Old Port Serenade

If you have been a regular reader of the blog then you already know that the Lovely Girlfriend is in no way drawn to the rustic charm of Maine.  She has, on various occasions, described her experience in Maine as:   Trees and snow.  Nothing and nowhere.  Who would live like this?  Don't they know there are other places they could live?  The last one is my favorite, as if the entire population of Maine has never looked at a US map.  Okay, okay, so in all likelihood a significant percentage of our population probably hasn't ever seen a map.  They've at least heard about other places and if they truly are Mainer's they dream about one day moving to Florida.  Zephyrhills preferably. 

You can imagine my surprise while walking with her through the streets of The Old Port when she dropped "I could see us owning a place here."  Holy Shit!  The Lovely Girlfriend is ready to make the move to Maine!  I don't even want to live in Maine full time and she's already picturing our life there.  After a moment to keep myself from keeling over in shock, I respond "I'd rather have a place in the woods, on a lake."  This brought the conversation to a screeching halt.  Turns out The Lovely Girlfriend still has no real interest in living in Maine as a true Mainer would.  She wants to live in the heart of the Old Port.  That's not Maine.  Portland is a city in Maine, a great city, but it is not Maine.  I pointed out that we already live in a city and the whole point of one day getting a place in Maine is to get away from civilization.  This argument fell on deaf ears.  The Lovely Girlfriend looks at cities as a great way to avoid spending time in the country not the other way around.  I guess that eventual log cabin tucked away in the woods will have to be for my own getaways.  And moonshine.  That'll be where I make my likker. 

More on the last part at a much later date.  Now onto my Portland Travel Guide.

We braved a wintry mix all the way from Bangor in an effort to make it down to Portland by 10am.  Why?  Because someone signed up for the Polar Dip and Dash on a whim.  The same someone that hates cold weather.  I didn't believe she would even get out of the truck once we arrived but after driving three plus hours at around 45mph on icy roads I think she decided running the 5k no matter what the weather would be better than hearing a single I told you so from me.  Just the day before the Lovely Girlfriend had flown into Portland and it probably would have made a lot of sense to simply remain in Portland but I didn't want her to miss a chance to dine at the crown jewel in the Bangor culinary scene - The Ground Round.  So wake up early and make the drive we did with bellies bloated with poppers and flingers.

Celebrity Photo-Op is the long time organizer of the Polar Dip and Dash as well as the resident crazy person that makes the plunge into the icy Atlantic every year.  To date she has lost three toes on her left foot due to frostbite.  All in the name of ending Global Warming.  Now that's commitment... from someone that should probably be committed.  CP-O did do a great job of organizing a reunion of sorts for former employees of the summer camp we all used to work at.  Downtown (a nickname since high school), his wife The Legal Guardian (part lawyer, part starting guard on the roller derby team) as well as Ballerina Bear (she won the costume contest with that get up), Ironic Moustache (imagine Rollie Fingers with flair) and finally Big V (I have no idea if it's big or not but she's worked most of her adult life with the Vagina Monologues so at the very least it's important) were all there.  Only CP-O and Ballerina Bear were foolish enough to get in the water.  Once we were done laughing at the hundred or so Rubes that went in we decided to head to The Great Lost Bear.

The Great Lost Bear is a fantastic pub with surprisingly inconsistent food.  They have a massive menu, everything on it sounds tremendous but it can be rather hit or miss.  I've eaten there a dozen times or more and had as many disappointments as I've had home runs.  The beer list is also massive and thankfully a lot more consistent.  Mostly ales from craft breweries around the US with some old European standards thrown in.  Throw in a creative cocktail list and even with the spotty food this is a great place to hit in Portland.  The Lovely Girlfriend threw back a Burnt Trailer (Allen's Coffee Brandy and Moxie - two Maine staples that horrify most of the rest of the country) and an A-Okay (Allen's and Oakhurst milk, she had it with 2%, with whole milk it's called Fat Ass in a Glass).  Odd how much she loves the drink of choice for rural Maine but doesn't like the rural.  Babysteps.

We stayed our first night at the Best Western Merry Manor in South Portland because it was New Years Eve and every hotel in downtown was booked solid.  The Merry Manor wasn't too shabby accommodations especially considering the price (free, become a Best Western Member, great bennys) but it was chock full of teenagers and smelled so strongly of marijuana that you'd get a contact high when going to fill the ice bucket.  The teen couples appeared very excited to get biz-zee on NYE based on all the grouping we witnessed in the lobby and hallways.  We didn't stay long at the hotel as we had been invited by Big V to a NYE party.  Big V's sister (Drunken Zooey because she looked a lot like what I'd imagine Zooey Deschanel would look like totally hammered) and her brother-in-law (Paul Schneider, he looks like him plus they are both in All the Real Girls which I never saw but I'm assuming they wound up together in the end)  bought a house straight out of The Partridge Family.  It is a completely untouched 1960's rambler and a kick ass house to throw a party.  Thank you, Drunken Zooey, Paul Schneider, Big V and all the rest.  The Lovely Girlfriend and I had a great time.

Okay, got to run some errands and get zapped - only 5 left!  Tune in for part II this evening.

Life in Style

Today at my daily radiation appointment I realized something.  At least one of the people that get radiation around the same time I do is a smoker.  I did not see them smoking.  I am assuming this based on the reek of cigarette smoke that was filling the room when I walked in, disappeared as soon as that person did and then came back with a vengeance the moment he/she returned.  I suppose I should be horrified by this.  That someone would continue to do whatever it is that gave them cancer while they were getting treatment for said cancer.  Honestly, besides the stench, I didn't have it in me to be disgusted.  After taking about two seconds to think it over I realized if I had to give up something for the rest of my life because it was the cause of my Hodgkin's I doubt very much that I could.  Or that I would even try. 

Thankfully, I'm not saddled with any real addictions.  I enjoy some sweet brown liquor now and then, a cigar or pipe on occasion, a couple of cups of coffee in the morning, and some rock cocaine on the weekends.  Nothing I couldn't quit tomorrow.  Except the coffee of course.  I'd probably need some time at the methadone clinic to shake that monkey off.  Point being, I wouldn't want to give up any one of them for the rest of my life.  I suppose I could bend on the rock cocaine assuming I could substitute opium in its place.  What happened to opium dens anyway?  There's a weed dispensary on every corner in Los Angeles and not a single opium palace.  They're no different than pot clinics only they come with beautiful silks from the Orient.  Plus, what's not to like about dens and palaces?  That just sounds inviting.  I bet if we called them Opium Loft Spaces they'd be cited as a driving force for inner city gentrification.  If you were looking at buying some property and a realtor told you an opium den had opened up on the block would it be a turn off or you would you think what an ethnically diverse neighborhood I'm moving into?  You'd think you were exactly the forward thinking, non-judgmental, totally hip type that is moving into the neighborhood right as we speak. Where's the nearest Restoration Hardware? 

Anyway, the good old days of opium dens and the Chinese building our railroads are behind us.  Back to the point of this post.  Since none of my various habits are considered contributing factors to lymphoma I won't have to worry about giving any of them up.  Ol Stinky McSmokypants has to undergo a whole lifestyle change in order to keep his/her cancer from coming back (I'm assuming) and that is not so easy.  The phrase itself - lifestyle change - sounds horrible.  Lifestyle change, to me, equals no fun any more.  I'm all about fun.  Fun follows me around.  Mostly due to the fact that I can commonly be found in bars, casinos and steakhouses.  You know where fun doesn't go?  Your local organic farmers market.  The herbal remedies isle at Wholefoods is devoid of fun.  The Bikram Yoga studio hasn't seen fun since the mid 90's.  I will not be pulled into any pseudoscience or natural living nonsense as a response to beating cancer.  I will lose the extra weight while still enjoying some form of meat at every meal of the day, a couple of glasses of red wine at night and the occasional weekend bender.  Steaks will be grilled, briskets will get smoked.  As before, pipes and cigars will be enjoyed in moderation.  I'll keep laying in the sun on the beach.  I will continue to play with asbestos whenever I find it inside an abandoned building.  Okay, that last one I've never done.  The point is, I like - make that love - all the things I do on a regular basis and I am not willing to give any of them up.  Steak is my cigarettes.  I know they're not the same on the scale of what is or is not bad for you but I cannot fault anyone for failing to give up their smokes.  I will not be giving up my steak. 

Truly a Historic Post

It occurred to me on New Years Eve that I should write about a New Years tradition that The Ladies Man, Trotsky Goldblum and I have had for about a decade now.  I forgot to actually write this post until today but you should still feel flattered that on New Years Eve I was thinking of you readers and how I could be entertaining you.  The best parts of this tradition is it costs nothing to implement.  It truly encapsulates the spirit of new beginnings.  It helps keep New Years Day alive well into the oncoming months.  And best of all, it will annoy the living shit out of a lot of people.  I can't explain to you exactly why they will be annoyed, perhaps they hate New Years?  Perhaps they hate happiness?  All I can promise you is that some people will be thoroughly annoyed.  Okay, enough with the preamble, time to unleash this thing on the general public and watch it catch on like a bad case of impetigo through a poorly hygienic wrestling team. 

We call it "A Historic Day of Firsts."  Once the clock strikes midnight it's time to cherish every new moment of the New Year.  The first toast of the New Year.  First kiss of the New Year (we don't kiss each other, that would take the friendship to a whole different, creepy level).  First drink of the New Year.  First refill of the New Year.  First third round of the New Year and so on and so on.  When you wake up New Years Day you should be celebrating the first hangover of the New Year, first coffee, first corn beef hash with eggs over easy, first hair of the dog... hopefully by now you get the picture.  Each "first" should sound a little like this - "First _______ of the New Year.  Truly a historic day of firsts."  Then you squint your eyes, look off into the distance and nod your head solemnly to acknowledge the significance of the moment.  If drinking you should also raise a glass in recognition of such a historical occasion.  Obviously, in the opening days of the New Year there are plenty of firsts and therefore plenty of Truly Historic Days of Firsts.  The trick is to identify those otherwise trivial moments that make up your everyday life as the days, weeks, months go by.  First garbage day of the New Year.  First bills paid of the New Year.  First oil change of the New Year.  Truly Historic Days.

Trust me when I tell you this Never Gets Old.  It is always funny.  There is something about taking an already dumb joke and beating it to absolute death.  Pummeling it down to a fine pulp that you can throw into a blender, mix with berries and yogurt and drink it down in smoothie form.  Or, if unlike me, you are still able to eat solid foods, pound it down to paper thin slices of meat, season with italian spices and roll into a delicious braciola.  Either way, you will find it gets funnier and funnier each time it is mentioned.  It's far funnier in July than it is in January. 

Surprisingly, not everyone feels this way.  Once you start celebrating all these trite little moments for the historically significant occasions that they are you'll be stunned by those around you that not only find it foolish but also a complete and total waste of time.  When this happens you should point out to those people that you are a lover of history and until we learn from it we are bound to repeat it.  They will try to tell you that celebrating switching from one brand of canned beer to another is not historically significant.  Don't listen to them.  David McCullough would write copiously about John Adams or Harry S Truman switching beer brands if he found any evidence of it (records are spotty but most historians believe both Adams and Truman were High Life Men).  You're drinking habits are easily as important as those two old dead guys.  Keep celebrating the value of the banal.  History will remember you for it.

My only regret is I didn't share this with you earlier in the year.  Think of how many mundane moments have gone by without proper acknowledgement.  Now, I hope, they can begin to get their due.  Truly, truly a Historic Day of Firsts.  (Squinting, nodding, looking off into distance) 


BCS National Championship Game

LSU +2.5 over Alabama

NFL PLAYOFFS WEEK 1

9-6-1 last week.  +17 for the season.  If anyone out there had been putting a little money down on my picks (say a paltry thousand bucks a game) you'd be up big for the season (17K!).  Let's keep that rolling in the playoffs. 

HOUSTON -3 over Cincy - Even with Yates in for Schaub and the outside chance that Jake Delhomme will come in and ruin things the Texans are a better team than the Bengals from top to bottom.  Throw in homefield advantage and three points don't look like much.

Detroit +11 over NEW ORLEANS - I really like the Saints here but some part of me just doesn't want to give up this many points.  Can't you see the Lions losing by 10?  Or making a valiant comeback in the fourth quarter, lining up for an onside kick with a minute or so to go and down by only a touchdown?  I can see it and I don't like it. 

NY GIANTS -3 over Atlanta - The G-Men are hot!  Eli looking befuddled in the playoffs!  I'm onboard!  Also, the Falcons lost to every truly solid team they played.  They're as big a fraud as the Patriots are.  That may be going a little too far.  The Pats are probably the worst #1 seed in playoff history.  I know this has nothing to do with Giants/Falcons but I couldn't resist pointing it out.

DENVER +9 over Pittsburgh - It kills me to take Denver.  I keep telling myself this is not about me believing that the Steelers will win (I do) but rather by how much.  The fact is the Steelers have not been blowing out teams all season and especially after Roethlisberger's injury.  The offense is inconsistent.  Without Mendenhall they'll have even more problems establishing a ground game.  They'll win but not by much.

I'm Your Pusherman

Whenever I get my weekly check-ups at Cancer Care I am always asked what drugs I am currently on.  My response is always one of two wise ass remarks.  1) Are we talkin street drugs?  2) What you holdin?  It makes me laugh every time.  The nurse or doctor always smiles politely then scribbles something down in their chart.  I know, I'm a child but it never stops amusing me.  Truth is I could be on just about any drug I wanted to be on while undergoing treatment.  They ask about my pain level.  How I'm sleeping?  Do I have anxiety? Nausea?  Vomiting?  I could game the system if I wanted to.  Claim I can't take it, need help.  I have already been prescribed some powerful pain killers after my couple of surgeries and in an effort to stem the pain in my throat.  Each time I've taken one.  Slept the better part of the day.  Realized I was a near zombie for almost the entire next day even after the drugs wore off.  Then sold the remaining pills at a high school nearby.*  Those kid's will take anything with a Harmful When Mixed with Alcohol warning label on it. 

As it turns out I don't like drugs.  Not even a little bit.  That is, of course, if we are assuming alcohol and caffeine are not drugs.  Drug drugs, the kind we criminalize and then constantly advertise on tv as the cure all for whatever ails you, have no appeal to me.  They don't make me feel better they just make me feel nothing.  Not like the feelings of added confidence, irresistible charm and undeniable sexual magnetism that comes with alcohol.  No, prescription drugs are not my bag.  I know I haven't tried them all.  Hardly scratched the surface really.  I could change the course of this blog, become a human guinea pig, test as many as possible all the while reporting back to you with reviews and recommendations.  I've done it with wine, travel and automotive reviews.  Why not drugs?  Who knows how long it would take the doctors and pharmacist to recognize the drug seeking behavior?  This blog could become The Place To Go when you want to find out if hydrocodone goes best with Thai food or Korean BBQ.  I think the fairly regular postings would suffer.  As well as the coherency.  I tried to write a blog post on the same day I had surgery a few months back, it looked like a toddler had taken over the keyboard.  Lots of jklfdksl;lksd;g and skgl;ajskgl;eawja with a few90e59gjkegjfkkkkrfffffffffffffff thrown in.  I think I'd passed out on the keyboard at one point.  As much as I'd like to try to become the Roger Ebert of prescription drug reviews (without the thyroid cancer, of course) I doubt I could handle it.  I'm just not a drug guy.       

I'm okay with a having the incredibly painful sore throat and liquid diet for the next four weeks if I can continue to operate heavy machinery during that time.  Also, last I checked booze almost always comes in liquid form.  I may not be able to eat the rum cake but I can drink at least one of it's ingredients.  Coincidentally, alcohol can cure all the same things those piles of little pills can cure plus you can consume more than one or two openly at a party and not come across as the resident dangerous guy.  Trouble sleeping?  There's a reason they call it a nightcap.  Anxiety?  Ever hear someone say they need to take the edge off?  Pain?  Alcohol is the original painkiller.  Watch a western.  Every hero gulps down some booze while having a bullet removed.  Usually from his shoulder.  I don't know why it's always in the shoulder but it is.  Some one must have decided decades ago having a bullet removed from your shoulder is a lot more heroic than having one removed from your upper thigh or even worse - buttocks.  Hero's don't get shot in the ass.  That's strictly a sidekick wound.  I always make important life choices based on what Rooster Cogburn, Josey Wales or Jeremiah Johnson would do.  If they didn't take Xanax neither will I.

*For any law enforcement reading this, it's only a joke.  I disposed of any and all unused drugs by following the recommend federal guidelines.   Also, thanks for supporting the blog.  Please click on an ad.

  

Pyrokinesis

When I was a little kid Stephen King used to write his novels in the front room of the house I lived in.  He lived across the street and needed a quiet place to write.  My folks rented him the office space.  As a result we have signed copies of almost everything he wrote throughout the seventies and eighties.  I have read the first twenty or so pages of just about every one.  As it turns out I don't like horror stories.  It really didn't matter if the story was scary at all in the first twenty pages.  The mere act of reading a book that I knew to be scary at some point was enough to dissuade me from making it beyond the first chapter or two.  Granted, I was in sixth grade when I tried to read them but even today I have little to no interest in the horror genre.    The folks got along so well with Stephen King that in 1984 my parents were invited to the Big Time Red Carpet Movie Premier of Firestarter in Bangor, Maine.  I remember it well.  The two of them going that is not the actual movie, I've still never seen it.  They got all dressed up - something that I'd maybe seen twice before.  The event made the national news.  Well, People magazine, it's not real news but it's at least a national publication.  Normally the only time Maine makes the national news is when they run an expose on Oxycodone abuse or Morbid Obesity Rates - still #1 in both, Go Maine! 

I bring all this up because one, this was a cheap way for me to tag Stephen King to my blog and two, today I nearly burned our house down.  Well, not our house really.  More like my Sister's house that is currently under construction.  Or perhaps even better described as the house my Mother will eventually retire to.  The home my Dearly Departed Father hoped to see finished in his lifetime.  It has not yet been defined as to who will live there although we know it won't be me no matter how much the Lovely Girlfriend begs to move to Northern Maine.  It is a beautiful house on a lake.  My parents dream home if you will.  And I was one Mother's intuition away from being the guy that accidentally burned it down to it's foundation.  It was a simple mistake.  One that I would imagine almost anyone could make assuming they pay very little attention to their surroundings and don't bother to engage in logic or reason.  You see, we recently installed a pellet stove.  For those of you unfamiliar with the bitter cold winters of Maine, pellet stoves are a lot like wood stoves only you burn wood pellets about the size of a multi-vitamin.  They come with feeders and burn pots and all kind of switches and gears that your standard wood stove never had.  As it turns out if you don't put the pellets into the feeder box but instead into the slots on top that look a lot like where a feeder box could be you catch the backside of the stove on fire.  A fire inside a stove can't be that bad right?  That is, after all where fires are supposed to be.  Yes, but on the inside inside and not the back inside if you follow me.  The back inside is where all the electronics and gears are and when the pellets catch fire there they ruin the whole thing.  Also, they almost catch your Sister's house, your Mother's retirement home, you Father's dream home on fire. 

How was this prevented?  My Mother had a feeling.  My Mom has lots of feelings.  Most of them crazy.  This one was spot on.  This is what the call I got at aprox 2:15 sounded like "Call your Sister!  The house is filled with smoke!"  What?  Why?  "I can't get to the second floor, the smoke is too thick!"  The second fuckin floor!  How bout getting out of the house?  How about calling 911?  My sister has an office job in downtown Bangor I don't think she's the first person to call when you need a fire put out.  She's lived in a second floor apartment for the last five years so I doubt she even owns a hose, garden or otherwise.  "I can't turn it off!  There's flames!  I can't make it upstairs!"  Yes, because as we all learned from the 1974 classic The Towering Inferno the high ground is exactly what you want to seek out when in a building that's on fire.  Call 911 and go outside I shouted into the phone.  I hopped into my truck and sped out to the house, reaching 70mph on a bumpy stretch of Stillwater Ave while repeatedly trying to dial my phone.  SugarDust was riding shotgun, he didn't enjoy the ride. 

We caught up with the fire trucks on the last quarter mile or so of the drive.  When we arrived at the house smoke was billowing out of the windows.  My Mother was slightly less panicked than she seemed on the phone.  After giving it a squirt of water the fireman unhooked the pellet stove and hauled it outside.  Once it had cooled they cracked it open and examined the insides.  How could this have happened we asked.  They didn't know either.  At first.  After a thorough examination they determined the cause of the fire was idiocy.  They never said that specifically but it was pretty clear that only a real moron would do what I did.  For the record I only dropped a few handfuls of the stuff down the wrong slot before it occurred to me that couldn't be the right spot.  It never occurred to me that such a mistake could result in nearly burning the house down.  Thankfully, my Mother felt the need to swing by the house and check on it.  Why?  I have no idea.  Maybe my Dearly Departed Dad wasn't ready to let his dream home go up in flames. 

Help me, Jack Lalanne, You're My Only Hope

I am officially halfway done with radiation.  I have ten zaps remaining and will be all done by January 18th.  That's the good news.  The bad news is I have some pretty serious side effects from these nuclear blasts.  Have you seen the movie Toxic Avenger?  It's kind of similar only instead of the melted face I'm devilishly handsome otherwise it's just like that.  I fight crime, I'm covered in bulging muscles (beneath this layer of insulating blubber) and I use a mop.  Okay, okay, that's not all true.  I don't actually use a mop - that's woman's work. 

In all seriousness, it seems like radiation may be causing me more problems than chemo did.  I never lost my hair, on my head that is, for some reason my leg hair fell out.  On the plus side my legs are so damn sexy now I can finally pull off a mini-skirt.  I never threw up or shat myself (I'm particularly proud of this one).  While I was haunted by an odd smell that seemed to attach itself to all things (admittedly, it may have been b.o.) it never changed my tastebuds so I never got to the point that I didn't want to eat.  Far from it.  Thanks to the steroids they were pumping into me I was ravenously hungry most of the time.  Steroids absolutely work by the way.  After four months of taking Prednisone I'm about one large lunch away from three bills.  I only wish I'd been feeling well enough to workout while I was on them.  I'd be able to bench press myself.  Finally, based on the extensive "extracurricular activity" the Lovely Girlfriend and I engaged in on my trip home and on her recent New Years trip to Maine everything is still in working order downstairs, if you know what I mean.  And I think you should since I'm doing such a poor job of speaking in code.  I'm talking about sex, people.  Jeez, you just had to make me say it.  Happy now?  I know I am cause I can still have sex.  Loads of it. 

Radiation may have relegated me to a liquid diet.  Since I woke up Tuesday morning it has been nearly impossible for me to eat solid food.  I don't know what eating glass would feel like but the stabbing pain that I now get in the back of my throat has got to be in the ballpark.  It's a hybrid of sensations really.  Kind of like I'm choking but also possibly scalding the back of my throat.  It does not matter how small of a bite I take.  As long as it is solid food it hurts like hell.  Anyone that knows me knows I love to eat.  I once debated getting that tattooed onto my stomach.  Like Tupac's Thug Life tat only it would read I Love To Eat with a plate, fork and knife under it.  I'd take photos with my shirt off looking all ghetto and well fed.  I'd tie the doo-rag around my neck as a bib. 

Luckily, my last pain-free meal was a great one.  The Lovely Girlfriend and I ate at The Grill Room in Portland, ME.  I had poached sweetbreads with beef carpaccio as a starter.  Once the Lovely Girlfriend found out what sweetbreads were she wanted no part of them.  I was not against gobbling them down on my own.  We did split a 37 ounce porterhouse cooked rare to absolute perfection.  The Lovely Girlfriend gluttonously insisted on having as much as seven of those thirty-seven ounces of juicy red meat deliciousness.  It came with mushroom risotto, roasted beets and grilled asparagus, each one of them amazing.  We finished off the meal with one of the best carrot cakes I've ever eaten (no offence, Mom) served with rum raisin ice cream.  Absolutely fantastic from beginning to end.  That was Sunday.  I didn't realize it at the time but that would be the last time I could swallow normally.

Liquids hurt too.  Not as badly, more like that strep throat feeling.  Earlier, I drank a chocolate Ensure as a meal replacement.  If you had bet me on at what point in my life I would be drinking Ensure I'd have put my money on seventy-five and up.  It tasted a lot like what I would imagine a retirement home to taste like but otherwise it wasn't that bad.  Tonight, I will be breaking out the juicer and searching the web for juicing recipes.  If any reader is a former or current juice diet enthusiast please feel free to forward me your favorites.  If any of them come with instructions on how to blend a t-bone steak that would be greatly appreciated.