My Apartment Is A Prison

I'm at the coffeehouse I so often go to, but haven't been to since I began my current pain-management regimen.

I've stayed away because I haven't wanted to aggravate the pain in my legs by walking the four block round-trip to here and back home. I also thought it would be a bad idea to go to a noisy place that could do nothing but exacerbate my ever-present migraine.

But I'm here today. I came out... To discover that, as always, I'm right.

Today I awoke to a studio apartment that felt like a jail cell -- or, better, a holding cell. I've been in quite a few of those, so it's better for me to make a comparison to one of those since I know how it induces claustrophobia and the desire for -- to the exclusion of all other desires -- escape.

So I put a hat over my greasy hair and bellowed a Braveheart FREEEEEDOM! as I locked my apartment door behind me as I left.

My stilt-y, unbending legs tottered me here and I ordered my usual sixteen ounces of coffee, to which I added a quarter-ounce of half-and-half, seven heaping teaspoons of Sugar In the Raw, and two taps of powdered cinnamon.

I scored a spot on the love seat, but was bothered by the noise the few, but loud-talking -laughing -moving -breathing -existing, people made. So I moved to an outdoor table, where I sat and smoked until I couldn't take the annoyance of the line of people that qued up to ask me for a cigarette. (See this post for how I feel about would-be cig-bummers.)

back inside, it had quieted down in the time it took me to smoke two cigarettes. So I finished my coffee and got a refill to try to remedy my lethargy (which you can read about in my previous post).

Then the place filled in and the people who took the table behind me began playing dominoes or something like it. Something that involved blocks or tiles that someone was always hammering into the table or shuffling with enough force to crack to tabletop.

...Ug.

It's best for me to go home and lock myself safely back into my apartment.

...How long will I have to jail myself? Methadone: Take me away! ...Er, Set me free!

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Methadone Treatment Begins Tomorrow

Yep. This is going to be a post, on a blog called The Fibromyalgian, about fibromyalgia. What can I say (write)? It's a crazy world.

As I think I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm switching meds, most likely tomorrow, from Oxycodone to Methadone. Why tomorrow? Because I have an appointment with my pain management doctor tomorrow. Let's call her Dr. Not-Too-Damn-Bad, or Dr. NTDB for short. Or Dr. N for even shorter.

Dr. N is not too damn bad because she hasn't been afraid to prescribe me the dosages of painkillers I have required. She also came around on my Klonopin, and I'm on my necessary six mg per day, instead of the four mg she was previously stuck on. This is to her credit because every doctor is wary about prescribing a patient two central-nervous-system (CNS) depressants, which can result in the patient ceasing to breathe. And the vast majority of doctors like to keep their patients breathing.

The only problem I have with Dr. N is that she prescribes me Provigil for my chronic fatigue disorder. Before I came to Portland and began being treated by Dr. N, I had been taking Ritalin, which worked extremely well and, which is very important to someone who relies solely on Social Security Disability for his income, dirt cheap.

But Dr. N wasn't comfortable with prescribing speed to a fibromyalgian. It seems to her that speed and opiates and Klonopin are at odds with one another.

And I suppose I agree. But agreement doesn't make Provigil affordable. And so my chronic fatigue is left untreated.

On the first of October I will have Medicare. But Medicare doesn't help one out with prescription drug costs, and getting private insurance to help with my drug costs may actually be antithetical, since the cost of my monthly drug copays and drug insurance are likely to cost more than just buying my meds outright.

...Unless I start filling my Provigil, which costs something like four hundred and fifty dollars a month. Yeah. No typo: four hundred and fifty dollars a month.

Which reminds me to beg: Please help me get the treatment I need by donating. Please please please PUH-leeze! The button is right there... Right there on the right... And any amount helps! Any amount at all!

OK. begging done. On to the Methadone.

It's a tricky bastard of a drug because its half-life is longer than its active life. That is to say (write), that Methadone provides pain relief for a shorter time than it stays in one's system, in which it depresses breathing. So one has to be very OCD about one's Methadone schedule: If you're having a bad day and in a lot of pain and take more some Methadone to help you out, then take more... and maybe later some more, one can find oneself with enough Methadone in one's system to make their breathing cease before one's pain does.

Anyway, it's likely to be a good thing for me to be on Methadone. I'm currently taking so much Oxycodone that Dr. N doesn't feel comfortable prescribing a higher daily dose. For a patient to be taking one hundred and thirty mg of immediate-release Oxycodone per day could attract unwanted attention from the feds. But I can't take Oxycodone together with OxyContin (long-lasting oxycodone) because -- got a guess? -- OxyContin costs too much. That, and OxyContin is scarce because the feds are so overly concerned with the drug being diverted and under-concerned with the needs of people who are in constant pain -- which includes people who have terminal cancer, multiple sclerosis, and a bevy of conditions besides fibromyalgia.

The government is more concerned with keeping people from having fun by taking pills than it is with the quality of life of tens of thousands of people. And we're talking about pills that keep people from killing themselves or wanting to.

So tomorrow Methadone begins. I'll follow up tomorrow with the plan for how my transition from oxy to 'done is going to play out.

("'Done" work for you as shorthand for Methadone? ...Yeah. Didn't think so. And I agree.)

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I Live In A Freaking Nuthouse

I was coming back into my building, with another resident behind me. This particular resident is an adult. Probably fifty-something. He's rotund, and always wears T-shirts that can't manage to cover the bottom portion of his gut. The kind of T-shirts with prints on them I see shit-tons of twenty-somethings wearing. He also goes everywhere -- everywhere in the building, everywhere he goes outside, I've seen him walking around the neighborhood on various days with a stuffed animal.

The stuffed animal is a rendition of a human animal. A baby human animal.

Fifty-something-year-old-guy in too-tight T-shirts with a baby surrogate that he carries absolutely everywhere.

I hurried to the elevators, trying to avoid having to ride with Mr. Mom, who shuffled slowly through the lobby.

One of the elevators had its doors stuck open because someone was moving in. The guy introduced himself by saying "Don't go in that one, someone peed in it."

I said "Wait: Some one peed in it?!

"I gave a woman a ride up to the seventh floor. When she got in she squatted in the corner and just let it go. ...And this is my move-in day."

"Welcome to the building!" I exclaimed in an over-jovial, sarcastic tone.

Unthinkingly, I added "Well, not all of us are crazy."

By this time, Mr. Mom was standing right beside me. Then the other elevator arrived and I got in with him as the building manager came out with a mop.

As the doors closed I immediately imagined that Mr. Mom was going to beat me to death with his baby.

But he arrived on his floor and left the elevator without incident. He probably didn't want to lose his temper and, thereby, set a bad example for his kid.

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I'm Getting Hot for Guys

[It's probably important for me to note that I'm straight. And male.]

A lot of hipsters hang out at my favorite coffeeshop. By definition (it seems), male hipsters are people who wear tight pants, tight T-shirts and short, androgynous hair.

And it just so happens that I find skinny chicks with short hair to be attractive as magnets. Further, since I'm male and hetero, I'm inborn with the silly-as-putty attraction to lesbians that is one of the near-universals of our (male, hetero) kind.

...And now this piece's conflict has its sperm and egg. Time for the miracle of birth!

Often, while I'm sipping my coffee (slooooowly... Because as long as I have even the slightest bit of coffee in my mug, I'm entitled to my seat in the coffeehouse... Right?), I'll also be checking out two people sitting with their backs to me. Eventually one of these people will turn in my direction, go get something, go to the bathroom, etc, that will reveal her to be female.

So at this point I'm thinking: Sweet. Two hot girls hanging out. How can I introduce myself to them in a way that will maximize the likelihood that I'll be able to, in the future, introduce my penis to one or both of them?

Or I'm thinking: Both have short hair, tight pants, tight Ts... Probably lesbians. Sweet. Now to sit back and enjoy their hot hot-lesbian selves in an aesthetic sort of way.

But no matter what I'm thinking, these thoughts are accompanied by a desire to see the rest of the person I haven't seen in, what I'm assuming to be her, entirety. I start looking forward to see the rest of her. And am a little... "excited." A little.

Then KA-POW! "She" stands and she's a guy who looks like a mega-flat-chested woman. And this person is then immediately unattractive because I know it has a penis -- even if said penis must have somehow been left at home so he could fit into his painted-on pants.

Though my primary wonder is how to make my own penis detachable [nod to King Missile] -- though this ability would have best served me some time ago in high school... Especially when I was on the diving board or slow dancing in the cafeteria with a girl who would suddenly position her hips a foot from mine while trying to maintain her hands' position around my neck -- I'm also struck with the fact that my libido and I need to slow things down and get a good look at every person's face before taking a stand on his/her attractiveness.

Because right now I'm getting just the tiniest bit hot for guys. And I'm not hot for guys.

Really. I swear.

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Portland: Beware The Macbook Liberator!

Portland has a new superhero (or will if he ever gets enough liquid courage...): The MacBook Liberator!

I spend a lot of time in coffeehouses because, for a two-dollar house coffee (the drinking of which -- instead of some whipped-creamed, chocolated, cinnamoned espresso drink -- causes the staff and patrons to look down on me as the cheap-ass I am) I can sit in air-conditioned comfort for more than a few hours and read and write (laboriously, by hand) what become blog posts like this one.

During these many coffeehouse visits, I meet or am forced to overhear (loud-talkers of the world, spontaneously and unanimously combust!) people with MacBooks prattle on... usually on Portlanders' favorite topic: how to make more money.

Unfortunately -- for the would-be entrepreneurs, anyway -- the vast percent of their ideas never will come to fruition and make them the degree of rich they believe they're so richly entitled to because their ideas are mostly the recycled ideas of others. Therefore, they often take the form: "Yadda yadda is blowing up in This Other City... How can I make it work in Portland?"

I would have thought such a person would have considered that the person with the original idea either has, indeed, made it work in Portland, or come to the conclusion that it would not work.

In either case, ripping someone off in a lucrative way isn't going to make one rich. It's going to make one get sued. Hard.

And sometimes ideas I overhear (despite my deep desire not to) or am presented with an idea of this form: "OK, how about This Stupid Idea? ... Yeah, I guess it'd be years before I saw money from that, if ever. ... But isn't it kicking ass in This Other City?"

Of course, what truly enrages me is that many of these people have MacBooks! One of the devices I've coveted, and therefore feel entitled to, since its inception!

These mongers of bad ideas need to be put on notice: Continue speak-yelling your mouth-diarrhea, and you are apt to lose the privilege of MacBook ownership.

...I can take a cacophony of stupid-speak from a PC-owner, but not a shouldn't-be Mac person any longer! Order must be foisted on this city!

...Just pay some attention to Apple's commercials, Portland: Macs are for cool people, not pretentious, business-minded assholes whose best ideas consist of recycling other peoples' bad ideas!

For the love of the gods, people, Microsoft recycles or buys out other peoples' and companies' bad ideas! It's their goddam business model! Therefore, according to Apple's commercials, your word-vomit -- by definition -- makes you a John Hodgman... er, PC!

So surrender your Mac, citizen, and get yourself a netbook until you're cool enough for a MacBook (like I am)!

PS: Today's MacBook owner, who should be safely out of my hearing's range, just said something about "the twitter stream"! That's not Mac-person talk!

...If this place served booze, and the above guy stuck around long enough for me to down about ten vodka-OJs, The MacBook Liberator would strike in the name of justice and holy self-interest!

Someone in this depraved city has to bring order among the notebook/laptop-owning community. And one day, Portland, The MacBook Liberator is going to get drunk enough to do just that!

So fear for your MacBooks, poorly costumed should-be PC people. Calvin Bandini/The Fibromyalgian is heading to the Low Brow Lounge Friday. Should he dive deep enough into a bottle of vodka, no MacBook shall be safe!

Bwaa-ha-ha!

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Dear Ten Percent Of Portland:

Yes, I have a cigarette. I definitely could spare one.

However, I'm not about to set a precedent that would have me give away two cartons a week. So I lie to you and, as far as you, five percent of Portland, know (the other five know I'm lying), I'm perpetually smoking my last cigarette, and quite sorry that I can't help you out.

Importantly, however: I'm the farthest thing from sorry. If you, dear would-be-cig-bummer, were a smoker -- a true addict -- you'd never let yourself be without your nicotine delivery devices. Get serious about your vices or fuck the fuck off.

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Overheard In Portland:

"Just speak, don't talk."

I was having coffee on a couch near Couch Street and one of the two people sitting next to me broke this pearl out in the heat of an argument.

...Which made me think of how much better this world would be if all of us and our leaders did a lot less talking and a lot more speaking. ... Wow. ...Alas, and unfortunately, such Utopian thinking gets us nowhere.

PS: I didn't make the quote up. I'm not dumb enough to.

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