I remember Halloween

Actually, the only thing Halloween about this post is the date on which I'm writing it.

For the six or seven of you that are paying attention, I didn't write here for about a week. It may have seemed like it had more to do with being in Orange County and trying to take a vacation from this bullshit hand life has dealt me at this particular time, but the truth was, it had nothing to do with that at all. The truth was that I more or less was having a prolonged mental crisis. Kids, I have been fucking depressed. I feel like in a four week period, everything I thought I knew to be true about a lot of really important things I had going in my life were more or less turned on their head. I saw some things in lights that I hadn't seen, or chose to ignore until I had no way to not see situations for what they really were. I was floored, and I was completely and totally overwhelmed by what reality was, and I had to figure out where the fuck to go, and what the fuck to do now. And let me tell you, this sort of stress did wonders for my stomach. I have had diarrhea in ways I didn't think were humanly possible. I could be making millions in the Japanese or German adult film industry these days, but I don't want to gross you all out.

I thought I had hit a rough patch of life last summer, when ultimately I got sober for the better part of a year and began to build my life back up from the bottom. I thought that over the last year, I had really started to get a plan together. I started to make plans for grad school, I had surrounded myself with what I thought were the right people, and while life threw curveballs at me here and there, I felt like the ball was rolling where it needed to and was supposed to roll. As I've stated in earlier posts, when life sidelines you like it has sidelined me since July, you have a lot of time to think on your hands. I have had some rather devastating situations befall me over the last few weeks. At times, it has felt like the rug was pulled out from underneath me. I have spent the last few weeks wondering what I did to get myself into those situations. How did I miss the mark? How could I have made myself more clear? How did I let something I cared about so deeply get so far off course? I started to look at where I really let myself get to over the last year, and saw that I wasn't nearly as on track as I wanted to or needed to be. When did I get distracted? How did I get distracted? What the fuck do I do now?

Now don't get me wrong, I am not trying to say I have a miserable life, I am also not trying to passive aggressively shit on relationships in my life that have changed over the last few weeks. What I am trying to say is that I was blindsided, and blindsided so hard that it shook me to the core of my being. The only person that I have any direct control or responsibility over in any situation is me. It would have been such a cop out to do anything but look at my own involvement in situations that went tits up. However, just because I had the presence of mind to look long and hard in the mirror doesn't mean that it was any easier to do the work or to not feel torn up inside.

So, if I haven't made it clear by now, I've been real fucking low for about nine days or so. I turned up the numb volume in some less than healthy ways at times, and I've more or less made myself scarce. I am not saying that either of these reactions are the right one, but at the very least, it made me be alone with my thoughts, and I didn't unnecessarily drag other people through my own emotional roller coaster (or if I did, it was the bare minimum amount of people). The last few nights have been some of the longest, loneliest, sobbingest nights that I have endured over my thirty years of being here. I've been pulled in so many directions about so many different aspects of my recent past and the future that continues to bare down on me regardless of how I happen to be feeling at the moment. I've had to try to understand if I was sad because I was lonely or was I sad because I was misunderstood? Was something really as good as it seemed if intentions were so misconstrued and ultimately convoluted? How do I continue to thrive and exist in a place that isn't where I want to be? How do I realistically plan to change things that are big picture and won't happen overnight?

A fucking drag, right? Well, I am happy to say that I am starting to make some sense of this. I have spent enough time in solitary. My drive and motivation are coming back. While I don't have all these questions answered. I haven't resolved how I feel about some of the recent changes in my life. I don't exactly how I am going to get myself to where I want to be next. I do know that I can only change things that are in my power. I can't beat myself up over what other people do, and I can't worry myself over things I can't entirely effect on my own. There are a few new projects I am getting involved with and starting to work on, and I have recently met some exciting new people that are providing my life with a much needed breath of fresh air. In addition to these newer elements of my life, I can't forget my rocks, my support, my friends who have been there, and will always be there no matter what the fuck goes on.

This probably was vague and I'm sure reads like a raving idiot rambling on at four in the morning, but hey, I am who I am, and I ride the wave of inspiration whenever it hits. The important part is to remember that for as bleak as it seems, it won't stay bleak forever. I'm sure that I'll still lay awake over-analyzing my life's recent turbulence. I'm probably not done crying, and I for sure haven't figured out how to get from the point a I'm currently stuck in, to the totally awesome point b I want to have for myself, but there is a light at the end of this tunnel, and I'm pretty sure it isn't an oncoming train.

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you...

without a dope blog to step to.

Sorry for that.

A lot has happened in a week. My time in Orange County was amazing. Thanks to Mindy Hoch, Javier Van Huss, Erica Koska and Family, Sara Rockwood, Adrian Castillo, Leah Putnam, Andrew and Commissary Lounge, Norm and Misses Norm, Chase Corum, Collin O Brian, Keath Moon, Rachel Johnston, Matt Horwitz, Osh and White Lotus Tattoo and everyone else I ran into/hung out with. I had a total fucking blast and completely got out of my head for four days. It was exactly what I needed at this point in my life. You guys are fucking awesome.

I got the torture test results back. The ultrasound found fat on my liver that needs to go, and the HIDA Scan found nothing wrong with the Gall Bladder. Fuck my life. I have an endoscopy Monday and an order for more stool samples. Yeah, I can't really even comment. Trying to be positive.

I had a conversation last week that kinda fucked with my head for a minute. Without getting to into it, because its not really blog material, I feel like my grown up plans and intentions weren't taken seriously because I grew up punk, and still am involved with punk at 30 years of age. I have lots of visible tattoos, I listen to loud, unruly music, I make unconventional decisions, and while I may not be leaping off the stage at every show at Gilman St, I still live my life in that vein in a lot of ways. The thing is, for the most part, I do grown up shit. I don't really like going out all the time. Most of the time, I don't go see bands I don't really love anymore. I would rather be at home by 10pm than out getting wasted. I am trying to aim my life to a place of stability. I want to end up married with kids and house. I don't want roommates forever. I don't want to have touring bands playing my basement. But if for the time being, I have to do that to get by, I will. I will make do in any situation, because that's what punk taught me. If you can't get in the club, the club is wherever you are.

So this goes out to all the old dudes who are slowing down the life and playing the game by the rules, but don't remember where they came from, and still get wild without necessarily buying into the aspects of punk that don't matter in the long run.

The tides may be turning

I woke up this afternoon feeling especially haggard. I had to cancel plans that I really didn't want to cancel, but there was no way I was going to be able to make them comfortably. This short of shit drives me insane. It just reminds me how fucking useless this situation has made me. However, my grandpa came home, and he brought two game changing envelopes with him...

MY FUCKING DISABILITY FINALLY CAME!!!!!!!!

I mean, it only took, what, nearly three months. That's a reasonable amount of time for a human to live off of nothing right? Especially when you're sick and unable to really do anything for yourself...

So I get to leave town tomorrow without having to borrow any more money and I'll be that much less stressed.

Especially after having a crappy week djing, as far as money goes anyway.

Other than that, not much else to report. I'll write more from Orange County.

Don't worry...the chemicals we use don't have any side effects...

Famous last words from the lab tech Friday. Don't be fooled. While I may not be peeing in glow in the dark colors, to say that my body has been off all weekend would be the understatement of the year. I imagine that this is what having that "not so fresh" feeling must be like.

Anywho, another weekend of insomnia and low energy fun has came and went. The highlight of the weekend was the Baseball Pizza Party that I had with Greg Diasshole. I decided that Round Table Pizza couldn't be that much worse for me that radioactive chemicals, so we got a large pie and some breadsticks and watched Cody Ross go deep twice as the Giants took game 1 from the Phillies in the NLCS. More importantly than the game or the pizza, Greg was the first guest of my own I've had since moving into my grandparents apartment as a result being sick. While the apartment really isn't all that big, and I'm long past the age of wanting to throw ragers in any of my living spaces, it changed the atmosphere of living here. Don't get me wrong, the apartment is nice, comfortable, and I am not complaining about the situation I am lucky enough to be in at this time (because who the fuck knows what I'd be doing without it), but it most definitely isn't my own place, and I wouldn't feel right subjecting my grandparents to the rough and tumble socialization that often is a bi-product to my friends and I being us. It's amazing what a good friend, some junk food, and decent baseball can do to one's PMA.

Other than that, I'm another fun holding pattern of waiting for someone with the answers to find time to let me know what those answers are. Would it kill a hospital to have someone stick around these test sites that can offer insight or even decode data so the sit around and wait while puking time gets cut way down?

Speaking of which, if the HIDA Scan yields no results that lead to action, I have no idea what I am going to do with myself. I have been left to sit around and twiddle my thumbs between bathroom visits since August and I'm at the end of my rope. If all that fucking agony and pain was for nothing, I'm going to need to be put in a straightjacket and locked in a rubber room. Yes ladies, I get that childbaring is gnarly, and I'm not trying to get into a "who's pain is worse" pissing contest, but Friday morning was fucked up. I just now have started to feel all right.

So basically the rest of this week is one giant countdown until Friday at noon. Extreme conditions call for extreme responses, and in this case, I am so sick and stressed that Southern California looks like good times. It will be nice to give myself a break, my grandparents a break, recharge the batteries, and return inspired for getting the new plan in life rolling.

I don't want the news, I have no use for it

Friday was by far one of the most fucked days of my entire life. I had no idea what was coming my way.

So after a night of staring up at the ceiling because sleep and I have a very touch and go relationship these days, I pulled myself together and headed down to the car with my grandma. We drove over the bridge and my phone kept beeping with well wishes and funny anecdotes to cheer me up, but there really wasn't anything that was going to ease my mind. It was a rare morning where I actually felt hungry when I woke up, but due to medical restrictions, there was no possible way for me to eat food this morning. Traffic on the bridge wasn't so bad, and we got to 400 Parnassus Ave early for my first appointment.

The first appointment I had this morning was un ultrasound. I was lead into a dark room by a young Asian nurse, told to take off my shirt, put on a hospital gown, and lay down on a reclining chair. The nurse then squirted warm lube onto my abdomen. Its not uncommon for guys to have fantasies about asian women, dark rooms, and warm lube, but I guarantee that this isn't what most guys have in mind. For the next thirty minutes, the nurse ran a plastic tool with a rolling edge over every square inch of my abdomen. Part of the restrictions for the tests were no food six hours before the test. I hadn't eaten anything but Wheat Thins since midnight, so when the nurse asked If I had breakfast and looked at me funny when I said no, my mind instantly went WHAT. THE. FUCK. However, it is clearly posted all over the ultrasound department that the person administering the test is merely a technician, and they are not qualified to answer anything regarding the results of your ultrasound. Hey UCSF, if you don't want your patients asking questions, tell your lab techs to keep a straight face when they see some weird shit. Dicks.

When we finished at the ultrasound department, there was about an hour and a half to kill before my next appointment. I wrote in my last entry about how I couldn't read my doctors handwriting because it looked like black metal font and there were undecipherable words written on the test order. Well, after taking a second look at the sheet, I was a little wrong. There was one word that clearly stood out that I had either overlooked or blocked out mentally: INJECTION. Seeing as how I actually felt like I was starving, and no matter how interesting Chris Nieratko's Skinema is, waiting in the food court would have drove me insane. Grandma and I decided to head to the other appointment early to see if maybe I could get in there early. It seemed unlikely, but hey, you know never know, right?

We headed to 505 Parnassus Ave and took the elevator to the third floor. Upon going to the third floor, I saw a sign that scared the absolute shit out of me: NUCLEAR DIAGNOSTICS. Let's do the mental math here: nuclear means radioactive elements often used in bombs that destroy everything within a couple hundred miles of where they detonate, and diagnostics are means to diagnose or uncover a health issue. I quickly realized that my morning took a turn for the worst. We walked up to the check in desk and waited as the young, brunette nurse in purple scrubs apathetically argued with a patient over the phone over an appointment time. When she hung up the phone, I handed her my sheet, explained that I knew I was here early, and asked if it would be remotely possible for me to be seen earlier than 11. She told me she would look into it. That wasn't my only question though....

"So what exactly is a HIDA Scan with a CCK Injection?" I asked.

"Oh, um, it means they're going to take a bunch of pictures of your abdomen and kidneys," she answered in an odd, uneasy tone.

Listen lady, you're cute, but you fucking fail at keeping a poker face.

We sat down to wait, and I nervously finished reading Ben Snakepit's new anthology, Life in the Jugular Vein (which is really good). Twenty minutes go by and a male lab tech calls my name, and leads my grandma and I down to another, smaller waiting room. The lab tech, Craig, told me that I would need to be outfitted with an IV, and lead me into a triage station to get me ready. As we are walking into the triage, I figured that this guy would know what the HIDA scan/CCK Injection is. He won't bullshit me, right? So I ask him. I really wasn't prepared for the answer.

"Well...we are going to shoot radioactive material into your blood, which will be absorbed into your liver by the (insert sciencey as fuck word), which is where bile is made. Once its made into bile, were going to track how it gets to the gall bladder. After an hour, we are going to inject the CCK, which is a chemical that makes your gall bladder contract, releasing the radioactive stuff out of your gall bladder. Don't worry though, there aren't any side effects or anything like that. So let's find your vein here...."

Uh...what?

Craig gets my IV in, and walks me back to the waiting room. Seeing as how it had been eleven hours since my last meal of Wheat Thins, I didn't have a lot of gas left in the tank, so Craig had to keep me from falling over three or four times on the way back to the waiting room. I sat back down, attempted to read, but realized I was still too nauseous from the IV and had to put my head between my legs. Five minutes later, Craig came and got my grandma and I, and took us to the testing area.

As we entered the room, to the left was a large, box shaped machine with a bed coming out of the middle of it. Craig told me to lay on the bed, and then slid the bed under the box. He attached a bag of sketchy looking liquid to my IV, lowered the large, square camera down so that there was about two inches of room between the camera and my chest, hit a few buttons, and the party started. I felt every bit of that liquid go into my arm, and I was overcome with this feeling of great discomfort. I instantly had the urge to shift my body as the liquid pumped itself in. It wasn't painful, but it took everything I had to not push my way out of the camera, and I kept writhing and moving side to side the best I could given the small amount of room I had. It was the longest hour of my life. Luckily enough, I managed to fall asleep for about twenty minutes, but was woken up by a family who had a seven year old sun receiving a CT Scan next door. The only solace I had was taken by a poor kid who I'm sure had no idea how bummed he was going to be in a couple of minutes.

At the end of what seemed like six or seven years, Craig came back wheeling a table with a small appliance fitted with a tube of clear liquid in a plunger on top, with a connectable IV tube coming out of it. I am not a doctor, I'm not even a smart man all the time, but my Spidey sense knew enough to know that what was on that table was bad, bad news.

"So I'm going to start the CCK Injection. We are going to infuse the CCK into your bloodstream over fifteen minutes, then observe for another fifteen minutes. Oh, you may experience some nausea or slight pain, but that really depends on how your body is."

By nausea and slight pain, Craig meant severe, shooting pains that I couldn't even react to because I had no room to move. Even though it was only my gall bladder contracting, it felt like my entire stomach was trying to fight itself. The last thirty minutes of that test was abosolutely agonizing. After the appointment, I had plans with my grandma to go out to a celebratory lunch. I quickly realized that any plans I thought I was going to be able to keep on Friday were out the fucking window. My life was hijacked. Again.

Finally, the torture ended. The camera was lifted, the bed was moved outward, Craig pulled my IV out, and my grandma and I were sent on our way. I don't know how I looked when I made that walk back to the car, but I know that I couldn't stand up straight and that I was out of my fucking mind if I thought I was going to be eating at the Cheesecake Factory anytime soon. We eventually got back to the car, drove back to Oakland, and I had a couple of eggs before passing out for hours.

Could anyone tell me what's wrong at that day? Of course not. I woke up Friday night feeling dirty, gross, depressed, and still without an answer. They said the radioactive chemical had no side effects, but I haven't felt off like this since getting this sick. So I went through hell and back and I still have to wait and wonder. I know no more now then I did Thursday night other than the HIDA Scan fucking sucks.

To sum it all up, my body went through hell and I still don't know what's wrong. Yay science.

Nightmare Before Christmas

Tomorrow I get to wake up at 6:45am to leave the house by 7:15am to make sure I am on time for an 8:45am appointment at the UCSF Hospital. I know that I am getting an ultrasound of my gall bladder, and then I am getting some other test, but my doctor's handwriting looks like black metal font so I have no fucking idea what it is or what it means. Kvelertak? Nachtmystium? Zzyxx? I guess I'll tell you about it when I'm done. I hope it doesn't involve needles. I am tired of that. Anyway, I'll have my ipod and a book. So yeah, I got that going for me.

This 6:45am wake up should be interesting seeing as how all this week, that's usually about the time Lexapro loses to Tylenol PM. I called Dr. Chen today to figure out how to break this fucking ridiculous cycle and start sleeping like a normal human. Armed with Benadryl and low key activities all day, I am not going to see Fishbone tonight and pacing around my grandparent's apartment trying not to think about tomorrow and all of the other bullshit that fell on me this week. It's really hard to keep your mind clear when in the interest of your health you are keeping it low key. So I keep doing laps, I ate a bagel, drank a soda, you get the idea. Not a whole lot going on here. Just the weather.

Only one week until I'm heading south. It can't come fast enough. I don't really know what else to say right now. I trying to fight stir crazy. If you want me, I'll be watching the same six shows on

First Failure

Today someone I really love and respect slighted me. Slighted me so much without even bothering to really understand the situation that I was slighted over. It fucked me up. Fucked me up bad. Ruined my day and my night. Turned me into a fucking shitty mope and made me feel like never leaving the house again.

I dwelled on it all night. No matter what I did, I couldn't shake it off. It made me a drag to be around, and made me second guess myself.

Well guess what, fuck you.

For your stupid, thoughtless lashing out, I am going to work that much harder at this. I am going to write that much better. I am going to crank out whatever fucking story for whoever wants to put my shitty dribble out there for the world to see. I'm doing it because I'm good at it and it makes me feel good. If you really are choosing to not participate in this part of my life, well then its your loss. It's something to be proud of. Something that gets me through the lowest times and I'm sure is only going to make the high times even better.

So I'm going to be awesome, just to spite you. I am going to be unfuckingavoidable by the time I'm done. You're going to wish you didn't have to see me, my name, and my words everywhere and they are going to haunt you just as long as today is going to haunt me.

You may have won the battle, but I'm winning the war.

Everyone's Got Something

Everyone has something to tell me. Everyone has an opinion as to what's really wrong with me. Everyone has an opinion on what I should do about it. Everyone has something to say about how I put it all out there. Everyone's worried, but the way I deal with my own worry isn't ok.

It's walking a tightrope you can't ever stay on top of. One on hand, if I'm too honest about feeling bad, its too hard to read. If I try and do things and be out, I'm doing too much and being counterproductive to my healing.

This is harder for me than any of you, and for everything you read, see, hear, or think you know, you have no idea. I don't write looking for pity. I don't write for your sympathy. I don't write for your compliments. I don't need to get sick to reconnect with every friend I've ever had or lost long love ever lost. While I appreciate the positive response, and I am perplexed by some of the negative, this is my situation. This is my outlet. This is my life. This is what I need.

Sometimes I make the wrong move. We all do. Sometimes I think I can do something that I really can't do. Sometimes I think the leap is shorter than it really is. Sometimes it's a metaphorical skinned knee, other times things end up in ICU. That's life. You go through the best you can and hopefully you cover the head, neck, and kidneys when the aftermath hits.

This is one of those throw up your hands days. Maybe tomorrow won't be so bad.

Shit I want to do when I'm in OC in 2 weeks

I have a bunch of other writing to get done today, so I don't have time to get all "boo fucking hoo my life sucks" on you today. Here's a list of awesome shit I want to do in OC.

Places I want to eat at, no matter how sick it'll make me:
Albertacos
Albatros
Taco Loco
Super Pollo (that by far is going to be the most taxing, but its been years)
Two Brothers
Wheel of Life (maybe? Adrian...is the shit still even good?)

Places I want to drink beers at:
The Little Knight
The Huddle
The Almight Commissary Lounge
That weird mexican restaurant I met Collin at with Sunshine (Collin...help a dude out with that)
Fill in the blanks. It's drinking beers.

Things I want/need to do to my body:
Touch up the fade
Marr and Marr
Fight to Lose on the throat
Another nose ring (Adrian...whats the overhead on that?)

Other bonuses:
D-land
Play bass for The Mistake (the less musical responsibility the better)
Mosh for Children of God and The Love Below
Hang out with Devon
Baby Shower
Neil Alan Wright
Matt Horwitz


Ok...I have to write this bio on my brother and his lady before they summon the gods of folk rock and send weird 50 year old lesbian van drivers with attitudes after me.

Gut Check

I swear to you that I didn't plan on having such a stupid pun for a blog entry title, but honestly, the kind of weekend I had was the kind of weekend where a gut check was required, and I'm not even talking about my appointments at UCSF on Friday.

It's often said that the true character and nature of people shows when the going gets tough. and my going's been getting tougher since the end of June. The further into this I've gotten, the blood and the water have become increasingly more separated. Take that how you want. It's a reference to people, places, situations, activities, and life plans. It's amazing to see how much time you wasted when you had every opportunity not to waste time while you're in a position where all you can do is waste time because you're too fucked to do anything else. That sounded like some shitty Modest Mouse lyric, didn't it? Its probably a grammatical nightmare and isn't making UCSC look like any less of a party school than it already does, but I don't really give a shit anymore.

Not to sound like an asshole (but I'm going to), but I realized something yesterday while I was playing jams at Eli's for hours. I'm a great dude. Don't be confused, I'm not perfect, without flaws, and not necessarily better than anyone else, but all things considered, I'm smart, talented, decent-looking, and a good friend. I wouldn't call the time spent up to my being sick a waste or a mistake or anything like that at all, but I realized that I've been wasting myself. Selling myself short on opportunities, settling for less than acceptable, and not getting the most out of my time.

I'm fucking done with that.

I float around Oakland, struggling to get by, and the majority of the people I love I don't even see. I get caught up in a rat race of social politics and nuances that when I stop and think about, I could give two shits about. However, because I am an idiot, I've let that be something that took the reigns over my own satisfaction, my own creativity, my own art, my own comfort, and my own happiness. No more.

As some of you may or may not know, I have been applying to and planning on attending USF to get a Masters in education, and eventually become a teacher. After a solid gut check this weekend, the playing field is wide open. I plan on applying to schools in Southern California and Austin, Texas. I'm always going to be a Bay Area dude, but, as someone so often texts me at random, "these days, the people I love are spread so far apart".

I want to excel at school, write more, be "Marr and Marr", be the best sketchy uncle ever, talk punk rock with the Captain, get drunk with Collin O Brian, and push myself to move the way I want to and need to move. Oakland, I love you, and we've had some great times, but my days are numbered. Time to get on to the next thing, and hopefully return to some of the greatest people I've ever met.

When life flattens you out, and you realize you have a shot and rising again, you need to rise as high up as you can. Don't put it off, let's start today.

PS - The other day, Adrian asked me if I ever had a weird Ouija Board story, and I totally do, but it was too long to text. Adrian, here's your story.

I was in early high school, and my brother and I, like every other kid I know, had a Ouija Board. One night, he, myself, and two of our friends decide to turn all the lights off in our room (yeah, my brother and I shared a room, until I graduated from high school, annoying right?), and get all creepy with the Ouija Board. We were in the middle of the room, no less than ten feet from my dresser which had a globe on top of it. We start fucking around with the board, and all of the sudden, out of nowhere, the globe starts spinning and falls off the dresser. No one was close enough to touch the dresser or the globe, and all four people in the room had their hands on the board. SKETCHY AS FUCK. I don't necessarily believe in ghosts, but I know something fucked with us that night, and that Ouija Boards are no joke.

The Reality of My Surroundings

To be totally honest, the title of this entry is really only influenced by the incredibly awesome documentary on Fishbone I just watched called "Everyday Sunshine" (yeah, I know that should be italicized, but for whatever reason updating my blog via my iPad doesn't allow me to do that easily, and getting to the Apple store for an iPad lesson hasn't really been high on my list of shit to do lately). If you are a fan of any style of music, by all means, go see this movie. It is one of the realist portrayals of being in a band I have ever seen, and has gotten me excited about my expected return to playing in the near future.

Other than that, not a whole lot to report upon in the world of vomit and poo lately. I have been stricken with ridiculous insomnia lately, and have been trying to break the cycle of falling asleep at sunrise and waking up at 4 in the afternoon. I was actually home last night at what i thought was a reasonable hour and asleep by the time i was usually getting home, so i see that as a positive step in the right direction. Apparently my anti-depressant, Lexapro, can wreak havoc on sleep, so I'm trying to weigh out how I should cope with this going forward. Do I want to load myself up with Ambien or Unisom or something just to regulate another pill? Do I switch anti-depressants? These seem like such stupid problems to have. Problems I never wanted and problems I still don't believe i have to put up with. Such is life, they say.

Tomorrow I doing eight hours of DJing at Eli's for a bbq, Monday and Tuesday I am making some money helping my friend Jon with some stuff around his house, and Tuesday and Wednesday I have my usual DJ gigs. What does that mean? I won't be flat fucking broke for days at a time. The disability system in the state is ridiculous. If I didn't have an amazing family who has stepped up and helped me in this incredibly trying time, I have no idea what I would be doing right now.

I was supposed to be at a wedding today. I'm obviously not at said wedding. I guess that's how it goes when you're striving towards the greater good in your life. Sometimes you have to throw yourself in front of the bullet in order to not get hit by a bus. Maybe that's a stupid analogy. Oh well, they can't all be zingers, right?

Six more days until I head back up the hill to UCSF. I feel like I'm in the boring part of a movie. I just have to sit here and hold on some more before I get to find anything out about feeling better or having anything to tell anyone else about how I feel. This makes for writing about things other than the ups and downs of uncontrolable excrement a bit more challenging. I suppose that if I ever want to do anything with this half-assed pipe dream of being some sort of person paid for his ability to dribble words onto a computer screen, my game needs to be as sharp during the doldrums of life as they are when Hurricane Fucking Katrina crashes on shore.

If you live in San Francisco, go see Everyday Sunshine. It's part of SF Indie Fest this week. I will have a glowing review available to read on the sfist.com by Tuesday, and all of the pertinent info will be there for you to read. I guess its time to go make something about of my Saturday night.

Saturday night...ooooooohhhhh Saturday night. Sorry, I just felt obligated to do that.

Adios. Come hang out with me at Eli's tomorrow. I'll play whatever you like.

talking shit about a pretty sunset

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Patterns...patterns...patterns...patterns...

Like clockwork, I will start to feel worn down and a touch more exhausted on Sundays. If I had to make a corny simile, it is as if the cold of Fall starts creeping into a Summer day. Sylvia Plath, look out. By Monday, I am in horrible shape. For example, Monday I spent most of the day laying around in bed. I was asleep until 3pm. My sole attempt at going out last night was limited to sitting on couches, which I eventually wrapped up early because I was seeing double and felt like I had lead going through my veins. Tuesdays are just as bad, but almost worst as far as my headspace goes. These are the days I think the irrational thoughts that no one wants to think, and even less people want to share because they are unpleasant, horrible, serious, and end being the sort of thing that end up being a 5150 situation.

What does it mean? How the fuck do I know? I wasted $60,000 not going to literature classes at UCSC. I couldn't never been a doctor, and self-diagnosis is for idiots. However, it keeps happening this way. Usually by the end of DJing at Eli's on Wednesday, I start to feel pretty good, and by the weekend my energy and attitude are at a weekly high. I feel like I am addressing this via Lexapro and Valium when things get really bad, but regardless of these medications, the cycle continues. I don't really know if this means anything, but I feel like making a note of it is better than nothing.

I received an "unorthodox proposition" from my good friend, Captain Chase Corum last night. Upon getting back to being me, we are going to head off on an Apocalypse Now meets Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas adventure to Thailand. International travel? Best friends? Gooooooood times. It's nice to have something to look forward to in the future. Thanks Chase. Can't wait to lay waste to Asia with you.

I'm DJing tonight at Merchant's in Jack London Square. My good friend Waine from Brooklyn is in town. Shit should get wild. Come hang out. Maybe I can break the cycle of feeling shitty.

The highs and lows...

Another wild weekend in the world of unspecified stomach diseases. One of the most frustating parts of being sick in this way is that every day is a total surprise as to how you may really feel. Friday was great. Kara sprung me from the downtown perch I'm currently roosting in and per the orders of the doctor himself, I liberated my diet and enjoyed chicken and waffles at 900 Grayson. After months of eating food that was devoid of most reasons why people even eat food, it was fucking amazing. Even then I knew I would most likely end up paying for it later, I didn't care. I just wanted to enjoy myself. (Dear Grandma and cousin Lori, it's not that I don't love the soup you make for me, it's just that chicken and waffles from 900 Grayson are next level shit. It's apples and oranges).

After eating, We headed over to "where everybody knows your naaaaaaaaaame...dun dun dun", Eli's. Melissa and Sunshine showed up, Bryan and Topher were already there hard at work on a pitcher. A couple of hours of bad sex jokes and a libation or two, I got dropped back at home and promptly spent some quality time with my old friend, the toilet.

The sickness that night wasn't that bad as far as some of my worst, but it was still there. Even on what was one of the best days I have had in recent memory, I had to take a time out from the day so I could go home and be sick. Sure, bathrooms are private in just about any public place, but sometimes these attacks are so violent and harsh that for the sake of the senses of everyone around me, I go home to deal with it. If it were something as mild as an asthma attack, and manageable with something akin to an inhaler, it would make my life infinitely easier. However, when I get sick, even on an easy day, it's beyond the capability of being dealt with discreetly in public and while I don't take too much pride in myself, and I'd lost most of my dignity long before the age of 30, the few scraps of each that I have, I am trying to keep by having my symptoms at home.

Anyone see Lucero or Holly Golightly at Hardly Strictly this weekend? I'll bet it was awesome. I would have love to have gone, but portapottis seem like they would be my absolute worst nightmare. That's the sort of shit that really gets me. My ability to adapt is shot.

Sunday finally seemed like Fall had arrived, and I felt like I got to spend it in the most ideal way you can spend a fall day. Yeah, that memory is for me. I may tell you all about how I shit day-glo or that I throw up nine times a day, but you don't get everything. Good or bad.

Just got word from UCSF...my endoscopy can't be scheduled until November 15th, and I hear about when my other tests go down tomorrow. November fucking 15th. And you all wonder why it's hard for me to care about these appointments and take these doctors seriously. Oh well, the overall good of the weekend outweighed the bad, and I can't let things out of my hands ruin the good things I know I can make change.

And I leave with this:

"my ribs have parted ways, said we're not going to protect this heart you have..."

I am a patient boy...I wait I wait I wait I wait.....

To hear about the visit with the almighty doctor at UCSF. What exactly did the the Wizard of Oz have to say? What was it like being in that
creepy looking building that loomed in the distance when I lived in the Outer Sunset? Grab a beer, a comfy seat, and read up.

My brother drove my mom and I over. I pressed my face against passenger side window, tried not to feel queasy, and hid teary eyes behind my totally fucking awesome checkerboard Kanye West sunglasses. Even though I knew going to UCSF was the beginning of finding the answers I need to get better, I just couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom. We zigzagged through Hayes Valley, Nopa, Upper Haight, and then through Cole Valley, I kept fighting the urge to jump out of the car and run. We finally drove up the last hill, pulled up in front of 350 Parnassus Ave, and I slunked out of the car and shuffled up to the large glass doors and up to the elevator.

The office itself wasn't anything special. Very much a small, cramped office on the corner of the fourth floor with a "built in the 70s" kind of vibe. The grumpy, Russian receptionist shoved paperwork at me. I filled it out and joined my mom on a chair in the waiting room. There were a couple of random cougars were giving me the tv eye. It was a rare instance where I wished I would have had the one and only Captain Chase Corum at my side instead of my mom, but then I realized that the cheap Tiffany's jewelry wearing ladies prolly aren't that into low rent thirty something dudes that like stoner metal. Finally the nurse came and got me and away we went.

The nurse practitioner grilled me about my health for about half an hour before bringing me into an exam room and giving me really the first thorough exam I have gotten from any doctor since this whole fucking mess started. After she wrapped that up, the man, the myth, the legend, the guy I crawled out of the hood for, finally came in to see me. He asked me if I had any other significant illnesses throughout life, and about other circumstances surrounding me life at the time of the onset of all these problems. At the end of the conversation, his prognosis is that there is most definitely something wrong with me, but can't distinguish whether it's a huge, horrific problem, or a smaller issue that has magnified over time due to stress and time passing. He ordered an ultrasound of my gall bladder, another gall bladder specific test, some more specific blood tests, and a second endoscopy with a specific small intestine biopsy. He told me to unrestrict my diet because he wants to see my body at it's most annoyed and fucked up. He wants the best samples he can get. We all shook hands, I got another prescription for nausea suppositories (the sexiest way to feel better), and I headed back to my grandparents' apartment.

Was it a victory? Sure. Is it a the start of the end? Possibly. But no matter what you call it, I'm still waiting. I had an amazing day yesterday cruising around Oakland with friends and I felt pretty good, but I started my morning by throwing up and had to take a 3 hour time out from socializing to throw up again and rehydrate.. Today I left my cousins housewarming party and seeing a lot of my family because I didn't feel bloody diarhea was an appropriate house warming gift for my cousin Tony.

Tomorrow a close friend comes back into town, and Monday I schedule all my tests. I am trying to change the tide of my feelings and get my hope to find an end to this nightmare, but I can't put my head in the clouds when my guts decide to rip my back down to Earth and into my grandfather's black tiled bathroom.

Sorry for the missed day. I'll get back to my daily blog hustle tomorrow.