Mon Sep 15, 2008
The Man Of Infinite Jest
David Foster Wallace killed himself yesterday, I read this morning.
Writers and suicide, WTF? The rate must up there with dentists and the Japanese.
I've read a few of the essays in "Consider the Lobster", but as yet had not managed "Infinite Jest". Funny, you might say, as it is probably the book which would most suit my taste, would most match my own rambling, waffling (parenthetic - you can't easily use footnotes in blogs) style. That's why I haven't read it. I know instinctively that it would be so good it would put the final strangle-hold on my risible and fragile ambition to be a good novelist (not just a writer, not just a narrative technician).
Anyway, I'm going down to PageOne now and grab a copy and show my respects to the man. I might consider a lobster for lunch in his honour.
[Addendum/Footnote: No copy of Infinite Jest in the store. However, to my delight, there was a new (the first, you can't get any newer than that) translation of the Robert Walser 1908 novel The Assistant. Not the gold nugget I was searching for, but a precious gem in its stead.
Also, I did consider the lobster at$30+, but I ordered tempura moriwasa for $10 instead.]
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Report on The Evening of Sunday...
I was expecting my HK flatmate tonight to join us this evening, but it seems she's coming in tomorrow from New Zealand says Izzy, who somehow knows this better than I do. Anyway I cooked enough for three - my world famous Cambodian prawn and cucumber yellow curry (with squid)...
You know, I had never dissected a squid before I moved to Singapore. Never dug my nails into it's clear plastic spine (so fake seeming, obviously made in a factory in China somewhere) and pulled the entire inner white components along with the brainless head (all mouth, no thought), the bulbous alien eyes and the (now I have [accidentally] seen a lot of Japanese anime porn) erotic tentacles with a moist gloop onto the benchtop. Never fossicked deep into its velvety cavern with my forefinger, probing for remnants of its last meal... Gloop, gloop, shpluckk... There's some pretty dangerous looking machinery inside those cylindrical little fuckers.
Really glad I never discovered this past-time (cooking) as a teenager, I might have become a chef for all the wrong reasons.
And it's pretty freaking obvious how they turn calamari into rings, ain't it? Well it is NOW!
Anyway, more to the gloop, gloop shpluckking point, I had a Bangkok special edition DVD of David Cronenberg's 1991 masterpiece Naked Lunch, but that bugger won't play on the main DVD player, but YES, it runs fine on the iMac in my room.
That is one gloop, gloop, shplukky movie, I'd forgotten the dribbly, sucky details.
Izzy had never seen it before - like duh, it's probably banned in Singapore, just a little bit heavy on the drugs and kinky sex with animatronic typewriter insects - and she'd never read any of William S Burroughs gloopy gloop books either.
Sometimes, I really think I am corrupting that sweet innocent young thing. [Who may or may not be soon writing a sex column for one of the local magazines it seems.]
So we finished off the curry ourselves (Izzy had two servings!) and then she and I retired to my bedroom for a couple of hours, groaning and moaning and shifting in our seats as one more outrageous act followed the next.
In the movie, dudes, in the freaking movie...
It's a great movie to watch someone watch for the first time! She loved it. You can tell if you are going to get on with your flatmate if they like your taste in movies. That's Dead Man and Naked Lunch as points of agreement from my side, and Secretary and Tristram Shandy from hers.
Early, she had asked the weirdest question.
Do people get happier as they get older?
I proffered some clammy shit about how good parents are those who don't allow their kids to get dissillusioned with life until they're old enough to have had kids of their own, so that the race will perpetuate. That didn't really answer her question of course.
We took the conversation up again over dinner.
But you're happy now, right? she asked. You have money and good job.
Yeah, I'm grumpy on the surface but happy enough deep down. Financially secure. It'd be nice to be healthy.
You're not really grumpy, that's only on your blog. [Some of this conversation may have been
made up extrapolated. E@L]
So I took my empty plate out to the kitchen...
And I called out from the kitchen... I'd be happier if I had a girlfriend. [And everyone on the Internet goes - Tell us something we DON'T know!]
She was there next to me getting seconds, snuck up on me, gave me a freaking heart-attack - the Mouse used to do that. All little people, they move so freaking silently, they should be forced to wear those squeaky shoes, like toddlers, so you can keep track of 'em.
You really think you'd be happier with a girlfriend?
With the right girlfriend.
Yes, with the right girlfriend. Define.
Smart and chirpy and up with my jokes and not a bitch. I don't want a baaaaadd girlfriend. I want nice one. Someone like my last girlfriend. [Some of E@L's old friends go - Yes, and you should have stayed with her!] I've had girls who were hot for me [and the Internet goes - yeah sure] but they weren't right, for me. Maybe policitally, like a right-wingers or something. Or physically - I am attracted to smaller ladies, so sue me. Or maybe just didn't get my jokes, intellectually in the humour sense and that's frustrating. Or they were like, a bit too...
E@L mimics balancing on a tightrope...
When was your last girlfriend? she asked.
We sat in my bedroom. She had brought in a dining chair, I rocked on my swivelly Italian-leather seasoned with 8 years of farty-E@L-bottom desk-chair. With the movie paused I gave her an overview of the three-ring circus that was my last serious relationship.
I think I've described it somewhere else on this blog, so I won't inflict all that melodrama on you again until the novelization comes out in Women's Weepy, suffice to say that I have regrets, that I broke someone's heart, and I still don't know if it was the right thing to do.
All I know (and that ain't much) was that she (the GF not Izzy) was the happiest she'd ever been when we were together, as she'd had a shitload of trouble with her other relationships. She may not have been a perfect person, even though I am, but I really liked her, only not *that* way. Man, did she have some stories to tell - the naked geologist who stole my husband story, the gambler who needed money so he used my checkbooks story, the short person who felt bigger whenever he beat his woman story (what is with short people? I seem to have a thing about them lately - conspiracy or mere interzone coincidence?)...
But you can't maintain a 2000km relationship when the strongest emotion you have is feeling sorry for someone. Well, maybe you can, relationships have been built on less, often on nothing at all. But should you? That is what I asked myself at the time. Should you?
I don't have the answer.
William S Burroughs didn't have the answer either. It wasn't Black Meat or Mugwamp Jism. Hopefully not, not least to avoid the cleaning up afterwards.
Shit I didn't mean to go about all this embarrasing shite. I meant to go to sleep like 2 hours ago. I am not 100% well yet (it's not mumps, like I at first feared).
I'm sorry if I've bored you, if I've ventured from the topic of my report. It's like the computer oozed some destabilising fumes into my brain, took over and wrote this itself.
I knew blogging was dangerous, but I didn't realise the danger was in the machinery.
[The machinery of reminiscence... Once the wheels start turning...]
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Fri Sep 12, 2008
E@L Is Unwell
Got the shivers and shakes, putting a massive kybosh on my last two nights in Bangkok. I'd been saving up any naughty stuff, but it will have to be next time...
I thought I'd had just overdone it at the gym yesterday, but no, it's something more systemic.
It's boring being sick - hands feel like two balloons, chattering teeth, nausea, headache, sore throat, too hot one minute, too cold the next, low grade ringing in my ears...
Trying to sleep.
Keep yourselves amused in my absence.
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Wed Sep 10, 2008
I Have An Addiction!
There, I've said it. Are you happy now that you've seen it in pixels right before your very eyes?
I have a compunction, an unstoppable drive, a basic instinct, a fatal attraction. It's affected my ability to form lasting relationships, my ability to stay with my rational decisions. Against my better judgment I keep going to places I know I will be tempted, where I know I will fail to hold my willpower against the power of my obsession.
What did I do the very first night in Bangkok?
Oh my, the shame….
I went… oh how I wither into myself as I say these words.. the self disgust, the bitterness...
I went into a bookshop.
My body sweats,
my teeth gah-riiiinnnd...
My name is E@L, I am a bookaholic.
I came here to Bangkok with two tasks (other than turn up for work each morning) - finish "Journey Into The Whirlwind", by Eugenia Ginzburg (US$32 or so) and start "The Things I Didn’t Know", the memoirs of Robert Hughes [truly, who GIVES a fuck!?] (S$28.89) But straight away I popped in AsiaBooks in Pathetic Place which, along with Bookazine across Sukhomydik Rd, often have a tasty and unusual morsel or two - a deep fried grasshopper of fiction or non-fiction that I might not find (I mean, not even consider buying) in Singapore. I got the PK Dick and the HP Lovecraft biographies, gems, both, in Thailand - I've still not seen them elsewhere.
Last night I picked another book that allows me to continue my supremely dilettantish dalliance with the highly arcane world of the psychoanalysis of German poets and philosophers that all started with Irwin Yalom's "popular" (in my sense) books on Nietzsche and Schopenhauer. Well, that's not really where it started: I already had of a copy of Rainer Maria Rilke's selected works "By Way of All Partings" (to get my copy of his poem The Panther and to quote his works at quite serendipitous random in this incredibly pretentious blog ) and, for some obscurely fatalistic reason, a self-given Darwin's Day present of the collected correspondence between Rilke and Lou Andreas-Salomé (now out in mass market paperback, I noted last Friday in PageOne, Singapore!) I think I bought it because the one passage I fell into in the bookstore (Readings, in Carlton, Melbourne) grabbed me with its powerful humility and world-weary wisdom though Rilke was only young when he wrote it. His meditations touched me deeply and set me to pondering great philosophical thoughts of mourning and regret, the flux and impermanence of all we love and the futility of mere art against the fucking inevitability of decay and death.
Which is what "Freud's Requiem" by Matthew von Unwerth (595Bht) seems to be about as well, happily.
One of Yalom's books places Salomé (aka Frau Lou), Freud and Nietzsche together ("When Nietzsche Wept"). However, in real-life, Freud met with Frau Lou , who was at that stage the most famous and indeed most notorious of the three, and Rilke on an apocryphal walk one day in the Italian Tyrol… and the rest, as they say, was totally ignored by history. Until now. Love, lust and psychoanalysis, friendship, fellowship and enmity, yada yada. Another great and mind-numbingly obscure pickup by E@L. Who the fuck BUYS these things besides me?
While in the mood for hyphenated surnames, I also grabbed a copy of "The Little Book of Atheist Spirituality" by Andre Comte-Sponville (450Bht). Just what I needed, another book to tell me what I already know by my own leap of faithlessness.
Aside: Only the other day, the word 'infidel' hit me on the chin - from the same root as 'fidelity'. The fideles who adeste each Christmas on my mother's Harry Belafonte album are all ye faithful who come, oh.
How thick am I to have missed that for like, 50 years, or to have known it subconsciously (Harry [my long dead FATHER's name!!!] Belafuckingfonte, we had him EVERY freaking Christmas dinner, I kid you not), but only thought about it recently. Very Freudian. Very Lacanian. Very Zizecian. Let me tell you about my mother…
Therefore, 'infidel' simply translates as 'unfaithful'. A music recording that is highly faithful to the original is HiFi - High Fidelity (also a great book and a great movie). Hence people who listen to crap compressed MP3 recordings are going to go to hell. And deservedly so - it is no accident, no deus ex iPod, that we refer to a well-recorded version of Beethoven's Ninth as 'divine'.
Scoop - you read it here and everywhere else first. There is no God, pictures of me in fancy dress on Facebook nothwithstanding.
I mean, did I have to add another atheist tome to my huge collection on the agnostic shelf? I mean, do I need ANY such books when the classics have already argued all that needs to argued? In my opinion, for a start, the problem of evil simply does away with God as we define him - as good and all powerful.
And it was all said (and quoted or paraphrased in each book in my current collection) by I Am Epicurus Yellow, when he reasoned:
Either God wanted to eliminate evil and he could not; or he could and did not want to; or he neither could nor wanted to; or he could and wanted to. If he wanted to and could not, he is impotent, which cannot be the case for God; if he could and did not want to, he is evil, which is foreign to God's nature. If he neither could not wanted to, he is both impotent and evil, in which case he is not God. If he both wanted to and could- the only hypothesis that corresponds to God - where does evil come from and why did God not eliminate it?
OK, good god question. I'll only take calls on this one on my private number.
Books. I mean really… Look where they lead. To end of civil society as we anarchists know it.
And then finally (finally, I mean *for the moment* - see above re: transience and flux - I will buy more books), tonight - before a fine, if overly sweet I was finally deciding, meal of serpent-head fish in spicy Thai herbs at Raan Derm in Soi 24 - I ventured into Kinokuniya at Excelsior and spotted "The Seven Basic Plots - Why We Tell Stories" by Christopher Booker (1,393Bht) something that I have been looking for for a shitload of time. To go with my futile aspirations to be a writer and my ridiculous attempts to be a better reader. To lead me to deeper understand of the narrative archetypes that makes me realize that the movie "Caddyshack" is actually both Cinderella AND Beowulf intertwined. Freudian (?) Clue = it's no accident, no deus ex BigBertha that Bill Murray keeps saying "Cinderella story, outta nowhere…" as he golf-swings the heads off all the flowers in the golf-course garden! (And of course Beowulf is actually Oedipus Rex!)
More books - no extra fucking time to read them. Especially if I waste 2 hours writing this pointless, meaningless, readerless drivel all about them…
I am led by my urges into shady nooks,
I might as well face it I'm addicted to books.
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Tue Sep 09, 2008
The Quality Of Specialists
Just gotta say... I went this evening to a fancyish Spa/Massage place for a deep muscle Thai massage, fuck the money, forget the extra service, just work me over baby...
I was walking on rock steps, following a beautfully dressed, gorgeous (100% female) REALLY STRONG massuese into my plush room past tinkling water sounds, relaxing music, soft colours, silks, aroma oils, a wonderful gestalt of sensual delights... 90 minutes as good a workout as my osteopath (Paul the Philippinno), for 25% of what he charges (plus he's not gorgeous. Cute, but not gorgeous).
Got a bloody high quality manicure and pedicure done as well while I was at it. By crikey you can tell the difference between a psuedo-massage of the "what you name, lere you flom, you wann exla serbice?" variety and the real thing... AND the quality of the nail care at these places is superb. (Only bleeding from the remnants of a few cuticles.)
There is a reliablity of quality that only dedicated experts can truly deliver.
I kept this philosophy in mind as I turned off Soi 8 for some specialist treatment elsewhere...
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Sun Sep 07, 2008
Film Recommendation - In Bruges
I realize that this is not a real blog.
I mean I'm not telling everyone about where I am and what I doing and who I am doing it with, and all that sort of stuff. I'm not doing something constructive on a routine basis either, am I, like movie reviews or books reviews or music reviews. Nothing that I could show to a magazine editor and say, whaddya think of that cracking good review, eh? Give me a fucking job, dude. Not that I need money or nuffin, but you know, for the extra exposure to the 6 billion minus 85 per day people who don't
read come to this blog.
Nor have I been experimenting so much lately in the witheringly critical eye of the public with any of my fictionalized episodes, which is me trying to get a sustainable tone and voice for any extended piece of writing which I might get around to one day, and which you all have long given up on expecting to see in the life of this current universe. Or which I could send to my old buddy Stu Lloyd for his next compendium of expat outrage.
Anyway, I am in Bangkok. I am not out shagging every hooker I see. But it is day one and I've been busy. I left my iPod, my iPhone USB connector/charger and my headphones at home and went straight to Fortune to buy a connector and new headphones (I'll listen to Spike's music on the iPhone [I bought it from him a few months back in HK]). I got some Sony buds that said '2m cable' on the package label but were actually more like 30cm in length - you know, the half one that are meant to go into another extension. There is another label on the package and it says 1.2cm - that can't be right either.
I have just eaten in the hotel restaurant. I am getting picked up at 7am tomorrow. I have drawn a bath. Luxury.
OK here's a film review of sorts.
I watched the tragi-comic UK gangster flick In Bruges on the plane (spoilers ahead!!) - had to fight off the attendant's several attempts to remove my headphones for the last 30 minutes of the flight, bitch, and the movie ended *just* as we touched down... at least it looked like it ended. The screen went blank as they turned off KrisWorld but there was not much more character development going to happen here if you know what I mean... A bit like the last bit of Hamlet, when you go, "Well this has to be pretty fucking CLOSE to the end."
Anyway Colin Farrell was actually very OK in this as Ray the guilt ridden hit-man who accidentally tops a child on his first assignment - he had me crying at the sad bits and the director had me laughing at the funny bits... like when his buddy Ken (Brenden Gleeson) comes back from the toilet after snorting some coke! Great image, you have to see it! The midget/dwarf was good too (not great, but what can you expect - he's only little), however Ralph Fiennes as the boss cunt was a revelation.
Keep your headphones as long as possible though - apparently there was a voice-over at the end that I missed. Anyway most of the script is up at imdb...
The funniest line isn't there though: "Lucky Bruges is in Belgium. If it was somewhere nice the place'd be crawling with tourists!"
Or words to that effect. Funny. Sad. Good.
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Thu Sep 04, 2008
HBO Say Toodah, I Say Chewdar
They are The Tudors.
Pronounced The Tyudars. Not The Twodahs, not The Toodahs.
For fucks sake.
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Australian Writer/Journalist/Blogger Detained in Thailand
Danger! Danger! Illegal Alien Approaching!
Obviously upsetting powerful people in Thailand as he does in Australia (loads of fun upsetting right-winger Andrew Bolt) with his no-compromise approach to telling it like it is... (Here's a harrowing piece on the trade in child pornography on the Burma / Thailand border...)
Now detained in Bangkok for lese-majesty - something similarly harsh to Singapore's sedition rules (see previous post) - an Australian writer and "blogger" (and allegedly "brilliant" person), Harry Nicolaides (above), was arrested at the airport on a warrant issued several months ago for the royally nasty stuff he wrote in his novel Verisimilitude...
There's something bad in that book about the Thai royal family - perhaps a bit more severely critical than merely referring to the *r*m*n*n*e of the King's *a*s... And there's probably a lot of bad about a lot of other bad people in Thailand. Maybe there is more to this arrest than lese majesty...
His new novel “VERISIMILITUDE“ is a trenchant commentary on the
political and social life of contemporary Thailand. It is an
uncompromising assault on the patrician values of the monarchy, the
insidious infiltration of religious missionaries in the education
system and the intimate relationship between American foreign policy
and Thailand”s battle against Muslim insurrections in the south.
Savage, ruthless and unforgiving, VERISIMILITUDE pulls away the mask
of benign congeniality that Thailand has disguised itself with for
decades and reveals a people who are obsessed with Western affluence
and materialism and who trade their cultural integrity and personal
honour for the baubles of Babylonian America. [My emphasis]
This book looks like it will be a serious assualt on many institutions in the Thailand - the police, the business-men, not just the monarchy. Rather than just doing some fun-poking, which is the sort of stuff that got YouTube barred from Thailand's Internet last year, it certainly seems to be situated well away from the more typical farang's approach to writing about Thailand - the "oh I'm love, oh she's a hooker cheating on me, oh I wish I were dead" sort of stuff...
More from the Pattaya Daily News...
If Nicolaides grossly unrighteous arrest has done anything, it has made Verisimilitude absolutely required reading for people who know, or think they know, Thailand. It's corny and cheap to speak of this personal disaster as good PR for the book, but...
I want to read it now, and I want to read it NOW!!
Somehow, I doubt that it will be for sale on the "Thai Interest" racks at Suvarnabhumi Airport when I hazard my tour of duty on Sunday. So where can I get my copy?
Meanwhile, I hope the Aust Govt is doing its best to get the charges dropped.
Danger Danger Will Robinson, for serious bloggers and writers in foreign countries with low-tolerance laws, not just those of us with smart-arse attitudes looking for the easy laughs...
Words. People take them so fucking seriously...
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Seditious Quote Of The Day
"To criticize a person for their race is manifestly irrational and ridiculous, but to criticize their religion, that is a right. That is a freedom. The freedom to criticize ideas, any ideas -- even if they are sincerely held beliefs -- is one of the fundamental freedoms of society. A law which attempts to say you can criticize and ridicule ideas as long as they are not religious ideas is a very peculiar law indeed."
-- Rowan Atkinson
Unfortunately, in Singapore this could constitute sedition. The phrase "classes of the population" in the Sedition Act is generally (i.e. by me) taken to mean religion and gender.
The definition is suitably hazy for a chronically paranoid government - it actually ends up saying "anything we think is seditious IS seditious, merely because we think it is seditious." I am reading a lot about Stalin and the Great Terror and its dumbfounded, innocent victims (Journey into the Whirlwind) at the moment. The act would fit nicely into such a context.
Of course me mentioning this opinion is in itself seditious because I am not attempting a change of the act through legal means, merely pointing out its faults - or benefits if you see it from the Gahmen's POV.
This is the sort of thing that got famous (a whole page of the Strait Times yesterday!) ex-blogger, now podcaster, mrbrown in trouble in his final (as he found out) column in Today a few years ago. A government offical Ms Bhavani, replied to the article in the next edition of the paper...
It is not the role of journalists or newspapers in Singapore to champion issues, or campaign for or against the Government. If a columnist presents himself as a non-political observer, while exploiting his access to the mass media to undermine the Government's standing with the electorate, then he is no longer a constructive critic, but a partisan player in politics.
Or the role of bloggers... Criticizing is illegal -- without offering a POLITICALLY LEGAL way of changing what you are complaining about, you are technically being seditious.
For example, in a comment on Indy's blog, I referred to an incident 37 years ago when a Christian Brother gave me 6 "cuts" on the hand with a leather strap even though in fact he knew I was innocent of the particular misdemeanor in question -- I was no doubt guilty of something else was his reasoning...
Catholicism and guilt. Original sin and unoriginal punishment... How many boys like me were embittered by such Joycean mistreatment?
Could that comment of mine be seen as "promoting feeling of ill-will" against the Catholic "classes of the population" - or merely against the Rev J. A. Barr, who was the bastard teacher in question?
Am I being seditious? Or libelous? Or just plain naughty?
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Tue Sep 02, 2008
Sweet Little Piss
Remember that scene in Young Doctors in Love when Harry Dean Stanton puts a finger into a jar of urine and sucks his finger to test it for the sugary taste of a diabetes, then encourages the gorgeous and gullible young intern to do the same. When she does, he goes "Gross!, I switched my finger! That's a trick we play on all the new doctors!" Joke is of course, that they DID used to taste urine as a quick test for diabetes.
But not any more!
The neurologist last week took a blood sample and had it tested for sugar levels without me realising (the type of test I mean, I certainly noticed the needle-stick), right after I'd had a Delifrance cappuccino and a sticky bun! Do'h, he maybe have mumbled something, but I don't remember him asking if I was fasted or not. So of course it's going to be high compared to a normal fasting level!
With that result he started thinking I MIGHT be diabetic after all. The nerve pain in the feet, hey, falls into place - Diabetic Neuropathy, there's even a Wikipaedia entry on that!
Meanwhile, two days later (before I got his test results) when I go to my GP for my quarterly top-up of BP and cholesterol drugs, she took a FASTING blood sample (I was expecting this one) and tested for both cholesterol and sugar as well. Her blood-sugar-sex-magic results came back normal! Funny that.
But just to be on the safe side, as I evince several of the main risk factors for diabetes, viz: obesity and family history (maternal Grandad and paternal Aunt), I went in this morning for a Glucose Tolerance Test.
I fasted from last night and only had a few sips of water to swallow my morning painkillers. Bad start, I nearly choked on the VitB complex Neurobions. Chaaark!
Later, after three blood tests, three urine samples and glass of red dextrose drink so charged that it makes Redbull seem like a sedative... Usual story ensues, pretty much... Well, E@L being E@L, it was not so typically usual...
Yep, not so easy there troopers. Now, I always have at my bedside a huge glass of orange juice mixed with water to moisten my parched lips when I wake in the night, under the evaporative pressure of the all-night air-con. I skipped this last night because... Well, I lie. I had forgotten about the fasting (no juice!) and had already made my watery OJ and placed it by my bed, but bugger, I had to leave it untouched all night. Result: I was quite dehydrated this morning. I had a meagre piss in the early shower (shit it's not even 8am!) before I took off for the clinic in Collyer Quay.
Immediately on arrival and registration, the receptionist handed me a specimen jar with my name on a sticky label. Damn. I don't need to go.
Anticipating trouble, I went into a large toilet cubicle to do the specimizing. First of all I had to drop my daks right down completely so that I was free to try and hold my schlong and the specimen jar in apposition without my trouser fly flap creeping in between... While waiting with my trousers around my ankles for things to start, I found that the now untucked front halves of my shirt kept falling into the potential pathways of any piss too, should it ever decide to come, and I had no free hand to hold them back. Shit.
I put the specimen jar on the conveniently located bench in the cubicle and thinking, what the heck, took off my shirt. I went to hang it behind the door, but nearly tripped because - my trousers were around my ankles. Imagine if I'd fallen and knocked myself out. Imagine the police report... An unconscious naked man with a small jar in a strange toilet. Weird.
I sighed. I waited and waited. I was empty. My bladder was asleep. I've already told you I'm not a great one for strong piss-streams at the best of times, and the memory of those prostatic dribbles from last week was still strong...
Eventually a few short spurts shot out laterally, going all over my fingers and OF COURSE the name label on the specimen jar. A few more spurts made it into the jar, sort of mid-stream, if you call twenty or thirty droppity-drops a minute a STREAM. You'd probably call a normal piss fucking Niagra in that case.
OK that's gonna have to be enough, because there's no more coming... Then, it's dressing time, it's washing the piss off the hand, it's trying to dry the piss stains from the name label... Damn. I tried to sneak it on to the specimen tray so she wouldn't see me, but bad luck, I was dragged in for the first on the blood samples.
The nurse or lab-technican stabbed away into my chubby elbow fossa where I have a big juicy vein that is incredibly well insulated by a thick, homegenous layer of vein-masking (but not pain-receptor-free) adipose tissue... jab, jab, sting, jab, until eventually she found a reliable source of blood,. It was one of those seperate needle and vacuum syringe thingies that they plug in and the first bit of blood really spurts in hard, which is quite cool to watch...
Then she gave me the dextrose hyperactivity drink, and it's a woozy E@L, with all that sugar on an empty stomach, I was giddy for a quite while...
Over the next coupla hours I had to go through the piss-in-the-jar saga two more times... Similar stories of stupidity and a protesting prostate. I never gave the lab-technician a virgin name label, they all were mightily piss-dribbled on. Oh, and don't forget two more diffiult-to-find-the-vein blood samples of course.
I reckon it would have been easier (for me) if the Doctor just did the good old fashioned YDIL taste test.
Results back by Thursday or Friday. I really don't expect to have positive result, my GP and I are convinced that there is no diabetes, so don't panic everybody...
AND I have a small glass ready if anyone wants to do the taste test themselves...
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