For those of you too busy and important to follow the above link, the gist is that I have a wee bit more cholesterol in my system than one would normally like to see.  If that person wanted to live past 35, anyway.  So I had a fun-filled followup appointment with Herr Doctor yesterday, one filled with long waits and incompetence, and was told to come back in this morning when the clinic’s lab opened to have some blood drawn for another cholesterol test.

There.  We’re all caught up.

OK, well, this morning, I dutifully showed up at the clinic at 8:03, just moments after the lab opened.  I walked inside and was greeted by the dozen sick and/or elderly (is that redundant?) people clogging the waiting area, all waiting for their turns to have strangers stab them with hollowed out metal tubes and suck their life-giving fluids from their systems.  I signed in on their little sheet and took the closest available chair, barely close enough to hear the staffer on duty calling off names.

About twenty minutes later, the big-haired woman at the counter hollered for “Justin” and I came a-runnin’.  She verified for my full name, double-checked my date of hatching, and asked which doctor sent me there.  I thought I’d aced her little pop quiz until, after tapping away at her keyboard for a moment or two, she gave me a “Hmmm…” and a puzzled look.

“Looks like they forgot to put any work for you in the system.  I’ll have to call them and find out what they want done.  Have a seat and I’ll call you back up when I hear from them.”

Fuckingshitasscockballs!!!!!!

Yes, folks, the same inspiring jacktards who let me rot in the waiting room for an extra hour the morning earlier simply because they forgot to click the Check In button after taking my copay and insurance information also neglected to update my records in their system after said appointment, thereby leading to the what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-here-wasting-my-time response from the lab tech.  Sweet.

So back to the waiting area for Our Hero, back to watching more and more sick and/or elderly patients arrive later and leave sooner.   About fifteen minutes after that, they called me back up, took me into the backroom, jabbed me with a needle, and sent me on my merry way.  Time spent waiting:  30+ minutes.  Time spent on the actually procedure:  roughly 1 minute.

Now, being so close to ‘Merican Independence Day, I’m probably risking a long vacation in Gitmo for daring to question our great nation, but come the fuck on.  Why don’t we have better, less expensive health care for everyone by now?

OK, for me, personally, it’s not that expensive, but I’m one of the very few people lucky enough to work for an employer who covers 100% of the medical/dental premiums for myself and my family.  Sure, I have a small copay ($20 for a normal office visit), but all said, we’re pretty lucky in this department.

Still, though, for the rest of the country, the costs are outlandish.  We spend 6 times as much, per capita, compared to Western European nations.

And the waits?  In the past two days, with an appointment scheduled in one case, I spent about 90 minutes in waiting rooms for a total of 6 minutes of medical attention.  Granted, that was the result of general incompetence by a few people, but something tells me that, if I’m batting 1.000 in the getting-screwed-by-tards-in-the-health-care-industry department in just two visits, it probably happens pretty often.

Oh, and while I was sitting in that waiting room, I overheard the receptionist telling callers that they only had one doctor accepting new patients in that office and that he was booked for the next month.  A new patient needing non-urgent attention would have to wait 30 days for his 5 minutes.

Yet so many people are afraid of national, universal health care because they think it would be too expensive for the country (see that we’re-already-paying-6x-as-much figure above), we’d have long waits for basic medical care (see 30-day-wait-for-new-patients), and/or they think that a government-run service automatically means it’d be manned by idiot bureaucrats (see 90-minute-waits-because-of-staff-incompetence).

And our current system…  Expensive?  Check.  Long waits?  Check.  Incompetence?  Oh, hell yes.    Who needs that commie universal shit when we can realize our fears through our All American FUBAR’d system! U-S-A!  U-S-A!

And…  end rant.  I feel much better now.

Actually, though, there was a plus to sitting those extra minutes in the waiting room this morning.  If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have pulled up to the coffee drive-through in time to hear the manager telling the assumedly new staff member womanning the window “You’re doing really good, like a 250 degrees turn-around!”

Sounds like she’s about ready for a career in our health care industry.

Anyway.

In Portland, the littlest bit of sunlight brings out all sorts of wackiness. People start coming out from under the rocks, staring at the strange, warm, glowing object hovering in the sky until it burns holes in their retinas. They congregate in the parks and on the waterfront wearing clothes they have no business donning in public (the sight of which can, like the sun, burn holes in retinas).

And they fucking smell. Badly. Like someone used a thousand dead, wet dogs to mop up the runners’ sweat and puke after the Boston Marathon, left the infested corpses out to bake in the sun for a week, squeezed every drop of putrid liquid out of what remained, added a hint of sulfur and a dab of cat piss, then bathed in it for a month.

And they ride my train.

Say hello to my train buddy from last night:

No, he’s not wearing a sweater under that muscle shirt.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t fault a guy for being on the furry side. Sure, I don’t think that’s the best fashion choice for someone who looks like they could have played the starring role in Son of Chewie, but I could tolerate the view.

The stench, on the other hand… Sweet Zombie Jesus. At every stop, I prayed that a dozen wet, drunk, homeless guys might step on the train to drown out the smell.

Oh, and to add to the fun? This was my view during the first 15 minutes of our time together:

Yes… And every time the door opened, what normally would have been a delightful summer breeze instead became the noble steed for the fifth horseman of the apocalypse that raced from dude’s pit straight into my brain.

In conclusion, I hate summer. The end.

Now, before we get into exactly what brought Our Hero to this state of weakness, a quick word to the Starbucks haters:

Suck It.

Fine. Two words. Whatever.

Point is that I don’t care about why you hate them. Sorry if you feel like their dominance put your favorite joint out of business or if you’re sure they sacrifice baby seals to maintain that market share.

Fact is that:

a)They make decent coffee that you can find anywhere and always know what you’re getting, and

b)Well, there isn’t really a “b.” I just don’t care about your opinions.

I lied. There is a second one. The whole Howard Schultz-suing-to-regain-ownership-of-the-Sonics-and-keep -them-in-Seattle thing. Sure, he might just be grandstanding and milking the public for some goodwill, but if he can pull it off, I’ll not only start drinking coffee regularly again, but it’ll only be Starbucks. And every person I know will receive Starbucks gift cards for their birthdays, etc. And I’ll get that logo of their’s tatooed on my arse.

Ok, maybe not that last one. I will, though, help with the harvest and cultivation of those baby seals.

So this morning…

Started off with me combining Kashi GoLEAN Crunch with Trader Joe’s SuperMegaUltraFiber O’s. NOT A GOOD COMBINATION.

Remember those old SNL “Colon Blow” commercials? Yeah. So a 20-30 minute ride on the train after eating more fiber in one sitting than most people consume in a week? Not very comfortable.

So I was already feeling cranky (and pained, and hoping to the Lords of Cobol that I could make it to the office) when another guy squeezed himself into the seat next to me. A guy at least my size. All up in my bubble while I’m trying my damnedest to concentrate on Sula and not shitting myself.

To give you some perspective…

I’m not certain exactly how wide the seats on the MAX are, but I’d assume they’re roughly the same size (if not smaller) than most domestic coach airline seats. A little bit o’ Googlin’ turns up a site called SeatGuru with a handy little chart showing that most of those seats are around 17-18 inches wide on most airlines.

I measured myself (my width, perv) when I got to the office. Turns out I’m about 21 inches wide, shoulder-to-shoulder. For you non-math types, that means I’m about 3-4 inches wider than the space I’m in. (And while I can certainly stand to lose a couple of pounds, I keep that in my gut. We’re just talking about general body frame here.)

It also means that, unless you’re <14-15 inches wide, you SHOULDN’T FUCKING SIT NEXT TO ME.

Or rather, on me. Because that’s really all there’s room for. If you’re the same size as me or wider, and you aren’t willing to spill out into the aisle, you will not fit without crushing me against the wall or sitting my lap. And either of those will likely make me wanna shank a bitch.

Especially if he’s trying to focus on not pooing. I eventually just got up and stood for the remainder of the trip, trying to light him on fire with the power of my mind until my stop. Didn’t work… yet.

(Quick aside… this is the kind of post that coffee leads to. A rambling, herky-jerky stream of consciousness that might very well induce vomiting. I’m totally quitting again after this post.)

Finally got off the train, power walked to the office, and, um, took care of business.*

Sweet, yet short-lived, relief.

As I was walking to my desk, I was ambushed by a coworker who needed techy help.** Normally not my job, but being the only nerd in the office for the rest of the week, I have to cover for the whole group.

After I took care of her and walked back to my desk, another one came over. With another stupid non-existent problem. One that wouldn’t be any of my business if it wasn’t for the other people being out of the office.

And that was all before 8am.

Couple that with the knowledge of my impending Texas trip and the fact that I’ll probably have to work both of the next two weekends in preparation? Let’s just say that, if I’d had a flask on me, I’d have skipped that foofoo drink and Irished up some regular coffee instead. Instead? Mocha-y goodness.

But the day wasn’t completely lost. That picture? Taken with my new Canon SD1100.*** This one here:

Ain’t she purty? Of course, I had to take that picture with my camera phone, so the quality isn’t so great.

But since I know those food blogs are all the rage, here’s my lunch for the day:

Give me a break. I just dropped $300 on a camera, SD card, and a case. Didn’t feel like kicking down the three bucks for a sandwich after that.

It’s your fault, anyway. I told you all to buy that camera for me. Now if I die from malnutrition, it’s totally on you. Bad minions! Bad!

*Quick question of etiquette…

At the office, we have two stalls (in addition to the two urinals). One’s the big, cushy handicapped number, the other’s the normal-sized one.

So under normal circumstance, I think the right thing to do is to take the larger one (unless you have people in your office with a legitimate need for the extra space and you give a shit about that person). You get the extra room and don’t feel cramped in.

However, I also think you’re supposed to take the stall furthest away from the door. People don’t hear/smell your business that much, and you’re less likely to accidentally see who enters/leaves the other stall, thus creating awkward hand-washing conversation.

So I never know which to take: the one that’s bigger but closer to the rest of the action, or the one that’s smaller but less likely to lead to an uncomfortable post-poo experience? Curious to know what my fellow men think.

Oh, and I know Laurie Notaro covered this topic in one of her books, but I’m not sure her rules apply for men. Besides, as a Man, I shouldn’t acknowledge that I know anything about her.

**A public service announcement for you non-tech types out there:

NEVER jump the IT guy before he has a chance to settle in. Unless something is on fire, let him get a chance to take off his coat, put down his bag, and, maybe, grab a cup of something before you start bombarding him with whatever self-imposed travesty you’ve managed to create this time.

Just remember: the IT guy has access to all your files and email. And your browser history. He usually doesn’t give a fuck what you’re doing, but if you piss him off? You can count on your collection of animal-on-midget porn finding its way to HR.

And don’t think you’re safe because you don’t have such a collection. Won’t take him long to change that.

***Normally, I’d save a little cash by buying something like this online or, if I wanted instant gratification, go over to smaller mom-n-pop place. Instead, I picked this up at Office Depot.

Why? Because the last time I was there, I left Anikka’s new flower mouse pad at the counter and one of the sales people ran me down (3-4 blocks, in the rain) to give it to me. I figured I owed a karmic debt to the store that would chase a customer down just to give them their five-buck mouse pad.

And the mouse pad made Ani very happy.

And it goes with her ladybug mouse (which I hope Jacob’s daddy won’t mistakenly shoot on site).

Since soliciting prostitutes for a minor was out of the question, I decided instead to begin his musical education. Would hate for him to make the same kind of mistake I did when I bought my first album with my own money. That’s what happens when boys are raised without a male role model (other than William Shatner and Gil Gerard, that is).

When we were driving around the other day, I popped a Clash CD in. Conversation that followed went something like this:

OUR HERO
Listen closely, boy. You’re thirteen. Time to become a Man and learn what real music sounds like.

BOY
Whatever.
(Translation: Shut up, old man. I’m a teenager and don’t need to listen to you. But I’ll humor you for now because I’m still a few years away from getting my license and still need you to chauffeur me to Game Crazy. Just know that I’m putting you in a home some day. The cheap one, too.)

OUR HERO (Puts in Clash CD)
Ok, the lesson begins now. Do you know The Clash? No? Here, I’ll skip to a song that might sound familiar. Then we’ll get to the good stuff.
(Queues up “Rock the Casbah”)

BOY (Laughing)
What kind of music is this? Disco?
(Translation: You’re old and the music you like is irrelevant. Now, either turn on the radio so I can listen to something I already like or let’s just sit here in silence until we get home.)

OUR HERO (Flabbergasted)
Disco? Disco?!? This is THE CLASH, boy! The Only Band That Matters! One of the seminal punk bands! Predecessor to, and influencer of, any rock music released in the past 30 years worth a damn!!! Don’t you know what ‘punk’ is?

BOY
Um, that’s like Metallica, right?
(Translation: Don’t know, don’t care.)

OUR HERO
You’re dead to me.

I never took the CD out after that ordeal, so for the past few days I’ve been listening to nothing but The Clash. While that’s normally not a bad thing, listening to punk music tends to, well, affect me. I get angry. I want to smash things/people. I want to tear down The Man. Not good for someone holding down a 9-5 job. Or for driving around in morning rush hour traffic…

Traffic like this morning. I live less than a mile from the Interstate, so it shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes to pop onto I-5 and start heading toward my park-and-ride in the morning. Shouldn’t, except for the fact that Vancouver city planners didn’t plan out the city well, and decided to route dozens of trucks through the center of downtown every morning, right to that same onramp I’m supposed to hit every AM.

So my < 1 mile drive took 20 minutes this morning. And I’m seeing Special People everywhere, cutting others off who’ve been waiting patiently in line. Listening to The Clash. Getting ANGRY. Wishing I had some kind of telekinesis or pyrokinesis or AIDS or some other way to lay my vengeance upon them.

Finally, I got to the park-and-ride, ran to my train, and found a seat. I settled in, started to breath, and let The Clash start to flow out of me.

Then other people got on and fucked it all up for me, and I could feel The Clash start boiling in my veins again.

There I was, minding my own business, trying to finally read Sula because I’ve never read any Toni Morrison and my wife’s a big fan and I trust her book judgment (even though I am not now, nor have I ever been, a black woman, and I worry that I won’t possibly relate to anything in her novels).

First, a morning PTCPTL takes the seat in front of me.  Joy.  Pretty sure I made my feelings about those people clear yesterday.

Then, one of my other favorite train buddies sits next to me:  Person Who Has Loud Conversation With Companion Across the Aisle. She pins me in next to the window, then proceeds to blab loudly with her friend sitting across from her.

Apparently, neither can hear their own inane chatter over the inane chatter of the other, so they continually get louder and louder over the course of the trip.  Nothing like a Loud Talking Arms Race between a PTCPTL and a PWHLCWCATA to make your morning.

Urge to kill…  rising.

Then PWHLCWCATA takes out some sort of phone or camera from her purse to share some idiotic video with her friend across the aisle.  Of course, she doesn’t have headphones and doesn’t feel like handing said device to her friend, so she instead kicks the volume up to 11 so she can hear.

Again, The Clash is calling me.  White Riot is coursing through my veins.  I feel the urge to reenact the cover of London Calling, only with her phone and head instead of a guitar and stage.  If I had those super powers or super AIDS,  I totally wouldst have smited them.  Smote them.  Whatever.

I think Ren’s next music lesson will involve Sinatra.