Now spit!

I also thought of calling this post "And nothing but the tooth" but then when cleaning the hole a leftover sliver of enamel popped out.  They said it was likely to happen, but still it was a shock.  Still, I opted to quote the last line of "Dentist!" from Little Shop of Horrors, because the song accurately depicts what a tooth extraction looks and feels like, except it's not funny at all.

About twenty something years ago, I had to have one of my farthest-back molars removed.  My wisdom teeth were bullies coming in, and one of them basically raped that molar and cracked it, popping the filling it had out and leaving it exposed when my operation was done.

Needless to say, after a few months of being exposed, the tooth began complaining loudly, so I went to the doctor to see if there were any options to save it, since I knew it was damaged beyond a simple filling could fix.  That's when he started telling me about what all was involved with getting a crown (which I could not afford at the time, not even with Dad's insurance) and also what would be involved with a bridge for a back molar.  After about fifteen minutes of technical instruction, I held my hand up and asked if we could just pull it instead.

The dentist (Dr. Thompson, whose practice was in a small office in the building my Dad's Western Auto used to also reside in) didn't pause, because he knew my family's money situation and probably saw from the start that that was the likely and best course of action.  He doped up my jaw, took what looked like a small rubber mallet and a smaller metal awl when I was numbed, and literally gave two taps on what felt like the side of the tooth and it came out easier than a soft turd.

I thought THAT was what tooth extraction was like.  This does not appear to be the case, at least, not if it's not your farthest back molar, I guess.  This one was the next to last molar, and I am thinking I am thankful it was in my lower jaw and not upper.

This petite little sweet doctor I went to see, who said she'd stayed in my hometown while going to college and knew Dr, Thompson, assaulted my mouth like it was full of gold and she was a 49er.  It turns out it does look a lot like the Dentist song, and when they come at you with those pliers, YOU ARE NOT WANTING TO LAUGH.  How do they loosen the tooth?  BY FORCE.  Yanking back and forth and back and forth until you hear and feel bone snapping in your jaw, which is nauseating without having pain, it turns out.  I did break out into a sweat at one point and wonder if perhaps she was in fact from Krypton.

She'd told me before what had probably happened... I injured or cracked the tooth sometime after the filling, and that allowed decay to get under the filling, until the filling popped out and left me with a cratered nothing that only my attention to that area of my teeth during cleaning kept from hurting this far.  It had to come out regardless, and it is now out.

My intention was to eventually look into getting a bridge (because an implant costs as much as a good used car) but that can wait until after the new year when I have dental insurance again.  Or maybe not even then.  It doesn't seem that bad, honestly, aside from the hole.

That will fill in, given time.

Grab'em by the Puss N' Boots

Okay well this was weird.

One of my audio dramas deals with the real, original versions of fairy tales.  Not my favorite, I'd rather do the crime ones.  Anyway, so neither of my brothers' dogs have ever paid attention at recorded dog barks... or recorded animal noises in general.  With Leo, I assume it's because he's too smart, with Barbarella… well, once in a while her ears will perk up, but usually she ignores it too.

Imagine my surprise when I am piecing together the true fable of the above cat's namesake and I start delving into my cat sound effects and Zoey comes upstairs.  Her coming upstairs is not unusual, as that's where the litter box is, but her just sitting and watching me produce is very weird.  Which she was doing.  

"What?" I said when I noticed.  She responded immediately with a pathetic mew.

And then she wouldn't leave.  This is not normal behavior for her.  Usually she just notices me when the food has run out.  Now while I'm using all these purrrrs and yelps and mews and hisses, she can't get enough of me.

Do cats have a language?  Did she think I was making these noises?  Oh shit!  What if these cats were talking about killing the guy who recorded them, does Zoey now think I need an assisted suicide?  I'm lucky Rosie wasn't in the house, she'd have probably readied a hypo of furniture polish for me.

Eventually she seemed to go away, as I used fewer cat effects, and I cleaned up and was getting up to leave when I hear her deep purring beneath the desk.  I looked and she was laid out like a right strumpet, like Rose in the Titanic movie all naked for Leo DeCaprio.  

I want you to draw me like one of your French cats, Ken.  Wearing this.  Wearing only this.  Meaning her butt-hole, which I could see.

I got up to leave and I get to the door and meow! I turn around and she's following me!  Does she think I can talk cat or something?  Does she think I am some kind of cat god now?  I AM BAST-ET OF EGYPT AND I AM BACK FROM THE DEAD TO LICK BUTT-HOLES AND SUE NEIL GAIMAN FOR LIBEL.  AND I'M ALL OUT OF BUTT-HOLES.

Eventually I tricked her to go outside.  Now I am worried that I am trapped in a poorly written fiction where a guy learns how to speak cat and it turns out all they talk about is who's got the FIV and old boyfriends and of course licking butt-holes, and that's all I'll hear the rest of my life.

Murder by Design

So Shea still weighs on me.  But first my hometown.

My home used to be quaint.  Lots of local stores, pushing, let's be honest, shit and cheap products, but small town folk are okay with that.  But lately everything that used to be "local" (I hate to League of Gentlemen here) has become bland.  Where there was one yard sale store for years, they seem to make up most of the littered husks of abandoned government buildings and failed music stores.  They espouse names like "Antiques of Mystique" or "Vintage Grabs."

For one.  "Antique" and "vintage" are not always synonymous with "old" and "used."  I am pretty sure those polyester neon green stretch pants are only considered vintage if Tim Burton uses them for costume design in one of his quirky movies.

I can't help but feel this town is on the edge of death, but it will probably outlive me.  It may not be all that pretty, but it will still be here when they put me in the ground, probably in those neon green pants.  Just not much longer, I am afraid.  The death rattle has been vocal for a long time, and these yard sale stores propagating all over like overly-fertile rabbits coupling is one of the final death pangs.

The same was the case with Shea.  It was obvious something was killing her... not to be dramatic.  Her life was collapsing.   She kept crying out for help.  She never got it.

In her case, I am not sure it would have mattered.  Because when you have depression, as she clearly did, there are people who can't see it.   They have been depressed before, but they don't understand the difference between being depressed and suffering from depression.  These are unfortunately the people you need to see it the most. But they rarely seem to be able to see.

In the Netflix series The Haunting of Hill House, specifically ep six, one of the main characters gets hidden for a while by a ghost.  She's standing in the middle of a common room, screaming for a long time, and nobody can see her.  That's a perfect analogy for depression.

Shea was screaming for somebody to notice how badly she was suffering for the longest time.  Occasionally, when she would talk about losing her mom or possibly her house, overly peppy idiots would reply with "You got this girl!  Now go get'em!"  and other useless phrases like that.  Then when she killed herself, they were shocked.  And eventually, angry and pissed off.

"How could she be so selfish?" a couple of these Pollyannaddicts asked.  Seriously?  How often did she obviously cry out for help?  How often did YOUR own selfishness make you ignore all the warning signs, the nonsensical chats at night fueled by Ambien, or her posts that ended with "Please don't reply, I am not looking for sympathy"?  Honestly, do these Up With People Holly Hobbies ever see a world beyond the rose tinted glasses they think they can force everybody else to look through if we just "get positive!?"

Shea didn't die because she was selfish.  She died from a variety of things, such as being ignored when she needed help or direction, but she wasn't selfish.  Not in that way.

If somebody is hurting themselves constantly, the best way to help is not to ignore the situation and hope it gets better if you just give a disapproving scowl or a rude rebuttal.  Here, try this:  "Hey, I know you are having a tough time.  I'm worried about you.  I want you to get better.  Please let me help."

In all my trials with depression, nobody ever said that to me.  I am lucky to still be alive.  In fact, because of what I went through, my life has gotten better, but I still live in fear.  The males in my father's side are prone to strokes, and I've already had one.  My phone is always charged and I am an expert at dialing with my left hand in case of another.  I have an emergency message that will text my family if anything happens (assuming I can reach the phone, which is always with me).  And I have somebody in my life who actually, if I fuck up, asks me not to fuck up again... no shame, just worry for myself and others.

What I don't have in my life anymore are people who think I am not worth investing time or energy in, or who are too ashamed of me to keep me in their life.  I've gone thirty-plus years with those kind of relationships, I know now that I can't live with them.

The problem is, Shea couldn't get to my point of view.  I still don't know how she killed herself, and I don't want to know.  Out of respect for the girl I was friends with, and just a little bit of not wanting to get any ideas.

Shea

The story of why Shea stopped talking to me twenty years ago and why we never saw each other again:

It was about twenty years ago this very week that I saw Shea last.  I was leaving Lexington for Portland, Oregon, and KKRZ and the new title of Imaging Director, back when people actually did that job and not shipped out poorly-written copy by overworked programmers to cut-and-paste production houses (I interviewed with some of them, that was their term, not mine).  Back when being creative actually got you paid, even if all you created were a succession of fart jokes.

I had the idea that maybe I could use Shea as one of my stations' voices, as we hadn't yet settled on all of them, and I sent her some copy and in a week received an old-timey reel in the mail.  It was just for two promos, but it was fifteen minutes of Shea riffing on my scripts and being hysterical about it.  I'd post the audio if I had it handy, but it did air, at least until we got complaints for the Dr. Laura one.

Things just weren't going to work out, though, because Shea didn't have access to ISDN, and I needed somebody I could count on every day, not every week.  I relayed this regretful information to Shea, who was silent on the matter, to me, anyway.

One week I came in for vacation and came up to the old station on the weekend to use the internet, probably for porn.  I was in my old continuity room and Deke walked by and mentioned Shea was on the air.  I said, cool, tell her I'll come downstairs and visit when I was done with whatever filth I was donwloading.

In a few minutes, from all the way up in the continuity office, I heard Shea scream a cacophony of invective and cursing at my possible presence that I wouldn't have been shocked to learn that some of the words manifested phyiscal form and slithered off into the record vault, still alive today in that old building eager to feast upon the souls of an unwary intern.  She apparently was not happy that I couldn't hire her, for no fault of her or my own.

I quietly slipped out and went back to Portland.

Years later, after social media got going, I did hook up with Shea again, at least online.  Karyn and I tried constantly to get her to meet us for sushi, but she never would.  That's just the way of Shea, I would think.  As the avoidance wore on, I began to suspect there was more to the story that I could not see.  I recognized signs, like avoiding friends and not responding to messages.  These are not the signs of somebody having a good time in life, and I've got through my share of them.  I thought maybe she might also have bad depression like I had, and I think she did.  

I never got to see her again, and now it is too late.  I never got to apologize for... whatever, I'm not sure what I would have said, and now it is too late.  And I can still listen to the poorly produced promos I did with her voice and say, I'd hire her if I had a full time gig, and I can't because now it is too late.  Her voice is silenced.

The memories of Shea will always be ones we cherish when we come across her photos, or old airchecks, and we can laugh and remember what we were and who we thought she was, and that she was a tough old girl who let her mouth get her into trouble nearly as much as it got her into the spotlight, and that's all that's left.  An empty spotlight on a stage we wish she was still on.

RIP Shea Baker, 10/08/2018

Retired

Not a surprise, but my old boss from Boston is leaving his post, which I knew because I saw the ad for his replacement months ago.  What IS a surprise is that he is leaving the company altogether, which is good news for me, as now I am not so scared to apply to positions within the company.

It's not that I felt he was a bad or an evil boss, but he did turn out to be... very Boston.  Or I guess I could say, very Northeastern, since there was quite a bit of NYC sass in him.  Yes, that would be a more accurate description, as he had a lot of Trump's ego about him.  I remember him berating the promotions guy one time, about whether or not a vendor was going to give us free soft drinks for our VIP tent at a concert we were putting on.  "DO THEY KNOW WHO I AM?" he bellowed, incredulous that he was not getting exactly what he wanted.  You know.  Free pop.

Yes, they did know who he was, and that's why they never wanted to deal with him.  

I shortly realized after accepting the job and starting it that I'd been lied to... I could not use character voices (not even my own voice), I could not do comedy skits, and I had practically no equipment in my "studio" aside from an aging Protools unit... no cable, no services to gather sound clips, no way to pull them myself... nothing.  I was to be the morning guy, the midday guy, the afternoon guy and the night guy on a station that had no actual personalities to speak of.  I am surprised that I lasted as long as I did.

While I've been hesitant to apply to this company in the past, I definitely will now.  He is the kind of guy who would sing your praises in a backhanded way, which corresponds to most of Boston to be honest.  "Sure, he's good, but he's apt to have a heart attack soon as much as he weighs."  That kind of thing. Not out of vindictiveness, just it's a very Boston attitude.

The good news for his station is their ratings can only go up from here.

I would walk 500 miles

I actually miss SF specifically for the walking.  And the subway.  I walked far more than I ever thought I would in my general life there, and the T was sometimes quite trippy.

The street musicians were incredible.  Very soulful.  Always black, what, no whites or latinos do street music?  The best was one guy on acoustic guitar and his buddy with plastic drums that had accents of glass liquor bottles to do (what I assume was) the cymbal bits from "Sinnerman,"  I gave that guy the only bill I had in my wallet, which was a ten, I think.  I wished it was a twenty.

I am currently without wheels because my transmission decided to literally shit the bed.  I could make a fucking soap opera out of the story, it's practically Passions without the midget.  And it's going to cost me 2000 bucks and keep me from applying for jobs I need to apply for because, thanks to the GOP, the okay-Obamacare health insurance is now junk.

I guess I could also just cross my fingers, hey GOP mebbe if some of these ladies just crossed their legs they'd not be so uppity amirite?

So I am out 2000.  But I got 100% on PS4's Spider-Man so that's cool.

Birthday wishing

What I posted on facebook regarding birthday wishes:

Thanks to everybody who wished me a happy birthday. I see that Trump gave me a double fist-pump in celebration, so I am flattered. I mean that's why he did it right. Because any other reason would be disrespectful to this great country of ours.

Oh, and to those who did not wish me a happy birthday, I have called on the Elder Ones to visit you in your dreams and nibble slowly at your souls until you turn insane and chop up your loved ones, because we might someday run out of topics for the podcasts I produce and Shakespeare got to get paid, son.

Haha.

Vindicators part 4

Please stop it with the beards.

Just... Okay.  I'll stop and admit it is a personal preference.  And it is because if I do not keep my beard trimmed, I look homeless.  I, seriously, while *looking at my phone* was offered money from a posh white couple in SF (ugh they did not realize I was no longer there and I AM A WHORE? If I could take that route I would have long ago), because my beard had become unwieldy after being let go from work, and I probably looked homeless, but god you SanFrans I was still 6'2" and 270 and obviously not hungry.  But it seems that is what the west coast is like, especially towards the north... help people who need it.

Can't deny that I did the same, not knowing the story of who I gave to.

The thing is, great, you can grow a beard.  Fucking tame it, don't let it tame you.  It shouldn't grow uncontrolled... you know what does?  KUDZU!  And it's killing lots of vegetation where they can't get it under control.

Some guys can let the beard grow out for infinity.  I can't.  And most shouldn't.  Trim that shit, you look stupid.  Like you want to make up for something when it's obvious you don't need to.

Also started applying to other things today that I hope bear fruit.

Low (feat. RuPaul)

Ready Player Fuck You

OK, I've never been a stickler for nostalgia, but from the beginning, this movie had no chance with me.  But that's not why I hate it.

Yes, it's just a jack-off of all the properties from the eighties (and a few recent ones, admittedly) and the eighties were not fun for me and I still hate those years for a variety of reasons.  But that's not why I hate it.

NO.  It was MechaGodzilla.  They were so intricate and exact in getting all the details from everything else correct but this ONE character, who they could get the fucking Godzilla music for, they can't get the right design?  NO MechaG looked like that.

Also the movie just kinda sucked.

Picking at a sore

I have now been producing audio dramas for this company for eighteen months, with no complaint from them or me.  It is fun to do, and while we do not have the luxury of time nor of budget to refine our process indefinitely, it is surely fun.  I think in an interview with the New York Times, it was compared to actual "pulp fiction," only of the audio type.  

Pulp fiction was a specific type of story-telling that doesn't exist much today... it started dying out in the 70s.  I could feel down on myself that I am not producing NPR's highly acclaimed Serial, but it's throw-back, dime-store cousin, but then I remind myself that Stephen King sustained his college years writing pulp novels and look how he turned out.

But it has been very educational as well.  For example, I had no idea that Kroger's employees have a union because of a young pre-crime-boss Jimmy Hoffa, who brought their business to a standstill by having a strike against strawberries.  I had no idea that one of the major conspiracy theories, which in my mind seems to be possibly the truth, that the true reason for Marilyn Monroe's "death" was covered up by an enema laced with barbiturates, which may or may not be true, but also that enemas were very fashionable in 50's Hollywood circles.  And I had no idea that many a serial killer's victim nowadays may have escaped excruciating torture thanks to the invention of the freezer and the plastic ice cube tray.

Before that, you had those metal manual ice cube trays (see Kill Bill Vol. 2 during the Bud/Elle scene for one if you need a reference), but these were messy affairs and it seems that many people preferred to just buy blocks of ice and chip away at them with ice picks, whether or not they actually preferred the "rough edges," per Basic Instinct.

I say this because I have never seen one fucking ice pick in my life, and these serial killers used to use them all the time, in exactly the worst ways you can imagine.  In the earhole.  In the eyes.  Up the fanny (British for vagina).  In the back door.  And possibly worst of all, in the male pee-hole, almost certainly as torture when the victim was still alive.  And usually to torture teens, or worse, pre-teens.

Of course as ice picks become less proliferous, serial killers will find other, more inventive ways to off somebody.  I am just glad it is statistically unlikely now that I might be found dead one day with my wee-wee violated by an ice pick and a bum full of barbiturate enema.

Dear White People

Hey

Don't get upset that they fuck better than you

It does mean they have kids, but they begged you for birth control and family planning

and you said no, and no abortions neither

So what were they going to do with their babies?

Except let them grow up to be rap stars

And Beyoncé

And win the children over

And leave you in the past

Raisin' me higher and higher

Out of the blue I got a raise.  

I mean, I still am looking for a full-time job with benefits, but I was pleasantly surprised because I can't remember the last time I got a raise doing radio that didn't involve getting a new job somewhere else.

Technically, beginning next month, I'll be back in the black again, and if no other knock-on-wood unexpected expenses crop up, I will be able to work on my credit card debt next... my car is paid off already, two years early.

(Oh also I have paid my car off.)

I think the next thing to do is to buy an actual, custom built audio/video editing rig, so that I might also begin editing video again and doing voice-work.  My brother's house is all wood, so it's nearly impossible to voice anything without sounding like you're in an echo chamber.  Plus this laptop really doesn't have the power to render graphics like I want to start doing.  Also, I'd be able to supply character voices for my projects, and play an MMORPG I have my eye on that's in development.

Also I am thinking of buying a Nintendo Switch.

Anyway, back to work.

There might be a thing.

Well fuck

That job possibility went tits up faster than a hooker in the Oval Office.  Dammit.

Spreading the news

In most people's lives, you are considered lucky if you get to reboot once or twice.  Pick up all your belongings, travel to a new destination, begin again, fresh.

I don't so much reboot that way... my changes are more akin to Morty incurring the wrath of the squirrels or Cronenberging an entire planet, and having to scuttle off to a side universe and hope nobody notices the me-sized lump of freshly dug dirt in the backyard.

Seems like things are lining up for me to do that again.  Not sure I'm really digging it.  After all, if I have another stroke, pretty sure that means this time I will be a goner, so I better start practicing dialing with my left hand.

Also, it would shine an unwelcome light on me, and I really don't relish flotsam and jetsam from my past washing up to pretend nothing's wrong because of my situation.

Also I am pretty sure the pizza sucks.