I experienced it for myself. If you are like me and a skeptic of other peoples reviews, it will only take about 15 min of talking to these people to see their true colors. Buyer BEWARE!

Client Jessica Madrid: "after complaining about sewer smell coming from washer pipe that would stink up the whole house when washing I emailed Darla . She completely ignored my email claiming it would go to spam folder although we never had that issue before. I emailed with another complaint about pellet stove not working, she set up plumber( that never showed up!) and wanted to let owner of home in while we where out of town, I was not comfortable with that and she threw the lease in my face saying owner needed to be with his family for the holidays thus forceing us to let him in so I decided to stay home and loose out time with MY family since his time was more important.

After asking her to let me know what time she never answered! It's going on 3 weeks that she knew about sewer smell and now Darla is no longer answering her emails BUT will email us and talk to us like we are delinquents for the owner getting an electric bill that was p&m mistake if owner would have taken 2 minutes to call he would have know it was his own fault for not calling P&M after getting permits. Not to mention we could not move in for almost a month because new meter was being put in ( we had to do walk through in the dark!!!) when asked for a reimbursement Darla suggested we not do that since owner did us a favor but that is a lie she did the favor of giving us keys to move things in before lease signed not owner.

I definitely feel like Darla takes care of the owners needs more then us the paying clients, to prove my point she was more concerned about getting payment for a horse we have then fixing a mouse and plumbing problem and make excuses that owner is hard to get ahold of so she can't go forward but she won't answer her emails not even to say she's working on it! It took an angry email from husband to get her to answer. Maybe she is friends with owner but I could give a rats a** you DO NOT only treat one party like they are more important!! We have only been here for a month and already have problems and are BEING IGNORED and I ALREADY want to move!!! ( I stopped unpacking) This company sucks!!! If you like or want headaches go ahead and ask for Darla and rent from this ridiculous company."

Client Sarah Sheen: "Ouch, I wish I had seen these terrible reviews before paying a $36 rental application fee to Smith Real Estate. These people are total cheapskates, and Cindy is downright nasty. I have an amazing credit score and asked them to simply *ask* the landlord about pulling out a gross carpet covering part of the wood floor in the unit (I have allergies). They acted like there was no way of contacting the landlords EVER.

They also sneakily tried to hike up the price of the rental between the time I applied and the time they approved my application. If the rental company is already acting intimidating, dishonest and passive-agressive after only receiving $36 from me, there is no way I will ever give them more money. My advice? Check the Silver City Daily Press for rental listings instead! Dodged a bullet with Smith Real Estate for sure!!"

Client Grand Momma: "I have lived here in Silver City all my life and have been using Smith to sell my home. My husband is very ill and we needed the money and a smaller home that works well with his medical needs. However, our home has been sitting on the market for over 4 years! I feel Becky did not put forth ALL her effort to try and sell my home.

Recently, our home was finally purchased, but Becky never told me when I have to move out. She is soooo hard to get a hold of and I had to find out when I had to move from a DIFFERENT realtor who does not even work for Smith! I found out a week before I had to move out, and STILL have not been contacted by Becky. I really wish I would have used someone else, like the wagon wheel place or caldwell. Have you ever tried packing up things you accumulated over 15 years within a week?!?! Me either... until now :( Avoid Becky at all costs."

Client John Flores: "If there was a rating lower than listed; I would give it. This company is bordering on illegal practices. I had a lease agreement contract with them for 1 year and then no further lease signed. I had a problem with my bank while on vacation for 3 weeks; because of heavier than normal use the bank would periodically lock my account.

Unfortunately this happened when the check for my rent was sent to the bank. I had the bank explain their error but Smith refused to accept further checks from me and demands cashier checks or money orders for rental payment...indefinitely. My lease agreement with Smith has expired and at the time of this incident the lease was not in effect; how can they continue this policy legally?"

How indeed? And these claims seem to be the standard, not the aberration, depending on which local you talk to. And here I was, thinking that because of how nice this town and it's residents are, I'd have nothing to write about- I guess the Lord does provide. And by the Lord, I mean Bob Ross, who would have loved it here... seriously. There's happy trees everywhere, along with a ton of overly optimistic shrubs.

The grass, however? Totally a full-on dick.

Getting back on track, I decided to also check out their rating with the Silver City BBB, and discovered that despite having a file open since 12/2005, they have no rating whatsoever, which in and of itself isnt that strange, as lots of businesses aren't affiliated with their local BBB, but considering how long they've been established, it does seem odd that they wouldn't be, since being a member with a good rating is considered a plus where one's marketing reach is concerned- it's essentially a win-win that pays off in dividends, if you promote it correctly.

Keep in mind, I've been speaking to the locals since we've moved here, and i have yet to find anyone with something nice to say about this company, and yet there are glowing testimonials all over the Smith website preaching to the contrary, even though the notated complaints above definitively burst that bubble of manufactured sunshine to it's core. Sure, one could reasonably argue that a broken clock gets it right twice a day, but I do not think that for even one moment that's the reality of the case here. I sense it's an issue of quantity versus public reputation, if I were to be so blunt.

Using ourselves as a litmus test, I'd theorize that most who deal with this company have no idea what they're in for until it's too late, finding themselves trapped within a binding legal agreement. Sort of like a smarmy Venus Fly-trap, except when the leaves close, this one eats you with a contract. In our case, we lost roughly a hundred bucks in fees dealing with this consortium of alleged charlatans, but in retrospect, that's a pittance for dodging the hail of bullets we could have faced if we had dared to interact with this rumored den of thieves.

Fortunately, when it came to finding our eventual lodgings, all's well that ends well, am I right? Of course I am. In fact, I'm not even going to bring up the other little slice of Hell that we went through regarding the physicality of moving here. After all, I've got better things to do, I'm sure. I mean, there's dishes to be done, laundry to fold, and I really need to organize my sock drawer like nobody's business. Not to mention I'm also recovering from amputation surgery, which quite possibly, is a much more interesting story than whatever squabble I could possibly have with the troop of heavy-handed capuchins that moved us here.

Damn. It appears the dishes are done, the laundry's been put away, and since I'm just laying here looking at the remaining 90% of my foot, the very idea of thinking about socks on any level, just makes me really angry. I could always watch Deadpool 2 again... it's truly surprisingly touching, completely funny, and violent as Hell, which is always a plus, when one may be bedridden for the next few weeks.

What to do, what to do... I'd hang some art in the house, but I can't really walk right now, and since I have to use a walker to begin with, it's not like my hands are free anyway. I could always start that Great American Novel I've benn thinking about for years, or I could... oh, f**k it- the move here was a freaking nightmare.

The company we used (their name sounds like Two Hens and a Duck) was professional, the crew was nice, but listening wasn't their forte, and neither was reading, given all of the clearly marked "Heavy-Books" boxes that were stacked on top of clearly marked ones that said "Fragile- do not stack". Granted, they did have a rough gig ahead of them- we lived on the third floor, we started around 9a.m., it was the end of July (in Phoenix) and we also had two storage units to empty out as well, as I noted earlier.

Did I also mention that everything had to be marked individually as well for their records? Every. Freaking. Thing.

I may have also forgot to mention that my storage unit alone had close to 200 pieces of art,,, sorry, that should have been a detail to tell the movers, methinks. They wrapped up packing the apartment around 7:00p.m., and under Ashley's direction started on the storage units right across the street. At this point, I had to leave for Silver City to make sure we'd have the keys for the house the next day, so arriving at 2a.m. in the morning, and after hitting one terrifying dust storm outside Tucson, and two mild rain storms coming in to Silver City. I checked into my hotel and after three attempts trying to get into my hotel room due to a malfunctioning door lock, I grabbed a quick shower, and hit the sack for a few hours.

After waking up, I grabbed a few mini-doughnuts as an ersatz breakfast, bolstered my exhaustion with a frosty Coke, and headed over to the rental office who could have not been nicer, grabbed the keys, and went to go check out our new house, which as I noted earlier, is awesome.

The movers who were supposed to arrive at 11a.m., instead show up at 2p.m. with two 27 foot trucks, loaded to the brim. However, the unloading of the trucks revealed that they had unfortunately damaged some furniture, shattered two pieces of art, and in a complete and totally inept turn of malfeasance, left behind my favorite piece of art in our old apartment back in Phoenix, which I didn't notice for four days, due to the maddening way they off-loaded our rather voluminous collection. I've seen better stacking at a Jenga Tournament after party, and that's when everybody's in the midst of drunken-ass block-grabbing, let me tell you.

So after a massive freak-out on my part, the geniuses ship it here in a manner which could be best described as "are you fucking kiddng me, you goddamn morons?!?". It arrives in a taped-together assemblage of boxes with the glass shattered, the frame cracked, and the mat and art sliced up ten ways to Sunday. And even better? The delivery guys drop it off, knock on my door once, and before I could get there to open the door, take off for the hills.

The "box" literally "crunched" when I picked it up, and when it was opened, rained glass like some sort of hellish Hieronymus Bosch waterfall. So now, we have to deal with that as well, which as you can imagine, is going slower than my surgical recovery. Speaking of which, it will be addressed in the next blog, since it is so involved and something I still need to wrap my head around, but it has been a massive impediment in regards to the setting up of the house. We have a garage full of art, boxes everywhere, and a range of minor to major messes within the common areas of our domicile.

Argggg... But even given the unfortunate annoyances of my life right now, I really can't complain. As Ashley stated the other day as we were coming back from my post-op clinic appointment: "Sometimes when I'm driving home, I get really distracted by how pretty it is."

And that's the truth- it really is quite the change from Phoenix. The landscape is gorgeous, the people are nice, and the only jerks I've met thus far have been tourists, or happen to be employees of Smith Real Estate- sorry, that was a cheap shot, but I couldn't resist throwing it out there. Obviously, my attitude will change as the newness of this place wears off, but for now, I'm going to enjoy the opportunity to just breathe the clean air and take in the stars from my back patio. Eventually, when I'm back to being on my one and three-quarters feet, we'll see what happens when a small, yet obviously focused art scene meets a very hungry, yet equally passionately determined Artbitch. I

'm sure it will go well, how could it not? After all, is there anybody else who's as well known at making friends within an art scene as me? I for one, cannot possibly think of anyone else who is, but then again, I'm really not getting out much these days. But I'm fairly confident that I'm right.

You know... like always.

Well, I need to go grab a bite, so methinks this is perhaps the best place to take a pause. And when I come back... I open up about the amputation of my metaphorical Tito Jackson, ponder why hospitals always seem to have the best pudding, rave about the amazeballs staff at Gila River Medical Center in lovely Silver City, New Mexico, decry catheters yet again, and discuss what it  feels like to be a zombies chew toy.

“Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.” - Rumi

“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” - Buckminster Fuller