Due to an $800 health insurance billing screw up, I needed to find a new doctor. After almost four hours of searching the web, flipping through packets, calling Blue Cross, calling doctors, becoming depressed and giving up, eating a sandwich, reading some Kafka, becoming confused, cleaning my room, becoming motivated, resuming my search, adjusting my benefits, increasing my deductible, joining the Blue Choice Select Health Care Network, then disowning the Blue Choice Select Health Care Network, finding Jesus (he was wedged under my couch next to some old socks and a neck tie I’ve been looking for for months), and contemplating the “oxford comma” argument, it turns out that I live across the street from a doctor who is part of my network. You’d think that pissing in the alley behind your house is not a good way to find a health care provider, but in my case the relief was doubled.
The Rev. Tripp Hudgins has a blog. He recently posted a video about taking part in a panel discussion about communication. He touches upon the fact that there is a lack of a sign language “word” for poverty. During this panel discussion, the Rev admits to tossing F-bombs around with reckless abandon. As I have pointed out in previous posts, a dirty mouth usually deteriorates the validity of a point, but when it’s a Southern Baptist minister on a panel of def lesbians telling a room full of college students that there is a community of people based around the use of cuss words, then the point is happily taken. Preachers can say “Mother Fucker” in public without consequence; in fact people will take them more seriously in some contexts. “The rewards of the collar,” as Tripp would say.
I started working out a lot this year, not quite a New Year’s resolution but close enough so that I feel like I’m letting myself down if I don’t go do something active at least twice a week. I run along the lake, do push-ups before bed, I’ve joined a gym, I lift weights and I even can touch my toes for the first time since high school since I’ve started doing Yoga on Wednesdays. I’ve started eating better also; less pasta, more veggies and things that need peeling rather than icing. Regardless, I regularly slip up and get some White Castle at 3am after a long night working for rich douche bags at the Ritz Carlton Hotel. But, honestly, who cares; I can enjoy a slider or 6 now and again. I also have a soft spot for breakfast burritos. Either way, early in the morning or late at night, these fast food binges take a toll on my innards. I get heart burn from Coke, the farts from White Castle and the runs from anything made at McD’s.
I have recently wanted to get my cholesterol checked as part of my “I’m Too Lazy To Think Up A Better Slogan For Losing The Weight I Gained After Quitting Smoking” campaign, so I scheduled an appointment at the doctors office that I had recently pee-ed on. He asked about my health. I told him I was healthy. He seemed up tight. He asked about my job. I told him I was a musician and a sound engineer. He seemed to relax and told me he was a singer. I was on my best behavior. He asked about my eating habits. I told him about my inner turmoil after fast food. He asked about my asshole, more specifically if I have ever had someone jam anything up there to check on my prostate. I said “no.” I seemed up tight. He suggested I think about getting an exam. He started freely swearing shortly after that in very odd places. “Holy shit, your heart is in great health. It is pumping twice as much fucking blood as a normal person’s heart with each fucking pump,” and “You mother fucking badass, your blood pressure is low as shit, bitch,” and “fuck yeah, player, you are a healthy-ass mother fucker.” Ok, maybe it wasn’t quite like that, but the f-bomb made it’s way into conversation a few times shortly after he recommended that I get my asshole invaded. I guess if it’s your job to tell people that you need to stick your finger in their butt, then you’d better be able to say “shit” and “fuck” to the people who own those butts. I don’t think anyone would say that examining prostates is one of the “rewards of ten years of medical school.” Turn your head to the left, and fucking cough.
monday videoblog: talking about talking
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